SARA WOOD - A Forbidden Seduction

He pushed back his jacket and lazily studied her while she tried to pretend that she hadn’t noticed his flat stomach and the slender hips. Her brain was in a tangle and he knew that, and his menacing sexuality unnerved her utterly.

‘And... how may I provide this... justice?’ he asked sardonically.

She felt the wash of heat burning her face again but forged on, dragging her brain to attention. ‘My mother and I are trying to run an honest business,’ she said shortly. ‘We provide good food at competitive prices. City Lights isn’t playing fair—’

‘So? That’s business,’ he interrupted coldly.

Exasperated, she went closer, anger and desperation overcoming her sense of intimidation.

‘Sliced factory bread and soggy, chemical-injected ham don’t win orders!’ she said heatedly. ‘They have to resort to dirty tricks: telephoning customers and saying that deliveries can’t be made, undercutting with ridiculous prices and pinching staff from small businesses who are running on a shoe-string like us. It’s not decent and it’s not fair competition,’ she stormed. ‘If you won’t tell your sister-in-law she’s heading for trouble, then I will!’

‘Don’t threaten me,’ he said in a deceptively soft growl that reminded her of distant thunder. ‘I don’t want to get involved in your nasty little squabbles. You might think it’s acceptable to throw yourself at your rival delivery girls and tussle on my office floor, but I find it highly distasteful.’

She took a long, slow breath and a long, slow look at him. She sensed his claws were about to be unsheathed. Though sleek and urbane, there was something about the way he glowered at her from under his brows, the way his eyes blazed into hers, that spoke of danger. He was staring at her, unblinking, unsmiling, unmoved by her plight.

She recognised that he was more stubborn, more pigheaded than she was—with infinitely more power to hold his ground. The taut and muscled body exuded a great strength—not only a physical energy, but the sublime directness of purpose of a man who expected—no, demanded—respect and obedience. Her lashes flickered with the surprise of that discovery. She lowered her gaze in weary defeat—and found herself staring at a photograph on his desk, half concealed in some bubble-wrap as if it had just arrived in the post. It was a picture of Gio!

Startled, she rushed forward, and he flung out an arm to stop her so quickly that she lost her balance, grabbing at the nearest thing: Colleoni himself.

She was in his arms, trembling at the hardness of his jaw against her cheek and the instinctive male tightening of powerful sinew around her. Alarmed, too, by the slide of his hands up her back and the sudden warmth and silken slither of his chest against hers.

Then he was detaching himself calmly and looking down at her, his expression inscrutable. With great care, he checked his jacket for damage, shot his cuffs with a flash of gold and amber cuff-links and said tightly; ‘I don’t like the way you seek justice. I dislike women who use their bodies like a weapon.’

‘I didn’t!’ she objected indignantly.

‘You’ll get out,’ he continued, overriding her protest. ‘Now! I see you’re married. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, propositioning customers when they curtail contracts?’

Sick with shame, her head whirling with confusion, she ignored what he’d said and stared at the photograph in the solid silver frame, Luciano and Gio, side by side. Gio grinning, Luciano scowling. No mistake. Something lurched in her heart; Gio had said he had no family. But the photo had been taken recently—after Gio had altered his hairstyle.

She took a deep, steadying breath, her grey eyes dark with shock. Gio knew Luciano Colleoni. He’d lied to her about having no relatives. She felt her lip tremble as she wondered whether Gio had been deceiving her about anything else, and, if so, why...

CHAPTER TWO

DEBBIE felt the room whirling around. She clung to the desk, fighting for breath, and then Colleoni was forcing her head down with a none too gentle hand on her neck till she was bent over double and breathing stentoriously.

Conscious of the fact that she must present a rather provocative picture to the red-blooded Sicilian, she struggled to free herself and came up panting, her face puce with embarrassment and the effects of gravity.

‘That’s...’

She gulped, not from dizziness caused at the shock of discovering that her husband was linked with a wealthy financier, but from that same financier’s touch. The strong hand drifted over her shoulder as it withdrew, leaving her skin alive with the sensation. Struck dumb, she struggled for a reason and decided she must be suffering from confusion. No one had ever had that effect on her—not that strong, that intense.

‘Sit down.’ When she was slow to respond, still trying to work out her extraordinary reaction, Colleoni said irritably, Tor God’s sake, sit down, woman!’

‘Bully,’ she muttered, resentful of more than the command.

With a glint in his dark eyes, he put his firm hand on the centre of her back, unaware that he was sending more frantic signals to her brain. And, because she was dealing with the sexual messages and trying to deflect them, she offered no resistance.

So she found herself by one of the deep armchairs which faced the picture windows looking out to Tower Bridge and the River Thames. One of the most expensive views in London, she thought hazily. And this man had bought the bank as if he’d been buying a bar of chocolate.

‘Sit down,’ he repeated, a little more gently. ‘I’d prefer you not to faint if you can possibly avoid it,’ he added drily.

She sat. And felt a lot better. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised spiritedly, trying to gather her wits.

‘I hesitate to suggest that your dress ought to be eased. I don’t think either of us could cope with that, could we?’ he drawled.

‘No,’ she answered hoarsely; the thought of loosening anything in Colleoni’s presence was quite illogically unnerving. ‘Oh, my feet,’ she moaned, feeling them throb now that she’d sat down.

‘You ought to take those shoes off. They look tight too.’

More touching! Her eyes became huge grey pools of anxiety. ‘No! I’ll keep them on, thanks.’

‘Yes.’ And he confounded her by kneeling at her feet and carefully beginning to untie the ribbon, his head close to her bare shins. ‘For the sake of your comfort and your quick recovery—which I’m sure we both want,’ he murmured.

In the light from the window his hair gleamed with a depth of colour like those wonderful dark plums with that faint blue tinge—the kind of invitingly glossy, smooth texture that made you reach out and... She checked her fidgeting hand quickly.

What was it about this situation that was making her feel so vulnerable? Was it the powerful and charismatic man at her feet, gently—and surely rather slowly—removing something she was wearing?

She gasped. Colleoni’s fingers were lightly touching her ankle, nothing more, but a shudder had rippled through her body and he’d looked up, his eyes suddenly glowing with an indolent warmth.

‘Something wrong?’ he enquired silkily.

‘I’m ticklish,’ she croaked, and blushed because of the lie.

For a couple of seconds he studied her soberly while she wondered if he was reading the truth: that she found him intensely compelling; that she felt horrified that her long-denied sexual hunger was spilling out to a complete stranger.

‘Really?’ he drawled softly.

Miserably she watched him bend his head again and attend to the ribbons, knowing he’d recognised the signals being sent out by her body. Impatiently she waited, wondering why he was finding the laces so difficult to undo. But it gave her a chance to chill down her feelings.