The Tycoon's Secret Baby Page 8

  “Lie down.”

  She would do anything he asked of her. She climbed up onto the bed but he made a noise as she went to lie on her stomach.

  “No, no. Turn over. I want to watch you.”

  She flipped onto her back and saw the triumph in his face. She saw something else there too. Something like arrogant mastery that she knew she should object to but couldn’t.

  “Do you really think you have any right to ask me about the other women in my life?” He demanded, striking a finger inside of her as he asked the question, so that only part of her brain was functioning. The rest of her was a live-wire, reverberating at his command.

  “Well, I am marrying you,” she pointed out, groaning as he added a second finger and swirled over her still-tormented cluster of nerves.

  Something like a smile ghosted on his features.

  “You melt when I touch you.” He brought his mouth down to hers, kissing her hard, and she groaned into the kiss, lifting her hands to curl around his neck. But he instantly pulled away, his eyes clashing with hers.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “What?” Confusion was a fog surrounding her. “What do you mean?”

  “We are not making love. I am … pleasing you. This is different.”

  Grace felt the distinction and the pain was severe. “Why can’t we do both?”

  “Because we are not a couple. We’re using each other, remember?”

  “I’m not using you.”

  “Of course you are. You’re using me to be in Ben’s life. I understand that.”

  He removed his fingers and trailed them down her leg, to her knee. Then, he lifted her dress fully, pushing it up, over her head and then off the bed. She heard it rustle to the floor.

  “Was it like this with him?” He pushed the cups of her bra down, then brought his mouth to her naked breasts, his stubble was hard on her smooth flesh and his mouth was warm and moist. She made a keening noise.

  “Did he make love to you with my child inside of you?” The question was accompanied by another thrust of possession. This time, his arousal moved inside of her and she arched her back, her body thick with lust.

  She shook her head and called out Marco’s name, and once more her hands lifted to his chest but he growled and caught them in one of his larger hands, pinning them above her head.

  “Don’t. Touch.”

  She bit down on her lip, need raging inside of her. “I want …”

  “You want to feel this, and I’m going to let you.”

  To let you.

  The primal sense of ownership wasn’t something she enjoyed, but her body responded as though separate to her brain.

  “But first I want you to beg.”

  She froze, her eyes jarring to his.

  “To … beg?”

  “I want you to tell me no one’s ever made you feel like I do.”

  “I…”

  “I want you to tell me that every time he touched you, you wished it was me.”

  “Marco…” A whimper. A sound of pain. A lashing of her heart.

  “I want you to tell me you want me. That you need me. And then I want you to beg and plead.”

  “No,” she groaned, her brow fevered, her heart racing.

  He pulled out of her then, but dragged his mouth to her nipples once more, flicking them with his tongue. The desertion was an ache that spread like wildfire through her tense body. She was wound tighter than a spring, poised to burst, and only he held the key to move her. To release her. The ache was, perhaps, strongest of all in her throat, where unshed tears caught and pricked at her flesh.

  His eyes held hers, mocking and somehow desperate. She understood.

  “Please,” she whispered, from gritted teeth.

  The word was a poisoned chalice – to both of them, but in that moment, he took it; she gave it. “Please. Please.”

  “Tell me you need me.” A graveled plea. However much she needed him, he needed to hear that more. Her heart understood.

  “I need you.”

  He rewarded her by moving to her core once more, thrusting deep inside and she released a primal scream of deliverance. She tried to lift her arms but he held them where they were. She was his prisoner in every way. And she didn’t care.

  “Tell me you want this.”

  Yes, she understood his need. But rebellion was still alive in her, even as her body recognized his total control over her. She pushed up as far as she was able and kissed him then. “Shut up.” The words were a plea, though; she was still begging. “Shut up.”

  His laugh was thick and hoarse. He swore in his own tongue and kissed her back, hard, pushing her head to the bed as he moved into her.

  Warm tears glided down her cheeks, splashing onto the bed linen. She didn’t check them; she barely even noticed them.

  “I hate that I want you,” he said, and she knew that was true. She understood. He hated her, didn’t he? He’d said as much.

  Grief was deep inside of her, a weed she couldn’t trim. But pleasure almost drowned it out. Her breathing was rushed, her voice cracking as again and again she begged him for more. For more.

  He knew what she wanted, though. He knew her body better than she did herself.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” She groaned as finally, finally waves began to build inside of her that promised sweet, sweet fulfillment.

  “You did it to me first,” he responded, and he let her hands go then, bracing himself on either side of her head and kissing her. “You did it to me.”

  She didn’t understand what he meant, but she had no power left to interpret it. She was his slave; his prisoner. He moved as she needed, as she’d always needed, and she shattered apart, her sanity and her self broken beyond repair by the power he wielded over her.

  He pushed up on his hands, watching her, his own breath torn from his body as he stared at her in the throes of passion. She went to cover her face but he shook his head. “No.” His hands caught hers and pinned them to either side, spread-eagling her arms. “No. I want to see what I make you feel.”

  Even the words added extra fuel to the eroticism of that moment. She was burning up and he was both her salvation and her flame. She ground her hips and he echoed the movement. She shook from head to toe as the orgasm split her in two.

