Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians (9 page)

The city fit her mood.

Darcy folded her arms around her as she peered at the skyline. They’d left New York three days ago as abruptly as they’d arrived. Marcus had announced they were leaving and within an hour they were on his private plane zipping through the air.

He’d ignored her on the entire flight.

Unwanted baggage once more.

Yet unlike the flight to New York, this time her reaction was very different. She hadn’t felt irritation. This time, to her horror, she’d been hurt.

With a snort of disgust, she turned away from the amazing view and scanned the grand mausoleum she’d quickly grown to despise. The place reeked of wealth and class and modern design. Black and white leather furniture on icy white carpets. Monochrome photos of the city were placed with military precision on the walls. The only hint of color was provided by two large green plants that looked like they’d been shipped in from some African grassland. The long fronds continually hit her face when she walked by.

Not a hint of personality in the entire place.

No family pictures on the walls.

No special treasures gracing the pristine tabletops.

Not one hint of what kind of person lived here.

The kitchen was stocked full of every cooking device known to man. However, if anyone had cooked a meal there in the past ten years, she’d eat her last painting. The workout room with its mirrored walls resembled a colony of tall black skeletons with various juts of chrome and knobs of white. Marcus spent an hour every morning in the torture chamber. She never went near the room. It gave her the creeps.

The four bedrooms, with en suite baths, were decorated in the same black-and-white scheme. All of them possessed as much character as a lump of coal. Come to think of it, a lump of coal would fit right into this entire décor. Black and dark and cold.

What she could do with this place, given half a chance.

The lighting was terrific. Which made sense since they were on the top of a tall high-rise. The penthouse must have cost a fortune since it took over the entire floor. The sunshine on the first day they had arrived had dazzled her and hidden the basic coldness of the place. With some colored paint on the plain walls, big bold couches and chairs scattered on oriental rugs, her biggest, brightest paintings hung here and there—

“Good luck with that,” she grumbled under her breath.

Face it, Darcy
.

The place matched the man. The glimpse of humanity she thought she’d seen in New York City was a figment of her imagination.

SoHo.

Her heart ached at the memory. It had been a golden day.

“Seriously?” She’d stepped onto the busy sidewalk of Canal Street. “You’re going to come with me?”

“
Si
.” Sliding the offensive phone into his suit pocket, he arched a dark brow as he waved the limo away. “Is there a problem with that?”

“No. Not at all.” Glancing around at the crowds, she pushed back the flustered feeling fluttering inside. After all, she’d spent quite a bit of time with this man during the last few days. Yet this was different, she knew it in her gut. They weren’t going to be on show in Soho. They weren’t going to be acting any kind of role. “Where do you want to start?”

“Lead the way.” His rich, accented voice lifted at the end as if he were amused at letting her make the decisions for once.

No one could say that Darcy Moran didn’t know how to trailblaze when given the opportunity. She strode through the crowds, passing the cries of the street vendors hawking their fake purses and junk jewelry until she arrived at the first art gallery she spotted. “Here.”

“Here it is.” His big presence loomed behind her, not only his body, but his personality and verve. Usually, she didn’t enjoy large men who used their size to make her feel small and insignificant. But in Marcus La Rocca’s case, she didn’t feel that way.

Safe.

That’s what she felt.

The gallery was filled with a hodgepodge of modern art, everything from oil paintings to statues made of steel. Compared to the bustling street outside, the hall was quiet, almost hushed. Walking to the first row of paintings, she studied the way the artist had layered oil onto a series of silk plackets.

“No touching here.” Tease edged his words.

Glancing at him, she chuckled when she met his dancing eyes even though her spirits sank. Marcus La Rocca was hard enough to ignore when he strutted through his day like a general ready to do battle. This La Rocca version was far worse for her sensibilities. This one, with the teasing voice and the dancing eyes, threatened to make her heart melt instead of just her body. “I wouldn’t touch. I know better.”

“I don’t know.” His focus switched to the painting in front of her. “You have a tendency to touch before thinking.”

True. Especially true with him.

Trying to avoid the memories, she swished to the next painting. This one was stark—black slashes of paint sliding down into a blood red pool at the bottom. A shiver of remembered fear went through her. He’d threatened her, the last time he’d found her. He’d left a nasty note on the door of her flat telling her what he meant to do to her.

She’d left within the hour, leaving many of her belongings behind.

