One Night In Collection Read online

  ‘We’re entrepreneurs.’ The rich laughter lacing his words showed he knew exactly where her train of thought had led her. ‘Primarily jewellery, but we’ve branched into property, finance— a bit of everything really.’

  ‘Di Agnio …’ With a jolt Meghan remembered passing boutiques of that name, shops with locked doors and luxurious velvet cases in their display windows. As far as jewellery went, it was strictly top-shelf. ‘It’s a family business?’

  ‘Yes. I am the CEO.’

  Well. She sat back again, realising sickly the kind of life he must lead—so different from hers. It would be nice, to have that kind of wealth, power, control. Safety.

  She took a deep breath, let it out. ‘All right, then. Let’s have dinner.’

  Alessandro grinned, and the effect was quite devastating. Meghan drew in a shaky uneven breath at the sight of him, the harsh lines of his face relaxed into laughter, the whiteness of his smile contrasting with his tanned skin and navy eyes, now glinting with humour.

  When Alessandro di Agnio frowned he was forbidding. In repose he was handsome, even beautiful. But when he smiled Meghan wanted to walk straight into his arms.

  And that was a place she could not go.

  ‘Then you take me home,’ she added, and he nodded.

  ‘Of course. If you wish.’

  ‘I will wish it,’ Meghan snapped, and he merely chuckled.

  Damn him. Damn his arrogance, and damn him for being right. Already she felt herself wondering, weakening.

  Wanting.

  A smile played about his mouth as he held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’

  She still had things to prove. She would still walk away with her dignity, her pride, her heart.

  Her heart? The last thought, slipping treacherously through her numb brain, made Meghan almost gasp in surprise.

  There was no way her heart was involved with this man.

  ‘All right,’ she agreed tonelessly.

  She walked past him, towards the kitchen, but Alessandro pulled her back gently, his hand warm and firm on her elbow.

  ‘Wrong way, gattina.’

  Meghan jerked. ‘What did you just call me?’

  His lips quirked in a smile. ‘Gattina. It means kitten.’

  ‘I don’t like nicknames.’

  ‘It was meant to be an endearment.’

  ‘As in sex kitten?’ she said contemptuously, and Alessandro shook his head.

  ‘I was thinking more of an actual kitten, baring her tiny, tender claws.’ He trailed his fingers from her elbow to her hand, stroking the tender palm, electrifying her skin with the lightest of touches. He raised her palm to his lips, gave it the barest brush of a kiss. A promise. Mesmerised, Meghan could only watch. And feel.

  This was a bad, bad idea.

  ‘This way,’ Alessandro said, sounding faintly amused, and gestured to the other set of double doors leading into the foyer.

  Numbly she followed Alessandro through the foyer and into a mahogany panelled dining room. Candles were lit, casting flickering shadows on the dark walls and tiled floor.

  The green salad she’d seen earlier in the kitchen was now placed on an imposing table, one corner set intimately for two.

  Meghan swallowed, and the gulping noise was loud in the room, where the only sound was the guttering of flame.

  Alessandro laughed softly. ‘Come here. I don’t bite.’

  Reluctantly Meghan moved towards him on wooden legs. ‘Are you trying to seduce me?’ she whispered. Because it just might be working.

  ‘No. When I seduce you, you’ll know.’

  The languorous promise in these words sent both panic and anticipation fizzing through her in dangerous bubbles. ‘I don’t want to be seduced,’ Meghan said, and knew how feeble her voice sounded.

  ‘You don’t want to be hurt,’ Alessandro corrected. ‘There’s a difference.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Is there?’

  ‘I believe with me there is.’ His voice, though gentle, allowed no argument. ‘Now enough about seduction. Let us turn our attention to eating, which in Italy is just as sensual an art.’

  Meghan sat at the table, watched as Alessandro poured wine from the bottle chilling in a bucket and served her a generous portion of salad bursting with tomatoes, basil and mozzarella.

  ‘This looks delicious—thank you,’ she murmured, and Alessandro smiled, a wicked, teasing glint in his eye.

