Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

" Y OU DID THIS." She waved a piece of paper in Rocco's face, hand on hip, stunning despite obviously being very, very angry. Or perhaps because of it? Her eyes glittered with emotion, her hair was wild and fiery red, her body trembled with barely contained emotion, and Rocco Santoro, about to go into a meeting with some consultants he was working with on the Hamptons project, stopped short and stared.

He could only stare.

It had only been a day since he'd seen her—two days, he supposed, if he was being technical, because she'd left in the middle of the night—and yet it seemed like much longer. She wore a pair of brown overalls with a chunky sweater underneath. It was the kind of outfit that a toddler would own and yet on Maddie, it looked, God help him, ridiculously hot. She was…fascinating. How could she pull together these colourful pieces of clothing and just make them work?

"Well?" She tapped her foot, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm waiting."

"As am I, cara. You have not explained anything."

"Don't you ‘cara' me," she moved closer, jabbing a finger at his chest, looking around as if just noticing they were standing in the foyer of his office. "Can we talk in there?" She nodded over his shoulder.

He gestured for her to precede him then glanced at the bank of receptionists a few feet away. "Tell my two o'clock I'll be late."

"Yes, sir," the closest nodded, reaching for her headset. Rocco swept into his office and closed the door, eyes absorbing Maddie, as she absorbed the view, the office, everything.

"Why do you live in a hotel?" she demanded, in the same haughty tone she'd used outside. Haughty, demanding, and angry. With him? Or herself, for letting things get out of hand the other night?

"Does it matter?"

"You have all this," she gestured to his office. "I presume you can afford an apartment, even at Manhattan prices."

"My place is out of action at the moment."

"Why?"

"You have a lot of questions."

"Aren't I entitled to some answers?"

"Because we slept together?"

She sucked in a sharp breath and looked away, her cheeks flushing pink. She was magnificent. "Yes," she turned back to him, eyes flicking with flames. "And because you've waltzed into my life and asked me all sorts of things. So?"

"My downstairs neighbour had a party. The guests fell asleep cooking, started a fire. It got extinguished quickly enough, but not before my apartment sustained smoke damage. Not to mention, the sprinklers went off, flooding everything. Suffice it to say, renovations were required."

"Oh." Her eyes widened. "Were you home?"

"Why, cara? Are you worried about me?"

"On the contrary," she tapped a finger to the side of her lips. "The thought of you lying in bed and being doused by the fire system is kind of funny."

"I'm glad I can amuse you."

"Only because you're okay," she said, on a soft laugh, lifting a hand in the air to forestall him thinking the worst of her.

"Is that your way of saying you care?" He asked it sarcastically, flippantly, but her eyes widened, and Rocco felt something twist in his gut. A warning, because she was going to deny it, and he didn't particularly want to hear her denial. "And what is that piece of paper anyway?" He asked, before she could answer his question.

She glanced down at it, almost surprised, as if she'd forgotten why she'd come to him.

"A contract."

He frowned. Was this to do with the house?

"For the provision of floristry services at a certain upcoming high society wedding? In Italy," she added, glaring at him, as though ‘Italy' was Dante's inferno.

"I see."

"Well, I wish I did. Why on earth would you do this?"

He clung to the perception Raf had given him. "My brother's getting married—it's a gesture of goodwill to his bride. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Gift them whatever you want—but why me?"

"You're a florist, aren't you?"

"And of course, Italy has no florists."

"The cachet of flying someone in from New York will appeal to Marcia."

"There are other florists in New York."

"If you don't want the job, don't accept it," he said, lifting one shoulder.

But Maddie was chewing on her lower lip, deep in thought. "Did you do this because of the house?"

"No."

"I don't believe that. Everything's related with you. It's—it's so much money, Rocco. Too much. They're offering me a King's ransom to do this one job, and if I take it, it's the nest egg I'd need—separate from the house. You wouldn't have to pay me off. I'd never have that on my conscience, at least." She drew in a breath, her brow furrowing, but before he could reply, she steamed on. "But then, isn't it the same thing? You've pulled strings to make this happen, it's just a different way of giving me the money, right? I don't want to be manipulated by you?—,"

He stalked across to her, taking hold of her upper arms, staring into her eyes, which had jolted to his the moment he'd touched her. "That's not what this is."

She hesitated a moment. "I don't believe you."

"Yes, I am the reason you were offered the job, but it's not to buy you off."

"Isn't it?"

"If anything, it's to salve my conscience."

Her brow knit together, deeper, tighter, her eyes showing confusion. "You have a conscience?" Her lips quirked in a soft acknowledgement of the sarcastic comment, but for some reason, Rocco felt the comment in the centre of his chest.