“What?” La Rocca stepped to her side, his gaze keen on her face. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Flashing him a jaunty grin, she moved away. “I just don’t like that painting.”

The buzz of his phone echoed in the cool, silent gallery.

Turning around, she gave him a look. “I knew it wouldn’t last for long.”

“You presume to know me so well?” His hand twitched at his side as if he ached to reach into his pocket, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave her more trouble. Trouble like his dimples and his smile. Trouble like revealing a strong, olive-skinned neck when he tugged off his red power tie right then and stuffed it into his suit pocket. The same pocket that held the buzzing phone.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“Don’t tell me you’re not answering that.” Pushing away his trouble, she layered thick sarcasm onto her words. “Color me completely surprised.”

“I’m not answering. Maybe because I like to keep you surprised.” His smile flashed to a grin, going from merely distracting to downright devastating.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t fall into the interplay going on between them. This male-female, sexual-friendly, exciting-disturbing play. She had learned the tricks, but something about this exchange made her gut clench. His temptation was too great, however, and she loved having fun. She always had. “I’m thinking maybe I should make a painting of this event. You without a phone.”

“Ah.” His eyes went bright. “I think a painting of me is an excellent idea.”

A snort escaped her. “You are so arrogant.”

“But worth painting, don’t you think?” He took a step nearer. Just one simple step. Yet he filled the air around her with his vitality. “Don’t you, Darcy?”

Instead of doing what she should do—stop this, she pulled her courage around her, looked right into his eyes, and kept playing. “I don’t think you’d like the painting.”

“No?” he husked, his rich, male scent enveloping her.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“I’m afraid I’d have to paint what I usually see.” She gave him a pout. “The phone nailed to your head, a frown on your face.”

“Mmm.” Leaning in closer, his breath brushed on her cheek. “Nails and frowns. Is that what you see right now?”

His eyelashes were incredibly dark and now that she was so close to him, she noticed the silver turned to a misty grey on the edges of his irises. He was right. She would love to paint him. And there wouldn’t be any nails or frowns. There’d only be the beauty of this male, the beauty of his eyes and his skin and his mouth.

Not his heart, though.

His heart was not beautiful.

She took a step back. And then another.

One satanic brow rose and his dimples disappeared.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

They stared at each other as the phone clicked off, the message going to voicemail. Darcy was sure he was going to pull the plug on this adventure and dig that phone out of his pocket. But he surprised her again.

“Shall we continue?” he murmured before striding to the next painting.

He’d followed her for the rest of the day. Stopping when she tried on a silly feathered hat. Nodding when she waved them into another gallery. His smile had even come out a time or two again, though never the grin that made her heart tremble.

Yet, throughout the day, her heart trembled quite a lot.

Maybe she’d grown weak because he’d taken her to Sardi’s for dinner that night. Maybe her brain had skipped into la-la-land as she gazed across the white tablecloth at his masculine elegance. Or maybe her brain had taken a dip into pretend love later in the night, overcome by lust. As they’d entered the hotel room, the chemistry had zipped and zagged between them. She’d felt the heat, the burn and mixed with it, the fear.

He’d known, she was sure. He’d given her a gentle smile, touched her cheek, and told her to go to bed. She’d shivered under the covers. Waiting, wanting, worrying. Somehow, she’d fallen asleep, only to wake in the middle of the night with strong, warm arms around her.

Safe
.

And so close to love.

That itsy-bitsy love sat dead like a lead weight in the bottom of her stomach now. Which was what she deserved. Because the very next day, the Great Man had reverted to type—cold and contained. Not a dimple in sight. He’d announced their departure with icy disdain. Ignored her on the plane. Ignored her when they arrived at the penthouse.

Ignored her existence for the past three days.

Darcy plodded down the hall to her bedroom. The one she slept in alone. His announcement of separate bedrooms had surprised her and hurt her. Darn it. Plus, double darn it, she missed him at night. Just as she missed him during the day.

She missed his hard warmth beside her. The sense of safety.

She missed his laugh and his dimples.

She missed the stimulation of his company. Not only the sexual hum between them, but the intelligence, the drive, the electricity of his presence.

Plopping down on her bed, she eyed the picture of the London Eye with distaste. The black-and-white photo sucked every ounce of joy from the edifice. Smoothing her hand across the grey silk coverlet, she gave it a moue of disgust. She would not moon over bedding thinking of his eyes.
No way
.

