Give me your contract and I’ll read it on the plane,” he said, the decision easy as it suited both their purposes. “Now let’s leave.”
Delanie bit her lower lip again. No was the easy answer.
But he was holding out her dream on a silver salver. He also held her employees’, really her only friends, future in his hands. She couldn’t refuse.
And if she was honest with herself, a part of her didn’t want to walk away. She could easily blame that lonely part of her heart that still held Marco Vincienta close, the part of her that wondered why he’d found her so lacking. That deep-in-the-night dream that his desertion had all been a horrid mistake and that they truly were meant for each other.
She was a fool for entertaining such fanciful thoughts, even for a moment, but she’d always been a fool for love where Marco was concerned. At least by taking this job she would be opening doors for herself in the future. That was her dream. That was what she would focus on instead of the tall handsome Italian whose touch made her bones melt.
“Okay,” she said. “It won’t take me more than an hour to pack.”
He broke eye contact the moment her agreement was out, snapping a strong wrist up to consult a watch that looked masculine and expensive. “We leave now. I will buy you whatever you need once we get to Italy.”
And that was the end of that argument, concluded before she could get her anger up. She made a quick stop at her minuscule office to collect the passport she’d needed for her dealings with Henry, her laptop, a contract and the jeans, jersey and comfortable sandals she’d left at work in case she decided to begin cleaning out her father’s office today.
With the lot of it crammed into a small carryall along with the few toiletries she kept on hand there, she let Marco escort her from the building, barely having the time to thank Henry before she was ushered into a gleaming black sedan.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, the drive through London a blur while Marco sprawled beside her and talked on his mobile, speaking a language she barely recognized as Italian. Not that it would have mattered if she spoke it fluently. Each time the car zoomed around a corner, the steely length of his leg brushed hers and her mind simply shut off as another emotion exploded in her, one that had lain dormant for ten years.
But even if they hadn’t touched, his presence simply commanded every inch of space. Commanded every second of her attention, leaving her all too aware of him as a powerful man.
Ruthless. Driven. She could see the end effect of what she’d glimpsed in him years ago.
Knowing she was powerless in his company played along her nerves until a discordant hum vibrated through her to leave her stomach knotted. Even shallow breaths pulled his essence deep into her lungs, bringing a flood of memories that made her throat clog with emotion best left untouched. In these close confines she was doubly aware of his control, his power, his sensuality.
Shifting away from him the best she could only brought his intense brown eyes slewing back to her. Her cheeks instantly turned red—she knew they must be because she felt the fire burning her skin.
“Is something wrong?” he asked when she had inched as far from him as possible.
Wrong? He had the gall to ask that when his large muscled form dominated the interior of the auto? When he’d taken everything from her?
She lifted her chin, aware diplomacy was necessary to avoid further conflict. “I was just giving you space.”
His gaze narrowed, his lips pulling into an uncompromising line. “Are you? Because to me it looks as if you’re avoiding my touch, even if that touch was no more than my arm or leg brushing against you. Accidentally brushed you, I would add.”
What could she say to that and maintain this fragile peace? The truth. They’d had a wretched history of avoiding the truth when honesty mattered most. But then when she had been honest with him, he had still walked away from her. He had been the one to turn his back on her.
“Use your head. Less than an hour ago you stormed into my life and took everything from me in the wake of my father’s burial,” she said with a telling quaver in her voice that had her clenching her fingers in frustration, a habit she’d developed as a child when her father was venting his anger on her mother.
She’d been so good at hiding her emotions from her volatile father. But she’d failed miserably at that with Marco.
He knew when she was angry, hurt, cautious. But he never could guess the reason for her trouble and she’d been too ashamed to tell him everything.
Her cheeks burned at the old memory. In that regard he’d been right to accuse her of lying to him. To be angry. If only he had believed her when she finally revealed her shame …
“I’m physically and emotionally spent, Marco. You’ve won. I’ve agreed to come to Italy and plan your sister’s wedding. But that’s all you’ll get from me,” she added. “Is that clear?”
“Extremely! I want nothing more from you than what was agreed upon,” he said, shoulders snapped into a rigid line.
“Good. I don’t want any misconceptions,” she said.
“There was never a doubt of your role or of mine,” he said as the sedan thankfully came to a stop at the airport, ending the torture of him jostling against her time and again. “Ten years ago you were looking for a rich man with status, a man who would measure up to your and your father’s precise standards. I was not that man then nor am I now.”
She gaped, flabbergasted. “You can’t believe that!”
“It is the truth.”
He couldn’t be more wrong, but to admit that would prompt questions she wasn’t about to address. Her trust had been broken not once but twice by this man. She wasn’t about to put it out there again.
Not that it mattered. He’d already slammed out of the car, leaving her alone and trembling. She pressed a hand to her middle and slumped against the seat.
A private jet—she’d never been able to tell one from the other—sat on the tarmac to her left, its stairs lowered to admit passengers. It didn’t dawn on her that this was Marco’s plane until she saw a crewman carrying her small duffel onto it.
Her door was wrenched opened a heartbeat later and cool brown eyes flecked with gold stared down at her. “Let’s go.”
She gave a nod and tried to extract herself from the car without his help. He mouthed a curse and assisted her to her feet, his large hand enveloping hers before she could protest, his skin warm against hers, his touch gentle and strong. Heat sped up her arm yet she shivered, liking his touch far too much and hating herself because of it.
The moment she gained her footing he dropped his hand from her and motioned her toward the plane. The message was clear: he didn’t wish to touch her any more than she wished to be touched.
A lie, if her libido had a say, which it most certainly did not. She crossed the tarmac quickly and hoped once inside she could find a seat far removed from him.
Not a problem, she realized as she mounted the stairs and stepped into the private lair of an Italian wine baron. The interior was dressed in a classic, yet understated, design resplendent in rich browns, ivory and gold.
The flight attendant motioned Delanie to take a seat. She bit her lower lip—so many to choose from. Twin flight chairs. A large curved sofa that was far too intimate. Farther back more chairs and a table, likely utilized for meetings. Beyond that an open door that showed a glimpse of a bed.
Wishing to stay as far away from a bedroom as possible, she claimed one of the deep gold chairs up front with a smile to the attendant and a quick glance at her traveling companion. He passed her without sparing her a glance, the thick carpet muffling his steps yet cluing her in that he preferred the rear of the plane.
Fine by her, she thought irritably as the strategically positioned cushions