His For Christmas

‘Which you can’t seem to do without that expression of disgust on your face.’

‘Wouldn’t anyone be disgusted?’ he demanded hotly. ‘Isn’t the idea of a woman peddling her flesh to the highest bidder abhorrent to any man with a shred of decency in his bones? Although I suspect the end-product must have been spectacular.’ There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Alannah Collins shaking her booty.’

His last few words were murmured—and Alannah thought how unexpected the colloquialism sounded when spoken in that sexy Sicilian accent of his. But his words reminded her that what you saw wasn’t necessarily what you got. Despite his cosmopolitan appearance and lifestyle, Niccolò da Conti was as traditional as they came. His views and his morals came straight from another age. No wonder his sister had been so terrified of him. No wonder she’d gone off the rails when she had been freed from his claustrophobic presence and judgemental assessment.

‘Those photographs were stills,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I never shook anything.’

‘Ah, but surely you’re just splitting hairs.’ He gave a dangerous smile, his finger idly circling the rim of his untouched champagne glass. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me that cupping your breasts and simulating sexual provocation for the camera while wearing a school uniform is a respectable job for a woman?’

Alannah managed to twist a sliver of smoked salmon onto the end of her fork, but the food never made it to her mouth. ‘Shall I tell you why I did that job?’

‘Easy money, I’m guessing.’

She put the fork back down. Oh, what was the point? she thought tiredly. He didn’t care what had motivated her. He had judged her—he was still judging her—on the person she appeared to be. Someone who had danced too intimately with a stranger at a party. Someone who had gone off the rails with his beloved sister. Someone who had discovered that the only way to keep hope alive had been by taking off her clothes…

Who could blame him for despising her—for not realising that she was so much more than that?

She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think polite interaction is going to be possible after all. There’s actually too much history between us.’

‘Or not enough?’ he challenged and suddenly his voice grew silky. ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea to forge some new memories, Alannah? Something which might cancel out all the frustrations of the past?’

Alannah stiffened. Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? Was he flirting with her? She swallowed. And if he were? If he were, she needed to nip it in the bud. To show him she respected herself and her body.

She slanted him a smile. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. I think we need to avoid each other as much as possible. We’ll support Michela all the way and try not to let our mutual animosity show, but nothing more than that. So why don’t you do me a favour and talk to the woman on your other side? She’s been trying to get your attention since you first sat down and she’s very beautiful.’ She picked up her wine glass and took a sip, her eyes surveying him coolly over the rim. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed that, Niccolò.’

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS THE worst night he’d had in a long time, or maybe it was just that Niccolò couldn’t remember ever losing sleep over a woman before. He lay tossing and turning in the king-size bed of his hotel room, trying to convince himself that Alannah had been right and the less time they spent together, the better. But every time he thought about distancing himself from those denim-blue eyes and that pouting, provocative mouth he felt an uncomfortable ache deep inside him.

What was the matter with him?

Kicking away the rumpled sheet, he told himself she wasn’t his kind of woman—that she represented everything he despised in a sometimes trashy and disposable society.

Abandoning all further attempts to sleep, he dealt with his emails and spoke to his assistant in London, who informed him that Alekto Sarantos was still unhappy with the interior of the penthouse suite. The Greek billionaire had let it be known that the apartment’s design was too ‘bland’ for his tastes and, despite a close association going back years, he was now considering pulling out of the deal and buying in Paris instead. Niccolò silently cursed his temperamental friend as he terminated the phone-call and wondered how soon he could decently leave after the wedding to return to work.

Pulling on his gym gear, he went for a run in Central Park, where the bare trees were etched dramatically against the winter sky. Despite his restless night and the fact that little was in bloom, his senses seemed unusually receptive to the beauty which surrounded him on this cold winter morning. There were ducks and gulls on the lakes and woodpeckers were tapping in the trees. Other runners were already out pounding the paths and an exquisite-looking blonde smiled hopefully at him, slowing down as he approached. But he didn’t even bother giving her a second look. Her eyes were glacial green, not denim blue—and it was that particular hue which had been haunting his sleep last night.

The run took the edge off his restlessness, even if it didn’t quell it completely, and after he’d showered and dressed he found a series of increasingly frantic texts from his sister queuing up on his smartphone. The final one was followed by a wobbly voicemail message, demanding to know where he was.

