The Flaw in Raffaele's Revenge (Harlequin Presents) Page 5

  ‘You think not?’ Her voice worked after all.

  What she’d give for an interruption! These days other members of staff were in and out of her office regularly. To her surprise, after their initial shock they’d accepted her as one of the team—so different from her other work experiences. Maybe because she’d been so focused on this project she hadn’t had the leisure to stress about their reactions?

  Yet a frantic glance through the glass walls told her they were alone. Everyone had gone home long ago.

  ‘I know not.’ He straightened and, to her alarm, stepped into her office.

  ‘You’re a mind-reader now too?’ The words blurted out.

  ‘In addition to what?’ He stopped a couple of paces from her desk, sucking all the oxygen out of her office. ‘No, don’t tell me. I’ll enjoy the challenge of working it out.’

  Lily sat back, letting her hands drop to her lap. His words were light, as if he viewed their interactions as some sort of game.

  Well, she wasn’t playing.

  Especially since his light tone didn’t match that assessing scrutiny.

  ‘How do you know I’m not trying to impress you with my diligence?’ Better to stick to concrete issues than try to guess what was going on in that brilliant, convoluted mind.

  He shrugged, the fluid movement innately Italian.

  ‘You never look to me for approval. You don’t hang about my office asking questions or showing off your success with what you’ve unearthed about Bradshaw.’

  Lily’s mouth twitched, a smile hovering at the implication he’d been impressed. But she was too much on edge to allow her lips to curve up. If she let down her guard with this man, she sensed she might never be able to resurrect it.

  No matter how charming he could be, Raffaele Petri was dangerous. He’d forced her here. He’d unleashed a sexual awareness in her that terrified her. Every day and every night he’d loomed in her thoughts, a forbidden temptation when she should have been focusing on work or sleep or anything but mortifyingly sensual imaginings.

  ‘You see the end results anyway.’ Carefully she laced her fingers together as if relaxed. ‘What would be the point of hanging around your office showing off every little success?’

  Those sculpted lips stretched in a smile that tugged a sexy crease down one tanned cheek.

  Heat drilled from Lily’s lungs to her belly, cramping her abdominal muscles and stirring sexual arousal, instant and unmistakable.

  That was why she needed to be vigilant. Raffaele Petri didn’t just have the power to make or break her. He made her crave things that were impossible.

  ‘You’re paying for the best.’ It had taken her a long time to develop self-confidence about her work and she refused to play coy about something that meant so much. ‘I’m not so needy I require a pat on the head every time I do well.’

  If she’d aimed to deflect his attention she’d erred. Instead of backing off, he surveyed her through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Sometimes it’s not about a pat on the head,’ he murmured. ‘Sometimes people just want my attention.’

  Lily looked up into that bright, deliberate gaze, sifting his words.

  Seeking attention.

  From him.

  Why? As soon as she asked the question she had the answer. Because they were attracted to him. Because they wanted him to notice them, respond to them. Just as a tiny, unstoppable part of her had fantasised he might—

  She moved so abruptly her chair slid back from the desk, rolling till it crashed into the wall.

  Lily found herself standing, her stomach churning so hard she tasted bile. He’d touched too close to her own secret desires and made them seem all the more pathetic. As if he suspected the attraction she couldn’t quell.

  Her right hand lifted in that old, compulsive gesture she’d taken years to vanquish. At the last moment, just before her fingers reached her scarred face, she remembered, forcing it back down, planting both palms on her desk. Her hands were damp against the wood, her throat jammed with distress.

  It wasn’t just that Raffaele Petri would never find her attractive. No man would.

  She was experienced enough to accept that, after several painful experiences where she’d tentatively reached out to a man and had to endure horrified, embarrassed rejection. Yet some foolish part of her still fantasised.

  It wasn’t him she was angry with, but herself.

  ‘You mean they want you to notice them because they’re attracted to you?’ Her voice was raw, stretched tight.

