Olivia Gates Bestseller Collection 2012 (6 page)

And her continued silence had started to wear another guise. Self-interest. Could she have been so amenable to secrecy not because she realized the risks of exposure, but because she’d been hedging her bets in case their relationship didn’t lead where she’d hoped? Wallowing in their clandestine affair while keeping her virginal image? Did her silence mean she’d thought it time to drop him now that he’d never be king of Castaldini, wasn’t even a prince anymore? She didn’t even think him worth a phone call? Not even one of consolation, for old times’ sake?

Driven over the edge by the malignancy of doubt, he’d succumbed, reached out to her. But he’d been so damaged by her lack of communication, he’d later wondered if he hadn’t steered their reunion to that mutilating end. He’d spent the next five years tortured by the memory of their last time together, dissecting her every word and expression until he almost went mad. He’d found himself constantly dialing half her number before hurling the phone away.

The only thing that had saved his sanity was launching himself into his work as if possessed, catapulting himself from the roster of prosperous businessmen to the top of the food chain of world-shapers.

And every step of the way he felt sundered down the middle, as if he were missing his other half. He told himself over and over she wasn’t that. But he never succeeded in convincing his heart.

He sought news of her like he did sustenance. He found out the results of her every law-school exam, each report of her sister’s improvement before she did. He made a deal with himself. In case she’d rejected him because he’d asked her to give up “responsibilities and aspirations” he had no right to, when she’d fulfilled those things, he would again demand that she join him in exile. She’d have no reason to say no then, if what they’d shared had been real.

When her sister’s health and marriage had stabilized and she’d obtained her law degree and was about to begin a new phase in her life, he’d sent Ernesto to her again, with a note. All he could bring himself to write.
I
do
need you. Still.

The five words felt like an exposure of his soul with no guarantee that he wasn’t jeopardizing what was left of it.

He dreaded her response. He shouldn’t have worried.

There had been none. In lieu of a response, she’d announced her betrothal to his cousin Armando. That very day. And he’d had to face it once and for all.

She
had
been after a royal title, like her sister. He’d been her best ticket once. Armando was her new one.

The obliteration of hope, of belief in her, in what they’d shared, had extinguished his humanity for a while, he supposed.

But he’d lived on, risen higher. And the days passed. Then she broke it off with Armando. Almost a year ago. And all his convictions had dissipated again. He went back to feeling like he was constantly holding his breath. He refused to ponder what for.

Then she’d walked back into his life last night.

And he’d admitted it.
She
was what for. Whatever she was, whatever she felt, her hold on him was unbroken. Maybe even unbreakable.

Just as he’d succumbed, reached for her, and she’d seemed on the verge of surrender, she’d pulled back. She’d left him doubled over from frustration and walked away. Again. This time telling him, in so many eloquent words,
good riddance.

It
had
to be a ploy. What else could it be when she’d run
away without gaining any response concerning her mission, proving it wasn’t her objective after all? What other explanation could there be for dangling herself in front of him only to snatch herself away? What else could she want, except for him to give chase?

As she’d walked out, it had come to him. The reason that had been missing from his life. And his plan had formed…

“A spendthrift as well as a man who muddies professional situations with personal vendettas. I’m scratching my head here wondering how you became a mogul and a billionaire.”

Phoebe.

Announcing her arrival with another lash of provocation.

He closed his eyes, suffering his body’s reaction in resignation now.

A groan still escaped as he turned to face her. She was framed in the entrance of the restaurant/nightclub, swathed in the stark light he’d had trained there. Wrapped in an invention designed to blow all his valves, a creation of gray-silver that seemed to have been spun from the luminous seas of her eyes, with the flawlessness of her neck and shoulders shown to distressing advantage by an off-shoulder neckline and a chunky, relaxed wave of raven gossamer brushing just above a hint of a cleavage, she could have stepped out of a black-and-white silver screen classic. With the only splash of color spread across the elegance of her cheekbones and the dewiness of her lips, she seemed like…like…

He didn’t know. The feeling crowded inside him, yet couldn’t be translated into words.

But what did he need words for, when he had actions?

He moved just as she did. As if by agreement, they kept a dozen feet between them, moving parallel to each other, mirroring each other’s steps, seeming to fall into the choreography of a memorized dance. They’d always moved to the same internal beat, as if aware of every impulse powering the other’s body. Blood pressure inched upward into that danger zone he was discovering he relished, was getting addicted to.

She glided up the walkway’s curve to the table he’d had set for them, overlooking the dance floor on one side and the blazing Manhattan skyline on the other.

He reached the table the same moment she did, placed his hands palms down on the wine-red silk tablecloth, leaned toward her. “What have I done now to deserve a demotion from simply worthless to seriously wasteful and wretchedly unprofessional?”

She placed a tiny tasseled bag on the table, titled her face at him. “What
haven’t
you done? First that fifteen-grand-a-night suite, and now this, an exclusive New York night spot where becoming a member carries a hundred-grand price tag and a single visit costs a few grand per person. I won’t even guess what you had to pay for an exclusive night for two. It would probably amount to a developing country’s monthly budget, and I might get sick.”

He cocked his head at her, exhilaration thrumming through his nerve endings. “I’m impressed. Your knowledge of the particulars and costs of high-end living around here is pretty comprehensive.”

“Glad you’re impressed. I’m not. Depressed is more like it.”