"You're a florist," he pointed out. "This is a great opportunity."

"Yeah, I know that. It's why I have the contract. It's why I didn't flat-out reject the somewhat pushy wedding organizer who called this morning. I know the kinds of doors this could open for me."

That was fascinating. He hadn't known what her professional aspirations were, only that she ran a small, well-regarded florist in the Hamptons.

"Do you have any idea how many weddings are held in Long Island every year? Not to mention Manhattan?"

"And you want a slice of that?"

"I love weddings," she said, biting down on her lip and hastening to add, "I mean, for other people. Commercially."

"Right." He was curious, of course, at her swift disavowal of her own personal affection for weddings. It was as though she needed him to know it wasn't something she thought of for herself.

"And doing this wedding, I mean, it would seriously open doors. But it would all be because of you , and how can I live with that?"

He arched a brow. "That's a question only you can answer."

"Damn you," she muttered, pulling out of his grip, stalking across the office before pacing back to him. "Damn you," she said again, shaking her head emphatically. "You said it, right in the beginning: everyone has a price."

"And this is yours?"

"I love my business," she muttered.

"And only a fool would walk away from a deal like this. You're not a fool, Maddie."

"I know that." She chewed that full, pink lower lip of hers, so he totally lost his focus. "But I swore I wouldn't accept anything from you."

He stared down at her, wondering at her pride, her pique. Wondering at why it irritated him, when in the past, he'd felt the opposite—irritated by the women who'd fawned all over him because of what he was—a Santoro, a billionaire, a man with powerful connections the world over. Already made into a cynic about relationships and love, it had further hardened something inside of him, convincing him that sex was transactional and meaningless. In exchange, he was generous—with gifts, travel, the luxuries that were easy for him to share.

"I am gifting your services to my brother and his bride. You are being paid for a professional service."

She glared at him as if he'd just threatened to kill a pet cat.

"And in exchange, you want me to hand over the keys to our house, right?"

"You don't owe me that."

She rolled her eyes. "So, you're not manipulating me?"

"No."

"Because it kind of feels like it."

"Why do you have to look at everything through a negative lens?" He challenged.

"So, being wary is bad?"

"No, being wary is fine, but you're way past wary. You're so cautious you're cynical to the point of self-sabotage."

She expelled an angry breath. "Do you think if I do this, I'll forgive you for the whole house thing?"

"There's nothing to forgive. I'm buying your grandfather's house, paying a more than fair price for it. In what way have I offended you?"

She rolled her eyes. "You know the answer to that. And as far as I know, no one's signed on the dotted line yet."

"No, but he will. Because you're starting to see all the angles, aren't you?"

"Damn it, you're a condescending piece of work," she snapped, crossing her arms. But they were standing so close that the simple action brushed her forearms against his chest, and he felt a spark that turned into a cascade of fireworks. He glared down at her: angry, irritated, and flooded with white-hot need.

"Am I wrong?"

She glared up at him, her lips parted in anger and defiance, her eyes dropping to his mouth, her chest moving rapidly with each breath in and out.

"Am I wrong?" He repeated, more slowly, one hand lifting to her cheek, holding her steady, then drawing her closer.

She compressed her lips, then opened her mouth again to speak, but never had the chance. Rocco kissed her instead, tasting the furious retort she'd lined up, tasting her venom and frustration, whipping her tongue with his own and vice versa, his large, broad body pushing hers backwards until she connected with the wall and was imprisoned by him, totally in his thrall, held captive by their desire, his strength, and the way he was possessing her—as if he were possessed by a force so much greater.

The air between them sparked with the force of a thousand suns as the wildness of the kiss morphed into something else. Hunger and anger, it turned out, were two entirely compatible sensations. Kissing her like this stirred something inside of him to a fever pitch, and he was not alone. It was Maddie whose hands were moving with fervent desperation, pushing first at his shirt, ripping it from his pants and unbuttoning it, a small, fevered cry of relief flying from her lips when it separated and revealed his bare chest. She dropped her mouth and kissed him there, flicking him with her tongue, running her hands over him, moving lower to his belt and unfastening it quickly, dropping it to the floor before pushing his trousers down. He stepped out of them, losing his shoes in the process, turning his attention to her clothes, needing to see her with a similar degree of desperation as if his whole life depended on it.