  ‘Is there anything else I may get for you? Ana will bring the antipasti later.’

  With a start, Meghan realised Alessandro was the one serving her. Everything was mixed up tonight. She moved as if to get up, although she wasn’t sure what she intended to do. Pour the water? Run to the kitchen? Curtsey?

  He shook his head. ‘The only thing I want you to do now, Meghan, is to enjoy.’

  She opened her mouth to issue a sharp retort, the stinging reply that had become her habit, her defence. Alessandro watched her with an expectant little half-smile on his face, and Meghan hesitated.

  She’d spent the last six months holding herself apart—apart from men, from pleasure, from life. Sometimes it felt as if it was the only way to get through each day—and, more importantly, to get back the dignity and self-respect she’d lost in Stanton Springs, Iowa.

  Yet now, for one evening, even just one moment, she wanted to let go. Not completely, not out of control, because she knew she wasn’t ready for that.

  She just wanted to enjoy … something.

  Food.

  She sat back in her chair, managing a rather stiff-lipped smile. ‘All right.’ She took a bite of salad, felt the burst of tomato on her tongue. It felt different. Sweeter. The room seemed different. More vivid. And she felt different. More alive.

  Alessandro watched her with an indulgent, affectionate smile, and Meghan took a sip of wine, the taste sharp and tangy.

  Her senses were heightened to the feel of the cool, smooth wine glass in her fingers, the cotton shirt against her arms, her breasts. She saw Alessandro’s languorous gaze, the way he watched her move, sleepily, yet with a flared awareness in his eyes that thrilled her.

  This was so dangerous.

  She knew Alessandro would not abuse her. He wouldn’t spread malicious lies or treat her with cruel contempt.

  But he would hurt her. Meghan put her wine glass down with an unsteady clatter. Yes, he would hurt her if she let him … if she gave him her heart.

  Alessandro watched Meghan eat with a pleasure he normally reserved for more physical activities. He enjoyed seeing the way her eyes widened, the slow smile that spread over her features at the simplest of pleasures.

  He’d no doubt that she was unaware of how sensual, how desirable she looked simply eating a tomato. She was, he was beginning to realise, quite unaware of her effect on him.

  If only he was as unaware. The desire—the need—for her pulsed through him, an ache, a hunger that made him want. Yearn. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to want anything—certainly not a woman from nowhere who looked at him with her heart in her eyes, shadowed by both fear and desire.

  She was the last thing he needed.

  Yet he wanted her.

  And she wanted him. She was denying it with nearly every fibre of her being, but he saw the way she looked at him, the way her eyes flared and her lips parted.

  She was afraid. The realisation humbled him. He would have to tread carefully.

  Still, it was only a matter of time.

  The thought pleased him, yet as he cradled his wine glass between his palms he felt a ripple of unease. Guilt.

  He wasn’t in the habit of buying women. And certainly not of lying to them. Since taking over Di Agnio Enterprises two years ago Alessandro had become known for his no-nonsense demeanour, as well as the brutal honesty he favoured with clients and friends alike.

  Two years ago, on a chilly spring evening much like this one, he’d put away the trappings of a different life, the sweet-talking lies that had smoothed the already slippery p
ath to pleasure.

  He’d put them away for ever, even if some still wondered. Doubted.

  Even if he did.

  He lived for his work now, for seeing Di Agnio Enterprises rise in stature and earnings, for seeing his family name respected once more.

  He did not live for pleasure.

  He no longer cared about desire.

  So why had he lured—and he knew that truly was the word for it—Meghan to his villa?

  For seduction?

  The thought made him frown, and he saw Meghan’s gaze flicker uneasily over his countenance. She was as attuned to the variations of his mood as he was to hers.

  He smiled. ‘Have some pasta.’ Ana had brought in the pasta dish a few moments earlier, her lips pressed in a thin line of disapproval, although she’d restrained herself from saying anything.

  Alessandro had watched Meghan flush and look down at her plate, clearly embarrassed.