He went along the corridor and knocked at her door—stupidly unprepared for the sight of Alannah opening the door, even though he’d known she was sharing a suite with his sister. He felt almost high as he looked at her and could feel the aching throb of longing which stabbed at his groin. She was wearing a denim shirt-dress which matched her eyes and a tiny ladybird brooch which twinkled red and black on the high collar. For a moment it occurred to him that she was dressed as sedately as a schoolteacher and he watched as a complicated series of expressions flitted across her face as she looked at him, before producing a smile which was clearly forced.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ He tried his own version of that fake smile. ‘Sleep well?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re here to enquire how I slept?’

No, I’m here because I’d like to take your panties down and put my tongue between your thighs. He shrugged. ‘Michela has been bombarding my phone with texts. Is she here?’

‘She’s…’ cocking her head in the direction of one of the closed doors behind her, she pulled a face ‘…in the bathroom.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘She’s broken a nail.’

He frowned. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke?’

‘No, Niccolò, it’s not a joke. It’s the finger her wedding ring will go on and everyone will notice. To a bride who’s just hours away from the ceremony, something like this is nothing short of a catastrophe. I’ve called the manicurist, who’s on her way up.’

‘First World problems,’ he said caustically. ‘So everything is under control?’

‘Well, that depends how you look at it.’ She met his gaze and seemed to be steeling herself to say something. ‘Her nerves aren’t helped by the worry that you’re going to lose your temper at some point today.’

‘What makes her think that?’

‘Heaven only knows,’ she said sarcastically, ‘when you have a reputation for being so mild-mannered and accommodating. Could it have something to do with the fact that you and I were at loggerheads throughout dinner last night, and she noticed?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘So what does she want us to do—kiss and make up?’

‘Hardly,’ she snapped. ‘That might be stretching credibility a little too far.’

‘Oh, I think I could manage to put on a convincing enough performance,’ he drawled. ‘How about you?’

So she hadn’t been imagining it last night. Alannah stiffened. He really was flirting. And she was going to have to put on the performance of a lifetime if she wanted to convince him that it wasn’t working.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘So can I tell Michela that you’re planning to be a good boy today? Do you think you’re a competent enough actor to simulate enjoyment and behave yourself for the duration of the wedding?’

‘I don’t usually have to simulate anything—and I’ve never been called a good boy in my life,’ he answered softly. ‘But if Michela wants reassurance that I’m going to behave myself, then tell her yes. I will be extremely virtuous. And I will be back here at three, to take you both down to the wedding.’

Alannah gave a brief nod and her cool, careful smile didn’t slip until she had shut the door on him, though her pulse was pounding loudly.

At least an air of calm had descended by the time the manicurist arrived to repair the tattered nail and the mood was elevated still further as Alannah helped Michela slide into her delicate white gown. Because this was her territory, she reminded herself fiercely. She was proud of the dress she’d made for the bride and she wasn’t going to let Niccolò da Conti whittle away at her confidence.

Her movements became sure and confident as she smoothed down the fine layers of tulle and soon she felt like herself again—Alannah Collins, who was living life according to her own rules, and ignoring the false perceptions of other people.

But the moment Niccolò arrived all that composure deserted her. She was aware of his piercing gaze as he watched her adjusting the floral circlet which held Michela’s veil in place and it was difficult to keep her fingers steady. She could feel his dark eyes moving over her and the only comfort she got was by reminding herself that after this day was over, she need never see him again.

So why did that make her heart plummet, as if someone had dropped it to the bottom of a lift-shaft?

‘You look beautiful, mia sorella,’ he said, and Michela gave a smile of delight as she did a twirl.

‘Do I?’

‘Indeed you do.’ His voice was indulgent. ‘Lucas is a very lucky man.’

‘Well, I have Alannah to thank for my appearance,’ said Michela brightly. ‘She’s the one who made the dress. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it, Niccolò?’

Alannah wanted to tell her friend to stop trying so hard. To tell her that she and her brother were never going to achieve anything more than a forced civility. But she maintained the fiction necessary to soothe the bride’s frazzled nerves by smiling at him in what she hoped looked like a friendly way.

‘It is indeed a very beautiful dress,’ he agreed softly, his eyes gleaming out a silent message which she didn’t dare analyse.