She helped, ripping at her own clothes just as she had his, so his hands were free to roam her body, to feel and remember, to shift over her hips, her sides, her breasts, her nipples, her shoulders and neck, her back, the indent at the base of her spine, her buttocks, which he gripped and then used to lift her, wrapping her around his midsection and carrying her to the large, leather sofa, laying her there, taking a second to admire the contrast of her creamy skin against the black of the furnishing. He strode to his desk and removed a condom—he was always prepared though, in truth, he'd never done this here before. In Rocco's experience, business and pleasure were never wise to mingle.

So, why now? Why was he ignoring wisdom and sense and walking quickly back to Maddie, unfurling the protection over his length as he went so as to avoid any time wasting? Because the moment he brought his body over hers on the sofa, he was sinking into her, burying his full length in her wet, moist core, groaning at the tightness that almost threatened to overwhelm him.

But Maddie was meeting him, arching her back, wrapping her legs around his waist to draw him deeper, to hold him there, to make him a part of her, just as he was desperate to be. He groaned, a guttural, animalistic cry drawn from the depths of his soul, and when he moved, it was not gentle or inquisitive, it was not even with any thought or consciousness. He was totally and utterly at the will of passion—his and hers, the way it had combined in them to make his soul flame. He thrust deep, cried out, saw an answering response in her face, felt her nails dig into his back, moved again, deeper, harder, until she was writhing beneath him, her voice high pitched, her cries fevered, her explosion obvious, even if he wasn't feeling her release in the spasm of her muscles around his length.

It was a tipping point, an impossible battle to fight. He couldn't hold on. He couldn't make it last. He was tumbling over the edge of an abyss, all pleasure and hedonistic surrender to passion driving him, so he kissed her hard as he exploded, his mouth dominating hers in the same way his body was, his frame so much larger, and yet it was Maddie who had driven this, Maddie who'd dictated the pace, the desperation, the need. Maddie who had owned this moment.

He pulled up to stare at her as the last wave of his orgasm slowed and then ceased, as his body surged with the warm aftereffects of pleasure and release, as he grappled with the overwhelming sense of knowing he still needed more of her.

That this wasn't enough.

That they weren't done, even when he hated that knowledge. Because he'd never needed anyone before. He'd never been in a relationship with a woman who'd threatened his ability to just get up and walk out. Being true to that had been a guiding principle in Rocco's life.

It wasn't as though he thought he'd want Maddie like this forever, except, even understanding that she had any kind of hold on him whatsoever was troubling.

But he was Rocco Santoro, a man who ultimately had to trust his abilities and strengths, a man who knew enough of himself to know that when push came to shove, he'd do whatever was needed to stay true to himself.

To being alone.

To fighting for his family, their success all that mattered to him.

For now, though, there was Maddie, and Maddie was someone he wanted more and more of. He had no option to control this, to acknowledge the limits of what they were and always would be—and then he could simply sit back and enjoy the ride.

"Come to Italy with me."

In a splendidly post-coital fog of pleasure and relaxation, her eyes jerked open and landed on Rocco with a screeching thud. She tried to see if he was joking, to search for a laugh in his eyes, but there was nothing. Just a look of consideration. Curiosity, even.

She shifted a little, but he didn't move off her, and secretly, Maddie was glad. She liked the way he felt inside her, she liked his weight on her body, his warmth, his strength. She even liked the feel of his breath against her temple, warm and somehow tethering to reality.

" With you ?" Her voice was unnaturally high in pitch, and a little quivery.

He nodded slowly. "Why not?"

"Because—I hate you—," she said, then laughed, shaking her head, because it was an over-simplification of what she felt for him. She lifted a hand and pressed it to his chest, not to push him away but to keep him close. To feel the thumping of his heart and to remind herself that despite everything, he was still a flesh and blood human, someone who deserved—no matter what he'd done—at least a modicum of kindness. "And it's complicated."

"It's complicated," he agreed with a slight flicker of a frown, something that spoke to her, because it was so honest and raw, and because it made her realise that all of this was as unexpected for him as it was for her.

"So complicated," she reiterated, even when there was no need to emphasize this.

"Let's remove the house from your considerations."

"But we can't. It's one big tangle. The house, and this, and now the wedding…"

"The house sale is inevitable. I recognize that you are not yet ready to admit that, but I think we both know…"

He had the decency to let the sentence trail into nothing. She blinked away, shocked to feel the sting of tears at the backs of her eyes.

"As for this, it's unexpected, but not unwelcome. It's sex," he added, for a clarity that wasn't needed. "Neither of us is in the market for more than that, right?"

He was right about that. She'd never make the same mistake again.

Rocco continued, "The wedding is work; ultimately, it has nothing to do with me. But you'll be in Italy, you'll need accommodation, and I have accommodation."

