Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

T HIS WAS NOT THE FIRST time Portia had let herself into the wayward Marco Santoro's penthouse apartment, but experience didn't make it any easier. In fact, it was ten thousand times worse, because each of the three times she'd had to do this had been confronting in a new and different way.

First was the time she'd walked in to find him standing in the kitchen wearing only a pair of boxer shorts that left very, very little to the imagination. Then there was the time she'd arrived while he was in the middle of a poker game with friends and the testosterone in the room had almost made her vomit. But by far the worst was a month ago when her boss Dante Santoro had asked her to go to his debauched younger brother's apartment to get the password for some protected documents and she'd found Marco in the spa with a woman Portia was pretty sure she recognized from a Leicester Square billboard that her running route took her past most mornings. They'd both been naked, she presumed, though she didn't get close enough to ascertain that for a fact.

So it was with a degree of trepidation that she knocked, waited, hoping against hope that this would be the day he actually answered the door, dressed in something more than boxer shorts, signed the bloody documents he'd been supposed to look at earlier in the week, and she could be on her way.

Except…nothing.

She knocked again, harder, louder, muttered under her breath, "Oh, come on, you lazy son of a bitch," ground her teeth, then reluctantly reached into her bag and removed the key her boss had given her the first time he'd sent her here, as he offered a sheepish apology.

Dante Santoro, CEO of Santoro Enterprises, ruthless billionaire, was rarely sheepish. In fact, he was rarely anything other than arrogantly brilliant, except when he had to ask Portia to have anything to do with Marco Santoro.

She'd met all the Santoro siblings, and the parents, and cousins. In a family-run business like this, it was impossible to avoid, and she'd been Dante's executive assistant for eighteen months now, which gave her plenty of time to have been exposed to all manner of Santoro family members. They were all alike, with their dark hair, dark eyes, swarthy skin, strong bodies, confident, charming personalities.

All except Marco, who routinely arrived late to board meetings, if he even bothered to come at all. And instead of the bespoke suits the rest of the family wore as a matter of course, Marco, she was pretty sure, didn't own anything even remotely as restrictive as a tailored garment. He was more of a ripped jeans and t-shirt kind of guy. A perennial five-o'clock shadow the perfect foil to his often slightly too long hair.

She let out an impatient sigh as she unlocked the door, stepped just inside and called out, "Hello?"

No answer.

Great.

He was probably off sunning himself with whichever supermodel had caught his eye recently in Ibiza. Just the thought made Portia's spine straighten.

Men sucked.

All men, without exception.

She figured she was still very much within the window of a bad break up to be allowed to surrender herself to such jaded and cynical thoughts. It had only been six months. She'd gone from engaged and planning her wedding to realizing her fiancé hadn't understood that fidelity was an expected part of their relationship. He'd also had a penchant for women whose legs were far too long and breasts too big and eyes too wide set, and skin too flawless.

With distaste, Portia moved past the glorious, open-plan kitchen with expansive views of Canary Wharf, ignoring the benches that were littered with beer bottles and pizza boxes, into the lounge room that looked like it should have been on the cover of architectural digest with its Scandinavian mid-century furniture and impressive renaissance art.

"Marco?" She called as she stopped walking, so that the clacking of her high heels against the tiled floor wouldn't get in the way of hearing his response.

"It's Portia," she called, more hopefully. "Dante sent me."

Was it possible he wasn't home?

A muffled sound.

Coming from the direction of, if she wasn't mistaken, his bedroom.

Great. Just great.

She crossed her fingers without realizing it, sending a little prayer into the heavens that she not find him in bed with someone. It would be far too reminiscent of having walked into her home after succumbing to a tummy bug and needing to leave work early, only to discover Jack had also come home early—and not alone.

Pushing that awful imagery from her mind—it had been six months, when would she stop being tortured by that?—she kept walking, a strange twisty feeling in her stomach as she moved deeper into Marco's stunning home.

It smelled lovely down here, she realized, suppressing a groan at the unwanted thought. It was fresh, like a forest, and citrussy, and as she approached his bedroom she realized the bathroom was foggy, like it had only been recently used to shower in, and his body wash was the culprit for the fragrance.

Maybe he was awake, not alone? Maybe he'd showered with someone?

Her phone buzzed and she pulled it from her bag, quickly checking the message from Dante.

Any luck?

If she wasn't one of the best paid executive assistants in London, she thought with a grimace, she'd have been tempted to quit then and there.