He could believe that. In the past, her thorough disinterest in material things had been another quality he’d admired about her. And she’d walked out on him when he’d been almost a billionaire.

But then, it could have been easy to seem disinterested when she already had material excess through her sister. And she could have been holding out for a billionaire with royal status.

There was probably no way to know what the truth was.

He huffed. “Don’t be so eager to feel sick and depressed. And I believe the suite comes with a
twenty
-grand-a-night tag.”

Her eyes widened, reflecting the indirect lights that made her look otherworldly. “It’s
more
expensive, and that’s supposed to slow my plunge into depression? I feel I should be arrested for criminal waste. After you are, of course.”

He came around the table, holding his breath until he
brushed against her. Air rushed out at the contact, at the tremor passing from her body to his where his thigh seemed to stick to the side of her hip, his hand to the small of her back.

She broke the circuit, descended—to his satisfaction—very unsteadily into the chair his other hand had pulled back for her.

He waited until he’d taken his seat then drawled, “Strange to hear you talking of waste and extravagance. You live in a palace where most articles cost thousands or are literally priceless.”

Her eyes held his as her fingers sought a silver fork, ran up and down its length. He imagined them doing the same to
his
length.

“You talk as if I furnished the place when I’m just a long-term guest. Even Julia has no say in being surrounded by stuff that belongs in a museum. And you won’t see either of us spending thousands on anything that isn’t needed or at least useful.”

“Very commendable. Of both of you. But since you seem to know such a lot, you must have an idea about the size of my fortune?”

“Sure. A few hundred grand is pocket change to you. But a few here and a few there, and soon we’re talking real money, even by your standards. And then it’s the principle I’m talking about. Do you usually indulge this kind of extravagance, or are you out to make a statement? I hope that wasn’t your goal as it sure backfired. Unless the statement is that you’re an obnoxious show-off.”

His chuckle overpowered him. If she’d always harbored this confrontational vixen inside her and had been able to project the restful and acquiescent angel he’d known on demand, she was an actress of a scope he couldn’t imagine. “I’m so relieved I wasn’t trying to impress you, then. My intentions were along the lines of…pampering you. I failed to do that, too?”

Her head inclined, sending his heart tripping as her hair cascaded to the same side. “I wonder what gave you the impression that I’d appreciate this.”

“Everyone appreciates luxury.”

“Luxury beyond reason is…”

“Criminal. You’ve already informed me. I can do no right in your eyes, can I? Strange. I remember when you once gave me the impression I could do no wrong.” He gave a sigh of mock regret. “Oh well. I can now shower you with excesses knowing in advance I’ll be reviled for it.” Before she whacked him with another comeback, he went on, “But to settle your mind about my wasting the equivalent of a struggling nation’s income, let me solve the riddle you hurled at me as you came in. I didn’t become who I am by spending money, but by making it. And I make it everywhere you can imagine, and in places you can’t. And no, there is nothing criminal in my pursuits. Everything you’ve seen since you set foot in New York makes me money. From the building I own to the hotel where you’re staying to a dozen others, to this place. Having Presidential suites to offer my guests and exclusive entertainment with no notice are among the many perks of being the major shareholder.”

She glared at him. He managed not to lunge across the table and drag her into his arms. He grinned mockingly at her. “Disappointed I didn’t fork out an obscene amount of money to impress or misguidedly pamper you?”

Her lips twisted. “I was disappointed to think you had.”

“So no perverse disappointment now that you know I didn’t?”

“Now you’re not a spendthrift, but a chauvinist? Harping on the age-old implication that a woman says no when she really means yes?”

“I don’t think it’s female, but human for your logic and morals to clash with your need to feel valued. Criminally extravagant gestures might be abhorrent to one’s ethics, but they sure tickle one’s ego.”

And she smiled.
Maledizione,
she
smiled.

As he tried to deal with a bout of arrhythmia, a giggle escaped her flushed lips. “You became who you are by being an expert on human nature, too, it seems. Okay, I apologize.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. This woman was out to do him some serious damage.

“I jumped to conclusions, ignored obvious explanations because I resented the hell out of you and wanted to believe the worst. And all you did was offer me the benefit of the perks you worked so hard to obtain, when you didn’t have to. When I gave you every reason not to care if I spent the night in a flea-infested motel. Your brand of hospitality may be hard to enjoy without severe pangs of conscience, but I appreciate the thought.”

He pretended to melt back in his chair in relief. He did need the support of something solid with his senses swimming as they were. “Phew. So that’s the obnoxious show-off charge taken care of. What about the unprofessional-wretch accusation?”

Her solitary dimple winked at him. “Yes, what about it?”

He guffawed at her volley, shook his head. The words came to him now, what she felt like; like the sum total of his desires.

And those were indeed fierce. More. They were all-consuming.

Which brought him back to his plan.

He would claim the crown that had once been ripped from him.
If
he could be convinced once more it was his destiny to wear it.

There were no ifs when it came to her. He
would
claim her.

If he claimed the crown, it would be on his terms. No negotiations. But in her case…this was were his plot thickened.

He’d pursued her the first time around, always coming back to her as if starved. This time, he would make her do the running. Then he’d claim her.

And when he judged the time right, he would walk away.

He signaled the staff to begin the night’s service, leaned across the table and captured the hand that kept frying his imagination with its restless movements.

“
Va bene,
Phoebe. Let’s get the myth of my un-professionalism debunked, too. Let’s get down to business. You have the whole night to work…on me.”