Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians (11 page)

“He was a good man.” He stood, needing space. Pacing to the doorway, he leaned on the frame, staring blankly at the long, bustling hospital hallway. Loud voices echoed through the corridor, yet it seemed to him as if a cocoon of stillness surrounded them. Isolating them.

“He’s dead?”

“
Si.
” He made himself turn to confront her.

“I’m sorry.” Her expression filled with sympathy.

Rolling back on his heels, he closed his eyes.

Sympathy. Something he’d never seen on a woman’s face before. He was used to, expected to see, calculation, greed, expectations. Over the years, he’d found a certain amount of relief in knowing he could easily satisfy any womanly desires by doling out the required funds to make her happy. It released him from any messy emotional demands.

Once, long ago, a woman had observed him with sympathy. Or that’s what he’d thought. But he’d soon understood it had been pity. Juliana’s deep-brown gaze had welled with fake tears as he’d poured forth his love and begged.

The pity in her gaze had destroyed him and enraged him.

Had driven him for years.

Marc took a long breath in and opened his eyes to stare at another woman’s expression. The emotion he saw was completely different. Soft, comforting and accepting. The awareness of the difference struck him deep inside, disconcerting him and making him restless. “No need to feel sorry. It happened a long time ago.”

“It still hurts though.” She stood, walked to his side and wrapped her arms around him before he could move away. “I can tell.”

This had to stop. He wasn’t going to go down this road any longer. He laid his hand on the back of her head and pressed her face against his chest. He didn’t want to look into her eyes again. It might make him babble more inane memories. “Enough of this.”

She snuffled. “Don’t you want to know why I hate my father?”

Safe territory. It didn’t matter that he’d never before allowed a lover to confess any great secrets. He hadn’t cared about their secrets, only their bodies. Yet he’d much rather have Darcy rattling on about her past than digging into his. Even more astonishing, he actually wanted to know why she hated. The sprite didn’t seem the type to hate.

“Tell me.”

“He left me.” She sighed, a tight burst of air. “After Mum died.”

“Left you?”

Leaning back, she gazed into his face. Her eyes were no longer brilliant blue, but a hazy blur as if she were seeing across the years. “When I was twelve. He claimed he couldn’t handle bringing up a brat by himself. So once Mum went, he turned me over to residential care.”

An imaginary snapshot sprung into his head. One of a little girl: black curls, blue eyes. A little elfin child alone. “
Buon Dio.
”

She pulled out of his arms as if she too needed space. “I survived.”

Had she? How could a child recover from such a desertion? She still claimed hatred. Obviously, she hadn’t survived the experience with no repercussions. She continued to carry it with her—the memory of being abandoned.

A dark, yawning ache blossomed inside him. One he’d ignored and pushed aside for years. The teenager standing by his papa’s bed while the priest gave last rites. The kid who’d sat numb and distant as his father’s friends had arranged for the burial. The boy who’d thought his world had come to end.

Yet his father hadn’t left him willingly. Getting cancer had not been his choice. He’d also been a teenager, not a child. “If he weren’t so sick, I’d strangle him myself.”

“My knight in shining armor?” She threw a jaunty grin over her shoulder as she walked to the couch again. “Somehow, I don’t see you in that role.”

The thing curled in his gut. “Not a knight, true. But perhaps an avenger?”

“It’s in the past.” She waved his words away as she sat. “It’s behind me.”

“Yet you hate him.”

She hunched her shoulders.

“You also give him money on a consistent basis, according to the report I read about you. A man you supposedly hate.”

She stared at the faded linoleum floor.

“How do you explain that,
carita
?” He needed to know how she ticked. Needed to know for what reason he could not articulate. Still, the need beat inside him, exactly as his heart did.

She pursed her lips.

Watching her keenly, he noticed as she folded her hands primly on her lap. The action told him she was trying to pull back from her confession. It told him she was trying to put distance between them. At any other time, with any other woman, he would have felt relief.

