Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

M ADDIE WAS HARDLY THE most experienced woman in the world, but she'd had a boyfriend before, and she'd definitely been kissed, so there was absolutely no scientific explanation for the way her whole body seemed to react to the simplest brushing of her lips by Rocco Santoro.

From the moment he kissed her, Maddie had the strangest sense she was being pulled out of her skin, lifted up into the heavens, and re-formed as someone entirely new and different.

He kissed like a God.

His lips were soft at first, enquiring, as if he understood that she would need this to be slow and drawn out. But each movement brought a question, sought an invitation, and Maddie's lips moved to answer, kissing him back, perhaps not quite so gently. Perhaps insisting that he stop holding back.

And so, he did.

The hand that had been gently caressing the side of her face moved around to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her right there, tilting her face towards his, angling her so that when her lips parted now, in a natural response to this contact, he was perfectly positioned to capitalize on her placement.

His tongue flicked hers with lazy indolence, an arrogance that was so quintessentially Rocco she would have smiled if she'd been capable of doing anything with her lips but this. But indolence quickly gave way to desperate need, a need that was echoed deep inside Maddie, a need that flooded her body.

His mouth overtook hers, moving, tasting, devouring, whilst his body pressed closer, his warmth palpable through her clothes. The kitchen faded into nothing; the familiar smells, sounds, the sense of the sunlight on her back—it was all nothing in the face of this, where every single cell in her body, every fibre of her being, existed to feel and to know him.

Him.

Rocco Santoro.

The man who was trying to ruin her life—or in less dramatic terms, to at least rip the carpet out from under her.

She pushed a hand to his chest, needing to end this. She was kissing the enemy! It had to stop.

But the hand at his chest didn't push him away. It curled into his clothes, drawing him closer, so his masculine fragrance filled her nostrils and her knees felt weak.

In contrast, his hands were strong. He lifted her easily, onto the edge of the counter, moving to stand between her legs, kissing her until Maddie's breath was burning and her body was quivering, kissing her until she couldn't remember why she hated him, why she was furious with him; kissing her until she could barely remember her own name.

But suddenly, like a bolt of lightning had struck him, he lifted his head and looked down into her eyes, and there was such smugness in his face, such arrogant self-pleasure, that it all came rushing back to her.

Then, she pushed. She pushed at his chest with all the force of her anger—an anger that was directed, mostly, at herself. "Don't touch me," she ground out, even as her traitorous, treacherous body was saying the exact opposite.

His grin showed skepticism. "No?"

"You're not—I'm not?—,"

He waited, brow arched, and then moved forward. Contrary to her request, he put one hand lightly on her knee, glancing at her as if waiting for a response. She shivered inwardly, her features contained in a mask of prim disapproval.

"Even when touching each other is so much fun?"

Yes. It had been fun. But Maddie had learned her lesson about men and trusting them; she'd learned her lesson about her own almost fatally bad instincts and judgement.

"Life is about more than fun, and it's about more than money."

His hand lifted to her chin, tilting her face once more. "I never confuse fun and money."

"No, it's all about money for you." Her eyes lifted to his as a thought occurred to her. "Is that what this is about? Did you think you could seduce me into agreeing to sell this to you?" She waved a hand around the room.

He didn't deny it—and she didn't realise how badly she'd needed him to until he stayed silent.

But surely even Rocco Santoro couldn't be that calculated?

"Well, tough. I'm not one of the women who are queuing up to fall into bed with you."

"No, you're not," he said, slowly, thoughtfully, as if ruminating on some great mystery.

She squared her shoulders. "Thank you for lunch," the words were stiff. "But now, you should go. Your fifteen minutes are definitely up."

He made no attempt to move, however. "You have to work," he said.

It wasn't a question, but she nodded, wishing her body would stop trembling, and that the knots in the bottom of her stomach would soften.

"Where do you work?"

Her eyes widened. "Why? Do you want to buy that, too?"

His smirk shouldn't have been sexy but damn it, it was. The way a dimple dug deep into the groove of his cheek, to the impish glint in his eyes, it all pulled at something in the region of her heart and made her want something she'd been denying herself a very long time.

Pleasure.

