The Legend of de Marco (7 page)

He tore his mouth away after long, dizzying seconds and said gutturally, ‘I won’t take you like an animal again.’

He bent down and lifted her into his arms, strode back into the bedroom. He put her down on the bed and stripped the towel from around his waist. Gracie’s eyes were glued to him as he came down over her, twitching her towel aside so he could feast his eyes on her body, laid out for him. He reminded her of some mythical pagan god. She’d sensed a raw wildness in him the night she’d met him, but the reality of it was intoxicating.

He trailed the back of his hand from the valley of her
breasts to the juncture of her thighs. She squirmed and bit her lip even as she wanted to have the strength to grab his hand and throw it aside, to tell him that she wouldn’t succumb to him again.

He pushed her thighs apart with one hand and pressed his palm against her. He looked deep into her eyes, ‘You’re mine, Gracie O’Brien, and I’m going to make you mine over and over again—until you don’t even know who you are any more.’

‘I’m going to make you mine over and over again—until you don’t even know who you are any more
.
’

Rocco was standing at the window of his bedroom with his back to the view of a faint pink dawn breaking over London’s skyline. His arms were crossed and he was looking warily at the woman sleeping in his bed, as if she might jump out at any moment and grab him. He felt as if he’d just been catapulted back into reality after a psychedelic mind-altering experience.

Those words were reverberating in his head. When he’d said them to her he’d meant that he wanted to make her forget her own name because she’d made him forget …
everything.
Who he was. What he was.
Why
he was.

It had only been in the shower, as she’d looked up at him with those dark serious eyes, that the first sliver of sanity had returned—and with it the awful, excoriating realisation that he’d exposed himself comprehensively.

Acute vulnerability of a kind he hadn’t felt in years—so long ago that he’d hardly recognised it—had burnt him up inside and he’d lashed out. But Gracie had stood up to him, like she had from day one, and he’d soon been fired up all over again, that feeling of vulnerability dissolving like a mist to be replaced with sheer lust.

Last night had proved to him that for all his hard-won
control and precious rationale he couldn’t keep from acting on base desire. Once he’d touched Gracie there had been no going back. He grimaced. There had been no going back from the moment he’d seen her standing in that elevator, looking so pale and anxious.

And from the moment she’d walked into the drawing room in that provocative uniform Rocco had bitterly regretted that Honora Winthrop was there. If he’d ever needed a stark comparison between two women they’d unwittingly provided it. As the evening had unfolded, and Gracie had served them exquisite dish after exquisite dish, Rocco had become more and more entranced. More and more surprised that she wasn’t using the opportunity to humiliate him. And more and more certain that he wanted her.

He’d battled an increasing need to
see
her. He’d suffered through the courses, tuning out Honora Winthrop’s cut-glass tones, and come to life each time Gracie came back into the room, eyes devouring her, painfully aware of his state of arousal—for
her
.

He’d become so impatient at one stage that he’d gone looking for her himself, only to see her stretching up to kiss his own security man sweetly on the cheek. He’d looked as if he’d just received a bonus. The jealousy had been swift and shocking. He’d wanted to fire George on the spot and shake Gracie until she rattled.

When Honora had made those snide comments about the food Rocco had had to restrain himself from reaching across the table and pushing her sanctimoniously perfect face into her dessert. As soon as Gracie had walked out of the room he’d stood up and told Honora coolly, ‘This evening is over. Thank you for coming, but I think we both know that this won’t go any further.’

She had stood up too, quiveringly angry. She’d spat at
him, ‘It’s over because you want that tart of a housekeeper? Is
that
why you’ve refused to sleep with me?’ Before he could answer she’d said, ‘You don’t get it, do you? You can have me and still have
her.
That’s how it’s done. I would only expect discretion. You can sleep with who you want while we maintain the façade of a happy marriage.’

She had articulated exactly what he’d set out to achieve by wooing her into marriage, and suddenly Rocco had recoiled from her words as if they were poisonous. Tight-lipped, he’d said, ‘Get out. I’ve changed my mind.’

Honora had just shaken her head, eyes as cold as ice and full of malicious pity. ‘You won’t get another chance like this.’