  ‘It’s been known to happen.’ Again that fluid shrug, but she was beyond noticing how appealing it was. She was too caught up with the burn of shame and self-consciousness.

  ‘You’re annoyed I haven’t fallen over myself to get your attention?’ She almost choked on the words. Pride was her only lifeline and she clung to it tenaciously. ‘You do realise there are some people who aren’t bowled over by your beauty, Signor Petri?’ Her tone made it clear she was one of them.

  If only that were true! Daily exposure to Raffaele Petri had done nothing to inoculate her against his golden good looks. Instead it had given her a respect for his incisive decision-making and his ability to get the best out of his team. She’d discerned fairness and even a self-deprecating humour she found far too appealing.

  The sound of laughter sliced her thoughts. Rich and warm, it encircled her like a caress. There was nothing calculated about it, or about his expression, and Lily had the impression that for a moment she saw Raffaele Petri as few did. For, despite his approachability to his staff, he usually exuded a sense of being utterly self-contained.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Lily.’ Her pulse gave a throb of pleasure at the sound of her name in that deep, lush voice. ‘And an antidote to my overblown ego. Not everyone finds me attractive. It’s good to know you’re one of them. It makes working together much simpler.’

  Lily breathed out slowly. Had she really fooled him? Maybe all those years masking her feelings and learning not to show vulnerability had stood her in good stead.

  ‘What is it you want from me?’ He hadn’t singled her out again since her first day in the office, yet she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling he noticed her almost as much as she did him. That he was aware of her, even when his attention was on something else. Not that he was attracted to her, of course, just assessing.

  ‘Honestly?’ Eyes of searing blue met hers and heat feathered her skin. ‘I find you...interesting. Different.’

  She snorted. This time she didn’t stop her hand as it rose to her face. But, instead of touching scarred flesh, she deliberately pushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear, revealing the whole marred side of her face.

  Her chin angled higher as her gaze challenged his, defiant. ‘Oh, I’m definitely different.’

  ‘You think I’m talking about looks?’ His eyebrows flattened in something close to a scowl.

  It was her turn to shrug stiff shoulders. The movement had none of his beautiful fluidity. ‘What else?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ For a moment he looked almost perplexed. ‘But it’s got nothing to do with the way you look.’

  Lily didn’t know whether to be relieved or ridiculously hurt.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because I don’t beat a path to your door.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘If you had your way we’d be a hemisphere apart.’

  Lily crossed her arms, projecting an ease she didn’t feel. ‘You’re too used to people chasing you.’

  ‘You think this is about ego?’ He paused as if considering. ‘Perhaps. But it’s more too. I like the lateral way you think. The combination of solid, thorough research and inspired leaps of imagination. I saw it in your report on the Tahitian project and the ones since.’

  Lily felt her strain ease, her muscles loosening. Professional accolades she’d accept gratefully. It was when they veered off work that discomfort grabbed her.

  ‘I like that you’re not afraid to voice y
our opinions.’

  ‘I don’t see any yes-men on your team.’

  ‘Ah, but you take your independence to a fascinating new level. It’s obviously a point of honour.’

  ‘There’s nothing special about me, Signor Petri. I’m merely a professional, used to being self-employed rather than having a boss.’

  For too long he regarded her with that steady gaze she suspected saw too much.

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ He lifted his hands, closing the collar of his formal shirt then deftly tying the black satin bow tie.

  Lily watched, fascinated to realise such a process could be so enthralling. Not just the fact he managed a bow tie with impressive ease and without a mirror, but that the action should be almost...arousing.

  ‘Lily?’

  She blinked. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I asked if it’s straight.’

  ‘Almost, just at a slight angle.’

  ‘This way?’ He twitched the black silk and she shook her head. ‘Well?’ An expressive eyebrow lifted. ‘Can you help?’

  She looked at the tie, askew against snowy linen and golden flesh, and felt something drop in her belly. She didn’t want to touch Raffaele Petri. She didn’t want to go near him.

