IT FELT AS achingly wonderful as she could ever have imagined. Better. Far better. Sweet and dark at the same time, and so very intense. Cristiano was entirely in control, commanding her response. Demanding it.
Laurel’s head fell back as Cristiano’s lips moved on hers and he deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering the soft depths of her mouth, taking ownership, sending pulses of pleasure through her whole body.
It was just a kiss, yet it felt life-changing. Soul-shattering. He put his hand on her waist, his fingers splaying over the dip of her hip, his palm burning her through the thin silk of her skirt, another brand. In this moment he owned her and they both knew it.
Laurel couldn’t have broken that kiss even if she’d wanted to, which, to her own shame, she did not. She craved his touch, the explosion of sensation inside her an excitement that was impossible to contain or deny, licking through her veins, making her stand on tiptoe to give him greater access, to reach more of him.
Cristiano pulled her to him, fitting her body intimately to his so need roared through her veins and heat flared deeper and hotter.
He kissed his way from her mouth to her neck, his tongue teasing circles against her fevered skin; his hands stroking her hips, her thighs, making everything inside her coil so tightly. She felt as if she was about to explode, as if she needed to break apart. She arched against him, unable to help herself, her mind a haze of need as she craved the kind of release she’d never experienced with a man before.
Cristiano growled low in his throat and he skimmed his fingers underneath her skirt, running the tips along her inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin before his thumb nudged the edge of her underwear and then slipped beneath, making her gasp at the shock of the tender invasion.
For a few blissful seconds Laurel couldn’t even think. She’d never been touched so intimately, so knowingly. And with such expertise. Cristiano knew exactly how a few lazy strokes sent her spinning, all her muscles clenching, her nails digging into his shoulders, everything in her straining as she fought for both control and release. She couldn’t have both—there was a battle raging inside her, and she didn’t know which side she wanted to win.
Her eyes fluttered open and through the daze of desire she caught sight of her own reflection on the mirrored wall—her flushed face, her swollen lips, her half-lidded eyes, her arched hips. But as for Cristiano—he didn’t look half as affected as she did. His expression was shuttered, his lips slightly pursed as he continued to touch her in such an intimate way. He looked almost clinical, dispassionate, a scientist conducting an experiment with guaranteed results. He was working her body. Manipulating her.
With a cry Laurel jerked out of his arms. Cristiano’s startled gaze clashed with hers and his eyes narrowed.
‘What...?’
‘Don’t,’ she said raggedly. Her body pulsed with unfulfilled desire—and shame. She’d fallen right into his arms. Into his trap. ‘Don’t,’ she said again, and stumbled into the bedroom, slamming the door in his face.
She flipped the lock, letting out a shuddering breath, her body still pulsing with pleasure—and frustration. Pushing her tangled hair away from her face, she paced the room that was just as sumptuous as Cristiano’s own. What on earth was she going to do now?
Wait seemed like the only option. Laurel washed her face, combed her hair and then slumped into a leather armchair by the window overlooking the Tiber, gleaming in the moonlight. It had to be at least three in the morning, and her body ached with exhaustion, yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She tried to make her mind empty out, but it seethed with worries and memories. Bavasso’s leering face. Her desperate flight. Cristiano’s kiss.
She must have dozed off, because a knock on the door startled her awake. She’d been dreaming...dreaming of Cristiano. Hands...lips... Her body tingled as if he’d been touching her.
‘Yes?’ she called, her voice sounding hoarse and scratchy.
‘I checked on your mother,’ Cristiano called through the door, his voice gruff. ‘She’s all right.’
Laurel swallowed. ‘Where is she?’
‘She went back to the pensione where you were staying. Bavasso shouted at her, but that was all. It’s you he’s angry at, not her. Who knows? They might be able to patch things up.’
He spoke sardonically, and Laurel could hardly blame him. Bavasso wasn’t the first boyfriend of her mother’s to behave in a way that should have had Elizabeth sending him packing. Trouble was, if there was still something to be had, she never did.
‘So he’s still angry at me?’ she asked after a tense pause.
‘I’ll take care of you, Laurel.’
The throb of sincerity in his voice shouldn’t have affected her. Definitely shouldn’t have made her eyes sting. ‘I’m not sure I want to know what that means.’
‘I won’t let Bavasso bother or hurt you.’
