Feeling vaguely ill, she put down the champagne and stared as the golden bubbles detached themselves from the side of the glass, rose, and popped.
Her feet hurt, and for what? For nothing. Among all the wealthiest, most handsome, most educated men in Chicago, she could find no one to help her forget Alan. To forget his deceit, her humiliation, the incredible disappointment.
She smiled bitterly as she listened to Gwynne’s rambling commentary on marriage to a doctor and the sacrifices she’d made for his career, and reflected that Kim would be relieved to hear that Brandi would spend the night alone huddled under a comforter in a chaste bedroom in Uncle Charles’s house.
“They’re starting the buffet,” Gwynne said. “I had hoped Stan would get here in time to eat with me. I know it’s not a big deal, but it’s nice to have a guy to stand with you so you don’t look like the world’s biggest loser—Oh, my God. It’s the count!”
Gwynne’s tone made Brandi straighten away from the bar. “The count?”
“Roberto Bartolini. He’s an Italian count.”
“You mean like Count Chocula?” A count. C’mon.
“No. How can you look at that man and think children’s cereal? All I can think is slow hands and hot sweat.”
Brandi had been disappointed so often tonight, she couldn’t work up the energy to turn and take a look. She just hunched a shoulder and took another sip of her drink.
But Gwynne burbled on. “I heard him talk on the news. He has this voice like Sean Connery, only Italian. He has only the faintest accent”—Gwynne measured his accent between her thumb and forefinger—“but you know he’s not American because of the words he uses.”
“Italian words?” Brandi asked sarcastically.
“No, English words, but . . . you know . . . long words.”
“Like spaghetti?” Wow. Sarcasm was becoming a way of life.
“No. Flattering words. Words you don’t hear every day. Like magnificent. And postmodernism. And . . . I don’t know . . . ancestry. He uses words like an artist uses a brush.”
“All right. Fine.” Gwynne was in such an ecstasy of awe, amusement and genuine panting lust, Brandi took a chance, swiveled on one her of stiletto heels—and froze.
The crowd had parted, and there he was—sex in an Armani suit. Roberto Bartolini was tall, at least six-four, with shoulders that made ballerina Brandi imagine how easily he would lift her, spin with her, hold her. . . .
“See? What did I tell you?” Gwynne fiercely poked Brandi in the ribs.
He was Johnny Depp without the eyeliner. Like a pirate, he stood and surveyed the room from beneath dark, hooded eyes that looked amused and unsurprised by the interest he roused. His shoulder-length dark hair was swept back from his tanned face, leaving the stark compilation of features unadorned and glorious, like a harsh and savage mountain range. His mouth was a wide slash; his lips were full, firm, supple, the kind that made Brandi, and every other woman in the room, shiver with anticipation.
More than that, he carried himself like a man who knew his worth and was certain of his welcome. He had more than money, more than breeding, more than looks.
He radiated charisma. And power.
“Is he married?” Brandi demanded.
“No, but what difference does that make? You’re engaged. I’m married. We can only look at the menu; we can’t order off it.”
That’s what you think.
“Not that I’m complaining or anything. I mean, Stan’s a good guy, but he can’t compete with Roberto Bartolini. Look at him. He’s rich. He’s foreign. He’s a world traveler, and he just got in from Italy.”
Uncle Charles walked toward Roberto with his hand outstretched, pleasure in every step.
With slight smile, Roberto shook his hand, and Brandi caught her breath at another glorious aspect of Mount—or rather, Count—Bartolini.
Gwynne moved closer and wiggled as she prepared to impart the most important piece of information. “And get this—”
“Sh.” Brandi laid her hand on Gwynne’s arm. “Be quiet and let me enjoy the view.” And soak in the fact that fate had, for once, played fair with Brandi.
He was the one. He was the Matterhorn and she was going to scale him.
Placing her glass on the bar, she stood the way they’d taught her in ballet class: arms softly curved, back straight, chest out. Her scarlet gown glowed like a jewel among the black fashions. She glittered with rage and the need for revenge. And she looked at Roberto Bartolini. Compelled him to look back at her.
