CRISTIANO WAS AS good as his word. Within an hour of the calls he’d placed, people started arriving—women dressed all in black, with heels higher than the ones Laurel had worn last night, carrying expensive-looking garment bags, glimpses of silk and satin visible on the padded hangers.
A team of white-coated beauticians came in as well, wheeling in cases and equipment and making Laurel blink. She’d never had so much as a manicure in her entire life, and it looked as if they were setting up an entire beauty salon in her bedroom.
She glanced at Cristiano; his expression was impassive, almost bored, as he watched the parade of experts march in. But when he caught her eye he gave her the tiniest glimmer of a smile which, inexplicably, made her heart lift.
‘I know you’re about to tell me how ridiculous this all is,’ he said in a low, lazy voice. ‘But why don’t you enjoy being pampered for a bit?’
There were a lot of reasons why she shouldn’t enjoy anything about this. He was making her over because she wasn’t good enough. She didn’t even want to be here. And as for the chance that she was pregnant...
Well. There was nothing she could do about any of it. One of the army of women pressed a glass into her hand and, bemused, Laurel glanced down at the green drink.
‘What...?’
‘Spinach, kale, almond and banana smoothie,’ the woman said. ‘With flax seeds and Omega 3 oils. Does wonders for your skin.’
And actually tasted surprisingly delicious. Over the rim of her glass Laurel caught Cristiano’s eye again. This time he was smiling properly, and it made her realise she hadn’t actually seen him smile—a real smile, not that cold curving of his lips—since she’d first stumbled into his penthouse.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said softly, and disappeared in the direction of his study while Laurel let herself be ushered back into her bedroom.
The next few hours were a whirl of treatments as beauticians slathered every inch of her body with some unguent, oil or scrub, and others worked on her fingers and toes, filing, buffing and polishing. A woman gave her a head massage while some kind of seaweed mask dried on her face and Laurel decided that this was a rabbit hole she would happily disappear down for a while. She’d never felt so pampered or relaxed, and she forced herself not to think about all the ‘what if?’s that still loomed, or what the next two weeks were going to look like.
She’d called the hospital, and with they’d been relaxed about her taking the time off, given all the vacation time she had saved up. So maybe, just maybe, she could enjoy some of this enforced holiday.
After her hair, face and body had all been dealt with she was swathed in an enormous robe of the softest terry cloth and shown gown after gown after gown. Not that she was actually given a say. One of the assistants whisked a gown away before she’d even had a chance to touch the satiny material.
‘Wrong colour,’ the woman said briskly, thrusting the dress back in the wardrobe.
Laurel ended up trying on several evening gowns, all haute couture, incredibly well made and even more expensive.
‘This one for tonight,’ one of the women declared when Laurel tried on an emerald-green gown with a diamanté halter top. The stylist was tall and thin, dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled back into a bun so tight her eyes were nearly watering.
‘Tonight...?’ Laurel stared at her blankly even as those what ifs started creeping into her consciousness, dread curdling her stomach.
‘Yes, tonight.’ The woman pursed her lips. ‘Signor Ferrero was very specific about what he wanted.’
‘Was he?’ The enjoyment Laurel had been feeling at being pampered, the relaxation that had seeped like honey into her very bones, drained away. ‘What did he want?’
The assistant didn’t hear, or pretended not to hear. ‘Now your make-up and hair,’ she said, and led Laurel to a chair, where a band of women armed with hairdryers and straighteners was waiting.
An hour later Laurel was ready—although, for what, she didn’t even know. Her hair had been straightened and then pulled back into an elegant chignon. Diamond teardrop earrings dangled from each ear, and as for her face...
When she finally got to examine her reflection, Laurel was amazed and more than a little disconcerted. She looked like a stranger. A very elegant, glamorous and, yes, even beautiful stranger. Discreet eye shadow and mascara made her eyes look huge. Bronzer and contouring made her cheekbones stand out like blades. Crimson lipstick made her mouth look plump, full and blood-red. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or horrified by what she saw. In any case, she just felt numb.
‘Signor Ferrero is waiting,’ the woman with the tight bun announced and, with her fingernails digging into Laurel’s elbow, she led her out of the bedroom and back into the living area of the penthouse.
Twilight was stealing over the city, lights beginning to twinkle far below, the sky the pale violet of a bruise. Laurel minced her way across the slick marble floor; the silver-heeled stilettos she wore were even higher than the ones she’d had on last night, and the dress puddled around her ankles, making her feel as if she were in some sort of elegant strait jacket.