  Only he wasn’t done. Even as the wave was breaking around her, he moved, and he caught her ankles now, lifting her legs over his shoulders so that she was practically folded in two. He was deeper and the pleasure was almost an exquisite form of pain. Her body was already too sensitive and the touch was a form of torture. Blissful torture.

  “I want you like this,” he growled. “Every day. Every night. Whenever I want. Tell me yes.”

  “I don’t understand.” She gripped the bed on either side of her as the mother of all orgasms began to domino around her.

  And he pulled out again, right as she was about to burst apart, so that her body was instantly bereft and her cry was loud and animalistic, a savage plea for him to return. “Don’t you dare stop,” she latched her ankles behind his neck, and dragged his body down to hers. “Don’t you dare stop.”

  “Then tell me I can have you whenever I want. Tell me you are mine. Tell me you’ll do what I want.”

  A shiver of something like warning ran through her. She ignored it. She nodded instead. “I want this. I want you.”

  “I want to make you need me.” He pulled her lower lip into his mouth and massaged it with his teeth. “I want to make you exist purely for this.”

  Her heart squeezed shut. She was walking an awful tightrope. Lions on one side, snakes the other, and there was no end in sight. But she nodded again. “Please.”

  “I loved you, you know.”

  The words were odd. Strange. Completely wrong.

  “And you married him.” His eyes were cold when his body was hot. He thrust into her, his meaning clear, the words unspoken yet they hung between them.

  And I’ll make you pay.
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br />   CHAPTER SEVEN

  HE’D GONE TOO FAR. About a thousand miles too far. Hell, he’d gone so far he’d moved into the next galaxy.

  Marco studied her from between shuttered eyes, watching her performance. She was doing everything right. Talking, nodding, smiling, but she was obviously distracted. Or perhaps it was only obvious to him, because he knew her well, but her mind was elsewhere.

  Could he blame her?

  He’d eviscerated her pride. He’d made her tremble and beg. He’d owned her. Worse, he’d threatened her.

  Where the hell had that come from? The barbarism was as new to him as it had been unexpected to her. But as he’d said the words, uttered the threat, he knew it to be truly how he felt. He was furious with her for leaving him. And he wanted her to feel that pain even as he accepted that made him a perfect bastard.

  She laughed at something his mother said. Her laugh was beautiful. Sweet and melodious. He’d forgotten that.

  How long since he’d heard her laugh? That night in Rome?

  His mind stretched back to the perfection of their coming together. For months he’d watched her and wanted her, needing her, resisting the impulse because she was an intern in his organization and he owed her more than that.

  Right up until her last day when she’d come to him and begged for help and every ounce of willpower had disappeared when faced with Grace turning to him.

  So what? He’d decided this was the way forward? He shifted a little in his chair, remembering the way she’d been in his bed.

  So beautiful. So perfect. Perfect for him in every way. Right down to the way she’d needed him so badly she’d given in. And he’d seen what it had cost her. The slumping of her shoulders, the withering of her soul. He’d humiliated her and tormented her, using her irrepressible desire against her, and he deserved nothing more than her hatred.

  “You can’t stop staring at her.” Claudia murmured softly, her eyes trained on him when he turned his face slightly, acknowledging his sister with a smile.

  “She’s my fiancé. I’m allowed to stare.”

  Across the table, Claudia’s husband Will lifted a hand and Ben high-fived it excitedly, earning laughs from Rosa, Grace and Will, and a smile from Marco.

  “So you’ve forgiven her?”

  Marco’s eyes narrowed and Claudia rolled her eyes. “Will’s my husband. You think he doesn’t tell me stuff?”

  Marco didn’t react, but his mind was rushing through the past two years, trying to recollect exactly what he’d revealed to Will, and when. Shards of memory pieced together an unsatisfying picture, a composite of events that made little sense. Will had been there at the time though. It hadn’t been necessary for Marco to reveal how he felt. Will had seen the obsession take hold. The way Marco had lost any interest in sleeping with other women from the moment Grace had arrived in Italy all tousled blonde hair and bouncy American smile. The way he’d tried to resist her and finally succumbed, only to have her leave again.

  The way he’d drunk himself into a three-day-stupor after meeting the man Grace intended to marry. And had done so again when he’d heard they’d actually married.

  The way he’d been half a man ever since.

  And now this.

  Ben.

  As if Will heard Marco’s thoughts, he shifted his attention. Their eyes locked and Will sobered. He understood. Marco’s pain was unique, but Will was like a brother to Marco. They’d been friends a long time, and now they were family.

  “How can you marry her?” Claudia pushed, speaking in their language, low and soft. “She betrayed you. She kept you from Ben…”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” he said.

  “Nonsense. It is not complicated. She hurt you. She kept you from your son. And now you are marrying her.”

  “What else can I do?” He asked pointedly. “She’s the mother of my child.”

  “Take the child. Screw her.”

  Marco’s brows lifted as he took the literal definition of her suggestion and thought how apt it was. He had screwed her. And he intended to do so again. But that wasn’t what his sister meant.

  “She is going to be my wife. Mind how you speak of her, Claudia.”

