'Quite the opposite.' Parisa grinned. That he had felt guilty about the incident was pleasing and she did not question why. 'You see, I was Miss Shipley's star oars- woman, and the inter-school championships started that week. She was taking no chances on reporting me to the head and having her best performer grounded.'
'I didn't realise you actually could row. I thought that was just a ruse.'
'Row? I made the Olympic team when I was at university,' she said proudly, quite forgetting to whom she was talking. 'I was UK champion in the single sculls when I was nineteen.'
'Did you win anything at the Olympics?'
'No.' She sighed: it was her one regret in life. 'I didn't actually get to row,' she said honestly, a far-away look hazing her lovely eyes.
'Let me guess: you sneaked out of the Olympic village after curfew, and were grounded.'
Luc smiled encouragingly across the table, and she found herself telling him the truth. 'Not exactly. I made friends with Jan, a Dutchman, who was a pole vaulter. It was something I had always fancied having a go at. Anyway, he let me try his pole. Unfortunately I fell badly and broke my leg.'
To her astonishment he threw his dark head back and howled with laughter. What was so funny? she thought belligerently, the friendly atmosphere of the past few minutes vanishing as she felt her anger rise. She had been devastated at the time, and this oaf was laughing at her. 'It wasn't funny. I was absolutely gutted.'
'No, no, of course not,' Luc spl
uttered, fighting to contain his amusement. 'And your friend, did he win anything?'
'No. I'd cracked his favourite pole,' she said bluntly. Let him make a joke out of that and she would throw her coffee in his face. She should have known better.
How could a villain like Luc Di Maggi appreciate the work and effort that went into just getting to the Olympics? Whatever Di Maggi wanted he got by any crooked means he could.
'It could only happen to you, Parisa.' He shook his dark head. 'You cracked h...' Jumping to his feet, rubbing a large tanned hand over his mouth, he muttered, 'I need to shave,' and shot out of the room...
The man was obviously not quite sane, Parisa thought, as the sound of his laughter reached her from the bathroom. The temptation to get up and walk out was almost overwhelming. She actually got to her feet and walked into the hall. Only the thought of Moya's cries of the night before echoing in her head stayed her footsteps. No. She had promised; she had to go through with it. But had she?
The sitting-room door was invitingly open. She listened. The sound of running wafer told her Luc was still busy. Quietly she entered the room, crossed to the sideboard, and slowly opened the drawer. Her blue eyes gleamed triumphantly at the sight of the incriminating package. Carefully she picked it up and, spinning on her heel, ran swiftly back out of the room into the hall, and was soon at the front door, a smug smile of satisfaction tilting her full hips as her hand turned the brass doorknob. It had been so easy. She couldn't believe her luck... Damn! she cursed under her breath, twisting the knob the opposite way.
'I think you will find you need this...'
Slowly she turned. Luc was leaning against the wall about two feet away, his arm outstretched, a key dangling from his long fingers. She looked at him, and in that moment the full force of her actions over the past dozen hours hit her like a ton of bricks. A shiver of fear snaked down her spine. Too late she remembered that this man was a criminal, and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. With wary eyes she studied his still body, the firm, well-muscled contours of it now dressed casually in hip-hugging jeans and a black crew-neck cashmere sweater. She was forcibly made aware of the threatening, predatory character of the man.
While she had been disarmed by his friendly chatter over coffee he had been one step ahead all the time. He must have locked the door and removed the key as soon as she had arrived and now he was poised like some jungle panther ready to spring.
Parisa flushed hotly as Luc's gaze, black and hard as jet, swept over her, his eyes resting on the package she held in her hand. 'So, still trying to steal and run,' he drawled, slipping the key in his trouser pocket as he moved towards her. 'The car in the back lane again, I presume.'
'Presume away,' she snapped, avoiding his eyes. His hand curled around her wrist, and with his other hand he removed the package from her trembling fingers.
'Mine, I believe.' His mouth twisted cynically as he carelessly flung the photos on the hall table, adding, 'Unless you feel like earning them, Parisa, hmm?' and, grasping her chin between his thumb and finger, he tilted her head back so that she was forced to look at him.
She was angry and frightened, but she fought not to show it, and would have succeeded except suddenly she was aware of the closeness of his large body, the clean scent of him fresh from the shower. She tried to pull away, but his hand tightened on her jaw and a fierce sexual tension shimmered in the air.
She saw red at the darkening sensual glitter that flickered in his hard gaze. 'You're disgusting. Moya told me your terms—cash or kind—but you don't scare me. You, you sex maniac, you,' she spluttered, more afraid than furious.
He raised one dark brow.
“In kind", is that right?' He watched her for a moment in silence, then, letting go of her wrist, but still holding her chin, he ran one long finger around the outline of her lips. 'Yes, it might almost be worth it. Though most women wait until they are asked,' he commented sardonically.
She flushed. 'Why, you conceited '
'Basta, Parisa, I will hear no more insults from you. Either you come to Italy with me on Monday as we agreed last night, or I send the photographs to the newspapers. The decision is yours, but I can assure you, you have nothing to fear on the sexual front from me. I prefer my women slightly smaller, slightly fuller, and a lot more willing.' His hand fell from her chin and he stepped back, his handsome face devoid of all expression. 'I am hungry. You can tell me your final decision over breakfast. Wait!' And, turning his back on her, he picked up the photographs and walked into the bedroom.
Parisa watched him go with an angry frown. She did not know whether to be insulted or pleased that he did not fancy her. He had had no such qualms about her voluptuous friend Moya. But at least she supposed it was reassuring.
'Ready to leave now?' he demanded curtly.
He was still angry, she recognised, considering him warily as he pulled on a coat. 'I thought you wanted breakfast,' she could not help saying.