Alannah tried to relax as she handed Michela her bouquet and the three of them made their way to the Pembroke’s celebrated wedding room, where the assembled guests were waiting. A harpist began to play and Alannah saw the sudden look of tension which hardened Niccolò’s features into a grim mask as he gave his sister away to be married.

Maybe he just didn’t like weddings, she thought.

She tried not to stare at him as the vows were made and to ignore the women who were clearly trying to catch his eye. And after the rings had been exchanged, Alannah tried to be the best guest she possibly could. She chatted to the groom’s sister and offered to suggest some new colour schemes for her house in Gramercy Park. After the wedding breakfast, she took time to play with several of the frilly-dressed little girls from Lucas’s huge extended family. And when they were all worn out, she lined them all up to twist their long hair into intricate styles, which made them squeal with delight.

By the time the tables had been cleared and the band had struck up for the first dance, Alannah felt able to relax at last. Her duties had been performed to everyone’s satisfaction and the wedding had gone off without a hitch. Drink in hand, she stood on the edge of the dance-floor and watched Michela dancing in the arms of Lucas—soft white tulle floating around her slender body and a dreamy smile on her face as she looked up at her new husband.

Alannah felt her heart contract and wished it wouldn’t. She didn’t want to feel wistful, not today—of all days. To wonder why some people found love easy while others seemed to have a perpetual struggle with it. Or to question why all that stuff had never happened to her.

‘How come I always find you standing alone on the dance-floor?’

Alannah’s heart clenched at the sound of Niccolò’s Sicilian accent, but she didn’t turn round. She just carried on standing there until he walked up to stand beside her.

‘I’m just watching the happy couple,’ she said conversationally.

He followed the direction of her gaze and for a moment they stood in silence as Lucas whirled Michela round in his arms.

‘Do you think they’ll stay happy?’ he asked suddenly.

The question surprised her. ‘Don’t you?’

‘If they are contented to work with what they’ve got and to build on it, then, yes, they have a chance. But if they start to believe in all the hype…’ His voice grew hard. ‘If they want stardust and spangles, then they will be disappointed.’

‘You obviously don’t rate marriage very highly.’

‘I don’t. The odds against it are too high. It’s a big gamble—and I am not a gambling man.’

‘And love?’ she questioned as she turned at last to look at him. ‘What about love?’

His mouth hardened and for a moment she thought she saw something bleak flaring at the depths of his black eyes.

‘Love is a weakness,’ he said bitterly, ‘which brings out the worst in people.’

‘That’s a little—’

‘Dance with me,’ he said suddenly, his words cutting over hers, and Alannah tensed as his fingers curled over her bare arm.

They were a variation on the words he’d spoken all those years ago. Words which had once turned her head. But she was older now and hopefully wiser—or maybe she was just disillusioned. She no longer interpreted his imperious command as masterful—but more as an arrogant demonstration of the control which was never far from the surface.

She lifted her face to his. ‘Do I get a choice in the matter?’

‘No.’ Removing the glass from her hand, he placed it on the tray of a passing waitress, before sliding his hand proprietorially around her waist and propelling her towards the dance floor. ‘I’m afraid you don’t.’

She told herself that she didn’t have to do this. She could excuse herself and walk away. Because he was unlikely to start behaving like a cave-man by dragging her onto the dance-floor—not with all his new in-laws around.

Except that she left it a split second too long and suddenly it was too late for objections. Suddenly, she was on the dance-floor and his arms were round her waist and the worst thing of all was that she liked it. She liked it way too much.

‘You can’t do this, Niccolò,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s over-the-top alpha behaviour.’

‘But I just can’t help myself,’ he said mockingly. ‘I’m an over-the-top alpha man. Surely you knew that, Alannah.’

Oh, yes. She knew that. A block of stone would have known that. Alannah swallowed because his hands were tightening around her waist and making her feel there was no place else she would rather be. She told herself it would cause a scene and reflect badly on both of them if she pulled away from him. So endure it. One dance and it will all be over.

She tried to relax as they began to move in time with the music and for a while they said nothing. But it wasn’t easy to pretend that it meant nothing to be wrapped in his arms again. Actually, it was close to impossible. His body was so hard and his arms were so strong. His unique scent of sandalwood and raw masculinity seemed to call out to something deep inside her—to touch her on a subliminal level which no one else had even come close to. She could hear the thunder of her heart as he lowered his head to her ear and even his voice seemed to flood over her like velvety-dark chocolate.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ he said.

