Exquisite Revenge Page 5
Jesse saw one very large hand clamped around the wine bottle and her throat felt dry. ‘Don’t you need a glass?’
‘No,’ came the curt reply, ‘I don’t need a glass.’
And with that he turned and disappeared. A couple of seconds later she winced as she heard the slamming of a door.
Jesse turned around and sank down onto the bottom stair. The enormity of everything that had happened hit her then, and she lifted a hand to her head. It was trembling from the adrenalin. The main front door was still open, and she looked out blankly at the benignly beautiful view.
She had managed to incarcerate Luc Sanchis on this island. She was now alone, for the next ten days at least, with one of the world’s most powerful men and a potentially lethal enemy. She recalled how he’d turned on the stairs, his entire body moving with innately masculine grace, and heat pooled in her lower belly. He was six feet four of hard, muscle-packed, angry testosterone, and the look in his eyes just now had been murderous.
Luc sat in a chair on his private balcony. The Mediterranean stretched out as far as the eye could see, with not another piece of land or a boat in sight. The threat of a storm appeared to have passed for the moment and the glorious view mocked him. His hand was still wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle and he lifted it to his mouth and took another healthy slug, noting that he’d managed to demolish half of it already.
Disgusted, because he was usually more than abstemious when it came to alcohol, he slammed it down on the table beside him, alongside the half-eaten sandwich. He’d taken the wine from the fridge on a whim and had relished Jesse’s wide-eyed response to him pulling it out.
Damn her anyway, this pixie-sized, short-haired witch.
He still couldn’t quite believe what she’d managed to do to him—and with such ease. That perhaps was worst of all, when he thought of it. How he’d happily walked right into her trap. The modern-day communications that everyone took so much for granted had allowed her to rearrange his schedule with no questions asked. He grimaced. It was all thanks to the fact that she was effectively a computer nerd. Although when he pictured a nerd he saw a twenty-year-old weedy guy in glasses. Not a petite and annoyingly vulnerable-looking blonde-haired elf. He snorted. Vulnerable? As if.
Luc grabbed the wine bottle again almost rebelliously; the more wine he drank, the more her image in his head grew blurry, so he took another gulp.
He sat forward with the bottle dangling from his fingers, completely unaware of the rakish image he presented, with his shirt buttons ripped apart, exposing the top of his chest.
He could almost laugh. But it wasn’t funny in the slightest. Only last week his secretary had enquired solicitously as to whether he’d thought about scheduling any holiday time for the rest of the year. She’d probably be assuming right now that he’d taken her concern as advice. And he knew she wouldn’t question his apparent change of direction when it came to the O’Brien deal, because she was used to him changing his mind and not explaining why. It rankled bitterly now. He didn’t know Jesse Moriarty from Adam and yet she seemed to have read him like a book.
And the two people in the world who cared about him most were currently at sea on a two-week cruise. Only this morning he’d told his mother and sister with affectionate mock severity that he didn’t want to hear from them unless there was a serious life-or-death crisis.
He smiled mirthlessly at the irony. In normal circumstances his mother started panicking if she didn’t get her habitual daily phone call—even though she’d become much more relaxed since marrying her second husband, George, the previous year.
For the first time since Luc could remember his mother and sister didn’t need him in quite the same all-encompassing way, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with that. Responsibility for them was so ingrained in him that it had pervaded outwards to every facet of his life, influencing every decision because what he did affected them.
Ever since his father had died when he was twelve, he’d been inured with a hyper-awareness of his duty. He could still remember the way people had looked at him sadly at his father’s funeral and told him that he was the man of the family now.
Coupled with that later betrayal, which had cemented cynical distrust onto his psyche, Luc had become accustomed to being surprised by little. But he was surprised now. And he was angry. Because Jesse Moriarty was thwarting long-cherished plans to—
Luc heard a sound and the cacophony of thoughts in his head stopped abruptly. It had come from below him, out on the terrace which led down to the idyllic pool just visible through the trees.
He rested the wine bottle on the ground beside him and stood up, putting his hands on the railing surrounding his balcony. And then he saw her, walking onto the grass and down towards the trees.
She was wearing a short robe, and his eyes were drawn to slender but shapely pale legs. She carried a towel in one hand and disappeared into the trees. Her purpose became apparent when Luc heard the faint sound of a splash, and he could just make out the movement of arms scissoring in and out of the water through the greenery.
His hands curled tight around the railing and a coil of tension came into his belly. With a growl of disgust, because he found himself wondering if she was wearing a bikini or a one-piece, and how she might fill it out with that petite, lithe form, Luc turned back into his room, away from the view.
He paced back and forth, anger rising in him like a tide at witnessing her acting so unaffected—taking a nonchalant swim as if she hadn’t just kidnapped him! What the hell was he doing, wondering what she was wearing, when he didn’t even find her attractive? He ignored the betraying heat in his blood that contradicted him.
He recalled the way her face had tightened and she’d shut down in his office when he’d asked her about her reasons for wanting to save O’Brien. Clearly conversation wasn’t going to be an option now, if she hadn’t revealed her reasons then.
