“Alas, ma’mselle, but there are no taxis. Not on a rainy Paris night. I promise you, Tessa is harmless.” There was a note of amusement in his accented voice. Italian, she thought. Probably some faux count or prince. Assured of his charm, knowing she would give in or appear hopelessly gauche.
And like Drake, she’d been brought up to be impeccably well-behaved, even with dubious European royalty. She didn’t rise to the bait, ask him how harmless he was. She gave in, rather than argue, and because she couldn’t imagine the harm in it. She’d seen their pictures on tabloids, Paris Match, French People. They were hardly going to turn into murderers preying on slightly gauche reporters.
“You’re very kind, m’sieur.”
“You may call me D’Angelo,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue as the amusement sparkled in his warm brown eyes.
“It’s a lovely name,” she said inadequately.
“But not, I am afraid, accurate. I have little in common with the angels. And you are?”
She flushed. Her manners really had gone down the toilet. “I’m Madison Banks. I work for the Tribune.”
“A reporter,” he said, delighted. “I love reporters. Tessa, not so much. But that will be our little secret. We will tell Tessa that you’re a student, shall we?”
“I’m a little old to be a student.”
“A graduate student then. At the Cordon Bleu.” He smiled down at her. He put his large, warm hand beneath her elbow and she jumped. “Come along, Miss Banks. We will see you safely home.”
CHAPTER THREE
Maddy settled back into the butter-soft leather of the limousine, trying to relax. Tessa Parker had been all slightly dazed cordiality, and as she felt herself maneuvered through the crowds she wondered if the woman had had too much champagne. She would have felt a lot better herself if she’d had a nice, single malt Scotch under her belt.
D’Angelo had taken the seat facing them, his back to the driver. It was a full-sized limo, and he was able to stretch out his long legs without touching them. She’d been afraid he would sit next to her, but there was plenty of room in the car, and she’d been handed in next to Tessa, who was so small and frail a good gust of wind could blow her away.
“You’re very kind to do this,” Maddy said, hiding her ridiculous nervousness, focusing on the woman next to her and trying to shut out the amused brown eyes across from them.
“But of course, Miss Banks,” Tessa Parker said smoothly. “You looked so forlorn standing there that it seemed like the kindest thing to do. D’Angelo agreed with me, of course.”
She relaxed slightly. For some reason she thought it had been the man’s idea, and the idea had unnerved her. Instead it was simply a kind gesture on the part of a fellow American.
The afternoon with the man must have unsettled her even more than she thought. Here she was suspecting dire motives from everyone she met. These were the glitterati – they would have no interest in someone like her apart from an act of random kindness. Though she wouldn’t have thought acts of kindness were much in their repertoire. Even if they’d known she was a reporter they were the kind of people who avoided cameras and journalists, rather than seeking them out. And she was not much more than a newbie, lucky enough to be working freelance in Paris thanks to her family connections.
“Who was the man you were with?” D’Angelo murmured as they swept by the rain-wet streets. “He seemed very much in love with you.”
“Ah, D’Angelo is such a romantic!” Tessa said fondly, her voice slightly, delicately slurred. The man smiled mockingly but didn’t demur. As far as Maddy was concerned his girlfriend was dead wrong. This man was a cynic, through and through.
But she answered his polite question anyway. “My boyfriend. God, that sounds absurd at my age. He’s presumably about to become my fiancé, but since I haven’t said yes yet I’ll simply have to call him my boyfriend.”
“Like D’Angelo,” Tessa said.
Maddy couldn’t help it – her eyes met the man’s eyes, and he smiled wryly, the knowledge passing between them, whether she wanted it to or not. Her so-called boyfriend was nothing at all like D’Angelo. No one was.
“You’re tired, Tessa,” he said in a soothing voice. “Go to sleep.”