Now? Now, he felt a compulsion to rip aside her defenses and delve deep into her mind, her past. His desperate desire to know every inch of her body had somehow turned into a dogged need to know every inch of
her.

The thought shocked him.

“What?” The sprite immediately sensed the change in him. She tilted her head, giving him the same keen attention he’d given her. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

A look of disbelief filled her face. Her hand smoothed down her jeans-clad leg in an absent-minded gesture.

Touching herself. Again. Disturbing him. Again.

A thought jumped into his mind, swallowing his lust whole. In its place his non-existent conscience suddenly came to life and screamed. “Why the hell did you take my deal?”

“Huh?” She frowned.

“Why would you agree to my blackmail in order to save your worthless father? A man you supposedly hate?”

“Well.” Her gaze grew dark. “He’s my dad. He’s the only family I have.”

The only family I have
.

The words ricocheted inside him, hitting his gut like pieces of spiked glass. When his papa had died, he’d been devastated. Felt totally alone. Within hours, though, his mother had descended back into his life with her new husband and an unknown younger brother, Matteo. A brother who’d unwittingly filled the hole howling deep inside him.

His little brother had become his family.

During the past years, he’d forgotten. Purposefully. Forgotten the joy of being with his brother. Of celebrating life’s journey with a member of his family. He’d forced himself to do what had to be done to salvage his pride and his honor.

His phone buzzed in her pocket.

She stared at him and then slowly slipped the phone from her pocket and held it out for him to take.

The buzz came once more.

The jangle of emotions and thoughts inside him whirled. The memories collided with the purpose which had driven him from the moment of Juliana’s rejection.

Another buzz.

Her night-blue gaze burned into his soul.

He took the phone and answered it.

W
hy this comforted her
, she couldn’t for the life of her say.

“Darcy,” he rumbled. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Pop.” She perched on his hospital bed. Sunlight sprinkled across the white sheets and downy blue coverlet. It had been five days since she’d landed in the dismal waiting room at the public hospital. Five days of constant waiting and constant hoping. All with Marc at her side.

A funny little something fluttered in her stomach. A flutter of happiness or joy or something. A feeling of being cherished. Or maybe it was because she was tired and had a stomachache after drinking so much bad coffee. For whatever reason, he had stuck around. He’d been there to advise her and console her. His phone had blasted away all the time, still, he’d never ignored her if she really needed him.

She’d come first.

The flutter erupted in the depths of her once more.

There’d been other flutters and feelings, though, hadn’t there? There’d been five days to sit and contemplate her past. Her pop. Her mum. It wasn’t in her nature to contemplate her history. She’d much rather charge into the future. Yet somehow, the lack of anything to do but wait, and the solid male presence at her side—somehow, quite a bit had come out.

As she’d sat, cuddled to Marc’s side, she’d found herself confessing about her mum’s heroin overdose. About how she’d been the one who’d taken care of her parents. She’d done the cooking and the washing and the cleaning. She’d made sure their limited funds, most of the time, had paid the bills.

He’d listened. Simply listened.

Darcy sat in the sunlight and felt the warmth of his acceptance of her past. Although he’d left her today for an important business meeting he couldn’t miss, she still felt him inside her heart.

“Pretty fancy digs.” Her father interrupted her happy meanderings.

“Yep.” She pulled herself away from her delirious dreams. Straightening his covers, she smiled. In only a short time after his operation, her pop had recovered enough to be transferred to a private clinic specializing in cardiac patients. The place was a miracle of the most advanced medical science combined with elegant surroundings.

Everything paid for by Marc.

“I know I told you I’d come to visit you soon.” Her pop rubbed his hand across his face. “But I got busy with other things. You know.”

“Yeah.” Childhood memories crowded around her. “I know.”

A strained silence fell between them.

Her father finally chuckled under his breath. “You’ve sure landed on your feet with this one, baby.”