But you’ll hurt me, in an entirely different way. She thought of his cold, clinical face in the mirror. He’d known exactly what he’d been doing. Laurel blinked hard and didn’t reply. ‘Get some sleep,’ Cristiano said roughly. ‘It’s nearly dawn. We’ll talk later.’
‘Okay.’ A moment passed, silent, endless. Somehow Laurel knew he was still there. ‘Cristiano?’ she asked softly.
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you.’
Laurel had left her clothes and toiletries in Cristiano’s bedroom, and so she stripped off her skirt and slept in her T-shirt and panties. The night was warm, and she opened the windows, breathing in the sultry air. Already the moon was waning, the horizon the pearly grey of early morning. Her body ached and her eyes felt as if they were full of grit. She needed to sleep.
She curled up on the bed, scrunching her eyes tight and wishing herself back home. Back in her single bed with the patchwork quilt her grandmother had made, the pure, golden light of an Illinois summer streaming through her window. She’d give just about anything to be able to rewind the last three days, go back to the moment where her mother had showed up at her grandfather’s farmhouse—Laurel should have closed the door in her face.
Instead she’d let her in. Let her speak. Because stupidly Laurel was always hoping her mother wanted her, not just something from her.
‘Darling, you’ll never guess,’ Elizabeth had announced in a flurry of air kisses and perfume. ‘I’ve met someone.’
Laurel had just stared. This was hardly news.
‘He wants to meet you. I want you to meet him.’ Elizabeth had smiled mischievously, but Laurel had detected a desperate glitter in her mother’s eyes. She was forty-six years old and her days reeling in wealthy businessmen and minor celebrities were surely numbered. ‘There might be a ring in my future.’
‘Really?’ Laurel had said, unsure how she’d felt about that, or anything to do with her mother. She hadn’t seen her in two years. Her mother had been in Monaco for her grandfather’s funeral three months earlier.
Elizabeth had strode into the living room with its rag rug and faded sofa, and a shudder had gone through her. ‘I always hated this place.’ She’d looked around, her lip curling. ‘Goodness knows why you keep staying.’
‘I love it here,’ Laurel had said quietly. She placed one hand on the warm, satiny wood of the newel post. ‘It’s the only home I’ve ever known.’
Elizabeth’s mouth had tightened. She hated any hint of her deficiencies as a mother. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t provide you with a more stable upbringing,’ she said stiffly. ‘If your father—’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
Elizabeth had turned to look at her directly. ‘So will you come to Rome, to meet Rico? It should only take a few days.’
‘Rome?’ Laurel had boggled at the suggestion. ‘Why would I go there? I mean...can’t he come here? And why does he have to meet me?’
‘Family is important to him. And I need this to work, Laurel.’ The desperate look in her mother’s eyes had intensified. ‘If you do this, I’ll give you the only thing you’ve ever wanted, I promise.’ She’d glanced around the worn living room. ‘All I’m asking is for you to show Rico that we’re a family, that you’re pleased to have him in your life. Is that so much to ask?’
* * *
Cristiano stretched out on the bed, as far from sleep as he could possibly be, his body still pulsing with the aftershocks of kissing Laurel. Her skin had felt like the supplest silk under his hands. He shifted, trying to suppress the ache in his groin, the flicker of regret whispering through him on dark wings.
He hadn’t heard a sound from the bedroom across the hall, not so much as a creak of a floorboard. He hoped Laurel was asleep. She had to be exhausted, after everything she’d endured tonight.
Including him.
Guilt, Cristiano reflected, was a very inconvenient emotion. It was one he wasn’t used to feeling. He’d always prided himself on his plain speaking, his honesty. He never pretended to care. The women he chose to be with knew what he was willing to give, and all that he wasn’t, up front. That, in his view, was something admirable. Honourable.
So why did he feel as if his actions tonight hadn’t been? As if he’d used Laurel, just as Bavasso had used her? She’d responded to his touch, heaven knew. He’d felt it. He’d certainly felt it in himself, a raging fire he’d struggled to control, the strength of which had alarmed him—because, when he’d taken Laurel in his arms, it had been to prove something to her as well as to himself. Yet he’d had to use all his self-control, all of his deeply ingrained self-discipline, to keep from giving in to the tidal roar of need inside him and drowning in her kiss.
And when Laurel had jerked out of his arms she’d looked...horrified. And hurt. As if he’d damaged her in a way he didn’t like to think about.