  “I’ll never accept her,” Claudia threatened ominously. “Not knowing what she’s put you through.”

  “Basta. Enough. Leave it alone.”

  “But…”

  “No.” He lifted his wine glass and his eyes slashed Claudia’s warningly. “Leave it.”

  Her sigh was a flamboyant demonstration of displeasure. “You’re my brother…”

  “And she’s my fiancé.” He reached a hand out, placing his fingers on Claudia’s reassuringly. “I’m a big boy. I can handle this.”

  She sent him a dark scowl then shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

  Grace didn’t catch any of the conversation but she didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know she’d been the subject of it. And that the mental daggers Marco’s sister had been spearing Grace with all night were never going to abate.

  Okay, so Claudia clearly didn’t approve.

  And could Grace blame her? The marriage was madness. The situation was impossible to explain away.

  The more Grace let her wrongdoing unfold, the more desperate she became. The more shocked at the decisions she’d made. Why hadn’t she fought to tell Marco the truth? Why had she thought depriving him of being a father made any kind of sense?

  Because you were scared, a small part of her still capable of remembering that time clearly asserted. You were scared of loving him; of having him hurt you.

  And he was hurting her.

  I want to make you exist purely for this.

  A frisson of warning danced between her shoulder blades and she shifted a little, trying to dislodge it. But it sat there stubbornly, as if to remind her that the danger wouldn’t be easy to evade.

  Had he really believed himself in love with her? She looked back on that time, trying to make his assertion fit. And no matter how she bent her memories of their time together, it didn’t work. Because Marco Dettori wasn’t the kind of man to let someone he wanted slip through his fingers. At best, he’d lusted after her, as she had him.

  Then again, Grace had fallen hard for Marco, so why was it so impossible to believe the opposite was true?

  Because it didn’t fit. It just didn’t fit.

  “Mama. Mama.” She shrugged her attention back to Ben, a smile on her face as she looked down at him. “More.”

  “Will he learn Italian?” Rosa asked kindly, unable to peel her gaze off the little boy.

  “Of course he will, mama. This is his home now.” Claudia’s words were laced with acid and Grace was hit with the certainty that she didn’t relish the idea of being the glamorous Italian’s enemy.

  “Children are so intelligent,” Grace murmured softly. “I imagine he’ll learn it by osmosis, the more he hears, the better he’ll get.”

  “And do you speak Italian at home, then?” Claudia persisted. Her smile was as thin as ice; a veneer that fooled no one, except perhaps Rosa who was too besotted with Ben to notice anything other than the dimples in his cheeks.

  Grace was tempted to point out that she and Marco didn’t generally speak at all back at the villa. She looked towards him, bemusement on her features, and she knew he was thinking exactly the same thing.

  “We’re letting him adjust to his new surroundings gradually,” Marco said. “He doesn’t need to be confused by hearing our language. Yet.”

  “You think our language is confusing?” Claudia disputed. “Come on, Marco. He’s Italian. It’s in his blood.”

  “And it will still be in his blood in six months,” Marco responded shortly, effectively concluding the conversation by standing. “Will? Join me in the garden.”

  Grace watched the two men disappear with a sinking heart. Alone with Rosa and Claudia, and only little Ben as a familiar ally, she felt her morale sinking.

  Rosa, though, made conversation e
asily, chattering to Ben, remarking on his physique, his strength, the intelligence he obviously possessed by the way he pointed towards the salt and pepper grinders so intently. But when his eyes grew heavy and he began to rub them, Grace couldn’t stand up fast enough.

  “I’m going to get this little guy in bed,” she said.

  “Oh!” Rosa’s disappointment was obvious. “So soon?”

  “It’s late for him,” she apologized. “But, if it’s any consolation, he’ll be up early.”

  Rosa grinned. “And I will be waiting for him with nonna hugs.”

  Grace smiled, but her heart was flooded by that immovable guilt. What she’d kept from these people, from all of them, was almost too hard to believe.

  She should never have married Steve. She should never have kept Ben in America, and Marco in the dark.

  But she couldn’t turn back time; it wasn’t possible, no matter how much she wished it. She could only try to repair things now. And she had only a tiny idea of where to begin.

  *

  “Your sister hates me.” Grace said the words without emotion, her eyes locked to Marco’s in the mirror as she rubbed face cream into her cheeks then spread the residual over her hands.

  “She hates what you did,” he confirmed after moment, his own conversation with Will playing heavily on his mind. He hadn’t even known Claudia and Will had been trying to conceive. But that they’d been struggling for over two years, and had consulted fertility experts only to be told it was basically impossible? His lips tugged downwards at the idea.

  It made Ben somehow all the more precious, and yet he could well appreciate the tangle of emotions the little boy’s arrival must have wrought for his sister.

  Grace expelled a soft sigh, her resolve straining in her chest. She placed the small tube of moisturizer onto the counter of the dressing table and stood, her silk nightgown falling to her feet. Marco’s eyes dropping instinctively to the two pert nipples visible through the soft fabric and Grace almost lost her train of thought. But she needed to speak to him before she was distracted from her purpose.

  “I need to talk to you.”