Thankful. That was the word.

She should be thankful he wasn’t parading her in front of the London press as he had in New York. The odds were in her favor that those particular pictures would never land on a wall to be obsessed about.

More importantly, she should be very, very thankful that Marcus La Rocca had showed his true colors these last few days. His behavior shocked her out of the fantasy she’d been weaving around him. He was nothing like that fantasy man. Not the smiling man who enjoyed her company. Not the simple man who ate Sardi’s spaghetti with gusto. Certainly not the man who held her so tenderly at night.

In actuality, he was a tyrant of the first order.

“Stay put,” he commanded every morning as he left for his office.

What had she done? She’d done what he told her to do. She’d spent her time mooning and yearning and moping over a man who didn’t deserve any of it.

Time to stop this stupid behavior, pronto.

Time to face reality.

In three weeks’ time, she’d be released from this gilded cage. Back into the real world where a girl had to make a living. Unless a miracle occurred, she wouldn’t have Matt to lean on while she got her feet on the ground.

Wait.

Matt. And the wedding-that-wasn’t-going-to-happen.

She glared at the London Eye and berated herself. Somewhere in the midst of New York City glamour and La Rocca appeal, she’d lost the thread of her reasoning. Lost the whole point of being around the Great Man. She’d forgotten about her friend and his predicament.

“What a tosser you are,” she muttered.

Time to change things. Rather than spending her time following the Great Man’s orders while secretly pining away for his attention, she needed to get a grip and make things happen.

First things first. Tomorrow was Sunday.

Darcy smiled as a brilliant idea sprung into her brain.

I
t was a superb London day
.

Sunny and surprisingly warm. The crowds were rather large for this time of year. A fact Darcy was grateful for.

Bayswater Road was her usual haunt on any given Sunday. She’d prop her oils along the hedges, set up her easel and chair and usually do a brisk business drawing caricatures. Her oils moved a little slower. Still, all in all, she often walked away at the end of the day with a good stash of pounds.

Today was shaping up to be a banner day.

She’d already sold one oil in less than an hour. And she’d done three drawings in rapid succession. If the day proceeded like this, she’d have a nice beginning to a deposit on a new flat.

It had been surprisingly easy to slip away from the grand mausoleum. The Great Man had held to his recent pattern and disappeared before she even awoke. His security team had spotted her leaving, but hadn’t made any attempt to send her back to her fancy prison. One lone man had followed her onto the Tube. He’d trailed her as she got to Bayswater Road and greeted an artist buddy who’d willingly stored her artwork when she’d been kicked out of her own flat. The security guy had faded into the woodwork as her buddy helped her display the art he’d carted over from his nearby home. She didn’t mind the following and watching. It was part of the deal, she supposed.

In an odd way, it made her feel wanted, even safe.

There was that dang word again.

She snorted at herself.

“Darcy, my lass.” Alvin, one the regulars sauntered by, several of his watercolor canvases under his arm. “Where’ve you been?”

“I only missed last week, Al.” She gave him a jaunty smile. What was she going to say?
I was whisked away to New York by a billionaire
. That would get a good laugh.

“You never miss any week.” Rubbing his hand across his bald head, he eyed her. “I was worried.”

“You never have to worry about me.” She twirled her brush pen in the air. “Survivor is my middle name.”

Her older friend humphed as he placed his paintings along the hedge beside hers. “You’re a dainty little thing. Not a big lug like me. So, I’ll worry if I want to.”

Waving his comments away, she smiled at a passing couple. They immediately stopped, chatted with her as they perused her paintings, and eventually agreed to her charming offer to do their portraits.

They were lovers, that was clear.

She outlined their faces on the big sheet of blank paper. Drew their eyes, concentrated on their mouths. Tried to ignore the tenderness in the gaze of the man when he looked at the woman.

An ache of longing bloomed inside her.

She threw a laughing smile at the couple. “Ah, to be in love.”

They laughed with her.

The crowd swirled around them. Chinese words mixed with Irish lilts, Indian accents blended with Cockney. More artists and craftsmen arrived, adding their acrylics, sculptures, pastels, and collages to the display. The last of the autumn leaves rustled across the sidewalk. Sunshine warmed her back.

Darcy fought to push away the ache, replacing it with determination.

