The Innocent's One-Night Surrender
Autorzy
Kate Hewitt
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16,0K
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18
Chapter One
LAUREL FORRESTER BURST from the hotel room like a bullet from a gun, aiming for the lift down the hall. Her breath came in tearing gasps and she stumbled in the heels she wasn’t used to wearing—stupid, sky-high stilettos her mother had insisted on.
She heard the sound of the door to the executive suite being wrenched open behind her and then heavy footfalls.
‘Come back here, you stupid little—’
With a mewling gasp of terror, Laurel put on a burst of speed, racing around the corner. The gleaming black doors of the lift shimmered ahead of her, a promise of freedom.
‘Wait until I...’
She closed her mind to Rico Bavasso’s threats and stabbed the button for the lift with a shaking finger. Please, please open. Save me...
Bavasso came round the corner, moving swiftly for a man pushing sixty. Laurel risked a glance back and then wished she hadn’t. Three diagonal cuts slashed one of his lean cheeks, where she’d scratched him, blood oozing down his face in crimson, pearly droplets.
Please, please open. If the lift doors didn’t open, she didn’t know what she’d do. Fight for her safety, for her life. Go down kicking and screaming, because go down she would. Bavasso might be older but he was big, strong and angry, and she was five-foot-four and just a little over a hundred pounds soaking wet.
With a glorious ping the doors opened and Laurel threw herself inside, bruising her shoulder against the far wall before she scrambled upright. She pushed just about every button she could, anything to get her away from the hell that had erupted with Bavasso’s demands and grabs, his insistence that he would get what he’d paid for. What her mother had promised him.
Bile rose in Laurel’s throat at that memory and she choked it down. She didn’t have the luxury of memories or even thoughts in this moment. This was about basic survival. She pushed the ‘door close’ button repeatedly as Bavasso stumbled towards the lift, a smile of triumph curving his cold mouth, his glowering face thrust forward. His bow tie was askew, his tuxedo shirt straining against the buttons as he reached one hand forward to keep the doors from closing. Laurel shrank back against the lift wall, her heart beating in her chest like some wild, winged thing.
‘I’ve got you, you little slut.’
Laurel kicked off one of her wretched stilettos and swung it at Bavasso’s grasping hand. He let out a howl of outrage and yanked it back, his palm impaled by the dagger-sharp heel. The doors closed and then the lift was soaring upwards and Laurel was safe, safe.
She let out a sob of both terror and relief, her senses overwhelmed by what had happened—and what had almost happened, but thankfully hadn’t. Her trembling legs felt weak and watery and she sank onto the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest as shudders wracked her body. That had been so close.
But she wasn’t out of danger yet. She still had to get out of this hotel, out of Rome. Bavasso had her handbag in his hotel room, as well as his security detail waiting down in the foyer. Laurel had seen them when he’d been playing baccarat, standing around like stony-faced gorillas, eyes darting around the casino floor, looking for threats. And now she was one.
What would he do? Over the last two days’ acquaintance he’d been sleek and charming, although admittedly paying her more attention than she’d have liked, considering he was her mother’s latest love interest. He also seemed arrogant and entitled, and she feared he might not let this lie. And what about her mother? Was Elizabeth safe? Would Bavasso turn on her—or had she really been part of it all along, as he’d implied? I’m only taking what your mother promised me.
Surely not? Surely her mother wouldn’t have sold her off like a cow at auction? With another cry Laurel covered her face, the tumult of the evening too much to bear. She should never have agreed to come to Rome, to play a part so she could get what she wanted. And yet she had. She’d weighed it up in her mind and she’d decided it was worth it. One last favour and then she’d finally be free. Except she wasn’t free now. She didn’t feel remotely free.
The doors opened and Laurel lifted her head, shrinking back, half-expecting Bavasso to be there, waiting. But, no; the lift opened directly into what looked like a private suite, twice as elegant and spacious as the one Laurel had just fled.
She scrambled to her feet, pulling on the hem of the short sparkly dress of silver satin that had also been her mother’s choice. Bavasso wants to see a lovely young woman in her prime, not some dowdy wallflower. He’s a discriminating man, Laurel. Now she was afraid she understood all that had meant.
Laurel knew she couldn’t stay in the lift; the doors would close and then the lift would start heading down again, back to Bavasso or his goons, somewhere she definitely didn’t want to be. Cautiously Laurel took a step out, onto a floor of polished black marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows were visible in every direction, giving a panoramic view of the Eternal City, lights shimmering in the darkness.
Modern-looking sofas of black leather and gleaming chrome were scattered around, the soaring space lit only by a few minimalistic table lamps, so it took Laurel a stunned second to realise there was someone in the room with her.
A man stood at its centre dressed in black trousers and a charcoal-grey shirt that was open at the throat. His hair was black and cropped close to his head, his eyes a piercing grey, the same colour as his shirt. His arms were folded, emphasising impressive biceps, and everything about him radiated power. Control. Danger.