To Maddy’s uncomfortable surprise Tessa did exactly that, immediately closing her eyes. Maddy met his gaze again, and held it, refusing to look away. “Do you practice some kind of mind-control on her?” she said, not bother to mask the asperity in her tone. “Or is that simply a post-hypnotic suggestion?”
He didn’t bother to react, apart from a possible glint in his dark eyes. “She takes drugs,” he said calmly. “There’s nothing I can do about it, but it’s better if she sleeps for a bit. You could have probably put her to sleep the same way. Shall I wake her up and we’ll try it?”
She looked at him with sharp dislike. “It’s not a game, it’s a disease.”
“You have a very soft heart, Miss Banks. Around here we tend to think of it as a moral failing, or at the very least a weakness. Tessa has been given everything in this life – wealth, beauty, even a decent amount of brains, though you’d never know it. And she’s chosen to throw it all away.”
She stared at him. “This from a playboy?”
He laughed. “Why do I bother you so much, cara? Haven’t you run into your share of playboys? You’re part of the Banks family, aren’t you? The political dynasty that has still managed to hold onto its money and power over the generations. You must have had gigolos lined up at your door.”
She took a deep intake of breath. “You’re very well-informed for someone I’ve never seen before. Is that what you are? A gigolo? I’ve told you, I’m already well-taken care of in that regard.”
“I wonder,” he murmured, and there was just the faintest taunt to it. “In fact, I tend to have a very good memory, and I majored in world politics at university. The Banks family took up a fair amount of study time.” He smiled at her, a guileless, enchanting smile that she trusted not one whit. And yet her skin warmed beneath it. “And no, I’m not a gigolo. Merely someone with too much money and too much time on my hands. And Tessa is very beautiful, is she not?”
Maddy glanced over at her. Even in sleep she was exquisite, like some fairy princess, frail and delicate. There was a time in her life when she would have given anything to look like that. She hadn’t felt that way in years. Not until tonight. “She is.”
“So why, then, am I so attracted to you?”
She froze, turning her gaze back to him, expecting mockery. There was none. There was heat, strong and direct, and she could feel it between her legs, on her breasts, everywhere.
She let out a shaky laugh. “Not that I’m not flattered, Mr. D’Angelo,” she began.
“Just D’Angelo,” he murmured.
“That’s affected.”
“Yes,” he agreed courteously. “You were saying? You are flattered but …?”
Her annoyance should have put a stop to that treacherous thread of arousal that was dancing through her body. But then, it had been there all day, ever since being locked in with a man who should have appalled her and instead seduced her. “I’ve had a very strange day,” she said. “And while it’s lovely that you’re suddenly overcome with lust for me, I think the smartest thing would be to decline whatever it is you’re offering. Even if I weren’t practically engaged, I’m just too screwed up today to consider a one-night stand, even with someone as pretty as you.”
Still that lovely smile. “Merci. I think you’re pretty too.”
She didn’t snort derisively – that would have been fishing for compliments. She knew she was reasonably attractive – just not when she was sitting next to one of the most beautiful women in the world.
“So I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she ended, pleased with herself.
He shrugged, the gesture effortless in the beautiful dinner jacket. “Feel free to change your mind.”
“I’m hardly likely to.” And if she d
id, how was she to tell him? Send a bat signal out her fourth floor window?
She suddenly realized they had stopped moving, and she had the absurd notion that now that she had rebuffed his unlikely advances he was going to kick her to the curb. But the door opened, the driver standing there with a large umbrella, and she recognized the familiar shape of the small apartment house in the Marais district. “We’re here,” she said, feeling somewhat foolish. She turned to D’Angelo, but he’d already slid out of the car and taken the umbrella from the chauffeur. “Watch over Miss Parker,” he said to the man, and then held out his hand to her.
She looked at it. She would have expected rings of some sort, but he wore none, and his hands were large, tanned, graceful-looking. Pampered playboy, she thought, wishing there was a way to avoid touching him without being gauche, but she had no choice, and she put her smaller hand in his.
