CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sapphire had never been the centre of attention before, apart from when she was thrown from Star and woke up to find herself flat on her back in the sand with a sea of worried faces looking down at her. It was disconcerting that she appeared to have gone from a nobody, to a minor star in a matter of minutes. It was also very strenuous work pretending to be what everyone expected her to be, when she wasn’t sure herself who that person was.
She felt tight as a drum, highly strung and worn out from the adrenalin high. Most of her anxiety was because of Marco’s proximity rather than the fact that she had been flattered, interrogated and even pawed at, by a variety of men with foreign accents, and presumably, huge bank balances.
She was exhausted and tense, having spotted Marco at various points of the exhibition – surrounded, it seemed, by women. They all gravitated towards him: willowy beauties, dark-haired sex sirens, sophisticated women with laughs that matched their tinkling gold bracelets. They were everywhere, and she acknowledged that his world was light years away from hers.
She was out of her depth with Marco – always had been. She had just played along, pretending, knowing that she was inevitably destined to be the one standing on the perimeter of the playground hoping someone would ask her to join in. She was grateful that Marco had arranged this for her, but she would slip away as soon as she could and resume the life she knew and could handle.
Eventually the exhibition died down and she allowed herself to be congratulated by Anna Greenfield-Howes and Mrs Giovanelli as she sipped at a glass of pink champagne. The whole day had been surreal from start to finish and she was still struggling to believe that art experts considered her to be talented.
She’d stopped looking for Marco, who, having earlier been everywhere her gaze rested, was now nowhere in sight. She was glad of it really, she decided, as she snuck back up the stairs to retrieve her clothes.
When she opened the door, Marco was once again sitting in the chair he had vacated earlier.
‘You were wonderful, Sapphire, I am very proud of you.’
She nodded, not wishing to be rude, but thought that really it wasn’t his place to be proud of her – he’d given that right away when he dumped her.
‘It seems that you are already thousands of pounds richer than you were this morning, and your name will soon be on most of the art world’s lips. Would you like to celebrate? Just say the word and I will arrange it. Anything. The whole universe is yours. I have a helicopter standing by and within half an hour we can be up in the air.’
‘I just want to go home, Marco,’ she said. ‘Don’t do this to me. I can’t think straight.’
Marco’s face fell at her bald statement. ‘But you look so pretty in that dress that you deserve to go somewhere wonderful. I’ll take you to Venice, Paris – you name it.’
‘No thank you. I’d like to get out of this dress and get a cab home.’ She plucked at the fabric of the dress as if it burned her, impatient now to return to her own world.
Marco inclined his head. ‘As you wish.’ He walked towards her, stopping inches away. ‘Allow me to help you.’ He raised his hand to her shoulder as he took another step forward. He looked her in the eye. ‘Yes?’
Their eyes met but she didn’t move. She wouldn’t let him see that his touch bothered her.
Slowly, very slowly, he hooked his finger around one strap of the dress and slid it past her shoulder, his eyes still levelling with hers.
Her lips trembled. She wanted to protest, but she was mesmerised by his dangerous eyes. He slid the other strap down over her shoulder, the slight touch of his fingertips setting her skin alight. He dropped the lightest of kisses on her bare shoulder and she shuddered.
She couldn’t move. It was as if Marco’s touch had frozen her to the spot even as her skin burned up.
He reached both hands behind her shoulders and drew the zip all the way down to her bottom. The sliding sensation of the cold zip and the air chilling her skin made her shiver, but not as much as Marco’s breath, cooling on her neck.
If she didn’t clutch the dress to her chest it would fall away from her body and she was so tempted to let it pool to her feet – to prove that whatever Marco did, it wouldn’t move her.
His grey eyes were watchful and she stared back defiantly. Dear God, she wanted him, but she would not let him control her in this way. The craving that rippled through her core was becoming unbearable as Marco trailed his fingers across her shoulders.
It was time to call a halt. She would be lost if she permitted him to take one more liberty. Goose bumps peppered her arms and she tried to stop the shiver that ran down her spine.
Did he really think she was going to allow him to take off her dress? But she yearned to feel his touch and her breath quickened as she struggled to remain composed.
As if her thoughts had transferred to him, his fingers traced lower down her back, trailing indecisively, but temptingly, down to her bottom. Her nipples ached as they stood proud, waiting for his caress, her breasts straining as heat suffused her body.
He moved yet closer and whispered into her ear, finally bringing her to her senses. ‘Cara Mia, I think we both know we were more than just a fling.’
She clutched at the bodice of the dress, pressing it to her breasts to stop it from sliding to the floor in a sheath of slithering satin, and then decided, yes, she would let it fall, to remind Marco of what he had lost. She prepared herself.
‘I can undress myself, Mr Cavarelli,’ she breathed. She took a step away from him and fixed her eyes on his, as she let go of the dress. It slid slowly, seductively, to her feet, a scarlet testimony of gravity, leaving her naked apart from her white lacy briefs and silver high heels. ‘See?’
Hunger burned in Marco’s eyes as he took in her contours and she stood motionless and proud, inviting him to look. Her eyes, grave but rebellious, refused to release their hold on his. Look what you lost, they said. At least that was what she hoped they said. Physically, she craved his touch; her skin ached with a desperate longing.
Marco’s gaze travelled over her body and stopped at the softness of her breasts. His fingers twitched but he held his arms stiffly by his side. She silently commended him on his restraint, even though she saw him swallow hard a couple of times.
It was enough to bring her out of her trance. She wasn’t the trusting young woman who would fall for an easy line and a soft touch anymore. She stepped out of the dress and slipped off the shoes, leaving them neatly inside the circle of satin. Unspoken words hovered in the air and Marco took a step forward, his eyes questioning.
Electricity crackled between them and she almost met him halfway. It would be so easy, so perfect. Her every sense was liquefied with molten heat and she was grateful for the slight breeze that fanned her skin, unable to believe that she could be so aroused without even being touched; Marco did that to her. It was enough of a reminder that she needed to move before she lost the self-control to refuse him.
He raised his hand to touch her, to claim her, a soft smile playing around his mouth. She sidestepped away from his reach, stopping him in his tracks. ‘Think again, Mr Cavarelli.’ Her words sounded husky and sexy, giving away her state of mind, but she didn’t care; she would not waver now.
Confusion clouded Marco’s eyes, although he covered it quickly. Good, Sapphire thought. Maybe he would finally understand what he had given up. She was gratified to see a flash of anger in his eyes too, as she turned her back on him to retrieve her own clothes.
She allowed herself a brief moment of regret, closing her eyes against the pleasure she had just lost, but she knew it would be transient, and she had no room for such an indulgence if she wanted to keep her pride.
Marco, ever the one in command, had already recovered from their hypnotic stand-off. ‘Keep the shoes; they are Manola Blahniks – I had them especially made for you.’
The click of a door catch told her that he had left. She spun around but all that was left in the room, apart from a tumble of scarlet satin and a pair of silver sandals, was an empty leather chair standing alone in the middle of the floor.