“What?” She narrowed her gaze at his tone. The tone she’d heard her entire life. A tone of a man on the take, a charmer seeing his next big deal.

“Come on.” He chuckled again. “Don’t play innocent.”

“I was never an innocent,” she snapped. “Not with you as my father.”

“Now, now.” His hand smoothed across his chest as a reminder. “Don’t get cranky on me. I’m not at the top of my game.”

She puffed out an exasperated breath, but fell silent again.

Her father eyed her. There was still the sparkle of the con artist in the sky blue gazing at her. “All I’m saying, baby, is you’ve got yourself a winner this time.”

Considering this was the first time she’d introduced any man to her pop, his statement was— “Don’t be a nutter.”

“He had a word with me before he left today.”

Darcy gazed at her father, trying to stifle the urge to ask. She couldn’t help herself. “Okay. I’ll bite. What did he say?”

His eyes twinkled. “You were always a curious child.”

“What did he say?” Impatience crackled in her words.

“Told me to behave myself with you.”

“Pop.” She gave him a wry smile. “We both know that’s never going to happen.”

“Well, he sure knows how to lay down the law. If I wasn’t a tough old bird, he’d have scared me.” He chortled, a cunning, caustic sound. ‘I saw it for what it was, though.”

“What was that?”

“A declaration of his intent.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got your hooks in him good, baby girl.” His voice was rich with pleasure. “He’s all protective towards you.”

The flutter batted inside her. She waved his words away. “You’ve got it completely wrong.”

“I rarely get these kinds of things wrong. I know a jackpot when I see one.”

A fiery burn of temper erupted. “Marc is not a jackpot.”

“Whatever you say.” Her pop winked.

“He isn’t.” Frustration mixed with fear flooded through her. Had her dear old dad insinuated such a thing directly to Marc? If so, what were the chances the cynical man she knew lurked behind his kindness would reemerge? “I don’t care about his money.”

“Sure you don’t.” Her pop’s laugh sounded rusty, scratching down her spine in an irritating grind.

His mocking take blazed a path of fury inside her. She’d never seen Marc as a mark. Never. In fact, as she’d gotten to know him, his money had turned into an obstacle. Or rather, his damn need to make more and more money had been the problem.

A sudden thought struck her. Is this how he'd become so cynical? Did everyone approach him as a potential sugar daddy? Did he see the same gleam of greed in the eye of every woman and man who approached him?

No wonder he was so cool and contained. No wonder.

“He could be poor as a church mouse and I wouldn’t care.” Fiery truth scorched her

words.

“Hell.” Her father eyed her with immediate distaste. “Don’t be like your stupid mother.”

“Don’t talk about her.” The old rage bubbled in the pit of her stomach.

“Darcy, lass.” His wiry hand tapped a beat of disgust on the covers. “Your mum did some stupid things—”

“Stop—”

“But the stupidest thing she ever did was fall in love.” His voice was laden with rueful resignation. “With me.”

“Look where that got her.” The words shot from her mouth before she could stop them.

“Exactly.” His one word cut through her soul.

She took a deep breath. “I’m not in love with him.”

“Good,” her father stated. “That’s good.”

“I’m simply grateful for what he’s done for you.”

“Keep it that way.” Her pop’s eyes burned bright. “Don’t be a fool and fall in love and give everything of yourself to him. He’ll only use it and you. Then discard you. Keep control of the situation and you’ll come out on top.”

“What top would that be?”

“Walk away with your dignity,” he snickered. “And a big pot of money.”

“Bye, Pop.” She jerked herself off the bed. A slick coating of humiliation slid up her throat as she confronted what she’d come from, who she called family. “I have to go get something to eat.”

As she marched down the hospital hallway, she clenched her fists and bit her lip. She was not. Not after Marc for his money.

She was not like her pop.

She was not like her mum.

She was not
.

“
P
ut it on
.” Marc’s accented voice made her shiver inside.