To simply enjoy heat and desire, to feel without thinking, without worrying, without anticipating, at all times, the worst in a person.

Brock's legacy was hard to shake though.

"Actually, I was going to offer you a lift."

"That's fine. I ride my bike."

He glanced outside. "Rain is forecast for later today."

"I don't mind rain."

His eyes ran over her face. "Let me drive you; it will give us longer to talk."

The problem was that Maddie didn't want to talk. She wanted things she shouldn't, and certainly not with this man.

She shook her head quickly.

"One car trip," he rebutted, before she could voice yet another objection. "I'll even let you abuse me the whole way, if you'd like."

"Well now," she bit back a smile. "That is almost too good to refuse."

To her surprise, and unfortunately not her chagrin, he put his hands on her hips and lifted her with ease from the edge of the counter, so that her feet were on solid ground once more. Except, while the ground might have been solid, nothing about Maddie's body was. Her knees were still knocking together, and she was almost certain he must have been able to tell how he'd affected her.

His car was everything she'd have expected—big, dark, and expensive looking, outside and in. The windows were darkly tinted, the seats were a sumptuous dark brown leather, and it smelled like wealth and luxury. Of course.

She buckled her seatbelt with hands that were slightly uneasy.

"Where to?"

"Turn left at the end of the street," she said. "Then keep going."

The engine started with the press of a button and a soft-throttled purr. When Rocco pulled onto the road, something in Maddie's chest lurched. He was so right behind the wheel of this car. Though it was simply a vehicle, it was also an extension of him, in a way that made her all the more aware of his power. Being close to him like this honed her awareness of him as a man, so her heart was racing, and she found it hard to speak.

"So?" he prompted. "Where is the abuse I was promised?"

She angled him a tart smile when words continued to fail her.

"Aren't you going to yell at me for kissing you?"

She opened her mouth to do just that, then closed it again. "I didn't hate being kissed by you," she admitted, because why bother lying? She had no doubt Rocco could read her like a book. It was bad enough to desire him—worse to be caught out in such an obvious denial.

"Didn't hate it, huh?" He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment, so he could scan her face with those intelligent, considered eyes. Her pulse throbbed. "But didn't love it?"

She forced her attention straight ahead. "Turn right at the intersection."

He slowed down, put the indicator on then executed the maneuver.

"Wouldn't love to be kissed by me again?"

Oh, how she wanted that. Fantasies proliferated in her mind, against her will.

"I don't see any point in muddying the waters here. You want to buy my grandfather's house; I desperately want him not to sell it to you. Kissing each other is a confusion neither of us needs."

"Says who?"

"Besides," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You have women tripping over themselves to be with you, so there's no need to waste time pretending to be interested in me. Here," she gestured to a small row of shops up on the left.

He pulled the car to a stop in an empty space and scanned the building. Her own shop was right there— Flowers by Maddison. That explained the arrangement in the kitchen.

"I am interested in you," he said, with genuine surprise in his voice. "I didn't expect to be, and it's not exactly convenient, given we're at loggerheads about the house. That doesn't change the fact that I also…didn't hate kissing you."

Her mouth went dry; her insides popped and fizzed.

"I liked it," he corrected, reaching over and catching her face with the palm of his hand, angling her towards him. Or was she pulled there by gravitational forces she couldn't explain? "I'd like to do it again."

And he did. But this time, there was no slow and gentle enquiry, no building up of desire. This time, he kissed her in a way that stirred her insides to mush and made her whole body sing; he kissed her in a way that was like lava being poured into her soul. She was awash with heat and simmering all over, at risk of melting into the leather seat of his car.

"Rocco," she groaned his name into his mouth, a plea—not to stop but to help her understand, because this was all so sudden, and so beyond her. It was madness and mayhem; it was perfection.

"Come to my hotel tonight," he said, the invitation unmistakable. "Not because of the house, but because of this." He moved his mouth lower, to her throat, flicking the pulse point there with his tongue until she was incandescent. His hand dropped to her side, separating her shirt from her pants, brushing her bare flesh. She trembled in the seat, flush and hungry.

"I can't," she tilted her head back though, granting him more access to the sensitive skin at the base of her throat.

