his strength, his power, shivered through her.
It was the sudden ratcheting tension in his body that made her realise that Jean-Paul had moved. Within Angelo’s hold, she twisted around on her stool. The two men faced each other like duelling adversaries.
Jean-Paul’s gaze shifted from Angelo to Gemma and his mouth twisted. “It’s like that, is it? Cherie, don’t be fooled. Apollonides is the same man as three years ago. Work will always be his first mistress. Will that be enough for you this time around? Or will you come searching for warm arms, words of lo—”
“I said enough.” Even Jean-Paul heard the suppressed violence in the whip-crack sound and took a hasty step back. “You go too far, Moreau. If I catch you near Gemma I will have you thrown off the island. Do you understand?”
A Gallic shrug and Jean-Paul smiled. “Keep cool, man. It doesn’t mean a thing—it never did.” But there was a wariness in his dark eyes that hadn’t been there seconds before.
The last thing Gemma wanted was a scene. Already they were attracting the glances of people alerted by the bristling men and hissed words. The two women at their table were staring openly, while the croupier called for bets with a touch of desperation.
“Angelo—”
The arm tightened, cutting off her protest. “Gemma, you will not encourage this man. Moreau, you will keep your distance from Gemma. I’ve told you both before, I don’t share my woman. Understand that.” Releasing his hold on her, Angelo moved between her and Jean-Paul and with a hard glance at her, he added, “Both of you.”
Then, in a swift movement, he swept the euro notes off the table and nodded at the croupier. “Come, Gemma. Let’s go.”
Without a glance in Jean-Paul’s direction, Gemma slid from the stool.
The hand that came down on her shoulder was possessive, a warning. His woman. Angelo had warned Jean-Paul—and her—that he had no intention of sharing his woman, clearly not for the first time. Did that mean he still considered her his woman?
A frisson of dark emotion speared her. Gemma wasn’t sure what to make of his claim and kept silent as they left the gaming room.
By the time they exited the elevator a floor down and walked out the hotel into the starry night, the anger inside Angelo was still simmering. Maintaining a terse silence, he strode along the path lit by decorative Victorian-style lamps. He was aware of the anxious glances Gemma kept casting him as she hurried along beside him, her high heels clicking against the terra-cotta flagstones.
“I’m sorry about what happened.”
He shrugged. “It had to happen sooner or later. And it’s only a matter of time before it happens again…before another man rises from the ashes of your past.”
“I don’t remember him,” she said quickly.
Too quickly? “Meaning, you won’t remember the others, either?” He shot her a derisive smile. “Poor bastard. I can almost feel pity for him.”
Yet he had to admit he found it immensely satisfying that she didn’t remember the Frenchman. Especially after…
Hell!
“I knew about Jean-Paul, saw you both in my bed with my own eyes.” His tone took on a dark edge. “I can give you details of how you were straddling him, your knees around his hips, your bare breasts bouncing and the satin sheets—my satin sheets—crumpled around you. Your skin like a pearl against—”
“Stop.” Gemma came to a jarring halt. “I don’t want to hear this.” Her head bent, she stared at the shadowy footpath and tension hunched her bare shoulders. She shivered as a sharp gust of sea-wind cut through the night.
“If I tell you what I saw, what I can still see so clearly, it might help you remember.” He knew his bitterness was showing. But he wanted to hurt her, cut to the heart of her. Humiliate her as he’d been humiliated. “How many more men like Jean-Paul will there be? Men that I don’t know of? Men that you don’t remember?”
Gemma shivered again.
Angered by her lack of response, he said, “Tell me, Gemma, how many more?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a very small voice.
“Look at me.” His hands closed on her shoulders. Her skin was like ice. He swung her round and her eyes snapped open revealing her bewilderment as she stumbled on her high heels.
“Careful!” He tightened his grip and couldn’t help noticing how soft her skin felt.
She ducked away. Her heel gave and she almost fell.
With an exasperated imprecation he yanked her upright. “Are you okay?”
“No thanks to you.” She wrenched herself free. “If you hadn’t grabbed me like some Neanderthal I’d have been fine.”
“Neanderthal?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or to swear at the crack. “Neanderthal?”
Gemma’s heart sank as she absorbed his outrage. Then she stiffened as her own indignation kicked in. It was his doing that she’d nearly fallen. He’d spun her round. Ever since Jean-Paul’s arrival he’d been acting like a jealous jerk. She didn’t have to put up with it.
Tossing back her hair, she lifted her chin. “Yes. Neanderthal. You know—some primitive three-hundred pound gorilla type.” Her heart was galloping as she stared at him defiantly, waiting for his response.
For a moment he simply stood there. Then he gurgled something that sounded like gorilla and his arms shot out.
She gave a squeak. And then it was too late.
He had her in a hard hold, his fingers imprinted on her shoulders, and his lips slanted across hers, grinding down against the softness cooled by the night breeze. She wriggled and murmured a protest.
He raised his head, and she gulped a much-needed breath. “So I’m a gorilla, am I?”
Hastily she shook her head. A mad urge to laugh bubbled through Gemma. Then his mouth was back, open and hungry on hers, and all coherent thought left her. His tongue stroked the soft, tender skin inside her cheeks. Heat sliced through her, a restless yearning started to build. The desire he’d ignited when he’d kissed her in the alcove returned in full force. Gemma’s head spun. What the hell was happening to her?
His arms tightened, drawing her up against him. He was already aroused.
The realisation sent a wave of reckless euphoria coursing through her. Her bones softened, and in her lower body the heat started to spread. Her hips seemed to have developed a life of their own and moved in slow circles against him. Angelo groaned.
His hot breath rushed into her mouth and the intimacy turned her knees to liquid. Gemma staggered backward, her heels digging into the turf, and Angelo followed, his thighs moving against hers in an erotic dance, their mouths devouring each other.
The roughness of a tree trunk stopped Gemma backing up. Angelo didn’t pause until he had her plastered against the trunk, his body reamed up against hers in the dark space under the wide canopy of branches, his hands twisted in the tangled mass of her hair. Her nipples pebbled, aching under the press of his body. Here, in the silent darkness, the golden glow of the lamplight seemed far away.
The pressure on her mouth gave a little and then the tip of his tongue started to outline her lips, slowly, deliberately, his hands holding her head, positioning her for maximum impact.
It was teasing, frustrating. She wanted him to kiss her. Intimately. “More.” The demand was torn from her. She butted her hips forward, finding the length of his erection and started to rock back and forth. She wanted more of his mouth, more of his touch…more… of the intense want ripping through her.
But he kept the tongue strokes light and toying and she writhed against him.