His Rules: Ludlow Nights - Book1 (A Ludlow Nights Romance) (12 page)

Anastacia felt as if her bones were melting, the liquid weight deep in her belly seemed to spread out to her limbs. Arousal was a gnawing need, so brutal that it made her tremble. Her mouth was fused to his in a kiss that she never, ever, wanted to end. The gentle play of lips, tongue and teeth had sent her to a place she'd never been before. No one had ever kissed her like this. No kiss had ever been like this. His hands began a slow dance over her body, down to her hips, to cup her bare bottom. The thought slammed into her head that she was wearing G-string panties. But the way he was kneading her flesh made her shiver in erotic delight. When his hand slid under the silk of her top, stroked a swollen breast, she forced herself to object.

"No." The word was a whimper as gentle fingers stroked her skin.

Olivier gathered up the heavy weight of her hair in his hand, gently tugging her head back to look right into her eyes.

"I need to touch you." Watching her face, the back of his knuckles glided up the side of her breast, hesitating on the tight point of her nipple. She couldn't help the relentless shudder that ran through her. Then his hand roamed down to her flat, quivering belly. "All of you," he murmured. "I am going to kiss you, lick you, taste you, everywhere. I am going to feel your flesh burn under my hands, my mouth." Again his knuckles burned a path back to her breast. "I am going to watch your face when I make you come."

As he spoke words she knew were said to arouse, to inflame, the ache low in her belly became liquid.

Oh God
.

His head dipped as his mouth took her lips again, sampling her agitated exhalation as it trembled into his mouth. In no hurry, he let his knuckles graze down her belly, around to her back. Then he ran his hands possessively up her bare skin, pulling her close, until their bodies fitted together, as if they were meant to be.

"Kiss me back, Anastacia." His forehead rested on hers. "
Dio mio
, kiss me back."

Mouth tingling from his, aroused unbearably by the desperation in his whispered words, by the way his big body shuddered against hers, her mouth plundered his as her tongue searched for his, hungry for the taste of him that already felt so familiar. He seemed happy to let her lead, didn't hurry her when her body pressed against his, when she lifted to her tip toes, then ran her fingers through his hair, dragging his head closer. But then something new rose up inside her now. Something she'd never, ever felt before. Something that had alarms pealing too loud in her head. The realization that she
needed
this man. And not just for sex, although heaven knew her body was more than ready for his. Anastacia Morgan was a woman who didn't
do
need. And along with the realization that she might need him was another truth she must face. If she gave herself to him, he wouldn't be satisfied to take only what she was prepared to give him. No. Olivier was a man who would take all of her. Everything. And there was no way in hell that Anastacia was ever going to give all of herself to any man.

Olivier drew her away.

He was so in tune with this woman's emotions, he'd felt her go stiff in his arms, felt her sudden reluctance. It was clear she'd had second thoughts. His control was on shaky ground. He'd learned a whole lot more about her now. Although not nearly enough. He wasn't going to forget that she was a woman who might play by her own rules, but she might be prepared to bend them. So much for never having a relationship with a client. By the way she'd kissed him, it appeared Anastacia had changed her mind about that, too, although she'd withdrawn from him right at the last moment.

And now he wondered why.

He stared into eyes that clung to his.

Eyes as blue as the ocean on a bright summers day.

Then he frowned when he read something in those eyes that looked like fear.

A fear that made him take a mental step back.

She was frightened of him?

"What is it,
piccolino
?"

They still held each other tight.

As if she'd just realized how intimately close he held her to him, she struggled to get away. And he wondered if he would be able to release her when his body ached so badly to have her.

"I don't play games," said Anastacia.

Oliver pressed a soft kiss to a mouth swollen from his.

"Everybody plays games," he corrected gently. "Many people, especially women, make an occupation out of playing the oldest game in the world. The one between the sexes. I know you are not happy about mixing business with pleasure, but this is what it is, Anastacia. We need to see where it will lead." She looked so serious, he placed a gentle kiss on her nose. "I know you are very good at what you do."

She frowned.

"I am good at what I do. Whether I like you or hate you won't make any difference to how I do my job."

"And you like to be in the driving seat," he murmured as he, very reluctantly, let her go.

"I'll do my job," Ana repeated as she stepped around him. Now he wondered how the atmosphere had changed and the conversation had turned. Then he saw the moment she realized she was standing before him virtually naked. "And I won't be mixing business and pleasure with you."

Olivier couldn't help but grin at the sight of her tight little ass clenching as she marched towards what he supposed was the entrance to her bedroom.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" he called out after her.

Anastacia didn't break stride as she entered the room.

"No," she said and slammed the door.

He smiled. "I will make coffee."

Anastacia couldn't believe she was sitting at the spacious breakfast bar in her kitchen, being served coffee and hot toast and yoghurt sprinkled with fresh raspberries by football superstar, Olivier Conti. This was the first time she'd had a man serve her breakfast. And she didn't know whether she was happy or surprised that it felt... right.