Restless now, Cristiano rose from his bed and pulled on a T-shirt and drawstring pyjama bottoms. Pale pink morning light seeped along the horizon as the sky lightened to a luminescent grey. He wouldn’t sleep. And, he decided as he grabbed his laptop and strode out to the living room, he needed to know more about Laurel Forrester.
Cristiano made himself a mug of strong coffee and then stretched out on one of the sofas, his computer on his lap. He typed her name into the search engine and waited for the results.
He scrolled through pages obviously about other people—a physics professor in Colorado, a housewife in South Carolina—before finally hitting on one that snagged his interest, simply because it was from Illinois. Laurel Forrester, on the page of the website for a hospital in Canton Heights. He frowned, not quite believing this could be his Laurel—because Laurel, whether she acknowledged it or not, was most definitely his. For now, at least.
He clicked and scrolled down the staff directory until he found Laurel Forrester, RN. She was a nurse? That so didn’t fit the profile of the woman he’d seen totter into La Sirena only a few short hours ago on the arm of one of Rome’s shadiest businessmen. Surely that wasn’t her?
Cristiano raked a hand through his close-cropped hair, fingernails grazing his skull. He went back to the search results and scrolled through several pages. Then he clicked on images, but not a single one came up that looked like Laurel. Her Internet footprint was light indeed, unlike her mother’s.
Just to prove a point to himself, Cristiano typed Elizabeth Forrester’s name into the search engine. It didn’t take long to find dozens of photos of his former stepmother, usually on the arm of some Z-lister, always looking a little defiant, as if she was daring her audience to ask if she was happy.
Cristiano leaned his head back against the sofa, replaying the moment when he’d seen Laurel come into the casino yesterday evening. He’d been standing by the roulette table, keeping a discreet eye on the heavy betters, making sure nothing got out of hand. His establishments were high class and respectable, where gambling was a dignified pastime rather than a desperate sport.
He’d seen a flash of silver in his peripheral vision, and he’d turned, the nape of his neck prickling, although he hadn’t even known why. He’d seen Elizabeth Forrester first, wearing a crimson cocktail dress that was far too tight and short for a woman of her age, although she still had the body to pull it off. His insides had tightened, his mouth turning down in disgust at the sight of the gold-digger who had just about ruined his father’s life. And then he’d seen Laurel.
He’d recognised her instantly, even though it had been ten years. It hadn’t taken a moment of mental gymnastics, not even a second. He’d looked at her and he’d known. And he’d felt, in that moment, a pang of something deeper than desire—the need to possess, to consume, a craving so overwhelming he struggled to control it.
And then he’d seen whose arm she was on. He’d taken in the skimpy dress and sky-high heels, the bright make-up and hair shellacked with hairspray, and he’d felt as if he could be sick. He had been sick, sickened by her obvious tactics, and his stomach had cramped when Bavasso had pulled her onto his lap. She’d perched there, her smile frozen in place, determined to endure...and for what? Had Bavasso paid for the sycophantic attention...and worse? Far worse.
Cristiano had stayed on the fringes of the crowds, watching Laurel and Bavasso out of the corner of his eye, his gut churning. Bavasso went for the baccarat table as he always did, flanked by two of his bodyguards—and Laurel. Elizabeth lurked in the background, looking anxious and trying not to. Clearly this was Laurel’s game, but Elizabeth had some stake in it. A mother and daughter team. Had they always been like that? Probably.
He hadn’t been able to keep from looking at Laurel, noticing the tiny dress, the slender yet generous figure poured into it. He hadn’t thought of Laurel Forrester once in the last ten years, but he realised then that, on some level, it had been a conscious decision. Not thinking of her had taken effort, a matter of will. And he was certainly thinking about her now.
It had taken all his self-control not to stride over to Bavasso when the odious man had pulled Laurel onto his lap. Cristiano had seen the flash of disgust cross Laurel’s face but then she’d lifted her chin, her smile firmly in place, and Cristiano hadn’t known whether to feel admiration or contempt. She hated this, but she still chose it. That was the kind of woman she was.
So why now was he starting to wonder, even to doubt? He was a man who dealt in certainties. And the certainty he’d seen last night was Laurel agreeing to go up to Bavasso’s hotel room. The only reason she’d been in Cristiano’s casino with that man was because she’d chosen it. Because she wanted something from him.