He grinned slowly, ran his hand higher, up her torso, towards the underside of her breast, cupping her there in a move that was brazen and bold, and not quite enough. She sought his mouth with her own, kissing him again, moving her body deeper into his grip, so his fingers ran over her nipples, taut beneath the fabric of her clothes. Every brush, every touch, made her body sing, until she was a choir all on her own, humming just for Rocco.

"Come to my hotel tonight," he said again, this time throatier, raw, a plea that flooded her veins.

There was no ambivalence about what he was offering.

Sex.

One night. No promises, no strings.

No potential for hurt.

This wouldn't be like with Brock, who'd flirted with her and promised her, so many times she lost count, that he was the man she could count on. The man she'd been secretly waiting for. Someone who would build a family with her. Someone she could trust.

If only he'd been honest.

If only she hadn't let herself care for him.

If only she'd seen things for what they really were.

At least with Rocco, she'd never make that mistake. She'd never be stupid enough to think he was offering more than this; she'd never want him to. Rocco Santoro was fine to sleep with but definitely not to care for.

"You're a sleaze," she said, pulling away and looking at him directly in the eye.

A frown glanced across his features.

"I don't mean that to be rude, I'm just clarifying things. You're someone who sleeps around, and now you want to sleep with me. Right?"

His brows knit together. "My sex life is not particularly relevant."

She made a scoffing noise. "Were you not just propositioning me to have a starring—albeit temporary—role in your sex life?"

He was silent, for once.

"I'm not offended. I just want to make sure we're on the same page. If I were to come to your hotel tonight—and I'm not saying I will—I just want to be very clear: it would be a one-night thing."

A single brow lifted upwards.

"I don't want flattery. I don't want flirtation. I don't want lies. I don't want the pretense of a relationship when all you're interested in is sex. And in the morning, I want to walk away without wondering if I'll hear from you again. Let's call a spade a spade from the beginning and say I won't."

His eyes skimmed her features. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but Maddie's insides were soaring with victory. Not once had she taken the lead in a relationship, and it felt good. Better than good; it felt fantastic.

"As for the house, nothing's changed—and sleeping together won't change my mind, either. So, if you're just doing this because you think you can win me over with your…skills…in bed, then think again."

He let out a soft, husky laugh.

"I'm serious. I have no intention of selling the house to you."

"But coming to my hotel?" He asked, the hand on her breast stroking her flesh once more, so she closed her eyes on a bodily tremble.

"I'll consider it," she said uncertainly, when mentally, she knew wild horses would struggle to keep her away.

"Determined to keep me guessing?"

"A little guessing will do you the world of good." She reached down and unclipped her seatbelt, knocking his hand out of the way in the process. "Thanks for the lift, Rocco."

Rocco drove back into Manhattan with a scowl etched onto his handsome face. It was a scowl born of an overarching sense of frustration because nothing about that had gone how he'd planned, even when parts of it had.

It wasn't what had happened with Maddie, but rather the pervasive sense of her being very, very difficult to predict, contain, or control.

She was an unknown quantity. Wild, impulsive, unpredictable, rare.

And dangerous.

Rocco didn't like any of those traits. He liked things, and people, to follow a formula. He was most comfortable when he could perform one action, confident in how it would be received and reacted to, and with Maddie, she was consistently surprising him.

Why wouldn't she sell the house to him?

Why did she speak to him as though he were the devil?

Would she come to his hotel?

There were so many mysteries and enigmas wrapped up in her being that it was impossible to feel anything but frustrated.

Suddenly, the simple plan to seduce her into selling the house to him seemed as stupid as she'd made it sound. As if sex—no matter how great—could shake a person's determination, when that determination was as iron clad as Maddie's seemed to be.

Besides, it was no longer about the house.

That had been stupid. A facile, reductive attempt to marry two different desires.

Sleeping with Maddie was something he wanted. He'd thought he could conflate that with the purchase of the house, but that was wrong. He wanted her because of who she was—the fire and spark she'd shown him the night before, at the hotel, had been in evidence today as well.