  But refusing wasn’t an option. Briskly she stepped around the desk. She was close enough to inhale his signature scent of rich spices and warm male skin. That warmth enveloped her as she reached out and twitched his bow tie into place.

  ‘There.’ She kept her gaze fixed below his chin, ignoring her wobbly knees and the curious hollow sensation in her chest as if someone had scooped out all the air. ‘Enjoy your evening out.’ Then she turned back to her seat and her work.

  * * *

  It was only eleven-thirty when Raffa got home. Tonight’s function had been more cloying than usual. His companion had pretended there was more to their night out than the mutual convenience of being seen with a suitable partner.

  He strode through the living room, not bothering with lights. Moonlight streaming in made it easy to see the single bottle on the bar. Moments later he tossed back a mouthful of grappa, its heat punching through his impatience.

  He was sick of the posturing and pretence, being part of the same well-heeled crew trying so hard to enjoy themselves. But he’d hoped to see Robert Bradshaw so he’d forced himself, pretending he gave a damn for ‘society.’

  Since he’d identified the man responsible for Gabriella’s death he itched to bring him down. He had no hope of proving Bradshaw’s guilt in court after all this time, but he’d see the man who’d seduced and discarded his sister utterly ruined.

  But Bradshaw hadn’t been there, probably nervous about facing so many creditors. Given the information Lily had unearthed, Raffa suspected he’d gone to ground on his private island, the one his family had owned since they’d traded in slaves and sugar. His homes in London and Cannes had been sold to pay debts and the New York apartment was next. No doubt he was licking his wounds, scheming how to recoup the fortune he’d inherited and squandered.

  Raffa’s fingers tightened on his glass as anticipation rose. It was time to take the game to Bradshaw. The decision lightened Raffa’s mood. He’d grind Bradshaw into the dirt and enjoy every moment.

  Discarding tie, shoes and socks, then yanking the top buttons of his shirt undone, he slid open the door to his roof terrace and stepped out. Raffa turned his face to the light breeze and stalled mid-step.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Someone sat on a sun lounger by the pool. Someone staring not at the garden, or the Manhattan view, but the glowing screen of a laptop.

  What was she doing here?

  It had to be Lily Nolan. No one could get past security to his private space, except the woman in his guest suite. The woman who drew the curtains as soon as she got in each night to shut herself off. He’d wondered if she was agoraphobic. That might have explained her reluctance to come to New York. But here she was, with the city laid out before her, relaxed as if her eyrie position didn’t bother her in the least.

  So it wasn’t the view she’d been shutting out, but him—her only neighbour on the penthouse level.

  Intriguing.

  A now familiar trickle of heat spilled through his veins. A sensation he felt whenever Lily Nolan interrupted his thoughts. He still hadn’t found a name for it. Not arousal or excitement. Nor mere curiosity. More a charged awareness, as if he waited for...

  Raffa shook his head. He wasn’t waiting for anything from Ms Nolan, except another report, this time detailing Bradshaw’s Caribbean island resort built around an old plantation estate.

  She didn’t hear him approach—was too absorbed in what she was doing. Surely not work at this time?

  What he saw fascinated him. For the first time she didn’t wear loose trousers and a shirt buttoned to the throat. Her feet and legs were bare. His gaze travelled along lissom thighs and shapely calves as she sat with legs bent to support her laptop. Her arms and shoulders were bare too and free of scar tissue.

  He’d wondered if she carried more scars under her long sleeves and trousers. The thump of his pulse felt like relief that her injuries weren’t worse.

  Her swathe of long hair was tucked back. She wore a tank top and shorts and looked potently alluring.

  Every woman he met projected an image—sophisticated, provocative, flirtatious, or brisk and professional. Raffa halted, enjoying the silvery light on her naked limbs, relishing the tantalising charm of a sexy woman who wasn’t deliberately projecting anything.

  Raffa felt a sharp, unmistakable tug of response low in his groin.

  It was almost eclipsed by the quake of shock that ripped through him an instant later, making his eyes widen and his belly clench.