He’d all but snarled at her, ‘I’ll make my chances—just as I’ve always done. Now, what I’d like you to do first is apologise to Gracie for your rudeness and then leave.’

She’d thrown her head back and laughed. And then she’d walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Now, in the early-morning light, Rocco could hardly believe that he’d so spectacularly ruined his reputation in one fell swoop. He knew someone like Honora Winthrop would waste no time in spreading the word, along with half a dozen untruths, so that her own reputation wasn’t damaged. He wouldn’t get so close to a society darling again for a long time. They were a closely knit clique. And yet he couldn’t seem to drum up any urgency to want to rectify the situation. Not when he was looking at the woman on the bed, sprawled in voluptuous abandon, with the marks of their passionate lovemaking on her delicately pale skin.

Wild red curls and waves rippled around her head across the stark white pillow. One long curl twisted enticingly down over her breast, kissing the tempting curve. Rocco’s body was already hard. All it took was a look, or the memory of what it was like to surge into her tight, hot embrace.

He couldn’t remember if he’d ever been with a lover so responsive and generous. He prided himself on being a virile, sensual man, and he enjoyed sex, but his experiences in recent years had all been … restrained. He’d found it easy not to lose control.

But all that had changed with Gracie. He cringed inwardly now to remember how he’d swept the things off the table in the kitchen so that he could take her there, as if he was some out of control rutting animal. And yet … she’d loved it. She’d splintered apart around him like his most secret erotic fantasy.

It was as if he’d been merely existing for a long time, and something or
someone
had woken him from a trance. Colours were more vivid, sounds sharper. Something fundamental in his beliefs about this woman had shifted last night when he’d seen how hard she’d worked to put together that beautiful meal. And when he’d seen the genuine hurt in her eyes at how she’d been spoken to. The fierce pride in her expression.

She’d spent the bare minimum on his credit card for the food. George had handed it back to him with an explicit look when he’d come back to the apartment before dinner, as if to say,
See? She’s not like the rest.
And the assertion struck Rocco again that she didn’t have anything to do with her brother’s machinations. Even so—the voice of reason intruded—she was loyal to her brother, and that alone meant he couldn’t fully trust her.

Rocco could feel the dominant part of himself that had struggled for so long to survive and attain his position try to assert itself. How could he be jeopardising so much, so easily, just for a woman? All his life he’d wanted to distance himself from drama and passion. Chaos and violence. The life he lived now was the absolute antithesis
of that. And he was considering diving back into it with Gracie?

Yet surely all was not lost? He could have Gracie O’Brien, and when this desire burnt itself out—as it always did—he would gather around the structures of his life again and ensure his precious status once more.

He smiled cynically. Despite Honora Winthrop’s dire warning, he knew money could buy anything, and ultimately one of those women wouldn’t be able to resist if he wanted to enter into their protected society via marriage. Ever since that day in Italy when he’d been spat at and ignored by his own blood family in the street, and he’d watched them walk away, immune and protected by their status, he’d craved that protection. That security. And he could not lose sight of that now, when he had it in the palm of his hand.

He could have it all, including Gracie, and he intended to.

Rocco walked back over to the bed and sat down, smiling when he saw a small frown pleat the smooth skin between her eyes. Her mouth was in a delicious moue, still a little swollen. He bent and pressed a kiss there and her eyes opened.

He drew back for a moment, to see her looking at him with those wide, serious and wary eyes. Then she just said, ‘Hi,’ with a husky voice.

It was so simple and lacking in artifice that something turned over in Rocco’s chest. All his recent assertions suddenly felt very flimsy, and to avoid looking at
why
he just bent his head and kissed Gracie until she was breathless and arching her body into him and he lost himself in the bliss of her again.

When Gracie woke she blinked and squinted against the sun streaming into the bedroom.
Rocco’s bedroom.
As
realisation sank in she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and groaned softly. And then she registered that she was naked and half uncovered. She scrabbled around for the sheet and pulled it right up over herself, and then peeped out to look around the room, trying to ignore the ache between her legs and in every muscle of her body.

The room was empty. All was still and quiet. She looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was one pm. With a squeal she sat up. And then lay back down again when she felt dizzy. Images started to flood her head. The endless night of being entangled with Rocco. His powerful body surging into hers over and over again, until she’d been weeping from an overdose of pleasure.

