be sulking for long. He’d make sure of it.
There was no way a thieving piece like Anna Delane was going to get the better of him. His smile deepened.
He would start again on her, right now.
He’d just thought of an excellent way to do so.
A massage, personally administered, was exactly what he wanted.
And after the massage…
Anna lay in Leo Makarios’s arms. She was facing away from him, drawn back against his body by his heavy, restraining arm. His thigh was heavy across hers.
She stared out across the room.
It had happened again.
The fire had burnt through her, burnt away every last vestige of her self-control, her self-respect.
A massage. She had been summoned to give him a massage.
Like a slave girl!
She’d done it, too. Because what would have been the point of objecting? She’d been brought here for this purpose—the price of keeping her out of jail, keeping Jenny safe. And if a massage was what the man who thought her a thief wanted, then a massage was what he would have.
And what came after.
It had taken very, very little time for her kneading hands to be caught, stilled. For him to turn over with lithe, muscled grace onto his back, for him to draw her down on him again and then, with sudden avid hunger, to tip her over until he was over her. His mouth had been on hers, his hands on her body, peeling the clothes from her as if he were peeling a ripe, luscious fruit for his delectation.
And she had let him. Once more she had let him. Helpless to resist, helpless to do anything except let her body ignite from his, catch the hunger of his kisses, the ardency of his caressing.
Until she had burned with him in the same hot, fierce flame, crying out, her hair whipping, consumed absolutely by the sensation obliterating all sense from her, obliterating everything but its own desperate, urgent need for satiation.
Then afterwards, as the tumult had died, draining away like an inferno that had consumed its own fuel, he had lifted himself from her, rolling to his side, drawing her back against him, smoothing her hair, murmuring to her words she did not understand, his breath warm on her neck, his hands warm on her body.
And now she lay there, her body’s conflagration slowly ebbing to its last cooling embers, exhausted, sated, feeling his chest rise and fall heavily behind her spine, knowing her lungs too were replenishing their air, her heart gradually slowing.
She lay staring out into the dusky room, hearing only the susurration of his breathing, only the low hum of the airconditioning.
Her mind seemed suspended, incapable of operation. She couldn’t think, or feel, or make any conscious use of words or thoughts.
She seemed to be somewhere else.
Someone else.
And there was nothing, nothing she could do.
Leo lay, Anna enfolded in his arms. His body was warm, inert. So was hers. They were incapable of movement, both of them, he knew. The exhaustion that followed the little death had overtaken them both.
It felt good to hold her like this, spooned back against him.
It was as if she belonged to him.
His mind shifted. Where had that thought come from?
He did not want Anna Delane to belong to him. What would he want that for? She was a thief. A beautiful, desirable thief. But a thief for all that.
He did not want to get involved with her.
But then, he never wanted to get involved with any of the women he slept with. They kept to their own lives and he to his. He felt no desire for more.
Good sex was all he asked for, and a woman who knew not to make a nuisance of herself.
Let alone think she could steal a fortune from him with impunity.
Like the woman in his arms now.
He smoothed the hair back from her face a moment. Her eyes were open, but looking blankly ahead of her. He found himself wondering what she was thinking. What went on in her head?
He frowned. He never cared what went on in a woman’s head. It was of no interest to him.
Was any other person of any interest to him? he found himself thinking.
His father had died of a heart attack seven years ago, and his mother had moved to Melbourne to be with relatives. But he’d never been close to either of his parents. He’d seen little of his father while he was growing up, because his father, like his grandfather, had devoted his life to making the Makarios fortune. His mother had played her part by being a society hostess, assiduously cultivating anyone and everyone who could be useful to Makarios Corp. Which meant that her son had been handed over to nannies and teachers.
Possibly the closest person to him was Markos, with whom he’d shared some of his schooling, but now, as adults, they met up only sporadically. Both led the highly peripatetic lives of the very rich, each running their own separate portions of the vast Makarios corporation which inevitably took them in different physical directions much of the time.
He had an extensive staff, of course, ranging from key executives to a team of personal assistants. And he had friends. Of course he had friends. Every man in his position had friends. Usually far too damn many.
But were any of them close to him?
Was he interested in any of them other than for what use they were to Makarios Corp? None sprang to mind.
Impatiently, he put the thoughts from him. His life was good—very good. Makarios Corp was riding high, he was riding high. He was in the prime of life, fit and healthy, and he knew without false modesty that he’d been blessed with a physical appearance that would be enviable even in a poor man. Combine that with his riches and he was a man other men envied and women wanted.
Anna Delane didn’t…
The words stole into his head before he could stop them.
Anna Delane didn’t want you—she threw you from her bedroom. Screeched her head off at you. Rejected you royally!
Deliberately he made himself stroke her arm, slowly, possessively. She wasn’t rejecting him now—but the choice had been between him or jail…no wonder she hadn’t rejected him! he thought bitterly.
Leo’s jaw tightened.
Anna Delane would not have gone on rejecting him. He’d have seen to that. If he hadn’t caught her red-handed with the Levantsky bracelet he’d still have pursued her. Whatever hypocritical reason she’d had for rejecting him that evening, he’d have got her in the end. Women didn’t hold out on him. His usual problem was quite the opposite—fending them off. No, he’d have got Anna Delane in his bed. Thief or no.
It was a pity she was a thief…
Again, the words stole into his brain before he could stop them. They annoyed him. Obviously he’d have preferred her not to be a thief—after all, she’d come far too damn close to walking off with the Levantsky bracelet!—but that was the only reason for his preference. It would have made no other difference. The end result would have been the same. Her in his bed, a few weeks together, and then he’d tire of her.
His hand moved slowly up her arm again, enjoying her soft, silken skin.
He felt his body begin to stir.
No chance of tiring of her yet.
He shifted his weight onto his elbow, and cupped her chin, turning her head towards him. His mouth lowered to hers.
It felt good. Arousing.
Yes, definitely no chance