She swallowed. ‘I was before you forced me into this farce of pretending we have a civilised enough relationship to be dancing together.’

‘But surely you can’t have any complaints about what we’re doing, mia tentatrice. Aren’t I behaving like a perfect gentleman?’

‘Not with…’ Her words tailed away, because now he had moved his hands upwards and his fingers were spanning her back. She could feel their imprint burning through the delicate material of her bridesmaid dress and her throat constricted.

‘With what?’

‘You’re holding me too tightly,’ she croaked.

‘I’m barely holding you at all.’

‘You are a master of misinterpretation.’

‘I am a master of many things,’ came the silken boast, ‘but misinterpretation wouldn’t have been top of my list.’

She looked up from where she had been staring resolutely at his black tie and forced herself to meet the mocking light in his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she whispered.

‘Dancing with you? Isn’t it customary for the brother of the bride to dance with the bridesmaid at some point—particularly if both of them are single? Or were you holding out for the best man?’

‘I’m not holding out for anyone. And I don’t remember telling you I was single.’

‘But you are, aren’t you? And if you’re not, then you might as well be.’ He met her eyes. ‘Because you are responding like a woman who hasn’t been touched by a man for a very long time.’

She was tempted to snap back at him with indignation, but how could she? Because he was right. It was a long time since she had been touched by a man. It was a long time since she had danced with a man too, and it had never felt like this. Not with anyone. It had only ever felt like this with him.

‘I don’t understand what it is you want,’ she said. ‘Why you’re dancing with me. Taunting me. Trying to get underneath my skin. Especially when you don’t even like me—and the feeling is mutual.’

He pulled her closer. ‘But not liking doesn’t stop us wanting, does it, Alannah? Desire doesn’t require affection in order to flourish. On the contrary, sometimes it works better without it. Don’t you find that, mia tentatrice?’ He stroked a reflective finger along her waist. ‘That sex can be so much more exciting when there is a frisson of animosity between a man and a woman?’

Her skin still tingling from the lazy caress of his finger, she pulled away from him, trying to focus on the presumptuous things he was saying, rather than the way her body was reacting. ‘Stop it,’ she said weakly.

‘But you haven’t answered my question.’

‘And I don’t have to. Just as I don’t have to stand here and take any more provocative comments. My duty dance is over.’ With a monumental effort, she pulled away from him. ‘Thanks for reminding me what a consummate player you are, Niccolò. And thanks for reminding me that ten years might have passed but you don’t seem to have changed. You still treat the opposite sex as if—’

‘I wouldn’t generalise if I were you,’ he interjected and now his voice was edged with steel. ‘Because you have no idea how I treat women. And believe me when I tell you that I’ve never had any complaints.’

The sexual boast was blatant and Alannah suddenly felt as if her skin were too tight for her body. As if her flesh wanted to burst out of her bridesmaid dress. Her breasts were tingling and she knew she had to get away from him before she did something she regretted—or said something she would never live down. ‘Goodnight, Niccolò,’ she said, turning away and beginning to walk across the dance-floor. ‘I think we can officially declare our truce to be over.’

Niccolò watched her go and felt frustration mount inside him, along with an even greater feeling of disbelief. She had gone. She had walked away with her head held high and her shoulders stiff and proud, and all his hunter instincts were aroused as he watched the retreating sway of her silk-covered bottom.

He swallowed.

He had played it wrong.

Or maybe he had just read her wrong.

She had been right. He didn’t particularly like her and he certainly didn’t respect her. But what did that have to do with anything? He still wanted her in a way he’d never wanted anyone else.

And tomorrow she would be gone. Leaving New York and going back to her life in London. And even though they lived in the same city, their paths would never cross, because their two lives were worlds apart. He would never know what it was like to possess her. To feel those creamy curves beneath his fingers and her soft flesh parting as he thrust deep inside. He would never know what sound she made when she gasped out her orgasm, nor the powerful pleasure of spurting his seed deep inside her. She might be the wrong type of woman for him on so many levels—but not, he suspected, in bed.

Still mesmerised by the sway of her bottom, he began to follow her across the dance-floor, catching up with her by one of the bars, where she was refusing a cocktail.