‘Signor Ferrero is on the terrace,’ the woman murmured, then headed back to the bedroom. Laurel could hear the other assistants starting to pack up all their equipment. She took a deep breath and carefully made her way across the floor to the open doors on the far side of the living room. She hadn’t even realised the penthouse had a terrace, but now she could see Cristiano standing on a wide balcony framed with potted plants, gazing out at the city.
She paused on the threshold, the balmy summer breeze blowing over her. Her heart was stuttering in her chest for all sorts of reasons. She had no idea what was going to happen tonight. What she would be expected to do. And as for Cristiano...
He looked magnificent in a tuxedo, the jacket encasing his broad shoulders to perfection, the crisp snowy whiteness of his shirt the perfect foil to his dark hair and olive skin.
Then he turned and Laurel caught her breath, because the heat flaring in Cristiano’s eyes made her remember last night in all its exquisite detail. She didn’t want the reminder, didn’t need it, to complicate what already felt fraught. With what felt like superhuman effort she banished the memory and stepped out onto the terrace.
‘So here I am, all dolled up with nowhere to go.’
His eyes simmered like liquid silver, his mouth a compressed line. Laurel had the sudden urge to run her hand along his chiselled jaw with its hint of sexy stubble. To feel his skin under her fingers again. ‘On the contrary. You have somewhere to go.’
Her heart stuttered in her chest. ‘Where?’
‘Down to the casino. With me.’
Laurel swallowed dryly. The last time she’d been on that casino floor... ‘Tonight? I mean, so soon? If I’m going to be here for two weeks...’ She trailed off, a desperate note entering her voice. She didn’t want to go down there. Didn’t want to see Bavasso again, or be another ornament on someone’s arm, even Cristiano’s. Especially Cristiano’s.
‘Of course so soon,’ Cristiano answered in a clipped voice. ‘Why wait? The sooner Bavasso realises you’re mine, the better.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to be anyone’s.’
‘Too late, bella, and too bad. You don’t have a choice any more.’ Cristiano’s smile was hard, the kind of smile she was used to, the kind she really didn’t like. ‘You should have thought of that before you tangled with Bavasso. Fortunately, I think this can be resolved quickly. The sooner Bavasso is off my property, the better.’
‘Fine, let’s go,’ Laurel said, and held out her hand.
Mistake. Cristiano’s palm slid across her, jolting her senses. Reminding her of...everything. Lips, tongues, hands, legs, bodies. Skin...smooth and hot and hard. Stroking...
She really had to stop thinking like this.
Cristiano’s fingers tightened on hers, reminding her that she was under his control. She was his...at least for the next two weeks. And in spite of everything, against all sense and odds, Laurel felt a lick of excitement through her veins. Anticipation fizzed in her stomach and she decided not to suppress it for once. She needed the hit to make it through this evening.
They rode in silence down the lift, its speed making Laurel feel dizzy. Or perhaps Cristiano was the one making her feel dizzy, with her hand still in his, the spicy scent of his aftershave, the heat of his body, the overwhelming maleness of him, dominating her senses. She couldn’t think, could barely breathe.
‘So what happens when we go into the casino?’ she asked, her voice breathy with nerves.
‘Follow my lead.’ Cristiano’s voice was grim. ‘And, for the love of heaven, do a better job of playing a mistress with me than you did with Bavasso.’ He glanced at her, eyes and teeth both glinting. ‘That shouldn’t be too hard, since you are my mistress.’
The doors opened before Laurel could make a stinging comeback and, with his careless remark still thudding through her, she followed him out onto the crowded casino floor.
* * *
Nothing about this felt as he’d anticipated. Needed. Laurel was stunning, but she wasn’t Laurel. When she’d appeared on the terrace, Cristiano had fought the nonsensical urge to take the pins from her hair, to grab his handkerchief and wipe the crimson lipstick from her luscious mouth. To strip her of her dress and heels and put her back in the plain T-shirt and skirt she’d worn earlier, or preferably nothing at all. He didn’t want her like this, looking like all his other mistresses, glamorous, edgy and hard.
But that was exactly how he’d wanted her to look. Exactly what he’d told the army of assistants to make her look like, because she needed to look like his mistress. She was his mistress...of a sort.
Not liking it didn’t make sense. It made him feel angry and strangely vulnerable, two emotions he despised. So he wouldn’t feel them. Cristiano paused on the threshold of the casino as a cold, steely calm came over him. He was here to show Bavasso that Laurel was his, for Laurel’s sake as well as his own. The reputation of his hotel and casino, of his professional status, rested on keeping men like Bavasso in check, or preferably off the premises. The sooner this irritation was dealt with, the better.