Perhaps she was right, and they should treat this night like a slice out of time. A single night to indulge this pleasure, and then enable him to get on with the business of buying the house she so desperately didn't want to sell. Because nothing and no one, no matter how beautiful and wild, would shake him from his goal. Rocco Santoro played to win, and he intended to do exactly that.

But with Maddie, maybe there was a way to have his cake and eat it, too…

In the end, Maddie decided to go to the hotel to tell him she wasn't interested. While a no-strings fling sounded great in theory, she'd been badly burned by Brock—burned so badly that she realized there was no such thing as an easy one-night stand. No such thing as meaningless sex. No such thing as a relationship without the power to wound—even a short-term one.

While she had gotten changed after work, she'd deliberately chosen an outfit designed not to impress, because refusing someone meant not caring what they thought of you. She hadn't even reapplied her perfume, she thought with smug satisfaction, as she glanced around the hotel bar, looking for Rocco.

It didn't take long.

Even here, in a sea of well-dressed, well-heeled Manhattan elite, there was a quality to Rocco that made him stand out. Several qualities, in fact. Whether it was his stature—his height and broad frame—or his chiseled good looks, or the bespoke cut of his jet-black suit, he was instantly impactful, his presence impossible to miss.

And to resist?

The thought popped into her head the moment her eyes slid slightly to Rocco's left, landing with a stomach-plunging thud on a stunning brunette, draped elegantly over the spare stool at his table.

When he saw Maddie, however, Rocco's lips moved—a few short words—and the brunette straightened, looked around with narrowed eyes, and then stalked off.

Maddie's lips twisted in a smirk. "Hedging your bets?" she asked, as she arrived.

Rocco reached for a bottle of champagne—she recognized the expensive label from the fashion magazines her grandmother had loved—and poured a flute for Maddie.

"Don't bother," she said, belatedly. "I'm not staying."

Rocco simply topped up his own glass, silently, in response.

"This is a bad idea."

"Is it?"

He lifted his glass towards hers, and despite her earlier protestation, she found herself lifting hers in response, lightly clinking the sides of their drinks together. Their eyes met and her blood seemed to fizz in her veins.

"Yes."

"Why so?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"The house stuff."

"We agreed nothing that happens tonight will change that."

She bit down on her lip. "That's all very good in theory, but I doubt it's a promise we can actually keep."

"What do you think is going to happen?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "Are you afraid you'll sleep with me and hand over the keys to the house immediately afterwards?"

She glared at him. "You're making fun of me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Don't make it worse by lying."

"I'm trying to understand your thoughts."

"You don't need to understand them. I'm telling you how I feel."

He made a throaty grunting sound. "How was work, cara ?"

She forced herself to imagine him calling the brunette ‘cara'. She forced herself to remember this was just the sort of term of endearment someone like Rocco would employ—as meaningless as the sex he'd offered. Easily dispensed and retracted.

She sipped the champagne, wishing her heart wasn't thudding so hard against her ribs. "I—fine."

"You're a florist?"

She compressed her lips. "Does it matter?"

He shrugged, a gesture of benign indifference. "So why not answer?"

Hating him for having an answer to everything, she took another generous sip of champagne. "Yes, I'm a florist."

"I can see that."

"Why?"

"You are creative."

"You don't know me."

"You dress creatively."

She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Rocco. I dress…comfortably." She looked down at her outfit—flared jeans, a fitted green singlet top with an oversized blouse tied at the waist. She supposed the chunky resin necklace added a splash of colour that some might call creative, but she doubted anything about her fashion choices would appeal to a man like Rocco.

"It suits you."

"Why are you still being nice to me? I told you, we're not having sex." She spoke a little loudly, a little forcibly, and a passing waitress glanced in their direction, so Maddie's cheeks flushed bright pink.

"No, we're not. At least, not right now." He grinned, unconcerned, and her stomach popped with the force of a thousand fireworks. "We're having a drink. But as for what comes next…" He let the provocative half-sentence hang in the air between them.

Maddie ground her teeth. "There is no next."

"Okay." He shrugged again. "Just a drink, then."

She realized the trap too late. He'd made it sound as though she'd agreed to stay with him. To sit in the bar and sip champagne, just as she was doing. And she supposed she had—tacitly, at least—the moment she'd lifted the glass to her lips.