Darcy inspected the dress hanging in the walk-in closet of her temporary bedroom. It shimmered in the light from overhead. Deep blue mixed with aqua and turquoise. The tiny straps clung to the hanger and the long, flowing silk called her name.

“The color made me think of your eyes.”

She turned, instant surprise rising inside. “You picked this out yourself?”

Leaning on the door frame, he arched a brow. “
Si
.”

“You didn’t have one of your minions pick it out?”

“No.”  He shrugged. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all.” Turning back to the dress, she couldn’t resist sliding her hand across the cool silk. A flash of joy exploded inside her at the thought of Marc actually taking time away from his busy business schedule to go shopping.

A low growl came from behind her. “Touching. Always touching.”

A smile whispered across her lips. It had been a long ten days since her pop’s heart attack. And it had seemed even longer during the last five days when Marc had left her side to return to work. She’d hardly seen him since. She'd spent every minute at the recovery center, often sleeping in the chair beside her pop’s bed. It had only been last night she'd felt secure enough in his condition to come back to the penthouse for a good night's sleep. By the time she'd rolled from the bed this morning, Marc had already left for work.

She glanced over her shoulder as she slipped her palm across the silk once more. “It feels lovely.”

His silver gaze glowed with hot heat. “The dress will feel even lovelier with you in it.”

Her smile widened and she took pleasure in watching the muscles of his shoulders tighten in reaction. She’d missed him. The memory of where they’d been, what they’d been about to do before her father’s crisis had stopped them, returned.

The want for him had not dissipated.

Exactly the opposite.

The want had grown from a sexual need she was afraid of into a driving desire to make this man happy in every way. During the past days—as he stood by her side, held her in his arms, did whatever needed to be done to make her more comfortable and her pop more secure—every wall inside her had fallen. The lust swamp which had bubbled inside her even during the grimmest moments of waiting for news, that swamp had now turned into a warm, willing lake of need and desire.

Don’t be a fool and fall in love and give everything of yourself to him
.

She shoved her pop’s words aside and the sea of emotions threatening to rip her apart. Time enough to take them out and analyze them half to death. Right now, she wanted to do something entirely different while she had the guts. Taking her courage into her hands, she took the few steps to reach Marc’s side.

He eased off the doorframe and stared into her eyes. “What?”

Placing a hand on his hard chest, she smoothed her fingers on the sleek silk shirt covering his pectorals. “I like to touch you.”

He took a deep breath in. “You pick a damnable time to do it.”

“You don't like it?” Taken aback at the unexpected rejection, she started to snap her hand away.

He grabbed it and tugged her closer. “I like it too much, but now is not the time.”

Relief surged through her at his words and gave her the license to play with him just a bit. A pout was one her favorite weapons to get the reaction she wanted. It was an effective weapon if his reaction had anything to say about it. His gaze immediately zeroed in on her mouth. She swore she felt his temperature rise. His chest expanded once more with a heavy breath and the heat of him blasted against her hand.

Then he laughed, dimples flashing. With one swift tug, he’d turned her back to the dress and stepped out of the closet. “You are temptation personified,
piccola carita
. However, I’m afraid I must insist you put on the dress. We have somewhere we need to be tonight.”

“Where?” Curiosity warred with lust. Still, she dutifully slipped the dress off the hanger.

“You’ll see.” His voice carried across the bedroom as he paced to the hallway door. “Be ready in a half hour.”

Dress in hand, Darcy strolled into the bathroom and shut the door.

She'd been tired when she'd arrived at the penthouse this afternoon. Yet now a vibrant energy pulsed through her. It washed away the long hours consulting with doctors, monitoring her father's care, and most especially, the times she'd had to listen to her pop's explanations of things long past. There were no apologies, naturally. She'd long ago abandoned any hope of that. It would have been nice to hear at least once that something had been his fault, but dear old dad kept to his party line.

Her mum had forced him to marry when she'd been pregnant. 

Her mum had been the one to start the fights with her constant flirting.