Except, she loved her job. She loved working with Marco, who was brilliant, diligent, and respected her intelligence and professional strengths enough to frequently stretch her way beyond a traditional assistant's workload. He was forever challenging her, offering her opportunities, inviting her to travel with him. This was one of the rare times when he'd asked her to do something more like grunt work. And she knew why he didn't outsource this sort of thing to one of the pool assistants, shared between the executives.

He needed discretion.

Marco was something of a media darling, his charming, sexy, playboy persona combined with the family's stratospheric wealth, meant he was frequently in the scandal papers and all over the internet. His dating—or sleeping around—was a matter of great interest, and the prospect of being able to sell a tidbit of gossip about his latest conquest meant Portia was one of the few people Dante could trust to breech Marco's inner-sanctum. She didn't bother replying to Dante straight away; that would wait until she was in a cab downstairs, documents signed.

When no answer came to her knock on the bedroom door, she pushed it inwards and peeked around.

The curtains were drawn but enough morning light filtered through to make out the shape of Marco in bed and with relief, she saw he was alone.

A sheet was draped over his lower half, though one darkly tanned, hair-roughened leg was kicked out of the bed, and if she stared long and hard enough and followed the line of that leg upward, it would be to see the outline of his impressively firm bottom silhouetted by the billion thread count sheets.

"Marco." She stood beside the bed, arms crossed over her chest, willing him to stir. "Dante sent me. Wake up."

Marco didn't move.

Great.

Irritated and impatient, she reached down and jabbed a finger into his shoulder. His skin was warm and soft; her finger lingered a moment longer than necessary, then she withdrew it as though she'd been burned.

His features were similar to Dante's but somehow different. Dante was the oldest sibling, and his face had a harsh angularity to it, a symmetry, that spoke of strength and also of turmoil. Or perhaps the turmoil part came from knowing about his tragic past, and imagining that his loss and grief were imprinted on his harsh features. Or perhaps it was because he rarely smiled, and smiling could change a person's appearance so completely. Dante appeared to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, whereas Marco seemed to not even know what it was to carry any weight whatsoever. He was the epitome of carefree. Make that, careless.

He lived as though every day was his last on earth. He partied, flirted, slept around, lived the kind of life one might expect a person born into obscene wealth to enjoy. Except Portia knew he also played a valuable role in the company, purely by virtue of the fact he was a certified genius with a savant-like gift for numbers. He could achieve in twenty minutes of focused effort what many people might take months to fathom, meaning almost anything was tolerated from him.

"Marco." She raised her voice, jabbed his shoulder again, but this time he moved, reacting fast, one hand reaching out, grabbing her wrist, eyes blinking open—bleary yet somehow focused—and spearing hers, making it feel as though she'd been glued to the spot.

"Portia." He said her name with the hint of an accent and her stomach rolled uncomfortably. "What a pleasant surprise."

His fingers were wrapped around her wrist and for reasons beyond her comprehension, Portia didn't pull back. "Dante sent me," she said, her voice strangely light.

Marco's eyes narrowed. "You work too hard."

"That's what your family pays me for," she responded crisply, finally getting her head back in order and jerking her hand away. "You need to sign these papers."

"Which papers?"

"These." She reached into her bag and removed the envelope. "Do you need a minute to get dressed?" She prompted, eyes dropping of their own volition to his broad, naked chest, chasing the tattoo that ran horizontally beneath his right pectoral muscle, the cursive script just as difficult to read now as it had been the first and second time she'd seen him half-naked.

"Do you want me to get dressed?" He drawled, moving a hand to his chest, running it over the tattoo, then drawing it lower, down the mid-line of his impressively muscled body, towards the sheet.

A lump formed in her throat. She couldn't swallow, couldn't move, couldn't tear her eyes away. His hand went lower still, and her breath snagged in her throat.

"Yes," she said simply, trying to work out what she was responding to, if it was the right answer, if it was what she'd meant to say.

He lifted a brow. "Yes, what?"

Think, Portia, think. "You need to get dressed," she blurted out with relief. "I'll wait for you in the living room."

Except she didn't leave. Her feet still wouldn't cooperate. She simply stared at his body, transfixed by his striking masculine perfection. Marco didn't seem like someone who worked out and yet he must, because there was no way anyone had this physique without putting in some kind of effort.

"I can sign the papers here, can't I?"

"Here?" Her voice was squeaky. She controlled it with effort. "In your bedroom?"

His laugh was a low rumble. "You sound as though I've just propositioned you for sex, cara. Relax, you're not my type."

