Olivia Gates - One Night In…

Laughing.

‘I SEE you discovered the wet room.’

Anna tried to frame a coherent sentence but found herself able to do nothing more than mouth impotently. The only words that came to mind were too offensive for her to even utter.

‘Pretty impressive, no? Designed to use as little water as possible. All the shower jets incorporate tiny vacuum pumps to aerate the water as it comes out and so increase the pressure.’ He’d been lounging against the door-frame, but now he levered himself upright. ‘That way, you get a very powerful shower while using a minimum amount of water, and the whole thing is operated by sensors.’

‘Thank you,’ she spat. ‘I think I’d just about worked that bit out for myself.’

The second part of the sentence came out as a dry croak as she watched him unbuttoning his shirt. She took a step backwards, unable to take her eyes off the rippling golden chest that was gradually being revealed.

‘What are you doing?’

He looked up and grinned as he slipped his shirt off. For a fleeting moment she thought she might pass out.

He held out the shirt to her.

‘Here. Put this on.’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

She made to walk past him, but as she did so he caught hold of the tie at the back of her sodden bikini. And pulled.

She breathed in sharply, making a small shivering sound.

In an instant he was behind her and, with swift, capable hands, had drawn the tiny triangles of fabric over her head, in the same seamless movement wrapping his shirt around her. She was aware of nothing but the warm scent of him, imprinted into the whisper-soft linen, the firm pressure of his hands.

‘Now, take off those wet shorts.’

She spun round to face him. ‘No! No—I—’

He took a single step towards her and reached out. She had to bite her lip against the gasp that sprang from her, the flicker of fiery arousal that licked up her belly in anticipation of his touch. But he only took hold of the shirt and started to do up the buttons. Through a mist of agonizing desire, she glanced up at his face.

His eyes gave nothing away.

He had moved upwards and was now buttoning the shirt over her bare breasts. She was aware of the painful thrust of her nipples against the fabric and closed her eyes for a second in blissful submission.

‘There. Perfectly respectable. It almost comes down to your knees, so you’re perfectly safe to take off your shorts. I won’t look.’

Her eyes fluttered open and she swung blindly away from him, fumbling with the stiff button of the wet denim. But her hands were slow and clumsy with confusion. ‘I—can’t.’

‘Then allow me.’

Gently he drew her towards him. Unable to raise her eyes to meet his, she watched, mesmerized, as his long elegant fingers undid the button of her shorts, aware of the flat plane of his tanned stomach only inches from her own. His thumb brushed the quivering flesh of her midriff, sending a cascade of shooting stars up her spine, almost making her knees give way beneath her. Slowly, he tugged down the short zip and, slowly, deliberately slid the wet denim downwards. Helplessly she felt her hips wriggle beneath his hands, as if they had a mind of their own and were desperate to free themselves of the layers that separated her from him.

He dropped to his knees in front of her and she let her head fall backwards, lifting her hands and instinctively winding them into her wet hair as she fought to keep control of the murmurs of pleasure his touch aroused in her. His warm hand slid down one leg, then the other, stopping at her foot, his fingers tracing a swift arc of fire across her instep before gently picking it up and making her step out of the shorts. Looking down, she saw him bent before her, his tousled dark blond hair contrasting with the paler gold of the skin of his bare shoulders, beneath which the muscles flexed and rippled. Dimly she was aware of her own fingers twisting her hair into knots of desire, and she opened her eyes as he straightened up before her.

His thumb kneaded her parted lips, his fingertips caressing the hollow beneath her jaw, then trailing down the long, exposed column of her throat as she arched her back and pressed her hips to him.

She ached.

His fingers crept into the damp tangle of her hair, supporting the heavy weight of her head as she waited for his lips to meet hers. He brought his head down to brush his mouth against the side of her neck, where the pulse beat frenziedly beneath her damp skin.

‘Time to go,’ he murmured dryly. ‘A-list celebrities can be very touchy about complete strangers having sex in their bedrooms.’

Her eyes flew open as he drew away and bent to scoop her discarded shorts up off the floor. Without looking back, he walked perfectly steadily across the room to the door.

Anna dragged a hand across her burning lips and swore softly.

Striding after him, she caught up with him in the doorway and snatched her clothes from him. Then she ran ahead of him down the stairs and out into the sunlight.

Closing the front door behind him, Angelo paused briefly and rubbed the frown from his forehead.

Careful, he warned himself, but his knuckles were white on the large iron door handle. He needed to get this deal completed and return Anna to the safety of dry land, because if this carried on much longer he knew his resolve wouldn’t hold and he’d have to bed her.

He wanted to, but he’d glimpsed a vulnerability in her that scared him. It was that moment when he’d done the buttons up on the shirt. It had made him think of Lucia.

He shook his head and gave the door a last little push to check that it was closed properly and turned to go down the steps. He could see her walking ahead of him down the path back to the gate that led to the jetty, the tails of his shirt reaching just above her knees. She was sexy as hell, he thought, and she had walked into this situation with her eyes wide open—she must be pretty sure of herself to have done that. As he watched, she dragged a hand through her hair, making the pink streaks flash in the sun. A sardonic smile spread across his face.

She was nothing like that other little girl he had let down all those years ago in the orphanage. Lucia had been a child—a vulnerable child—who had relied on him as her only source of support in a harsh, loveless world, and he would never forgive himself for what had happened to her. But this was different. Anna was strong and spiky and rebellious—she could look after herself. He was just imagining the trembling little girl beneath the surface.

His expression was stony as he set off down the path after her.

He’d ring his PA as soon as they were back on the yacht and see if she’d had any word from Ifford’s people about what the hell was going on at their end. The sooner those papers were signed the better. For his sanity.

Storming back into her cabin, Anna slammed the door behind her and threw herself on to the bed.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to tear things up, she wanted to smash Angelo Emiliani’s perfect face to a pulp.

But mostly, she admitted to herself with a low moan, she wanted to have sex with him. Wild, uninhibited, magical, mind-altering sex.

For about twenty-four hours.

She rolled over and buried her face in her arms. The situation was unbearable. She was in the middle of nowhere with the most beautiful man she could imagine and he was playing some kind of sadistic game with her. She remembered her conversation with Fliss—how she’d said that he had a reputation for being icy cool. She hated men like that—the kind who messed with your head—and, Lord knew, there were plenty of them around. Always the best-looking ones, of course, the ones who would pursue you and flatter and flirt until you succumbed and slept with them, and then you wouldn’t see them for dust. Until you spotted them again across a crowded bar, doing exactly the same with someone else.