Think, man, think, he remonstrated with himself, cursing the mild fog of wine now. So far she’d executed his kidnap with the minimum of fuss and fanfare. It had been utterly simple but so effective—which made it galling. Luc would have almost preferred it if he’d been hit over the back of the head and knocked unconscious. At least that way he’d feel less culpable …
He shook his head. He had to deal with the fact that he was here now, and he needed to get off this island as soon as possible.
His mind skipped over everything and kept returning a big fat blank. He could overpower her easily, of course, but Luc’s insides recoiled at that scenario. And what would that serve? She obviously had some means of communication with the outside world, but he didn’t doubt that it would be well hidden—and that could be anywhere in this vast villa. And he had the sneaking suspicion that even if he did find whatever device she had it would be password-protected and impossible for him to break into.
She hadn’t seemed intimidated by the fact that she could go to gaol for this, and when he’d threatened her with ruination it had brokered a very blasé response. Clearly being the one to secure JP O’Brien’s survival was far more important to her than anything he could threaten her with … and that thought made bile rise from his gut.
Luc realised that he couldn’t hear the sound of water splashing any more and paced back to the balcony. The light was falling now, and dusk was bathing the island in a mauve glow. Jesse suddenly appeared from the trees, rubbing her hair with a towel, once again in that short robe. Luc instinctively ducked back into the shadows, but as if she sensed his eyes on her her head came up sharply, and she looked up in the direction of his room.
Luc saw the tension in her frame, in the way her hand tightened on the towel. Her hair was sticking up in little tufts on her head, and he had the sudden urge to curl his hand around the delicate stem of her neck and … throttle her, he told himself angrily, watching as she ducked her head and hurried out of view again.
He cursed himself volubly and denied with every breath in his body
that for a moment he’d wanted to be standing in front of her, so he could bring her head closer and tip it up so that he could taste just how soft her lips were.
Luc went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stripped and stood under the pounding spray. With fists clenched he placed his hands on the tiled walls, his whole body taut with anger, tension … and something much more insidious.
He had no option but to ensure he got off this island before the ten days were up, and he would do whatever it took to achieve that outcome. But, short of torturing Jesse Moriarty to force her to hand over her phone or to communicate with the outside world for him, Luc couldn’t see a solution.
And then it came to him—sneaking into his consciousness with a wicked wink. He’d seen the tiny telltale physical response Jesse had shown to his proximity earlier. It could have been just nerves … or it could have been something else.
A form of torture might not be so beyond the realms of possibility after all—but this would be a very sensual form of torture. Designed to sneak past every prickly defence he’d seen so far and uncover the beating heart of the woman, and in so doing render her completely helpless to him.
Jesse was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, having just eaten a bowl of cereal. The Kouros housekeeper had left the fridge and larder stocked to the gills, enough for an army, as Luc had said.
Jesse grimaced; unfortunately it would appear that the housekeeper had expected gourmands, because nothing was ready-made and she cursed that oversight now.
Jesse had to admit that unless Luc Sanchis displayed a skill for making something more complicated than a sandwich they might well starve. She couldn’t boil an egg without burning both it and the water.
She was coiled tighter than a spring, waiting for some sign of Luc Sanchis, figuring he’d have to eat again at some stage. He was a big man, and unlikely to find enough nourishment in a sandwich. But to her knowledge he was still in his room and hadn’t left it since he’d gone there earlier.
Hating how on edge she was, she got up to wash her things in the sink. From where she stood she could see out to where the pool house was just visible through the trees, gleaming whitely in the dusk. The calming effect of her swim earlier had lasted only until she’d looked up to Luc Sanchis’s balcony, because she’d thought she’d seen a movement, but it had only been the gently billowing curtain. Nevertheless his image had been immediate in her mind’s eye. His tall and well-built frame. Those dark, angry eyes.
She’d hurried back into the villa and straight to her room, where she’d dressed in her habitual casual uniform of jeans and a loose top. Usually she was barely aware of the clothes she wore, but as she’d pulled on the jeans she’d felt an alien sense of yearning for something softer.
She reflected to herself that she’d never consciously set out to favour less feminine apparel, but the fact was she didn’t own anything remotely soft, and not even one dress.
She looked at other women sometimes and something very secret inside her envied their easy femininity—the way they revelled in it and celebrated it. Hers had been locked away for so long now that she didn’t know if she could ever explore it again.
Her one concession to her hidden femininity was her love of opulent perfumes. The more heady and sensual the better …
Luc’s caustic comment that she might be gay mocked her. Some of Jesse’s closest colleagues were gay, and in truth she envied them their confidence and freedom of expression, even if she didn’t share their preferences.
She put down the dishcloth and absently touched her short hair, which she could see reflected more clearly in the window as it got darker outside. Inexplicably she thought of something she hadn’t remembered in years: her first foster mother and her scathing voice.