She barely gave him a glance as he walked up beside her.

‘You’re not leaving?’ he said.

‘I can’t leave. At least, not until Michela has thrown her bouquet and driven off into the night with Lucas. But after that, you won’t see me for dust, I promise.’

‘Before you make any promises—I have a proposition you might like to hear.’

‘I don’t need to hear it,’ she said flatly. ‘I wouldn’t need to be a genius to work out what you might have in mind, after the things you said on the dance-floor and the way you were holding me. And it doesn’t make any difference.’ She sucked in a deep breath and met his gaze. ‘I’m not interested in having sex with you, Niccolò—got that?’

Niccolò wondered if she knew how blatantly her nipples were contradicting her words—but maybe now wasn’t the time to tell her.

‘But what if it was a business proposition?’ he questioned.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of business proposition?’

He looked at the waxy white flowers which were woven into her hair and he wanted to reach out and crush them between his fingers. He wanted to press his lips on hers. He wanted to undress her and feast his eyes on that soft, creamy body. In a world where he had managed to achieve every single one of his objectives, he suddenly recognised that Alannah Collins had been a residual thorn in his flesh. A faint but lingering memory of a pleasure which had eluded him.

But not for much longer.

He smiled. ‘You said you were an interior designer and suggested I have a look at your website, which I did. And you are good. In fact, you are very good. Which means that you have a skill and I have a need,’ he said.

Her mouth thinned into a prudish line. ‘I don’t think that your needs are the kind I necessarily cater for.’

‘I think we’re talking at cross purposes, Alannah. This has nothing to do with sex.’ He slanted her a thoughtful look. ‘Does the name Park View ring any bells?’

‘You mean that enormous new apartment block overlooking Hyde Park which has been disrupting the Knightsbridge traffic for months?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s mine. I own it. I built it.’

Alannah blinked. ‘But it’s the most…’

‘Don’t be shy, Alannah,’ he said softly as her voice tailed off. ‘One should never be shy when talking about money. It’s the most expensive building of its kind in the world—isn’t that what you were going to say?’

She shrugged. ‘I fail to see how your property portfolio could possibly interest me.’

‘Then hear me out. A friend of mine—a brilliant Greek named Alekto Sarantos—is about to complete one of the penthouse apartments.’

She lifted her hand to adjust a stray petal on her headdress. ‘And is there a problem?’

‘Sì. Or at least—he certainly seems to think there is.’ A note of irritation entered his voice. ‘The problem is that Alekto doesn’t like the décor, even though it has been overseen by one of the most popular designers in the city.’

‘Let me guess.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Cream walls? Bowls of big pebbles lying around the place? Lots of glass and neutral-coloured blinds?’

He frowned. ‘You must have seen photos.’

‘I don’t need to, but I’d recognise a bandwagon anywhere—and every interior designer in the business seems to be jumping on it. Presumably this friend of yours doesn’t do bland and that’s why he doesn’t like it.’

‘No, Alekto doesn’t do bland—in fact, he is the antithesis of bland. He described the décor to my assistant as a “tsunami of beige” and unless I can transform the place to his satisfaction before the Greek new year, then he says he’ll pull out of the deal and go to Paris instead. It has become a matter of pride for me that he chooses London.’ He gave a hard smile. ‘And maybe that’s where you could come in.’

‘Me?’

‘You want a break, don’t you? I don’t imagine they get much bigger than this.’

‘But…’ Somehow she managed to keep the tremble of excitement from her voice. ‘Why me? There must be a million other designers itching to accept a job like this.’

His gaze swept over her like an icy black searchlight—objective, speculative and entirely without emotion.

‘Because I like your style,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I like the way you dress and the way you look. I always have. And if you can satisfy my exacting friend with your designs—then the job is yours.’

Alannah felt ridiculously thrilled by his praise, yet she didn’t want to be thrilled. She wanted to feel nothing. To give nothing and take nothing. She met his dark gaze. ‘And the fact that you want to go to bed with me has nothing to do with your offer, I suppose?’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, but it has everything to do with it, mia sirena,’ he said. ‘As you said yourself, there are a million interior designers out there, but your desirability gives you a distinctive edge over your competitors. I cannot deny that I want you or that I intend to have you.’ His black eyes gleamed. ‘But I wouldn’t dream of offering you the job unless I thought you were capable of delivering.’