His Ultimate Demand

Shock doused him in ice. For several seconds he couldn’t move. Then the realisation of how close he’d come to taking her, to staking a claim on what he had no right to, hit him like a ton of bricks.

He surged back from her, reefing a hand through his hair as he inhaled sharply.

‘You’re a virgin,’ he repeated numbly.

Raising her chin, she stared back at him. ‘Yes.’

Several puzzle pieces finally slotted into place—the touches of innocence he’d spotted, her bolshiness even as she seemed out of her depth.

Her trepidation.

What had he said a moment ago—they deserved each other? Not any more.

Regret bit deep as he forced himself off the bed. ‘Then, cara mia, this is over.’

* * *

Ruby came out of the bathroom of her cabin and slowed to a stop. Glancing around her room, she tried again to grapple with the sheer opulence around her. The three-decked yacht, complete with helicopter landing pad, had made her jaw drop the first time she’d seen it two days ago.

But the inside of Narciso’s yacht was even more luxurious.

Black with a silver trim on the outside, it was an exact reverse on the inside. Silver and platinum vied with Carrara marble mined from the exclusive quarries north of Tuscany.

Her suite, complete with queen-size bed, sunken Jacuzzi bath and expensive toiletries, was the last word in luxury.

But all the opulence couldn’t stem the curious emptiness inside her.

Since her arrival in Belize, she’d barely seen Narciso. The only times she saw him was when she served the list of meals he’d approved the day they’d boarded The Warlock.

At first the studied consideration with which he’d treated her after she’d blurted her confession had surprised her. Who knew he was the sort of playboy who treated virgins as if they were sacred treasures?

But then she’d seen the look in his eyes. The regret. The banked pain. Her surprise had morphed into confusion.

She was still confused now as she tugged off her towel and headed for the drawer that held her meagre clothes. Only to stop dead at the sight of the monogrammed leather suitcase standing at the bottom of the bed.

She opened it. Silk sarongs, bikinis, sundresses, designer shoes and slippers fell out of the case as she dug through it, her stomach hollowing out with incredulity.

Dressing in the jeans and top she’d travelled to Macau in and taken to wearing since her arrival simply because the three evening gowns were totally out of the question, she went in search of the elusive Sicilian who seemed hell-bent on keeping her permanently off balance.

She found him on the middle deck, after getting lost twice. He wore white linen shorts and a dark blue polo shirt. The early evening sun slanted over jet-black hair, highlighting its vibrancy and making her recall how it had felt to run her hands through the strands.

The sight of his bare legs made her swallow before she reminded herself she wasn’t going to be affected by his stunning physique any longer. He’d pointedly avoided her for two whole days. She was damned if she’d let him catch her drinking him in as if he were her last hope for sustenance.

She was here to do a job. Whatever closeness they’d shared on his plane was gone, a temporary aberration never to be repeated. Her focus now needed to be on what she’d come here to do. But before that...

‘You bought me clothes?’ she asked.

He turned around, casually shoving his hands into his pockets. When his eyes met hers, she couldn’t read a single expression in the silver depths. The Narciso who’d alternately laughed, mocked and devoured her with his eyes was gone. In his place was a coolly remote stranger.

‘The size of your suitcase suggested you’d packed for a short stay. This is a solution to a potential problem. Unless you plan on wearing those jeans every day for the next week?’

True, in the strong Belizean sun, they felt hot and sticky on her skin. Not to mention they were totally inappropriate for the job she was here to do. When she cooked, she preferred looser, comfortable clothes.

But still. ‘I could’ve sorted my own wardrobe.’

‘You’re here on my schedule. Making time for you to go shopping doesn’t feature on there.’

‘I wouldn’t have—’

‘It was no big deal, Ruby. Let’s move on. It’s time to step up your game. I want to see how you fare with a three-course meal. Michel will assist you if you need it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d like to eat at seven, which gives you two hours.’

The arrogant dismissal made her hackles rise. The distance between them made her feel on edge, bereft.

She assured herself it was better this way. But deep down, an ache took root.

Michel, Narciso’s chef, greeted her with an openly friendly smile when she entered the kitchen.

‘What do you have in mind for today for monsieur?’ the Frenchman asked. Deep blue eyes remained contemplative as he stared at her.

‘He wants to eat at seven so I was thinking of making a special bruschetta to start and chicken parmigiana main if we have the ingredients?’

‘Of course. I bought fresh supplies this morning from town.’

The mention of town made her wonder when Narciso had bought her clothes. Had he shopped for them himself or given instructions?

Shaking her head to dispel the useless wondering, she followed Michel into the pantry. ‘Oh...heaven!’ She fell on the plump tomatoes and aubergines and squealed when she saw the large heads of truffles carefully packed in a box.

Freshly sliced prosciutto hung from specially lined containers that kept it from drying out and Parma ham stayed cool in a nearby chiller.

Michel took out the deboned chicken breast in the fridge. ‘Would you like me to cut it up for you?’

‘Normally, I’d say yes, but I think it’s best if I do everything myself.’ She smiled to take the sting out of the refusal.

He shrugged. ‘Shout if you need anything.’ After helping himself to a bottle of water, he left her alone.

Ruby selected the best knife and began chopping garlic, onions and the fresh herbs Michel kept in the special potted containers in the pantry.

The sense of calm and pure joy in bringing the ingredients together finally soothed the unsettled feeling she’d experienced for the last forty-eight hours.

Time and anxiety suspended, and her thoughts floated away as she immersed herself in her one salvation—the joy of cooking.

She started on the caviar-topped bruschetta with ricotta and peppers while the parmigiana was in the last stages of cooking.

Setting it out on a sterling-silver tray, she headed upstairs to where the crew had set the table.

Her feet slowed when she saw the extra place setting, then she stopped completely at the intimacy created by the dim lighting and lit candles. Her stomach fluttered wildly as steel butterflies took flight inside her.

‘Are you going to stand there all evening?’ Narciso quipped from where he sat on a sofa that hugged the U-shape of the room.