He'd set two places with cutlery, dug up linen napkins from who knew where. Now he placed a plate of wholemeal toast between them. When she finished her yoghurt and fruit, he picked up the empty bowl, popped it in the dishwasher. Then he slid a small plate in front of her and placed a piece of toast on the plate.

He slid into his seat, topped up their coffee and stared at her.

After a lightning shower, she deliberately hadn't made an effort with her hair or her face, she wore her oldest sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt.

When he still simply stared, she let out an annoyed little huff of breath.

"What?" she muttered, placed the toast back on the big plate, picked up her mug and took a careful sip. He made a first class cup of coffee. Must be the Italian in him.

"With your hair tied up like that you look about sixteen," he said.

He buttered a piece of toast, slid it onto her plate.

"I'm twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-five."

"I know you are."

"Of course you do. You think you know all about me, do you not, Anastacia?"

"I know enough," she admitted, picking up the toast. She frowned at it, took a tiny nibble. "I think you can drop the Anastacia. My friends call me Ana."

His eyes held hers. "I prefer Anastacia."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why am I not surprised?"

He shrugged. "It suits you."

"Gee, thanks."

"Tell me, I know you are good at it, but what exactly
is
it you do?"

She blinked. "I'm sure Nico filled you in on my role."

"Not really. He said you would explain it to me."

Anastacia watched him as he focused on buttering toast.

"I'm the brand manager for Ferranti Enterprises," she began, not noticing that he'd slid the toast on her plate before buttering another piece for himself. "That means everything to do with Nico's many businesses, advertising, promotions, brochures, video, campaigns like the one we'll run for the Boutique hotels, all come through me. I ensure consistency of the brand, the logos, typesetting, the language used and that the sponsors we use are of the highest quality."

"And what did you think about using me?"

Anastacia hadn't got to where she was in her career by avoiding hard questions.

"I didn't want you for the campaign," she admitted.

His eyes went cool now as they held hers.

"
Si?
Why?"

She took a deep breath, irritated with herself that she'd opened up a can of worms.

"I had nothing against you personally. I hadn't seen you. In fact, I'd never even heard of you."

In spite of herself, she was impressed by how he took the blow to his ego on the chin.

A dark brow rose as his eyes twinkled into hers. "Not interested in sports?"

"I don't have time to watch sports."

"Okay," he said in a friendly voice. "What do you have time for?"

His tone might be friendly, but she wasn't fooled, those eyes were razor sharp now.

"Look, not all of us are paid millions of Euros a year to kick a ball around a field. Some of us need to work for a living. I work hard, very hard, to ensure the Ferranti brand is one of the top luxury brands in the world. And that nothing damages the brand. So forgive me if in my humble opinion football does not exactly gel with my vision of the brand."

He sat back and studied her face very carefully.

"You do not believe I work hard?"

His voice went soft and silky, the sound of a very bruised ego.

Anastacia prayed for patience as she rolled her eyes.

"It is nothing personal. It's about public perception. In this country footballers as a breed tend to hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Anything from drug or alcohol abuse, fast cars and even faster women, affairs that ruin a carefully cultivated image of a devoted family man, call girls, three in a bed, you name it."

He placed his elbows on the worktop of black granite and leaned forward.

Now his dark eyes went narrow and thoughtful.

"A comprehensive list. But surely you must realize that not all footballers behave like this? Many are indeed devoted family men. Men who crave stability. Men who are loyal to their wives, girlfriends, and men who raise millions for good causes."

Of course he was quite correct.

But she was correct, too.

"That might be true. But I'm talking about the
image
of the game. I know nothing about football. And to be absolutely honest, I don't want to know. The first time I'd even seen a live match was the night of the semi-final."

"And what did you think of it?"

Sincerely surprised that he'd asked for her opinion on his sport, she answered without thinking.

"I wasn't watching the game. I was watching you. I was watching the crowd."

He drew back to study her face.

"I do not understand."

Anastacia ran her teeth over her top lip.

He wasn't going to like her answer because it might very well make another dent in his ego. However, she realized it was essential that he understood her role and, more crucially, his part in the campaign.

Leaning forward to underline her point, her eyes held his.

"My job is to drill down into what makes things tick in the public's imagination. I watched people in the crowd who matched the demographic we are targeting in our campaign for the Boutique hotels. Young professional males and females aged between twenty-five and forty. Specifically, I watched their response to you. They like you. The men respect you. The women lust after you." By the revolted look on his face, she realized he didn't like the last statement. Anastacia sat back and as his eyes narrowed again, she folded her arms and realized she was enjoying herself. "Sex sells, baby. I had photographs of you so I knew what you looked like. But photographs tell me nothing. They do not tell me how you move. You have superb posture, no slouching. You're confident in your own abilities. You look good. Clear skin. Good hair. Nice teeth. A strong aristocratic bone structure that will film well. So far so good. So then I needed to hear you speak. You speak well with just the right amount of
Italiano
in your accent. Not too much. If you can take direction..."