His head turned as if he heard her summons. He sought her in the crowd.
She knew he would see her.
The instant he focused on her, a thrill shot up her spine.
He took in the sight of her quickly, then with lingering appreciation.
Then he looked into her eyes.
Gwynne’s babbling faded from Brandi’s consciousness. She brought air into her lungs. Her heart pumped. Her sexuality stirred. She was, for the first time in her life, a creature of instinct, concentrating on one thing and one thing only—the satisfaction of her own body. And without words, this man with his smoky sensuality and smoldering eyes promised he would give it to her.
Noticing nothing, Uncle Charles stepped between them and waved a hand toward the diamond’s display case.
Roberto’s response was all that a host could wish, but he stepped aside so once again he could see all of her.
She smiled at him, a faint, feminine taunt.
“Love ’em and leave ’em . . . reputation in the ‘love ’em’ part is terrific.” The volume control on Gwynne’s voice must have been broken, because Brandi could hear only a few phrases.
“Yes,” Brandi breathed. “I know.” Deliberately she turned and strolled slowly toward the corridor that led to the private living quarters. She paused in the doorway. How long, she wondered, would it take him to find her?
6
Roberto wondered what the woman wanted.
He wondered if he would give it to her.
If it was what he was hoping, he would. Who could resist a magnificent creature like that? Her hair was caught in a loose chignon at the back of her head, and strands of bright gold brushed her cheeks and kissed her rosy lips. Her scarlet gown stood out among the sleek sophisticates with their everlasting, dreary black. Her body made him catch his breath—all long, long legs, rounded hips, narrow waist, and a bosom that would have made Botticelli weep with joy. From this distance, Roberto couldn’t discern the color of her eyes, but the expression in them challenged him. Beckoned him.
“Thank you for coming, Roberto.”
Roberto jerked his attention to Charles McGrath, the head of his law team.
“Your presence will add a most interesting element to the mix here.” Charles’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
“No, thank you for having me. Not all men would have the courage to court such notoriety.”
Charles laughed. “The promise of meeting you and your notoriety got many of these guests here and their wallets opened.”
“For such a good cause, I am honored to be of assistance.” Roberto liked the older man. Charles McGrath was a remarkable combination of kindness and ruthlessness, shrewdness and hospitality. Certainly he knew how to summon stunning women to his parties.
“Shall I let her at you?” Charles asked.
For a moment Roberto thought Charles meant the lady in red. But no, a female in her late thirties stood not far away, staring at him in the manner of a ravenous crocodile.
“Of course. I’m here to meet your guests.” Roberto glanced again at the lady in red and allowed himself a moment of cold logic.
Fate was not usually so kind as to offer, without strings, an anonymous woman of beauty for his delectation. So the strings must be there. Invisible, but there nonetheless. “As you have instructed me, I must be careful what I say to reporters. How will I recognize them?”
“All of them are wearing their press identification badges,”
Charles said.
“Ahhh.” The lady in red had not been wearing a badge.
“The badges are big, they’re white, and they’re obvious. I personally made sure of that, and made it clear the consequences to their newsgroup should anyone remove them. The women aren’t happy about that—they complain the badges ruin the cut of their gowns—but I say that’s the price of doing the job.” Charles lowered his voice. “I know I’m an old curmudgeon, but I liked the days when men had the tough jobs and women were more decorative.”
“Ah, didn’t we all? Now so many of them insist on using their brains for things other than pleasing their men. It is a disgrace.” Roberto chuckled, amused by his own chauvinism.
But Charles didn’t chuckle. He nodded. He was, like Roberto’s father in Italy, of a different generation.
With an eye to the magnificent creature in the red gown, Roberto said, “But I do beg your pardon. I may have to retire early. I fear I suffer from jet lag.”
“Of course. An hour of genial conversation should do it.”