She controlled her instinctive jerk of surprise as he pulled her from the limo. His hands were calloused, as if he were used to hard work, which of course was impossible. And the desire he felt, the desire that she knew perfectly well flowed between them, was a live thing between their hands, their skin.
She pulled free the moment she reached the wet pavement. “The rain has stopped,” she announced. “And I can take it from here. Thank you so much for your kindness …”
He had already folded the umbrella, handing it back to the chauffeur before taking her arm in an unbreakable hold that was even worse than his hand on hers. Even more erotic. “I wouldn’t think of not escorting you to your door, Miss Banks.”
“I live on the fourth floor, and there are no elevators.”
“I will try not to hyperventilate.”
There was nothing she could do. He was too strong, too determined. She wasn’t afraid of him, she told herself. She’d told him no, and he would hardly descend to raping her. In truth, he could have just about anyone. On a different day, he might have even had her.
But the memory of the man in the darkness still haunted her, and she wasn’t going to let her odd, lingering arousal push her into making a terrible mistake. Besides, the man beside her was probably lousy in bed. He was so good-looking he wouldn’t have to make much of an effort, and most women would still be grateful.
They moved up the stairs in silence, though each time she tried to tug free his hand tightened, and she wondered if she’d have bruises. She had climbed these narrow flights of stairs for months now, considering it her own form of cardio-vascular exercise, but tonight she was rushing it, desperate to get away from him, and she was growing winded from the effort.
“You don’t need to run,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not that bad.”
She didn’t respond, saving her breath. By the time they reached the top floor she was suddenly regretting her haste. What did he intend to do once they got there?
He released her then, holding out his hand. “Your keys?”
She didn’t want to give them to him, but she had no choice. She reached inside the Judith Lieber handbag and fished them out, handing them to him. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and gave the keys back to her.
She didn’t move. He was going to kiss her. She’d allow him that much, because she wanted so much more. She wanted the implicit promise of his body, she wanted to fuck the crazy, hot confusion out of her own. She wanted this day, with these twin, insane attractions, gone, but not without a deep, rich taste of him.
“Good night, Miss Banks.” Without another word he was gone, and she heard him descending the stairs.
She was so damned tempted to lean over the stairwell and call to him. To curse him, to call him back, she wasn’t sure which. Instead she went into her apartment, triple-locked her door, and breathed a deep sigh of relief and regret.
He could have had her. Constantine knew if he’d pushed it he could have had her a dozen times, including on the back seat of the limo while Tessa slept on. He’d considered shoving her up against her door, pulling up her vintage Balenciaga and fucking her senseless. He’d seen the digital recorder in her purse, and she would have dropped it as she was caught up in the fury he knew he could inspire in her. Knew, because he was feeling that same rage, a maelstrom of need that threatened to burn him up.
He was semi-erect and he didn’t give a damn if it showed, though the chauffeur, who was gay, was much too polite to gaze at his employer’s boyfriend’s crotch. And Tessa was too spaced to be aware of anything.
The smart thing to do was take her home, close his eyes and screw the hell out of her while she dreamed, only half awake, picturing Madison Banks’s ripe, creamy flesh instead of the bony mass beneath him. The loose dress had exposed Madison’s shoulders and the tops of her breasts, and he’d been enchanted, mesmerized, in love in the best possible way. A fantasy he could dismiss with a snap of his fingers, but a lush one while it lasted.
That was, if he were smart.
Right then he wasn’t feeling smart. He’d killed two men today. He’d told an inquisitive reporter too much of the truth and too many lies as well, and allowed her to record it. There were people skilled enough to hack their way through the voice distortion, leaving him exposed.
No, he needed to retrieve that recorder. And smart or not, he needed to get inside Madison Banks and see if he could make her come as hard as he was planning to.
Simmons drove them home through the rain-damp streets, the lamplights reflecting off the water and sending strange shadows into the car. The chauffeur was driving fast, but there were no paparazzi following them. They were a bunch of pussies—give them a heavy rain and they’d rather spend their time in some bar, drinking, than chasing their meal tickets.