Something jabbed deep beneath her ribs and it galvanized her into action. "I'm glad to hear it. Believe me when I tell you having a man like you be attracted to me would be quite an insult. I'll wait in the living room. Hurry up."

She left his room quickly before foolish tears could spring to her eyes.

It had been six months. When would she be done with this feeling of hurt, betrayal and rejection? Of believing that she hadn't been enough for Jack? That if she'd been more fun, spontaneous, sexier, he wouldn't have cheated?

You're not my type.

Yeah, well, she hadn't been Jack's type either, apparently.

"Okay, Portia," his voice drawled, low and husky. Damn it! She hadn't expected him to come out so quickly. She blinked rapidly, hoping he'd be too hungover or drunk to notice the tears she'd had to stave off, taking an extra moment to remove the thick wad of papers from the envelope before laying them out on the table.

"Do you have a pen?" He asked, not looking at her. Thank God. It gave her a moment to process the fact he'd pulled on a pair of jeans, done up the zip but neglected the button, meaning they sat dangerously low, revealing those fascinating hip bones. A shirt had apparently been too much effort.

She studiously ignored his tattoo.

"Seriously? This is your house," she muttered, pulling out one of the three pens she always had at the ready. "What kind of person doesn't have a pen available?"

"I'm more of a digital guy. I keep telling Dante, this can be done online."

"Your lawyer wants paper," she snapped, wearied by everything suddenly. By Jack, by his affair, by her family's unswerving loyalty to him, their insistence that he was a good guy who'd just made a single mistake, who deserved a second chance. As though Portia was an unfeeling bitch because she'd broken off their engagement and refused to look back. She was weary of Marco too, of the way he lived his life and somehow got away with it, weary of men who acted like women were dispensable and good for only one thing.

"I'm surprised to find you alone," she murmured, passing a pen over. "I think that's a first."

He shrugged. "Does it bother you?"

"That there's not some naked woman here to contend with?" She asked.

"That there quite often is," he corrected, pinning her with his gaze once more. Sharp, astute, way more like Dante than she liked.

Something trembled down her spine; she ignored it. "I don't really care," she said stiffly. "It's your life."

"You seem to care," he responded, dropping the pen to the table without having signed the documents. "Or maybe you're just naturally very prim."

Something about this conversation was lined with danger, but she didn't shy away from it. He was speaking her own inner-most fears. Maybe if she could understand why she was so prim, Jack's cheating would make sense.

"You're wrong."

"About what?" He moved closer, eyes flecked with amber and gold, lined with dark black lashes, probing hers. "You not caring? Or your being prim?"

"I'm—," her tongue darted out, licking her lower lip. "I don't know."

He appeared to contemplate that. "Have you ever had sex with a guy anywhere other than a bedroom?"

She gasped at the question. "Marco," her voice held a warning, but the physiological response to his words couldn't be ignored. Her heart trembled, her cheeks flushed, her blood seemed to be racing through her body hard and fast. "How dare you?"

"That's not an answer."

Heat gushed between her legs. She glanced away quickly. "I'm?—,"

"It's a simple ‘yes', or ‘no' question."

"That you have no right to ask."

"What are you going to do?" He teased, moving closer, lifting a finger to her hair and tucking it behind her ear. "Dob on me to my brother?"

"Go to HR?" She responded but her voice wobbled and her knees were even worse.

"You could do that," he said with a shrug, then turned back to the table, picked up the pen and moved to the document.

Her ears were filled with gushing, rushing blood and she could hardly think straight, but she didn't want him to sign the documents because then she'd have to leave and as weird and wrong and totally unexpected as their conversation had been, it had also made Portia feel more alive and sensual than she had in a very long time.

Her heart slammed into her ribs as heat made it almost impossible to breathe.

"Do you really think I'm prim?" She asked, moving closer, pretending that she wanted to witness his signature. He etched his name on the page, placed the pen down deliberately and slowly, and straightened.

"I've speculated about it," he said thoughtfully. "Outwardly, yes, but there's always been something about you," he continued. "Something that makes me think you could be quite wild beneath all this," he gestured to her grey suit.

Her insides trembled. This was her boss's brother. Or was he technically her boss, given that she worked for the family business? Whatever. He was a total cad, a bachelor who changed women more frequently than most people changed sheets. He was definitely out of her league in terms of experience and, well, just about everything, really.

And yet…

She didn't leave.

She didn't want to leave.