“I’ll make the hour count.” Roberto exchanged a smile with Charles. He glanced toward the lady in red and saw her disappear into the depths of the house. He took a step after her.
Then the best of Chicago society rushed him. They did so elegantly, of course, with more class than the paparazzi, but still they rushed.
Charles introduced Amanda Potter, one of Chicago’s leading architects. She flashed her smile and her bosom. “Mr. Bartolini, I’m so pleased. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting a real . . . Italian count before.”
The woman was too old to successfully carry off coy, but Roberto bowed over the hand she extended to him—the hand sporting a ring with a handsome emerald in a white-gold setting.
“What a striking stone.” He touched it lightly. “From Colombia and, of course, two point one carats.”
She gasped in amazement. “That’s . . . that’s absolutely right.”
While the crowd murmured, Roberto allowed his gaze to touch each face and then each jewel. Some guests stepped back. Most pressed forward.
A party trick. He performed nothing but a party trick, but it impressed them.
And when his duty was done, he would follow that gorgeous lady in red.
More women greeted him with flutters and flattery. Men shook his hand and expressed their admiration. The press followed, cameras at ready. Everyone wanted to pose with him for photos.
Charles steered him toward the right people, introducing him to the mayor of Chicago, two senators, and the fashionista who hosted a reality television show teaching American women proper fashion sense.
He did not like her. She despised her audience. She was insolent and rude.
But she liked him. She fawned on him, putting her stamp of approval on him. “Mr. Bartolini, you look fabulous in that suit. Armani, isn’t it?”
For this he was not pursuing the woman in scarlet? “I don’t know. I don’t pay any attention to names. It’s so bourgeois, don’t you think?” He smiled into her eyes, mocking her pretensions.
She drew back. She didn’t like him anymore, and she attacked like the beast she was. “So, Mr. Bartolini—or should I call you Count?”
“Mr. Bartolini will do.”
“Are you going to go look at the Romanov Blaze?”
“The Romanov Blaze?” He cast a deliberately bewildered glance around him. “What is that?”
As he intended, the crowd laughed. He walked toward the display case, away from that dreadful female, and he found himself anticipating his first glimpse of one of the grandest diamonds in history. He enjoyed seeing the guards tense as he approached, and quickly assessed the security they’d rigged up. Very impressive. Lasers and pressure pads, not to mention the heavyset, cold-eyed guards. He acknowledged them with respectful nods—his grandfather had taught him to show respect to those assigned to futile missions.
They nodded back, hulking men who itched to tackle him on any pretext.
And there it was, glittering beneath the spotlights—the Romanov Blaze. It sparkled with hypnotic splendor, and for one moment he forgot his surroundings and smiled to see such beauty.
But while he admired the diamond, it was cold and hard . . . unlike his magnificent creature. He wanted the woman in scarlet.
He had given Charles and his guests fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of being suave, continental, mysterious, everything they wanted and expected.
Now he excused himself and walked down the hall after the mystery wrapped in scarlet silk. He glanced into one doorway after another until he saw her, gleaming like a ruby in the dim setting of McGrath’s library. She stood by the fireplace. She gazed into the flames, a faint smile on her lips, and in profile he could see the different facets of her beauty. In the firelight, her pale skin glowed like burnished gold. She’d taken off her shoes, yet she was still tall, the kind of woman with whom he could dance—among other things—and still look in her face. Her hand clasped the mantel, and her upraised arm proved she took her health seriously, lifting weights to sculpt her bare shoulders. The silk gown caressed her body, outlining the lift of her breasts and her bottom.
His eyes had not misled him. She was, indeed, a magnificent creature.
Turning her head, she observed him with such amusement it was clear she had known he stood there, and posed for him. And she wore only a thong beneath that silky gown—or if he were lucky, nothing at all. One-carat sapphires at her ears, yet her eyes contained a warmer blue flash than any cold stone.
“Glorious,” he said.
“Thank you.” She knew what he meant and acknowledged it without false humility.