Just as well. He didn’t want cameras anywhere around him tonight. Not when he considered what he was planning to do.
He carried Tessa’s frail body into the back elevator used for the hotel’s more famous guests, up to her suite of rooms. He laid her down on the bed, stripping off her clothes. She wasn’t wearing underwear, and she didn’t own any nightclothes. He pulled the covers up to her chin, then brushed her hair out of her exquisite face. Her handlers would yell at her tomorrow for sleeping in her makeup, and she’d pout at him, and he’d enact the enraged lover and then there would be the tender rapprochement. He could play the part perfectly.
He brushed a kiss against her forehead, then stripped off his jacket, tie and vest and tossed them across a chair. For a brief moment he considered his work clothes – the all concealing black would be perfect for what he’d suddenly decided, but there was some, unlikely part of him that was repulsed by the idea. Sex and death. Fucking and killing. So different, and yet so alike.
He shoved his key in his pocket and headed out, the hunter in search of a different kind of prey. Knowing he had lost his mind.
Maddy took another shower but it did absolutely no good. Her skin still felt hypersensitized. Was there such a thing as Spanish Fly? She felt as if she’d ingested some. She was aroused, on fire, edgy and restless. The thought of going to bed was unbearable – it was still early, after all. Her mind was going round and round, and the more she tried to avoid it the more obvious it became.
Sex. It was all she could think about. It had started with that terrifying interview, the sly questions that the anonymous, distorted voice had asked oh-so-gently instead of the other way around. And then, mere hours later, D’Angelo’s dark eyes, his touch on her skin, his outrageous conversation.
She was hardly his type, she thought with a rough laugh. Her breasts were full and high, her hips rounded, her thighs and calves muscled from walking but definitely there. She was a woman, not a stick-thin waif, and she was comfortable in her body.
Except when she thought of his eyes, comparing her to Tessa Parker.
Fuck that, she thought, pushing him from her mind with her usual firm discipline. She wasn’t interested in having sex with either an assassin or a playboy. She was just interested in having sex.
Which was perfectly normal. An appetite, li
ke any other, and it wasn’t her fault that it had come over her like a PMS craving for chocolate. She could deal with it.
She took the ancient flannel robe from the bathroom door and wrapped it around her plain white underwear. She’d stolen it from Drake, and it was so soft and comfortable it would wrap her in a cocoon of safety. How could you feel aroused in white cotton and ancient flannel?
She poured herself a nice glass of Beaujolais, just because. She didn’t like to drink alone, but there were times when it was the best thing to do. She turned her stereo on, to a mix of French and English music, Charles Aznavour and Marc Lavoine, Jacques Brel and Florent Pagny. And of course Piaf.
And still she felt it. That clawing, aching feeling, the need to have sex, to have it right now. She headed for her phone, desperate to hear the sound of Drake’s voice. Desperate to have him there.
And then she put down the phone without dialing. She wanted him to blot out all the confusing, overwhelming, arousing feelings that were swamping her. But she knew it wasn’t Drake she wanted.
The flannel had been a bad idea after all. The familiar softness, instead of soothing her, aroused her, the touch on her skin more erotic than silk.
She moved around the apartment, lighting the candles she kept but seldom used. She felt hot, and she went over to the doors leading to the narrow balcony, pushing them open to wet night air.
She leaned over the iron railing, looking out into the night. She loved Paris when it rained, the smell of the water on the sidewalks and buildings, the soft wind that usually came with it. Paris had brought her senses alive. It was no one’s fault that tonight, for some unknown reason, they were suddenly overloaded.
She turned away, pouring herself another glass of wine. She’d already turned off the electric lights, and she moved to the high-backed wing chair she’d found at an antique store. There was no hurry. She could sit here and listen to the rain and drink her wine. The night was hers.