Pining for something that was never going to happen was a waste of time. She’d learned the lesson well as a child. Better to accept reality and play the cards dealt her. In this case, she’d hunker down until the La Rocca storm passed and then get on with her life. If she could find a way to help Matt, she would, but emotional survival right now was her main goal.

She’d be fine. Wouldn’t she?

Yes, she would.

Drawing complete, she showed it to the couple, accepted their praise and their money. The man gave a kiss to his lover as they walked away holding hands, happy and complete. Fulfilled in each other.

The ache turned inside her.

She pasted her best grin on her face, glanced around for another likely customer, looked across the street—

To meet the gunmetal glare of an angry Italian.

T
he relief
he felt when he spotted her was way out of proportion to the importance the sprite held in his life.

Minimal.

Which was why the amount of relief surging through his veins was unacceptable in every way. He’d been successful these past three days at driving her from his mind completely.

Naturally. If he put his mind to anything, he accomplished it.

The stark reality, one he found hard to accept, was he was no longer able to handle the temptation of being with her for any length of time. He knew himself well enough to know he was very close to losing the bet between them. Very close to taking what he wanted and everything else be damned.

The degree of lust for her irritated him.

Yet he couldn’t deny its existence.

So he’d sat in his office and spent his time on what was important. He’d stayed away from the lure of her. It was necessary. He’d realized it as they’d walked down the streets of SoHo. Realized his interest in her was swiftly morphing into more than sex.

The shock he’d felt had been exactly the antidote to her draw he’d needed.

When he’d entered his London office and given it some clear thought, he’d been revolted by his actions. Canceling important business meetings to address a woman’s yearning sigh? Utterly, absolutely unacceptable.

The last three days had cemented his determination.

Sex. That’s all he wanted from Darcy Moran.

Sex
.

Today, like any other day, he’d been at his office before six a.m. and worked his way through a hundred emails as he drank his morning coffee. But some sixth sense had nagged at him. At first, he’d dismissed it as merely the lingering desire to be with her. A desire he’d successfully squashed during the last few days. Somehow, though, before he had fully come to grips with his instincts, he’d found himself pacing into his penthouse.

His empty penthouse.

The fear had flashed like a gigantic lightning bolt through him as he’d stared at her empty bedroom. His hand had actually shook—
shook
—as he called his security. Anger had quickly followed after he’d heard their report. The fury washed any hankering to be with her right out of his system. In its place rose his recollection of what role the sprite really held in his life.

She was nothing but a pretend mistress. Nothing but a potential pitfall to an important business deal. His only duty was to keep her contained, not make her happy or gaze at her across a breakfast table or lust after her every minute he breathed.

She was nowhere near his brother.

This was what was important.

She hadn’t been kidnapped or stolen. He’d been absurd to even entertain the thought.

His security team had done their job, albeit not in the way he’d expected. However, they had tracked her, had known where she was when he’d called from the empty penthouse, irate.

They had assured him it wouldn’t happen again.

Now the only thing he needed to do was lay down the law one more time to her. One more time for the thousandth time. Then continue to stay away from her for his own sanity until she gave up her silly notion that sex wasn’t in their immediate future.

Marcus hoped his glare was boring into her thick head and making a clear statement without him having to say a word. But it appeared from her behavior when she saw him he was in for a disappointment.

She stilled for a moment, then shot him a cheeky grin. Twirling around, she spotted another in a long line of suckers, and within seconds, gained a new customer.

He marched across the street, stepped onto the sidewalk, and came to a stop.

Caricatures? She did caricatures? And she called herself an artist?

He smirked. How
cute
.

He’d attended enough gallery openings for business reasons to know true art when he saw it. He’d even made some judicious purchases for investment purposes. His brother’s avid interest in sculpture and determination to make it his career had been a curious choice, yet at least it had kept the kid out of trouble. He’d been perfectly happy to hand over the necessary funds to keep Matteo comfortable and content in London’s finest art school.
Merda
, he’d even funded a scholarship for a needy student at his brother’s urging.

In this instance, the money hadn’t been the issue.

The important fact was he’d figured the young fool would be close at hand and easy to keep an eye on. Rather than roaming the streets of Rome, picking up girls, and getting into trouble, his brother was under his control. There was also the added benefit of not having to take his mother’s calls on a daily basis. The endless screeching and wailing about the latest Matteo disaster had given him a never-ending headache.

For four years, the whole deal had gone well. Matteo had behaved. His mother had spent her time shopping rather than screeching. And he’d been left alone to make more deals and more money.