Stepping into the room, he shut the door behind him. “I think you want to talk to me.”
She glanced down at the floor as if she sought the right words. Then she straightened her shoulders, turned fully to face him, and lifted her chin.
She looked, suddenly, less like the dream he’d been seeking all his life and more like a professional. A professor, or more likely a lawyer.
Or FBI?
Yes, of course. An agent from the FBI.
Abruptly his pleasure in the encounter cooled. Tucking his hand into his jacket pocket, he waited.
“For tonight, I would like to sleep with you,” she said.
Roberto’s hand clenched into a fist inside his pocket, and the flare of excitement lit again. Not FBI. Not unless they’d significantly changed their tactics.
“I have my reasons. I don’t expect you to inquire about them. But I need . . . a night . . . a man . . . I need you. I’ve never done this before, so you don’t need to worry about wearing a number or being a notch on my belt. You don’t have to worry that I intend any kind of entrapment. My purpose is solely for my own pleasure. And yours, of course, I hope.” She waited for a response with a stillness that betrayed fierce emotions tumbling beneath the surface.
Not FBI.
A groupie?
Possible.
The first spy placed by the Fosseras?
A theory worthy of note.
Or perhaps she was a gift from fate to offset the ruin of his good name.
She grew discomfited by his silence. Looking down, she searched out her shoes and donned them one at a time. “But before I continue, perhaps I should ask whether you’re interested.”
“Interested?” There wasn’t a straight man in Chicago who wouldn’t give his right arm to stand where Roberto was standing now. The crackle of the flames and the faint sound of her breathing broke the silence in the library. He strolled toward her, and when she lifted her head and shook the golden strands of hair away from her face, he smiled with all his charm. Lifting his hand, he let it hover an inch away from her chin. “May I?”
He had thought she would relax toward him. Instead, like a spinster schoolteacher allowing a liberty, she gave a stiff nod.
Ah. Not experienced. Not a groupie.
She smelled good, like a flower that bloomed in the night. Like a woman with s
ecrets. Slowly he slid his fingers under her chin toward her right ear, taking pleasure in that first, all-important contact with her skin. The texture was as velvety as it looked, and warm with the heat of the fire and the heat of her need. He touched her earring, a gorgeous sapphire, then caressed her lobe, tucking her hair back. Like a cat, she turned her cheek into his hand.
A sensuous creature who liked to be stroked.
She watched him from the most amazing cornflower-blue eyes, her expression solemn, as if he were her teacher and she an earnest student. She had a way about her that nourished his ego—an ego his mother regularly told him needed no feeding.
Leaning over, he kissed her lightly, a brief brush of the lips. He wanted the slightest taste, an exchange of breath, to see if they were compatible . . . and with that, he wanted more. He pressed his finger on her full lower lip. “Are you worried that your lipstick will smear?”
“The makeup artist promised that when all the rest of me has turned to dust, the lipstick and the mascara will be left.”
He grinned. She was funny.
But she didn’t grin back. She was stating a fact. She pressed her hand to his chest—a touch firm with determination. “I would like a kiss. A real kiss. I want to know if it will be as good as I think, or if good sex is a myth fostered by movies and fed by loneliness.”
A deliberate challenge? Perhaps. And perhaps she was ingenuous. Certainly love had cheated her somehow.
He still grinned as he leaned toward her again and gave her what she wanted. Lips parted, tongues meeting, sliding . . . for the first time in years, a mere kiss took the world away. He closed his eyes to better savor the taste of her—champagne first, then as he explored, her own flavor. Sweet brown sugar melted on uncertain yearning. Cool cream poured over warm desire.
She was like a grand cru wine from the vineyards of Bordeaux—expensive and worth every sip.
He forgot deliberation. He forgot restraint. He pulled her close, crushing the delicate material of her dress, craving the slide of silk against her bare skin. His other hand slid beneath the nape of her neck to hold her in place. He bent her back, holding her weight against him, and experienced her through his mouth, through his body, through the scent of her and her hold on his lapel.