Bavasso was certainly unpleasant, but Cristiano wasn’t really worried about him. And he might have overplayed Bavasso’s reputation in order to secure his own interest in Laurel. He felt a qualm of guilt about that and shoved it away. He’d deal with Bavasso tonight and tomorrow, and the next two weeks, would be his and Laurel’s.
Raising his chin, Cristiano coldly scanned the room with its baccarat and blackjack, poker tables and roulette wheel. Diamonds glinted and the buzz of conversation, glasses clinking and dice being rolled, filled the room.
Cristiano had never gambled. He hated the thought of it, the desperate need for the adrenalin rush, the loss of control, the craven craving. Casinos were a necessary part of a luxury hotel chain, but he’d never placed money on a bet. Never held his breath for the roll of the dice. It wasn’t the kind of man he was.
So why did bringing Laurel onto this heaving floor feel like a risk?
Next to him she shifted nervously, and he caught the scent of her perfume, something unfamiliar and cloyingly expensive, not the scent of lemon and violets he’d smelled earlier.
‘What exactly am I meant to be doing?’ she whispered. The pulse leapt in her throat as her gaze darted around the crowded room.
‘All you have to do is look beautiful and smile,’ Cristiano said. ‘I think you can manage that.’ He glanced at her, his mouth curving in what he intended to be a reassuring smile, but she didn’t look as if he’d put her at ease at all.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide, her slender hands clenched into fists at her sides. ‘Relax,’ Cristiano murmured. ‘We have to be convincing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I would like to deal with Bavasso and be done with him. If he suspects he’s being played, he’ll continue to annoy the both of us.’
‘You make him sound like a fly.’
‘And I will swat him away.’ Cristiano reached for her hand. Her palm was icy cold in his as he pulled her deeper into the room and the throng of curious onlookers. He was used to being looked at, the owner of La Sirena and notorious in his own right. Women eyed Laurel up and down, mouths twisting in disappointment or derision. Men eyed her lasciviously, making everything in Cristiano tighten. She was his, damn it. His. He didn’t even want them looking.
This was starting to feel like a very bad idea.
He pulled Laurel along, deeper into the crowd. She stumbled slightly, muttering under her breath, almost making Cristiano smile. She disliked the dressing up almost as much as he did.
‘Now what?’ she whispered.
‘Enjoy.’ He slid his arm around her waist, splaying his fingers along her hip. He felt her react, and it afforded him a flare of primal pleasure. Yes, she was his, whether she acknowledged it or not. Whether she wanted to be or not. They had a connection, a bond, forged in desire. She couldn’t break it, and he didn’t want to. Yet.
Laurel’s body was tense under his arm as he moved her towards his usual place by the roulette table. Bavasso hadn’t come in yet, although Cristiano expected him. He’d heard from his staff that he was still in Rome, and when he was he came to La Sirena nearly every night.
Idly Cristiano stroked Laurel’s hip and her body twanged in response. ‘You look like you’re at the dentist,’ he murmured, leaning closer so his breath fanned her ear. She shivered. ‘I told you, relax.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’re safe here, Laurel. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’ That was a promise he was absolutely sure he’d keep.
She just shook her head a fraction, her expression as pained as if she were having a filling done. Annoyance sparked inside him.
‘You were a better actress with Bavasso,’ he growled, further annoyed that he felt irritated and, yes, even a little hurt by how difficult she was finding this. Him.
‘That was different.’
‘How?’
Her tongue darted out to lick crimson lips. ‘It just was.’
‘Maybe you need a drink.’ He snapped his fingers and a waiter came scurrying. ‘Champagne,’ Cristiano ordered. ‘And two glasses.’
‘Very good, sir.’
His narrowed gaze continued to survey the room as he stroked Laurel’s hip, willing her to soften. ‘Is it so very difficult,’ he murmured, ‘for you to appear as if you enjoy my company? Because you enjoyed it last night.’
‘I wonder,’ she breathed, ‘how long you’re going to keep reminding me of that.’
‘As long as it takes for you to begin to relax.’
‘Reminding me of my complete and utter folly is hardly going to get me to relax,’ she snapped. ‘Surprisingly.’
‘Perhaps I’ll remind you in a different way, then,’ Cristiano answered, and he turned her around to face him. Her eyes widened, lips parting instinctively as she gazed at him warily. Cristiano lowered his head, sensing every eye in the room upon them. Then he stroked that crimson mouth with one fingertip, felt Laurel’s shuddering breath and smiled.