She stopped when he stood abruptly and stalked over to the sink to stare out the window.

And Anastacia wondered if she'd overplayed it. He was annoyed. Who could blame him? Nico should have been straight with him and told him the truth. Then she decided that wasn't a fair comment. It was
her
job to make things stack up for Olivier so that he had a clear vision of where he stood and what his role entailed.

He turned, leaned back against the sink, folded his arms and stared at her with eyes as dark as pitch.

"Are you telling me that you were staring at me at the match that evening because you were analysing me, as if I was a product, a piece of meat, instead of a person?"

Oops.

It appeared Olivier did not like being considered as a piece of merchandise rather than as a human being.

Which was fair enough, she wasn't sure if she'd like it herself.

Anastacia told herself to be reasonable.

She gentled her tone. "As far as the campaign is concerned you
are
a product. You are the person who will sell the lifestyle to our target demographic. You have a good body. A body that wears clothes well. An excellent speaking voice. Whether you like it or not all of those things matter."

In the drawn-out silence that followed her statement, she couldn't ignore the way her stomach fell or how dark and intent his gaze was as he studied her.

"Are you saying that I misread the signals you sent me, too?"

Something told Anastacia that if she acted as if she didn't know what he was talking about, he'd lose it. And he'd lose it big time.

She shook her head.

"No. You didn't misread the signals. For some reason I'm attracted to you. A little bit. And that is very inconvenient."

"You said you do not have a boyfriend."

Her eyes went wide. What on earth did he take her for? Did he really believe she'd have kissed him and let him touch her like that if she'd had a boyfriend?

"No. I don't have a boyfriend."

"Then I do not see your problem."

"Professional and personal relationships do not mix."

He shrugged, a jerky lift of one shoulder.

"It is not as if we will be working together for ever. It is only for six weeks. There is no reason why we cannot explore our feelings and just enjoy each other, have fun, have sex."

Anastacia found she couldn't argue with that kind of logic. There was nothing insulting or upsetting in his words, so she was confused to discover she felt both.

"What if something goes wrong? What if, in those six weeks, one of us meets someone else?"

He moved to return to his chair, picked up his coffee, took a sip.

"Why do I get the feeling that remark is directed at me? When I am with one woman I do not see another. If one of us has the good luck to meet the love of our life, then we end our relationship and move on."

Sincerely shocked, she blinked up into his face.

"You're looking for
the one
?"

Olivier shook his head, all the time studying her face very carefully.

"Not actively. I come from a long line of monogamous men. What about you? Never felt that flutter in the heart, in the belly?"

Something like a fist of fear along with plenty of fluttering gripped both body parts.

Anastacia told herself she was panicking over nothing.

She was totally unaware she'd gone bone white.

"Lust is not love," she stated with a hell of a lot more conviction than she felt.

He sent her that slow and wicked smile that made her tummy loop the loop.

"
Si
. But lust is often the first step into love. I like to think every day in life is an adventure, who knows where one thing will lead."

Who indeed?

"What if I don't want to take a step with you to anywhere?"

When he stood, moved toward her, she met his stare head-on, determined to show him that his words had not shaken her to her core.

She was prepared for a smart remark.

Defensively, she straightened, prepared for him to tell her he had places to go, things to do.

She wasn't prepared for him to anchor his hands in her hair, crush his mouth to hers in a scorchingly possessive kiss. A flame of pleasure seared through her system. Liquefied waves of longing swept over astonishment before her brain had time to process. His mouth owned hers, commanded it absolutely. But although the kiss was hard, it didn't hide a suggestion of desperation. And Anastacia found herself responding to a desperation that was more than command, more than possession. Anastacia Morgan had a secret. Something she regarded as the weakest part of her, hidden deep inside her psyche. And that secret was a hopeless longing to be needed. In her life thus far, no one had ever needed her. Never. The desperation in his kiss made her feel powerless. And God knew she was weak now. Weak with the heady scent of an aroused male who was making it clear he desperately needed, wanted, her. The dusky taste of him was nectar on her tongue as it danced with his, the feel of a strong body at the peak of physical fitness under her roaming hands brought her a heady joy.

Leisurely, Olivier drew back.

It took a long time for her to open her eyes to find him staring at her with eyes filled to the brim with a smouldering impatience.

"I want you and you want me. Admit it," he demanded fiercely.

Dear God, he was a man who wanted his pound of flesh.

"Don't push me," she warned.

"I will have you."

Annoyance at the certainty in that deep voice stiffened her backbone.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that if I were you," Anastacia responded with a determination that had Olivier tilt his head to look at her with narrowed eyes.

Eventually, he nodded, as if he'd managed to work out how she ticked.

"It seems you like to fight. I like fighting, too. Fighting keeps things... interesting."

Her hand itched to wipe that smug look off his face.

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"I am here because I have spent fourteen long days and long nights thinking of nothing but making love to you."