She wanted more of this. More of feeling interesting. Sensual. Of feeling that someone like Marco might actually have been contemplating her wildness, or lack thereof.

It was just a question of ego. Hers had been badly battered and bruised, and suddenly she saw a way to feel better. Just for a minute. It couldn't go much further than this, but just letting him flirt with her was doing something to the deep, aching wounds of her soul.

He's your sort-of boss, an inner-voice screamed, but Portia blanked it.

"I think," she said, belatedly, realizing he was looking at her, as though waiting for an answer. "You'd be disappointed."

His eyes flicked to hers. "Is that an invitation?"

She gasped, unaware of having said as much, and yet, basically, yes. She had been inviting him to test his theory, to ascertain for himself the truth of his speculation.

"I'm asking," he said, after a beat, teasing. "For the record. In case HR requests to speak to me."

She swallowed, her throat shifting with the movement, his eyes dropping and lingering there. "I'm not going to go to HR," she said, jutting her chin.

"No?"

She shook her head.

"Because you want me to kiss you?" He asked, a mocking, confident smile on his lips that made her hate him even when she wanted him with every fiber of her being.

"I—you've kissed pretty much every other woman in England, so I guess fair's fair."

His grin was so sexy. Her stomach squished.

"Jealous?"

She snorted. "Of someone like you? Please."

"You sound jealous."

"I'm not, believe me."

"I don't." He reached for the pen and her heart thumped. Was he going to just sign the document? End this? Without kissing her? Her insides squeezed. She moved closer, looking over his shoulder as he reached not for the documents but for the envelope in which she'd brought them and wrote: I, Portia Mason, want to be kissed by Marco Santoro.

Her heartrate trebled.

"Sign it, cara ."

She stared at him, bewildered. "Why?"

"HR," he grinned, passing the pen to her, his fingers brushing hers so she startled, eyes wide. "Just so there's no doubt."

"I'm not signing that."

"Then I'm not kissing you."

She was trapped. She could walk away, refuse to sign the damned envelope, and never know what it felt like to be kissed by someone else, still live in a world where Jack's were the last hands to touch her, the last lips to possess hers. Or she could succumb, let Marco kiss her, work out if she did have some kind of sensual spark after all.

It was an experiment, pure and simple.

With a mutinous glare, she took the pen. "Fine. But I'm ripping it up afterwards."

"That defeats the purpose," he pointed out.

"And what's that?" Her hand hovered over the page.

"Insurance."

It wasn't stupid of him. He didn't know her, didn't know her ethics and moral fiber, but if in six months something happened and she got fired, what was to say she couldn't go to HR and make a complaint. She admired his level-headedness in the midst of whatever madness was circling them. Then again, maybe it was just proof that he wasn't as caught up in this as she was. Marco flirted like he breathed.

"Fine," she signed her name. "Go on. Show me what all the fuss is about," she snapped, crossing her arms over her breasts, and standing still, refusing to show how much she wanted this.

His smile was indolent as he closed the distance between them, his breath warm on her temple as he reached out and deliberately uncrossed her arms, holding them at her sides.

"Prim so far," he murmured, appraising her carefully. Then, he moved her hands behind her back, using just one of his hands to hold her wrists, trapping them so she couldn't move, and her breasts were thrust forwards, moving rapidly with each tortured breath that came from her body.

His other hand curved around her hip, super-heating her skin through the fabric of her suit. He reached for the middle button of her jacket, unfastened it, revealing the blouse underneath, the buttons of which were straining across her breasts.

"Perhaps not so prim, despite the way you dress," he mused, eyes on her breasts so even though he wasn't touching her she felt as though he was, and her nipples hardened, straining against the lace of her bra.

"Marco," she groaned his name, then tried to be rational and in command. "I don't have all day," she reminded him. "Your brother's waiting on those papers."

Something flickered in his eyes, a look that was halfway to a dark emotion, but then he covered it with a sensual grin.

"Impatient," he murmured, moving closer, so the word was whispered against her ear. Her body trembled. "But this should never be rushed. A good kiss is like wine, to be savored, enjoyed, each moment tasted and reflected upon."

Even the way he spoke lit little fires through her bloodstream.

"I thought you were more into beer than wine."

"You don't know me," he said, simply, and while it was true, it was also not true, because she'd seen him enough times to have formed a pretty good understanding of Marco and his lifestyle. "But that's okay. You don't need to know me to enjoy this."

Then, he kissed her, and the whole bottom fell completely out of Portia's world.