Right?
With a sigh Cristiano opened his laptop again and once more he scrolled through the search results for Laurel Forrester. He clicked on the page for the hospital in Illinois again, and went through every page of the website to see if he could find anything more about Laurel Forrester, RN. After half an hour he came across a page of thank you messages and photographs from patients—and there was a photo of Laurel, standing next to an elderly woman and her adult children, looking tired but smiling. He hadn’t seen her smile like that all night. It was a genuine smile, full of warmth and kindness, and Cristiano stared and stared at it, unable to look away. Who was the woman in the photo? And who was the woman who had locked herself in his guest bedroom, defiant and afraid?
Cristiano shoved his laptop away. His eyes were gritty, his head starting to pound. Outside sunlight was spreading across the city sky like melted butter, pearly grey giving way to pale, fragile blue. Cristiano opened the sliding glass doors to the private terrace and breathed in the summer air, fresh this early in the morning, yet already imbued with heat.
He curled his hands around the railing as he gazed down at the city starting to wake up, lorries and motorbikes filling the narrow, ancient streets. Laurel would wake up soon too, and then what? They needed to have a conversation, something he hadn’t anticipated. He’d expected a simple transaction, and one that was welcome on both sides. That was what he always got, what he demanded. Instead tonight he’d encountered resistance, animosity and doubt—as well as desire. He needed to figure out what was going on, and who Laurel was, before he made his next move.
A sound from the penthouse had him stilling. Over the muted roar of early-morning traffic far below he heard it again, a sound almost like a moan or a cry. Quickly Cristiano strode from the terrace, closing the doors behind him. In the sudden, muted stillness of the penthouse he froze, straining to listen.
There it was again—an anguished moan, coming from Laurel’s room. Was she hurt? In pain? Every protective instinct Cristiano had rose to the fore, propelling him across the living room and down the hall.
He knocked sharply on the bedroom door. ‘Laurel?’
Silence—and then a whimpering cry. Cristiano tried the handle, rattling it uselessly, as he knew the door was locked. ‘Laurel. Answer me. Are you hurt?’
The only response was a shuddering sob. Cristiano didn’t think—he just acted. Backing up a few steps, he rammed the door with his shoulder. It took a few tries, and would create a few bruises, but the lock finally busted and the door sprang open.
With the curtains drawn against the dawn light it took Cristiano’s eyes a few desperate seconds to adjust, and then he saw Laurel lying in bed, the sheets twisted around her slender body, her eyes clenched shut, her face an agonised grimace. She was in the throes of a nightmare.
‘Laurel.’ Cristiano spoke gently now as he crept towards the bed and touched her shoulder. ‘Laurel, you’re dreaming. It’s all right. Wake up.’
Laurel’s body shuddered with the force of emotion he could see on her face, twisting her features as if she were in agony. ‘Don’t...’ she murmured brokenly. ‘Please don’t... I don’t want to...’ Another cry and she pressed her face into the pillow.
It took Cristiano a few shocked seconds to realise, with icy horror, that she was reliving Bavasso’s attack. He felt sick—sickened not just by Bavasso, but by himself. His arrogant self-assurance that Laurel would welcome his attention. Hell, that she’d be grateful.
‘Laurel.’ His voice was soft as he gently touched her shoulder again. ‘Laurel, cara. Please wake up.’ He shook her shoulder, carefully, not wanting to startle or scare her.
And then she did wake up with a sudden gasp, as if she were coming up out of water, as if she’d been drowning. Her face was pale and shocked, her eyes wide and unfocused.
Relief pulsed through him, stronger than anything he’d felt in a long time. ‘Laurel, cara, you’re okay. It was just a dream.’
She blinked a few times, and Cristiano couldn’t tell if she had fully come conscious or was still in the hazy throes of her nightmare.
‘It wasn’t a dream,’ she whispered, and she let out a broken little cry. ‘It was real.’
‘Oh, cara.’ Cristiano reached for her, not even thinking about what he was doing as he hauled Laurel against his chest, moving onto the bed so she could snuggle against him. The feel of Laurel in his arms—her head burrowing into his chest, her body curled into his—felt supremely right, touching him deeply in a place he’d thought didn’t exist. A place he’d excised long ago. ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe here.’ And he knew he meant it.