Laurel’s breath hitched and she froze where she stood, dawning realisation, relief and fear colliding inside her with an almighty crash. Could it be...?
Then he spoke, a voice like molten silver, pitched low. His tone was both authoritative and sensual, winding around her shattered senses, pulling them tight.
‘Hello, Laurel.’
She gave a little gasp of surprise even though she’d known, deep inside, that it was him. That it had to be him. The awareness she felt of him didn’t make sense, considering they were near strangers, yet she wasn’t surprised by it at all.
‘Cristiano.’ She let out a little laugh of relief; the adrenalin still coursing through her body made her feel shaky and weak. Or maybe he was making her feel shaky and weak, standing there like a rock-solid pillar, arms still folded, face expressionless in the dim light. ‘Thank God.’
He arched one dark slash of an eyebrow, his gaze travelling to her tiny, torn dress. ‘Things get a little out of hand?’
Laurel glanced down at her dress, an embarrassed flush sweeping over her along with all the other overwhelming emotions. The dress was practically indecent, a spangled slip that revealed far too much thigh and cleavage. One of the straps had torn from the bodice, so the dress gaped even more. She wasn’t even wearing a bra, only a tiny scrap of a thong. And, from the hard look in her stepbrother’s eyes, Laurel suspected he knew it—and wasn’t impressed.
She took a deep breath, trying to gather her scattered wits. Her head was spinning from everything that had happened, and her legs still felt weak. She longed to sit down, to breathe, to figure out how she’d got here and what on earth she was going to do next. ‘I didn’t even know you were here.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No, of course not...’ Laurel frowned, belatedly registering Cristiano’s cool tone, the look of mocking censure in his iron gaze. And then she remembered the last time she’d seen him, ten years ago, when she’d been a silly fourteen-year-old to his manly twenty-three, and when she’d practically thrown herself at him as part of a stupid teenaged dare.
‘I don’t even know where I am,’ she said, trying to smile, but her lips didn’t seem to be working properly. They just wobbled.
‘You’re in the penthouse suite of La Sirena. My private home.’
‘Oh.’ So she’d pushed that button? But how had she been granted access? ‘Well, I’m glad the doors opened up here. Very glad.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ There was a note of sardonic amusement in his voice that Laurel felt too scatter-brained to understand at the moment. It sounded as if he was referencing something she was meant to know about and didn’t. Unless he was referring to her stupid schoolgirl crush all those years ago. Laurel doubted that. She doubted her one clumsy attempt at a kiss—he’d pushed her firmly away before she’d so much as made contact—had stayed in Cristiano’s memory for more than a millisecond. He’d been that unimpressed.
‘Do you mind if I clean myself up?’ she asked. ‘I feel...’ Dirty. She felt dirty. But Cristiano didn’t need to know that. He was already looking at her as if he thought she was, a realisation that made heat scorch Laurel’s face once more. She knew she was wearing a slinky, slutty get-up, but did he have any right to judge her? Although, considering her actions tonight, perhaps he did.
‘Be my guest.’ Cristiano gestured towards a corridor that led to the suite’s bedrooms. ‘You’ll find everything you need in one of the bathrooms.’
‘Thank you,’ Laurel answered, her tone turning a bit haughty to cover her confusion—and her guilt. If she could have picked the circumstances in which she ever saw her stepbrother again, these would not have been them. Not by a million awful miles.
Was it just the way she was dressed or was there another reason he was being so cold? Not that they’d ever had much of a relationship, or one at all. Her mother had been married to his father for three years, but in that time Laurel had only met Cristiano twice. Once after the wedding, when he’d had a blazing argument with his father, Lorenzo Ferrero, and then stormed out. And the second time when he’d come home for some reason and she’d attempted, in pathetic, girlish naivety, to impress him.
Six months later Lorenzo had divorced Elizabeth and Laurel and her mother had high-tailed it back to Illinois, with nothing but a pocketful of jewellery to fund Elizabeth’s often exorbitant lifestyle. Ferrero had had a water-tight pre-nup, and her mother did like to spend money...
Cristiano was still staring at her, arms folded, the emotion in his silver eyes fathomless. What had she expected him to say? Do? He’d never expressed any familial concern or even interest in her before.
She was a stranger to him, or near enough to it, just as he was to her—or should be, except for the fact that out of idle curiosity—or perhaps, shamefully, something a little deeper than that—she’d followed his exploits on social media and scanned the many tabloid articles about his playboy lifestyle. She’d always been fascinated by this man who had loomed on the periphery of her life, dark and powerful, when she’d been an innocent teenaged girl emerging shyly from her chrysalis of gawkiness into uncertain womanhood.
It truly stunned her that she was in his penthouse now, although she supposed, if she stopped long enough to think rationally about it, she shouldn’t have been that surprised. She’d known the hotel where they’d met Bavasso was owned by Cristiano. She just hadn’t expected actually to see him.
Cristiano’s mouth curved in a smile that held neither humour nor warmth. His eyes glittered like burnished mirrors, reflecting nothing. ‘You said you wanted to clean yourself up?’ he prompted.
