He tore his lips away from hers as the elevator pinged to a halt and, although the doors opened, he stayed perfectly still and so did she. The tense silence punctured only by their laboured breathing, he dragged oxygen back into his lungs as he stared at her. ‘I want you, Lizzie Bailey,’ he said unsteadily.
‘And I...well, I want you, too. I imagine that’s pretty obvious.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Just a bit.’ He could barely articulate his next words as the elevator doors closed again and still they hadn’t got out. ‘So, little Miss Redhead. What are we going to do about this?’
‘This?’
‘Do you want me to spell it out for you in words of one syllable?’ he questioned huskily. ‘Are we going to have sex, or not?’
Her cheeks grew even pinker, as if she were embarrassed by his choice of words, and that rush of colour made him realise exactly what he was asking of her. Suddenly, Niccolò was appalled at himself. Her sweet blush reminded him of her inexperience—not only around sex but, by definition, around men, too. It reminded him that he could offer her nothing but brief pleasure. No lasting commitment, nor even any lasting protection. Especially not protection. His heart twisted. Why the hell was he coming onto her like this, despite all those stern pronouncements he’d made about staying away? Wouldn’t he be putting her in danger if they ended up making out—and here, of all places? In the damnedelevator? Had he learned nothing at all, or did he still excel at making disastrous choices?
Breaking away from her, he felt the wash of self-contempt. ‘This isnotgoing to happen,’ he stated angrily. ‘We are not a couple. We were never intended to be. And if we start having sex, the boundaries are going to be blurred even more. For you, especially. Do you understand what I’m saying, Lizzie?’
Lizzie met his heated gaze, her natural indignation that he should speak to her in that rather patronising way blotted out by a keen sense of curiosity. She wanted to know what he’d meant when he’d stated he was a bastard earlier, in that flat and empty voice. She wanted to know what had caused that terrible look of anguish to tauten his sculpted features a minute ago. But how could she ask him when everything was complicated by her physical reaction to him? The tension between them was stretched so tight she suspected it would take very little to snap it. One move from her and she suspected he would be kissing her again and making her melt helplessly beneath the seeking pressure of his lips. And that could end with only one conclusion.
With an effort she pulled herself together, because maybe he was right. Maybe it was better this way. Donna had implied that women had always thrown themselves at him and although Lizzie couldn’t blame them, she didn’t intend being one of their number.
‘I understand perfectly, Niccolò,’ she answered calmly. ‘If you don’t want to, then we won’t. It’s not a problem—in fact, it’s probably the most sensible outcome, if I stop to think about it. But now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time I went to bed. It’s getting a little...heatedin here.’
His face was a picture of frustration and disbelief as she turned away, but suddenly Lizzie felt empowered by her actions as the elevator doors slid open once more. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was the right thing to do—and sometimes that was the best you could hope for. She knew he was watching her as she walked along the seemingly endless corridor and only once she had closed her bedroom door behind her did she let out the breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding.
She stared into one of the mirrors, noting the brightness of her eyes and her flushed complexion—but besides the signs of sexual desire, the tilt of her chin was resolute and she allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. She might not have much money or prestige to her name, but at least she still had her pride.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LIZZIEGOTVERYlittle rest that night, despite telling herself that not sleeping with Niccolò had been the best possible outcome. She lay tossing and turning and trying not to think about the man just along the corridor, but her unconscious mind was refusing to play ball. Every time sleep beckoned, the Italian’s gleaming gaze and sensual lips kept flashing up behind her closed eyelids. She wondered how she would be feeling this morning if theyhadended up in bed together. She wouldn’t be filled with this aching sense of frustration, that was for sure.
She stared out of the windows at the night-time sky, which never really got dark in New York. Coming to America had seemed like the only sensible choice when Niccolò had made his offer, but it had always been a move fraught with danger. And the biggest danger was the way she felt about him. Still. She swallowed. It was relatively easy not to think about someone in a romantic sense when all you were doing was sharing the occasional meal, surrounded by swarms of staff—all eager to gain the billionaire’s approbation. Less easy when you’d been kissing passionately in the lift and come within a hair’s breadth of going back to one of the many rooms for a taste of the intimacy she’d been craving.