“Aren’t you darling,” the sprite cooed at her young male customer, who promptly blushed at her words.

His smirk grew. Did she think he was going to go all jealous on her because of this young sprig she was drawing? Did she think if she kept ignoring his presence, he’d slink away?

Not a chance.

He could bide his time for now. Eventually, he’d have her complete attention.

After he got that, he’d have her complete obedience.

He eyed the long sidewalk filled with various artwork, some downright awful, some with potential. The crowd was relaxed and playful. Kids ran by hanging onto balloons. A group of young girls giggled and batted their eyes at him as they passed. A fishmonger’s loud voice called out his list of delicacies including oysters and crab.

The sprite cooed another of her absurd compliments.

Marcus strolled across to a line of paintings propped behind her. In the background, he heard her soft, lilting voice become higher, louder. The sprig bantered back with teenage enthusiasm.

Ignoring both of them, he eyed the oil before him. A sturdy stone cottage nestled itself on a rolling hill. The glow of candlelight sprinkled gold on the waving leaves of an old oak tree. With a bit of a shock, he realized it was good. The technique was excellent, the color choices highlighting the sense of homeyness. He could almost feel the warmth of the light, the wisp of the wind.

Something twitched inside him.

He stepped to the next oil. Immediately he knew it was the same artist. Something about the use of color told him. The painting showed two children running down an alley. One of them, a tiny girl with a shock of long, black hair, was staring over her shoulder with fear.

Marcus stared at the night-blue eyes in the picture.

Filled with fear.

The similarity was striking. The memory of another pair of eyes shining with fear struck him right in the chest, along with the immediate recognition of who the artist had to be.

He jerked around and stared at the nymph.

The same night-blue eyes peered back at him from beneath her long, black eyelashes, wariness lacing this stare.

Why was she hiding her talent in this long row of wannabes? Why hadn’t she damn well insisted his stupid brother include her in last year’s big gallery showing? Rocca Enterprises had funded the entire event, with the proviso that some new artists would be included in the display. He’d let Matteo choose who would be included along with himself. His brother had been ecstatic.

Why the hell hadn’t he included his very talented lover’s paintings?

The young male sprig left with one last longing gaze at Darcy. Marcus stared at his lanky figure as he strolled away, the prized caricature in hand. Her protection had disappeared at exactly the right moment.

Pacing to the chair opposite her, he sat. “Draw me.”

The wariness in the blue depths started to sparkle. A fake frown appeared on her delicate brow. “I don’t think you’ll like the results.”

“Try me.”

She waggled her pen at him and then whisked it across the broad paper before her. Silence descended between them, the only noise coming from the crowd of people surrounding them. Marcus watched her face as she drew. Watched her focus narrow. Watched her front teeth worry her lower lip as she concentrated.

His blood thickened.

He’d missed her these last few days. It wasn’t something he wanted to admit, but a man had to be honest with himself, if no one else. He’d missed her high spirits, her teasing. The dancing eyes when she glanced at him and threw him a joke. The way she scrunched her brow when she questioned his sanity. The pointed chin she’d give him as she lashed at his ego.

The soft smile when she’d dressed up for his pleasure.

The soft skin against his when he held her sleeping body.

The soft laugh when she’d won the business deal for him in New York.

He scowled.

Darcy arched her brows. “Is that the look you want me to draw?”

“What?”

“If so,” she responded. “I don’t need you to pose. I know that look by heart.”

“What are you talking about?” Exasperation crackled in his voice.

“The dark frown.” She mimicked her words, her brows lowering.

He glared at her, lust and frustration and confusion churning inside him.

“The forbidding look that’s supposed to freeze me in my tracks,” she continued.

“Clearly I have not yet been successful in the freezing process.” Irony wove through his tone as he forced himself to stay irritated in the face of her teasing. “If I had, you’d be safely frozen in the place you are supposed to be.”

“Safely?” Her eyes misted with…wistfulness?

“In the penthouse.”

She cocked her head, the mist clearing from her eyes. “Why do you never say it’s your home?”

The lust and frustration churning inside him froze. The sudden memory of warm Italian sun and flowing Italian wine and a strong Italian hug threatened to melt him deep inside. He shrugged aside her question and the memories. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m starting to figure that out all on my own.” Her stare felt like it was piercing his skin, his blood. Felt like a laser slicing straight to the center of him.