Her fingers ran over the stem, nerves zipping in her bloodstream. If she was being honest with herself, she'd admit that she didn't want to leave. Not even a part of her was relishing the prospect of walking away from what he'd offered.

"Have you always wanted to work with flowers?"

She thought about providing him with another snarky, short reply, but when they were talking, she was distracted from thinking about not talking with Rocco. She was distracted from thinking about his body and hers, about the way it had felt to be kissed by him, not once but twice.

"It's not just flowers," she heard herself grudgingly admitting.

"Floristry?" His eyes scanned her face, so her stomach tightened. She sipped her champagne.

"I love gardens," she continued, surprising herself with the elaboration. "I always have. As a girl, we moved around a lot; I couldn't plant anything. I had this one pot—a citrus tree—and I carried it with me from house to house. But then we moved interstate and I had to get rid of it." Her smile was practiced and hid a world of hurt. When she'd moved in with her grandparents, their garden had been the only thing to soften the blow of her mother's desertion—or rather, the potential of their garden, and the free reign they'd been prepared to give her. "My grandfather's garden is very beautiful; perhaps you've noticed."

"I haven't had the chance. But if that's an invitation to come and view it…"

"It wasn't."

"It would be a shame to miss something so beautiful."

"Before you tear it down, you mean?"

"Gardens can be saved. Relocated. So can many of the things within a house."

She rolled her eyes. "You're talking about dismembering it—like removing someone's organs and expecting them to still work the same way."

"No, I'm talking about moving forward and understanding that nothing will affect your memories."

"You don't know anything about my memories." Her eyes narrowed as anger took hold—an anger she was thrilled to feel, for how it took the impact away from the abundance of personal appeal Rocco Santoro had been blessed with. "And do you have any idea how complicated and expensive it is to uproot a garden? Some of those trees have been there longer than I've been alive. The hydrangea bushes are fifteen years old. They wouldn't survive."

"There are specialists."

She made the universal sign of money. "Trust you not to think about something so simple as money."

"Need I remind you, I am offering a small fortune for your grandfather's house?"

"Need I remind you , that's his money."

"And if I were to include a settlement amount for you, Maddie?"

Her eyes widened. "You mean a bribe? To get him to sell?"

"He wants to sell," Rocco replied, his gravelled voice emphatic. "He is waiting for your agreement."

She rolled her eyes. "Why do you keep acting as if you have the answers to everything?"

"I'm good with people."

She laughed, a genuine laugh that morphed into something scoffing. "I'm sorry. You're being serious?"

"I understand what makes them tick," he amended. "Your grandfather is old, and his health is not as it once was. The maintenance of the house is beyond him; it pains him to see it growing more and more rundown."

"I help with?—,"

" Si," Rocco interrupted, leaning forward, so whether consciously or not, their legs brushed beneath the table and her pulse went haywire. "You help, and do you think he likes that? Do you think he likes seeing his fully-grown granddaughter still living at home, taking care of him? Do you think he enjoys knowing you have stopped living your life out of a desire to serve him?"

Her jaw dropped and her fingers fidgeted in front of her. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Am I wrong?"

Maddie's eyes swept shut. Was he? She wanted to immediately declare that he was, but the truth was, she hadn't really thought about any of this from Jack's perspective.

Maddie wanted him to stay in the house.

Maddie wanted him to be just where he'd always been—the only father figure she'd ever known, the only touchstone to familiarity and stability, a house that had come to mean more to her than a physical place, a house that had come to symbolize where Maddie belonged in the world.

It had always been important to her, but after Brock, she'd unconsciously retreated back into the cocoon of the house, the garden, of Jack. Just like when she'd been a little girl and had come to live with her grandparents, reeling from the fact her mother had chosen a life with her new husband over Maddie.

She tilted her chin, seeking a spirit of defiance that seemed determined to fail her. Suddenly, it all just seemed too hard. She was adrift, house or not, and she hated the feeling. "I don't know how this ends." She ran her finger over the base of her champagne flute. "I don't want to sell the house to you, but I get the feeling…"

" Si?" He leaned forward, so she felt the warmth of his breath and nearness.

"You're really not going to give up, are you?"