‘Yes.’ Laurel realised she was staring but it was hard not to stare at a man who was so starkly beautiful, so arrogantly attractive. The silk of his shirt clung to his well-defined pectoral muscles and the narrow trousers emphasised lean hips and powerful thighs. But beyond the impressive musculature of his body was the aura he possessed, the lethal authority and latent sexuality he emanated from every perfect pore—and that was what made Laurel stare. And not just stare, but imagine, shadowy, vague thoughts and images that danced through her mind, awakening longings that been dormant for her whole life. Thankfully they remained shadowy, falling back and leaving a streak of restless heat in their wake.
Staring at him now, taking in the arrogant tilt of his head, the dark, winged eyebrows, the sculpted mouth formed into a hard, hard line—he looked just the same as he had ten years ago. Perhaps he was a bit more muscular now, a bit more powerful. He’d made his own millions in the last decade, she knew, in property, casinos and hotels, at the highest end of the market.
He’d also, according to the tabloids, had dozens and dozens of mistresses—Hollywood actresses and European supermodels who graced his arm like the most expensive accessories, and, if the papers were to be believed—and Laurel suspected they were—were discarded after a matter of days.
It seemed incredible to her that she’d actually tried, in a clumsy, desperate way, to make him like her gawky teenaged self. The realisation made her cringe even now—especially now—yet surely Cristiano didn’t remember that? He’d swatted her away like a fly.
Just the memory made flustered confusion sweep through her and quickly she turned away, afraid that Cristiano would see her uncertainty. He’d seen too much already, starting with this skimpy dress.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled again and then, not wanting to prolong her agony, she hurried down the hall.
* * *
Cristiano watched Laurel scurry down the hall like a frightened rabbit. A sexy frightened rabbit, wearing far too little clothing for his comfort, and only one shoe. He turned away, his jaw tightening, the flare of sexual attraction arrowing through him annoying him further. He hadn’t expected to feel it quite so strongly, especially now that he knew what she was like.
When he’d seen Laurel Forrester swan into La Sirena this evening, dressed like a hooker and on the arm of a man who made his skin crawl, he’d felt shock slice through him. It was ten years since he’d last seen her; she looked a whole lot more grown up now, yet he’d recognised her. Instantly.
That second of stunned amazement had morphed into a deep, sick disappointment that settled in his gut, a leaden weight that was absurd, because if he’d had to think about it for a second he’d have known Laurel would be just like her mother—a craven, amoral gold-digger playing for her best chance. She’d shown her true colours at just fourteen years old, after all, and heaven knew the apple didn’t usually fall far from the tree.
Which was why he had been so determined to cut off all his ties with his own father. The last thing he wanted to do was make the mistakes Lorenzo Ferrero had, chasing after some ridiculous and ever-elusive happily-ever-after and becoming increasingly more desperate to find it. Letting himself be used, hurt and humiliated, and for what? An amorphous emotion that didn’t really exist, or at least shouldn’t. Love.
Cristiano strolled towards the window, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets as he mused on what lay in store for Laurel...and for him. He’d watched her on the casino floor, draped on Bavasso’s arm, her attempts at flirting cringingly over the top and obvious. She might be many things but what she definitely wasn’t was a good actress.
Bavasso, of course, had lapped it up and demanded more. A lot more, apparently, because after Cristiano had left the floor he’d stayed by the bank of security cameras in his flat, watching her, waiting—but for what? He was acting obsessed, which was stupid, but he hadn’t been able to keep himself from doing it.
He’d told himself it was because of their past—because he knew her mother was a thief and he had no intention of letting her fleece any of his customers, even one as unpleasant as Rico Bavasso. He’d told himself that, but he didn’t completely buy it.
Then everything in him had frozen and clenched hard when he’d seen her leave the casino floor, Bavasso holding her hand, practically dragging her towards the lifts. But she’d gone. She’d been smiling. For some reason that smile had reached a vulnerable place he hated the thought of even possessing.
Cristiano didn’t know what had happened upstairs in the hotel suite but he could guess all too easily. Still he’d stayed by the cameras, which was why he’d seen her running for the lifts, as if the hounds of hell were chasing her—or just one lascivious one. Whatever game she was playing, she’d decided not to see it to the finish. And, while Cristiano certainly believed in a woman’s right to say no whenever she chose to, it didn’t change his opinion of Laurel Forrester one iota.
On the cameras he’d watched her hit all the buttons, including the one for the penthouse. The lift doors to the penthouse were always locked, but with one flip of a switch Cristiano had sent Laurel straight up to him.
And now here she was.
The only question that remained was, what was he going to do with her?
He narrowed his gaze as he looked out of the window, the Colosseum lit up at night, a beacon to the city. He’d brought Laurel up here because she’d needed rescuing and he was a man of honour.
But honour only extended so far. And now, with the lift doors locked again, the only person Laurel needed rescuing from was him.