  It was his fault she felt humiliated. He’d never meant her to feel so shamed, yet he knew he’d assumed things of her … things that he still wasn’t sure were true or not.

  Had he brought her here simply for pleasure?

  For sex?

  Was that what he wanted? Was that the kind of man he was … still?

  He didn’t know. Didn’t know what to think of her, of himself. He took a sip of wine. When he’d seen her at Angelo’s she’d seemed like any other of the many women he knew. Women who were free and easy with their favours, their bodies. There was no shame in that these days, although Alessandro recognised in himself a deep-seated disapproval of the freedom in women which he himself had enjoyed.

  You didn’t marry women like that.

  He wouldn’t marry a woman like that.

  But was Meghan that kind of woman? He’d assumed it, and strangely she seemed to have assumed it.

  But was it true?

  And why had he brought her here?

  Frowning again, Alessandro realised he couldn’t answer those questions. Not yet. Which meant Meghan had to stay a bit longer. Until he discovered why he’d brought her here. Until he discovered why he needed her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MEGHAN felt as if she were in a daze. Dazed by food, by wine, by pleasure. Drugged by her own senses and the novelty of letting herself feel … everything.

  After their initial charged confrontation, Meghan found herself relaxing and enjoying the simple pleasure of conversation. She told Alessandro how she’d learnt Italian, and about some of her travels; he shared his experiences in the same places.

  Meghan had to smile at the differences. She’d been slumming it with hostels and third-class train fares, while Alessandro travelled around Europe in a company jet, staying in five-star accommodation with a fresh magnum of champagne in every room.

  And yet … they’d both found Notre Dame ostentatious, and fallen in love with the history of Père Lachaise, the famous Parisian cemetery. They’d both bypassed Brussels for Bruges, loving the historic city, with its church spires and cobbled streets.

  Some things, Meghan thought, rose above money and status.

  She found herself sneaking looks at him while he ate, watching the long, clean column of his throat as he sipped his wine, noticing the way his faded jeans moulded to his body as he sat, relaxed and half sprawled, in his chair. Watching his moods chase the colours in his eyes from navy to steel to indigo, a rainbow of blues.

  Every movement, every look, every softly spoken word or dry chuckle, created a yearning in her soul—almost made her lean towards him, craving contact. Touch.

  She wanted him.

  Despite what he’d thought, despite what he still expected.

  Despite the danger.

  The realisation of her own need stunned her. She’d never expected to feel the flooding, weakening sensation of desire again. Never expected to want a man, to want to take pleasure as well as to give it.

  Her mind spun as she considered this, the novelty of reawakening sensation, need. It was intoxicating. It was scary.

  It was desire.

  The shame that followed on its heels like a mocking shadow, the fear she tasted in her mouth, were more familiar.

  Meghan took a sip of wine, but it could have been water. A pulse beat in her throat, and despite the liquid her mouth was dry. She put the glass down carefully. ‘I think I’ve had enough.’

  Alessandro raised his eyebrows, waiting, sensing the double entendre.

  ‘It’s late,’ she continued stiltedly. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘You could drive me back to Spoleto.’ Even as she said it, Meghan knew it wasn’t going to happen. Didn’t want it to happen.

  Alessandro smiled. ‘I could.’

  They were both silent. Meghan stared at her plate, at the remains of one of the most delicious meals she’d ever had. Silence thrummed between them—heavy, oppressive, expectant.

  She looked up, her eyes wide, luminous. ‘What happens now?’ she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

  Alessandro regarded her steadily. ‘What do you want to happen now?’

  ‘I …’ She licked her dry lips, resisting the urge to gulp down the rest of her wine. ‘I … I don’t know.’ The enormity of this admission caused a humiliating flush to steal across her cheeks. She was as good as saying she wanted him.

  And she did want him. Perhaps she even wanted him to know. She stared at him now, openly, hungrily, wondering how hard and broad his chest would feel against her own womanly softness, how his mouth would feel on hers, covering it, possessing it, how his hands would stroke and touch her body.

  Wondering how sensual, how tender he would be.