  How long since he’d felt sexual arousal?

  It seemed a lifetime since the thought of sex made him feel anything but impatient or...tainted. For all its transient pleasure, and Raffa had known plenty of that, sex was a transaction, intimacy a calculated risk.

  He frowned, his gaze stuck on Lily Nolan and the innocent simplicity of her sex appeal.

  Even when he was young there’d never been anything innocent about sex. Simple, yes. But never innocent.

  His gaze swept from her hair, dark in the moonlight, to her marred cheek, delicate throat and long limbs. The tug of awareness sharpened to coiling, gut-grabbing tension.

  He’d thought he didn’t give a damn what Lily Nolan looked like. He’d been wrong.

  It was true her scar meant nothing to him. What difference could that make when even the most glamorous beauty failed to stir him? Yet the sight of Lily’s supple bare limbs, her ripe breasts and delicate collarbone...

  But it wasn’t merely that she had a sexy body. He’d seen more than his share of those.

  His response was as much to do with the fact that this was Lily Nolan. The woman who’d defied, intrigued and surprised him for six weeks. Even before that, when they’d spoken on the phone, there’d been something, a fizz of energy in his veins that made him feel different—more alive. More real.

  Raffa’s frown became a scowl. He didn’t do flights of fancy or self-doubt.

  Yet he’d always been honest with himself. It had been the only way to keep his head on the tumultuous ride from poverty to success, from obscurity to being one of the most recognisable men on the planet.

  Which was why he accepted that it was, remarkably, desire weighting his lower body, sexual interest spiking for the first time in years. More important—it wasn’t a reaction merely to an appealing body but specifically to Lily Nolan.

  He drew a sharp breath as heat stabbed, keen as a blade.

  She must have heard his indrawn breath, swinging her head around and stiffening, hands grabbing the computer.

  ‘You!’

  Raffa’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘Don’t sound so pleased to see me.’

  Lily Nolan was guaranteed to keep him grounded. Far from falling at his feet, she viewed him as a necessary encumbrance.


  If he believed in good triumphing over evil, in redemption, he’d be tempted to think she’d come into his life to save him, from his ego if nothing else.

  But it was a lifetime since Raffa had believed in anything but himself.

  ‘It is my home.’ His gesture encompassed the garden and penthouse.

  ‘But you went out.’ She snapped her mouth shut as if to prevent more words bursting free.

  ‘I see. That’s why you sneaked out here. You thought I’d be out of the way.’

  Predictably her jaw angled up. ‘I didn’t sneak anywhere. You told me I had access to the garden.’

  ‘A privilege you’ve never used unless you believed me safely gone.’ He paused, watching her compose her face, wiping away the signs of shock and replacing them with her habitual mask of composure. It annoyed him to realise how much he wanted to peer beyond that facade.

  ‘I thought you’d appreciate privacy. Especially in the evening when you might be...entertaining.’ She looked beyond him towards the door to the penthouse.

  ‘Thoughtful of you,’ he murmured, ‘but unnecessary.’ He didn’t explain that he never entertained at home. He valued his privacy too much.

  Besides, the memory of the permanently drawn curtains in the guest wing spoke not so much of giving him privacy but herself. Why did Lily Nolan conceal herself? What secret did she protect?

  How hard would it be to unravel that protective web she’d woven around herself? To discover the Lily Nolan who warded him off with her fierce concentration on work? He hadn’t missed how she removed herself from his company when possible. How she kept her distance, calling him Signor Petri when others used first names.

  Tonight he’d get answers.

  ‘What are you working on?’ Maybe she’d surprise him and reveal she spent her evenings playing online games.

  Her hand went out as if to close her laptop, but his hand shot out, covering hers.

  Raffa’s pulse throbbed hard. He’d only touched her once, the day they’d shaken hands, but strangely there was a beckoning familiarity to her smooth flesh beneath his.

  A second later her fingers slid away and she sat, cradling her hand as if stung.