A large hand curved around her shoulder and she tensed defensively; she had not realised Luc was so close. 'The bathroom is that door.' Luc gestured with his free hand.

'Thank you,' she said, wishing he would leave.

'So polite, when not five minutes ago you were calling me a liar. There is a penalty for that kind of talk, Parisa,' he informed her silkily.

She should have known he would not let her comment about his mother go unanswered.

'I warned you before, but obviously you need a few more lessons in how to behave as my fiancee.'

His strong arms locked around her. She tried to push him away. 'Really, Luc, aren't you being rather childish?' she admonished. But the hard intent in his black eyes barely wavered at her ineffectual attempt to break free. 'Let go...' was as far as she got.

His dark head lowered. She turned her head to the side, determined to avoid him. But when his teeth bit lightly on her exposed neck, she shuddered. If anything it was worse than a kiss. His lips trailed up and over her jaw, while all the time his arms kept her pressed tightly against his hard body. She could feel the steady pounding of his heart, the deep, appreciative growl, as his mouth finally found hers, and within seconds she was lost in the expertise of his kiss.

It didn't matter what or who he was, she thought wildly. He just had to touch her and a million nerve- ends caught fire. What was happening to her? David never had this startling effect on her, and she liked him. Whereas Luc, a man she despised, with one kiss could turn her bones to jelly. A soft moan escaped her as Luc's lips left hers. Was it regret?

'Interesting, Parisa, wouldn't you say?' he asked throatily. 'An unexpected bonus, my little cat burglar.' She stared, her blue eyes wide and wary. He tipped back her head so he could look down into her flushed face. 'You want me.'

'No...' she husked, fighting for control. She could feel the heavy pressure of his muscular thighs against her long legs, and, more, the hard pulse of his arousal. He might have declared she was not his type, but his body obviously wasn't aware of the fact, she thought, swallowing hard and trying to wriggle away, but to her horror it appeared to arouse him more.

'Hmm. Nice, Parisa, very nice.' He moved his thighs against her.

'No, no, you're mad!' she cried, and with an almighty shove at his chest she tried again to break free.

'Stop fighting, cara. You know you want it as much as I do,' he growled, his arm around her waist, lifting her so her feet left the ground and she was helpless in his hold.

His lips nuzzled at her neck and she felt the blood rush through her veins. Her slender hands wrapped around his neck and when she felt his large hand cover her breast through the fine wool of her sweater, her nipple tightened in a sudden aching want. Dear heaven! What was happening to her? She had never felt this way before, but, some imp inside reminded her, she had once-as a young girl, and with the same man.

'We are two consenting adults, Parisa. Don't fight it.' He whispered the words against her mouth before once again his mouth covered hers, his tongue pressed and gained entry, and hot warmth flooded from her mouth to her breast to her loins in a single arrow of delight.

It was only when she felt the softness of the bed at her back that she finally realised what she was inviting and with whom. She panicked, and, striking out wildly, she shot across the bed and off the other side, to stand trembling a couple of feet away.

'You-you animal! Don't touch me!' she cried. Luc sprawled on his back on the bed, his dark eyes searching her flushed face intently. He looked so out of place: huge and dark in his black trousers and cream and black sweater on the white, feminine bed, but the look in his eyes was definitely come to bed, Parisa thought, her heart pounding. 'You said I wasn't your type-you promised,' she bit out, stunned by her own response.

'So I've changed my mind, and why not? You enjoy it; as I remember you always did. Before you were too young, but now,' he drawled throatily, 'there is nothing to stop us, hmm?'

She stared at him in amazement. He wasn't angry or joking-he meant it! It was natural for him to have s.e.x with any woman he fancied without a qualm.

'Come back here, Parisa.' He stretched out a large tanned hand coaxingly. 'I promise I will make it good for you.' And he had the gall to smile, a slow twist of his shockingly sensuous lips.

Parisa saw red, and a few other colours besides. The arrogance-the b.l.o.o.d.y conceit-of the man was unbelievable.

'I wouldn't go to bed with you for all the tea in China,' she fumed. 'You're a blackmailer, a crook, and probably a member of the Mafia. What with your company airplane, your Ferrari, this place...'

To her amazement Luc burst out laughing. 'The Mafia,' he howled, rolling around on the bed. 'Parisa, you are a delight...' he spluttered.

Parisa did not think it the least funny. 'Even your own mother mentioned "the mob". Do you think I'm altogether stupid?'

She had no idea how beautiful she looked. The silk scarf had fallen from her hair, so the platinum ma.s.s tumbled around her shoulders in disarray as she stood quivering with anger and the residue of pa.s.sion, her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s taut against the wool of her sweater, her lips swollen from Luc's kisses, and her blue eyes glittering like sapphires in their panic and rage.