  Wondering how she would respond.

  She wanted to know, and she was terrified.

  Alessandro reached across the table to cover her hand with his own. ‘Meghan, you may sleep in the spare bedroom. There need be nothing between us tonight.’

  She was far too conscious of the heavy warmth of his hand on hers, the way it made tiny shocks ripple all the way up her arm. The strength of it, the security, the desire.

  Tonight, she thought. The meaning was obvious. There would be another night, and perhaps another, and, if she were lucky, a few more.

  And what then?

  Could she really sell herself so cheaply simply for desire’s sake?

  Shame scorched her face, her soul.

  ‘Tomorrow I leave,’ she reminded him, although her words sounded hollow. ‘Unless you plan to keep me here until … until …’ She trailed off, courage deserting her.

  Humour glinted in Alessandro’s eyes. ‘Maybe I do.’

  ‘What if I say no?’ Meghan demanded shakily. ‘Are you going to force me?’

  Alessandro swore softly. ‘Do you think that is the kind of man I am? To force a woman? What has happened to you to think such things?’ His eyes narrowed, though his voice was soft. ‘Who was the man who hurt you, Meghan?’

  The question echoed numbly through her, through the empty, scarred places inside. The man who hurt you. She stared down at her plate, the colours blurring into a sorrowful rainbow, her thoughts hopelessly scattered.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ Alessandro said quietly. ‘But I think that it would help me to understand.’

  Meghan forced herself to look up, blinking through a haze of devastated emotion and memory. ‘What is there to understand?’

  ‘Why you’re so suspicious. Afraid. Ashamed.’

  ‘I’m not!’

  Alessandro simply inclined his head.

  ‘Let’s just say I’m coming out of a bad relationship,’ she finally managed. Meghan bit her lip, took in a shuddering breath. She felt cold, empty, even though the waves of emotion Alessandro had caused to crash through her still lapped at her nerves, her senses. ‘Look, I’m suspicious, and I don’t know what kind of man you are. You tricked me into coming here, after all.’

  Alessandro’s face was harsh in its sincerity. ‘I pro
mise you, I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘You might not mean to,’ Meghan muttered.

  His face blanked for a second, and he inclined his head in silent, brutal acknowledgement. Meghan looked down.

  Alessandro leaned forward, rested a hand on her arm. His fingers were gentle, caressing, yet they burned. Made her ache, made her want to know how they would feel on her skin. All over her skin.

  Meghan stared at his hand, the clean strength of it on her own pale fingers, as he murmured, ‘Stay, Meghan. Spend the night— alone—and we can have the day tomorrow. To enjoy. Be tourists, if you like.’

  ‘And see what happens?’

  ‘Why must you think of the future? Let us just enjoy each other’s company. It brings me pleasure to be with you, to look at you. Do you not feel the same?’

  His voice was a caress, and Meghan found herself nodding, helpless. ‘Yes …’

  ‘Then let us enjoy it,’ Alessandro said simply. ‘Enjoy each other. And leave it at that.’ He removed his hand, and Meghan felt bereft. Stupid to want his touch. Foolish to crave it when she knew it could only lead to hurt. Pain and shame.

  ‘And then I leave,’ she stipulated.

  Alessandro shrugged. ‘If that is your desire.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Very well.’ He gazed at her, one hand curled around the stem of his wine glass, his eyes glittering.

  ‘I’ll sleep in the spare bedroom,’ she said after a moment. He smiled and nodded.

  ‘You know where it is? I can show you, if you like.’

  ‘N-no,’ she stammered. ‘That’s not necessary.’

  He chuckled, enjoying her discomfiture. ‘As you wish.’

  Meghan lifted her chin. ‘And I’ll lock the door,’ she added with her last mustered spirit, and for a moment Alessandro looked almost hurt.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said quietly.

  The lights had been dimmed in her bedroom, the covers turned back. Meghan saw that a hot water bottle had been thoughtfully placed between the smooth cotton sheets and a nightgown—also cotton, and surprisingly modest—had been laid out on a chair.