Her mum was the reason he'd become addicted to heroin—she'd been the one who'd introduced it to him. It had been her mum’s decision to start taking customers in order to foot the drug bill. He’d had nothing to do with it. In fact, he’d objected to it.

The biggest line of them all—it was her mum's fault for dying. Her death had forced him to give her to foster care. A man couldn't be expected to care for a young twelve-year-old girl, now could he? 

The long days listening to her pop had definitely been a trial. 

She made a face in the mirror. She'd survived, as usual. Plus, she had something to look forward to at this moment. Marc was taking her out once more, like he had in New York City. Somewhere spangly and sparkly. Somewhere with a spot of champagne and new people to meet. This is what she needed to focus on. She deserved a bit of fun after listening to endless ridiculous excuses.

Excitement bubbling inside her, she turned on the shower. A quick wash. A fluff of her hair so it spiked and curled around her head. A touch of mascara and lip gloss, and she was ready for the dress. Slipping the slinky gown over her head, she tugged it into place. The silk wrapped lovingly around her breasts, slicked down across her waist, and hugged her hips. 

My, my.
 

Every move she made was going to get her noticed.  

She glanced into the mirror. Her slight smile turned into a wide grin. She was going to swing her hips in honor of her dear mum and also swing them to catch a certain man's attention.

Swish, swish, swish
.

She sauntered into the bedroom and stopped.

“You’re ready,” the certain man said from the opened doorway.  

She met his gaze, remembering another time where she'd presented herself for his inspection and been shot down. 

A ping of sudden anxiety made her straighten her spine.

The fighter inside made her lift her chin.

His perusal leisurely slid from her wide eyes down to her mouth, making it tingle. The scrutiny continued over the skin of her neck across her silk-covered breasts, making them tighten. The silver gaze turned molten as he continued to concentrate on her. Sliding across her waist, the curve of her hips, down the length of her legs. To her silk-covered toes, making them curl.

He gave her a wry grin, dimples flashing. “No shoes. Are you planning on playing the part of Cinderella tonight? Or perhaps you wish me to carry you to your ball?”

Not a putdown. But no compliments either.

Emotions tumbled inside her. 

This intense desire she felt for him even through the old fears. The leftover anger she held because of his dismissive attitude towards her when they'd first met. The contrasting emotions mixed and tangled with the appreciation she felt for his patience during the last few days. Then there was the gratitude for what he was doing for her pop battling with the old resentment because he'd used her father as a weapon against her.

Yet none of those emotions could compete. Compete with the one, overwhelming emotion shining through the morass in her head and heart.

No.
No.

The man who caused all these jarring emotions inside her swung his tuxedo jacket over his shoulder and leaned on the doorframe. A slight frown appeared, drawing his dark, satirical brows down. “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing.” Jerking her attention away from the jumble of confusion roiling inside her, Darcy slid on a pair of matching high heels. It couldn’t possibly have happened, she told herself. She couldn’t possibly be such a stupid git.

She gritted her teeth in a smile and threw it his way.

His frown deepened. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking I’m ready to go.” She pushed her smile even wider.

“Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Feeling great.” She gestured to her feet. His earlier teasing questions came back to her and she grasped onto them as a way to turn the conversation. “See? Got my dancing shoes on. I’m definitely not the kind of girl to play Cinderella, you'll be happy to know. I'm sure you're even more relieved to find there's no need for you to carry me. Anywhere.”

A clipped silence fell. 

“
Si
,” he finally replied, his scrutiny no longer warm. “I’m delighted to be reminded of your independence.”

She forced herself to keep meeting his gaze, even knowing she'd thrown cold water on the evening. But she didn’t know how to put every one of her emotions in perfect order so she wouldn't blurt out stupid sentences designed to tick him off.

He slipped his jacket on, taking his time as he adjusted the sleeves, buttoned the coat. When he glanced over, his eyes were as opaque as glass. “Shall we?”