He was just so arrogant, so self-assured. So confident he had absolutely everything in order, she couldn't resist the chance to take him down a peg or two. To knock him, just a little, just for a moment.

"Wait a moment," she managed to affect a tremor to her voice. "Are you saying—you're not interested in me?"

He glanced at her with a quick downward quirk of his lips. "Interested, as in…"

"This is really just sex to you? I don't mean anything?" She whispered, as though that was the most devastating thing in the world.

Panic widened his eyes. "You were the one who said that. Outside your shop. You made it clear?—,"

Damn it, she had. He was right. Still, it was fun to toy with him. He was just so deserving of a little torture. She was quite sure no one had ever dared before. "But that was then, this is now. Now we've slept together, multiple times. Surely that means something? "

He pulled away from her with such alacrity she felt an instant pang of loneliness, a familiar ache of desertion.

Desertion, her worst fear.

Abandonment.

Neglect.

She set her jaw, staring at him with a look that was wounded—and not completely faked.

"Maddison, listen, you're very beautiful, and this is wonderful," he gestured to her. "But I thought I'd been clear. I'm not interested in anything outside of this."

"Am I not good enough for you?" She demanded, throwing herself into the role of jilted, unwanted, spawned mistress with much delight.

"This isn't about you. It's me. I'm not— cut out for anything more than this."

Her lips quirked as she worked hard to suppress a laugh, but she wasn't fast enough, and Rocco was far too astute. His eyes narrowed, his observational skills kicking into gear.

"You're unbelievable," he ground out, stalking back to her as Maddie stood, so they were toe to toe. "You're mocking me."

"I'm teasing you," she replied with battered lashes. "There's a difference."

"Not to me," he ground out.

"Come on, Rocco. Lighten up. Isn't this supposed to be fun?"

He stared at her, surprise evident in his handsome face.

"You want to have fun with me?"

Her heart fluttered. Her brain squeezed. Her breath burned. Fun with Rocco Santoro? On the one hand, he was the man responsible for potentially ruining her life. Only, it wasn't her life he was ruining so much as her sense of safety in the world, her safety net, her nest. He was ripping the rug right out from under her, but maybe, just maybe, that wasn't the worst thing after all. What was that expression, about a door closing and a window opening? He was slamming a door shut that she had always wanted kept ajar. He was slamming it shut and doing so without her permission. But, he'd also jammed up a window, all the way to the ceiling, making it so easy for her to step through it was almost laughable.

A chance to do the flowers at an A-List wedding, with no cap on budget, several high-profile fashion magazines bidding for exclusive photographic rights…it was a dream come true. And maybe it would be the start of something new and exciting for Maddie.

Either way, how long had it been since she'd just let go and lived a bit?

Since she'd done something spontaneous?

Even as a child, she'd been preternaturally cautious, thrown into the role of ‘responsible adult' in the house when she was still in the single digits. Then she'd come to live with Jack and Lorraine, her doting grandparents, but it hadn't been very long before Maddie had been caring for them, too. Brock had been her first boyfriend, the first time she'd let herself go, had started to think maybe she could trust herself to make good judgements in relationships, that she wouldn't be just like her mother.

And look how that had turned out.

She tilted her chin defiantly.

She was not her mother, and this would not be something she came to regret. With Rocco, so long as she stayed in the box seat, completely in charge of things, it would be fine.

"I want to have fun," she said with a slow, decisive nod. "And then I want to get on with my life—without you in it. Okay?"

His brows drew together. "Which means?"

"I'll come to Italy with you. I'll do the best damned flowers in the world for your brother's wedding. And I'll back out of the house matter. It's Jack's house, so it's his decision. But I can never forgive you for your part in that, and I will never get over it— no matter how much fun we have, that will always be in the back of my mind."

He returned her slow, considered nod. "You'll never forgive me."

"Do you blame me?"

He thought about that long and hard. "It's not personal. It's business."

"That's a cop-out."

"No, it's true. Of all the homes I have purchased in that street, you are the only person who's looking at me as though I am the devil incarnate."

"Perhaps I'm the only one who's gotten to know you?" She bit back with saccharine sweetness.

"Perhaps," he surprised her by agreeing, but then he pulled her body close against his, all naked and warm, and she inhaled his intoxicating masculine scent with a small sigh. "Italy and then we're done," he said, as if making a promise to himself. "That will be the end of it."

"Yes," she agreed, thrilled with the clearly drawn boundary. There was no chance of losing herself to him, and this, if such scaffolding existed. No chance whatsoever; she was perfectly, sensibly safe.