‘Nits. Disgusting thing you’re bringing into my house. Your hair is far too long as it is. Don’t know how it hasn’t been cut before now. You’re just lucky I worked in a hairdresser’s, my girl. We’ll soon have the lot off and those little buggers gone …’
The woman had been oblivious to Jesse’s tears as her almost waist length fair locks had fallen away to the floor. Jesse’s mother had had the same glorious hair, and since she’d died Jesse had got used to sleeping at night with a skein of her own hair wrapped around her hand. It had given her a comforting sense that her mother was still there.
The same foster parent had given the few dresses Jesse had owned to her own daughter, who’d been a little younger, declaring, ‘You won’t be needing those any more …’ But she hadn’t minded so much about the dresses. They had come from her father—leftovers of the few occasions when he had displayed anything remotely resembling patriarchal awareness. He would arrive and bestow some lavishly decorated box on Jesse before telling her to clear off while he locked himself and her mother into her mother’s bedroom.
Since that day in the foster home when she’d been so brutally shorn she’d never let her hair grow long. She’d felt so nakedly vulnerable that day that she’d vowed never to let anyone be able to do such a thing to her again … and she’d controlled that by insisting on regular haircuts, sometimes cutting it herself if she had to.
Jesse tried to rationalise that perhaps she was in this strange reflective mood now because of the day’s stressful events, but she realised that she didn’t have to fear such a scenario ever again. Of course she’d known that for a long time, but keeping her hair short had become a deeply ingrained habit. A kind of armour.
A very fleeting thrill of excitement surged in her belly at the thought that she could possibly let her hair grow … and then she caught the wistful expression on her own face and grimaced at her reflection before turning back into the kitchen—only to come face to face with a half-naked Luc Sanchis.
He was standing there watching her, and she went hot at the thought of him observing her so silently. He wore only a small white towel slung around very lean hips. A vast expanse of tautly muscled bronzed chest was in her eyeline, along with a very masculine dusting of dark hair.
Personally Jesse had never found the clean-chested look very enticing, and in response she could feel her nipples tightening into hard little buds. Broad shoulders drew her eyes upwards until she had to look into that ruggedly beautiful face. It was impassive. Not mocking, as she’d feared, after what had felt like her far too leisurely appraisal.
‘I heard you taking a swim earlier.’
Jesse took a second to register his words. And then she nodded, slightly suspicious of this very sanguine Luc Sanchis. ‘Yes … the pool is just through the French doors and down the garden. The other side of the bushes. There’s a pool house stocked with robes and bathing suits.’
‘Ah …’ Luc folded his arms across that chest, making his muscles bunch. ‘I did notice that in your kind kitting out of my trousseau there weren’t any swimsuits. It doesn’t matter, though. I prefer swimming naked. That is … if you think the owners wouldn’t mind?’
A tide of heat swept up over Jesse’s neck and throat at that image, but she managed to get out a garbled-sounding, ‘No, I don’t think so. The pool is cleaned regularly anyway. But, like I said, there are suits in the pool house.’
Luc had moved so that he was standing in the open doorway which led out to the fragrant night and the garden. Now Jesse had a full view of him from head to toe, and all she could see was that eye-wateringly small towel—which she feared might drop at any moment. Even though it was in her peripheral vision she noticed the very virile bulge of his manhood against the fabric, pushing it out. And she didn’t doubt for a second that this was him relaxed.
He drawled, ‘I think I’d still prefer to go naked.’
And with that he sauntered off into the gloom, with the moonlight casting long silvery shadows over everything.
Jesse blinked when she saw the lights come on around the pool and pool house. She could just make out the tall figure of Luc, and the flash of white as something was dropped or whipped away. And then there was a splash.
She’d blushed more since meeting Luc Sanchis than she’d ever blushed in her entire life. Even when she’d been intimate before she’d never felt this constant level of heat in her system, as if she had a kind of fever. She touched her forehead, but contrary to the rest of her, which felt as if it were burning up, it was cool. Betrayed by her own body. She hated it.
She pushed herself off the door and went to her securely locked case. Safe in the knowledge that she could still hear the faint splashes of Luc swimming, she opened the case and took out her phone, switching it on. Within minutes she’d dealt with some e-mails and had been informed that there were already headlines proclaiming that Luc Sanchis had backed out of his deal with JP O’Brien.
Jesse sent up silent thanks for the mole on O’Brien’s staff who was giving her information. It was a disgruntled employee—a woman who had been sexually harassed by O’Brien but was too scared to jeopardise her job by coming out about it. Jesse had promised her that along with all of O’Brien’s employees, apart from his close associates, she would be looked after when his business failed.
She switched off the device again and put it away securely. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t hear the splashing any more. Luc Sanchis could be anywhere. But Jesse knew that as soon as he went near the perimeter fence, if he had half a mind to try to escape, all hell would break loose. She could rest easy and not care where he was so long as that didn’t happen.
When she went into her bathroom, to shower before bed, she tried not to notice the glitter in her eyes or her flushed cheeks, which told of something far more dangerous than satisfaction that her plan was working. And when she was naked under the teeming spray of her shower she tried desperately not to imagine Luc Sanchis as he might look now, after his swim, with water running in rivulets down those hard muscles …