The silence in the limo was deafening. Darcy clutched her small tote with tight fingers and frantically tried to think of something to say. Something that would smooth over whatever this was that had come between them. This pulsing wall of distance, one she'd erected with her words. The realization clunked inside her. Suddenly, she wanted so much to return to the moments in the closet, when he’d been smiling, warm, wanting. 

“We’re here.” His tone frosted her soul.

Rather than focusing on him, she focused on her feet as she climbed from the limo. Wherever
here
was, she didn't want to be. There would be no fun or frolic for her tonight. Not with the Great Man back in all his cold, arrogant glory.

She glanced up only when he began to open the door.

To an art gallery.

A gasp escaped her as her gaze fell on a very familiar painting highlighted in one of two front windows. “T-t-that's, that's…” her words stumbled to a stop.

“Yours.” He continued to hold the door open as several people swept into the noise and laughter of a gallery opening. He looked down his nose at her. “Are you going to come in?”

With a gulp, she stepped into her dream world. Given to her by this man. A flurry of feelings fluttered in her belly. Feelings entirely opposite of what she’d been experiencing only seconds before. “H-h-how…how—”

“Quite easily.” He slipped her coat off and gave it to an attendant. “I’m in the business of making things happen.”

His arrogance should have fired her temper. Instead, the fire lit something deep inside, melting her fears. “I had no idea.” 

“That is the general description of a surprise.” He adjusted his necktie, not meeting her inquiring gaze.

Her heart drummed in her chest, hope and anguish and fear and dreams colliding inside her. “Why?”

He finally glanced her way, yet his eyes gave away nothing. They were like two pieces of impenetrable metal. “You have talent. It should be displayed and acknowledged.”

As if he would do this for any starving artist in London. But he wouldn't have, would he? He'd done it for her. However, it seemed whatever impulse prodded him to do this for her had been swept away by her odd attitude earlier this evening. 

A lump of guilt stuck in her throat. 

After all this man had done for her father, and now this. She'd been flippant, dismissive. She’d shut an emotional door in his face and he knew it and didn’t like it. Had she hurt him? Could it possibly be that Marc was feeling some of the same emotions she was?

She peered at him.

His face was blank as he looked back at her. Still, something in the way he stood, tense and ready for another blow, gave her courage. She’d let fear—fear of rejection, of what she was feeling for this man—rule her.

Which wasn't worthy of her or him.  

She stepped close to him once more and slipped her hand around his neck.  

His big body stilled and then stiffened as she tried to pull his head down to hers. “No.”

“Yes,” she insisted, willing to fight through his rejection instead of letting it put her off. 

His eyes were no longer frosty. Rather a burning light had appeared. “
Carita
. Why do you choose the most inopportune times to touch me?”

“I don't know.” She tried to tug his head down again. “Call me perverse.”

“I have other names for you.” He stared at her. Hard. “What happened earlier? What were you thinking?”

She didn't want to go there. How could she explain the jumble of emotions inside her? The only thing she wanted at this moment was his closeness. She wanted to relish this moment. Waving his questions away, she didn’t look at his face. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Not true.” One male finger slid under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “I want to know.”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“It matters.” His silver eyes never left hers. 

“I…I…” 

A flash of light cut off her attempt at an impossible explanation. Both of them jerked their heads around. Cameras flashed once more.

The ancient fear blasted every thought from her head except one.

He would find her
. 

The paparazzi were few, and relegated to a small patch of space inside the front door. Marc straightened and tugged her to his side, turning her to face the cameras. 

And the consequences.  

“Smile,” he ordered.

Following his order was impossible. Her lips felt like icicles.

Lights flashed once more.

Horror screamed in her brain. She might have escaped his notice when the New York photos were released, but she doubted she'd be so lucky if and when her picture hit the London tabs. She'd watched him as a kid, poring over the tabloids, laughing at celebrity antics. If he was still alive, he'd see her. If he saw her, she knew,
knew
, he'd come after her.