And then that morning, as dawn had broken outside, she’d woken to find him sitting there, just looking at her with such an intense expression, eyes dark. And he’d kissed her, and it had started all over again. Her body had been sensitive, but Gracie had loved the feel of Rocco moving so urgently within her.

But now when she moved a leg she winced. Sitting up again, Gracie cautiously got out of the bed, hugging the sheet around her, and went into the bathroom. Rocco’s used towels lay on the floor and over the sink. His distinctive smell made her reel with a fresh onslaught of memories.

Gracie’s brain shied away from trying to figure out how she could have given herself so freely to someone like him. He not only didn’t trust her—he was a world away from her world. She came from an ugly council estate surrounded by grim flats and few opportunities. He came from a country steeped in beauty and undoubtedly from a lineage in which he could list his ancestors back as far as Caesar.

Gracie couldn’t shower in his bathroom now. Not with his scent so fresh and mocking. She got to his bedroom
door still with the sheet clasped around her and opened it quietly, half terrified she’d see him on the other side. No one was there. Gracie hurried back to her own room and shut and locked the door behind her.

And then she dived into her shower and scrubbed herself until her skin felt raw and sore muscles finally relaxed back to some semblance of normality. When she got out she dressed in loose pants and a shirt, as covered up as she could be. She tied her hair back into a ponytail.

When she opened her bedroom door she heard a noise coming from the kitchen and heat flooded her face when she thought of the carnage they’d left behind them. Her dress ripped open from neck to hem! Her discarded knickers!

Gracie imagined huge George in the middle of it, looking around with a scandalised expression, and with her face flaming she rushed to the kitchen. But the sight that greeted her was so unexpected that she stumbled to a halt. A small woman was mopping the floor, and the kitchen reflected nothing of the previous day or evening. Everything was tidied away, and fresh flowers stood on the table where Rocco and she had—

‘You must be Gracie.’

Gracie looked stupidly at the middle-aged woman who was smiling and coming towards her with an outstretched hand.

Numbly Gracie shook her hand and nodded. ‘Yes … I’m Gracie. I’m sorry, but … who are you?’

The woman smiled broadly. ‘I’m Mrs Jones. I’ve been retained by Mr de Marco as his new housekeeper subject to a month’s trial period.’ She leaned on her mop and said conspiratorially, ‘I’ve only just started back working full-time now that the kids are in college, so I don’t know how it’ll suit, but he seems nice …’

Gracie thought a little hysterically how
nice
didn’t do him justice, and just looked at the woman who was chattering away as if nothing was wrong. If this woman was now the housekeeper, then what on earth was she?

‘Are you all right, love?’

Gracie’s focus came back to the housekeeper. Vaguely she nodded. ‘Is George outside?’

The woman’s eyes grew round. ‘Is he the big man?’

Gracie nodded again and backed away, saying something about it being nice to meet her. She went out of the apartment to see George calmly reading a paper. He looked up and smiled. Gracie looked at him suspiciously. He didn’t appear to be traumatised by anything he’d seen. Perhaps he’d not been into the kitchen?

She took a shaky breath. ‘Do you know where Mr de Marco is?’

George frowned. ‘He should be in his office. He went there a couple of hours ago, just after the new housekeeper arrived.’

Gracie nodded and made for the lift. She stopped when George called her name gently and turned around to follow his gaze—which was on her feet. Her
bare
feet. Smiling weakly, she went back inside to get some shoes.

Rocco was standing at his window. He ran a hand around the back of his neck. He couldn’t ignore the steady hum of pleasure in his body, as if he’d just gorged on a feast. He grimaced. He
had.
A feast of Gracie.

His skin tightened imperceptibly and he stilled. He recognised instantly when the energy around the office changed. Slowly he turned around to see a pale-looking Gracie, covered from neck to toe in loose drab clothes, heading for his office. Her hair was tied back, making her look young. His gaze narrowed on her and with fatal
predictability his body reacted. He regretted the countless glass windows and lack of privacy even more. And then his conscience struck him as he had a lurid image of what he’d like to do to her in his office. Gracie must be sore. She was so much smaller than him and she’d been so tight …