Staring at her phone, she saw it was still only three a.m., and sighed. It didn’t seem to matter how much she told herself she shouldn’t want the Italian billionaire after everything which had happened between them. The truth was that she did.
But, lest she try to delude herself,hehad been the one to call a halt to it—using brutal words calculated to wound. He couldn’t have made it plainer how he felt.He didn’t want his baby and he didn’t want her, either.That was the bottom line—and continually putting herself in the line of temptation was surely counter-productive. Wasn’t it time to stop obsessing about Niccolò Macario and start focussing on what was best for her and the baby?She pulled the duvet up to her chin and snuggled beneath it. She needed to start thinking about going back to England and what she was planning to do when she got there. And that was a conversation the two of them needed to have some time very soon.
Eventually, she drifted off into a fitful sleep and it was gone nine when she awoke to a room which was unnaturally bright and she looked out of the window to see snow falling and big white flakes swirling down past the skyscrapers. The Manhattan skyline resembled one of those miniature snow globes you sometimes saw in museum shops, though when Lizzie peered out of the window on her way to the bathroom, she noticed that all the snow had all melted by the time it hit the pavement.
Tying her hair up and wrapping a scarf around it, she covered her dress with a smock she’d bought specially for working. The painting of Blanche was taking shape and she needed to finish it and give it to Lois before she went home. But it was the other portrait she was working on—a black and white drawing of Niccolò—which was infinitely more tempting. She’d never been so absorbed by one of her subjects before, her movements rapid and insistent, as if the pencil which stroked its way over the paper was a poor substitute for her finger.
She hurried along to the dining room, her appetite huge this morning. There had only been canapés at Donna and Matt’s party and everyone knew they never filled you up. But as she sat down, it was a bit of a wake-up call to discover how quickly she had adapted to her new role as a rich man’s guest, rather than as a person used to serving such a guest. It was remarkably easy to get used to plonking herself in a chair and telling somebody else what she’d like to eat, and breakfast had become her favourite meal. Often, Niccolò would be draining the last of his coffee when she appeared at the door of the dining room, his black hair still gleaming from the shower—sending out the erroneous illusion of intimacy and closeness.
But not today.
Today, the room was empty, save for Kaylie. How stupid that his absence could make her heart sink, even after everything he’d said to her last night.
Kaylie began to spoon out fresh fruit. ‘Signor Macario left very early,’ she announced. ‘He said to tell you he’s going to Pennsylvania. Would you like eggs?’
‘No, thank you. Fruit will be fine,’ answered Lizzie, shaking out her napkin and trying to do her blueberries and coconut whip justice, though she couldn’t stop wondering why Niccolò had gone to Pennsylvania, or why he hadn’t told her.
As soon as she’d finished eating she sought the distraction of work, in the small space she had made her own. She had been wrong when she’d counted six rooms in Niccolò’s suite, because one morning she had stumbled across a box room—largely empty, except for a couple of suitcases. She had asked one of the porters to move them and reposition a desk there, so that it looked out over the city and was the loveliest workplace she had ever used. Best of all, it was north facing with a beautiful clear light and it wasn’t long before she was lost in her growing portrait of the tiny white bichon frise.
After a lunchtime sandwich, she resumed painting, pleased with the shape it was taking, so deep in thought that she didn’t hear the door open, or close again. She didn’t hear anything until the sound of Niccolò’s voice disturbed her.
‘They told me I’d find you in here.’
She didn’t turn round. She didn’t dare. Her heart was hammering and her breathing had quickened and she didn’t want him to see that. There was plenty she needed to say to him and she needed every bit of clarity and calmness she possessed in order to do so. ‘Well, you’ve found me,’ she remarked. ‘I thought you were going to Pennsylvania.’
‘I was. I rescheduled.’
‘It wasn’t important?’