Luc's laughter stopped. His dark eyes narrowed, a dull flush swept up his handsome face, and he seemed to catch his breath. Then, very slowly, he sat up, his intent gaze sweeping over the trembling Parisa from head to toe, as though he had never seen her before. He ran his hands through his thick hair, brushing it off his brow, and once more glanced at Parisa.

'What if I said I was not a blackmailer?' he asked softly.

Parisa snorted. 'I wouldn't be here if you weren't.' And she caught a fleeting expression of surprise on Luc's face.

'True,' he admitted, and, rising from the bed, he walked towards the door. He turned with his hand on the handle. 'My mistake, Parisa. I did promise I would not touch you. We dine at eight-thirty. And, by the way, my mother used the word "mob" because her English is not good, no other reason.' And he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Parisa stared at the door for a long time, not sure what to make of Luc's behaviour. He was a complete enigma to her, one moment making pa.s.sionate love to her, then a minute later declaring it was a mistake, and in a lightning change of mood he was a polite, sophisticated host. How she wished she had the ability to switch off her emotions so casually.

For some reason she had absolutely no resistance to Luc Di Maggi's particular brand of loving. He was thirty- seven years old, a man of the world, and she could only guess at the kind of world he inhabited. Maybe his mother had made a mistake with her English. But Luc had not actually denied being a member of the Mafia. She shivered. This whole episode was light years outside her experience.

She led a quite country life in East Suss.e.x, with an occasional trip to London to the theatre or a show. Apart from being always short of money, she was reasonably content. After the death of her parents and grandmother she had been left pretty much on her own, perhaps because she was considered locally to be a minor aristocrat, and was expected to mix with the hunting and shooting brigade. Although she was a sportswoman, blood sports had never interested her. She found them barbaric, and consequently her social contacts were limited. But the friends she did have, like Moya, and Didi, and a few others, she was intensely loyal to. As for male companionship, she had David. His kisses did not stir her, and she was not serious about him, but he suited her. Nice, uncomplicated David... If only she were with him now.

Luc was not the sort of man anyone would describe as uncomplicated. There was something about him, an aura of strength and power that had nothing to do with his size, but the personality of the man. She should never have come to Italy... It was a bad mistake. She should have talked Moya into calling the police, and let them deal with Luca Di Maggi. For some inexplicable reason, just one glance from Luc's black eyes, one touch of his hand, and she reacted like a giddy teenager. She knew he was a blackmailer. She recalled the tearful, terrified face of her friend. There was no possible doubt that the man was outside the law. So why did she suffer from this intense physical attraction to him? It was crazy. Her common sense told her he was despicable, but her traitorous body blazed at his touch.

She sighed. G.o.d, how she wished she were back in England with David. At least with him she was in control. The woman was not born who could control Luca Di Maggi.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Parisa told herself to think of the business on hand, to remember Moya. But it wasn't easy. She cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to ease the heavy fullness Luc's touch had aroused, and willed the ache in her stomach to subside.

She collapsed on the bed, her head in her hands. Nothing made sense. Moya had called the man a slime ball and opportunist. Yet Luc Di Maggi did not fit that description. A woman would have to be blind or senile not to be aware of the raw masculine appeal of the man. Parisa had kissed a few boys over the years, but none had ever affected her as instantly or as erotically as Luc. Certainly not David.

She felt a twinge of guilt. Poor David. She wasn't serious about him, but she knew he was hoping eventually they would marry, and up until now she had not bothered to disillusion him, being quite happy to have an escort who was safe and reliable. She had not mentioned her trip to Italy on Sat.u.r.day night, and she realised she had been less than fair to him.

She stood up and walked to the bathroom. Perhaps a cold shower would help clear her brain. If she could get the last three days into focus, maybe she could find the clue to Luc's character, or lack of it...

The bathroom knocked every thought out of her head. It was like stepping into a gigantic mirror. She felt herself cringing at the million reflections of herself. A huge circular Jacuzzi followed part way the shape of the outside wall, surrounded by what to Parisa's stunned gaze looked like a platform of jungle plants. There was no way she was climbing in that, she thought, and instead, trying not to look at the walls, stripped off her clothes, and stepped warily into an equally large double shower. She did not linger under the spray: the gold-plated fixtures, and, even worse, the naked couple engraved in the gla.s.s shower door, had her face crimson.

Hastily she grabbed a large, fluffy towel from a gold towel rail fixed to the wall by naked gold cherubs, and shot back into the bedroom, wrapping the towel firmly around her. The delicacy of the bedroom seemed at odds with the eroticism of the bathroom. And then she realised she had used the bathroom on the opposite side to the one Luc had indicated. Fast on that thought came the realisation that the bathroom must lead directly to Luc's room, and the knowledge did nothing to calm her overwrought nerves.

Someone had already unpacked her suitcase, she noted, no longer surprised by anything that happened in this house. She opened the wardrobe door, and found her few clothes neatly hanging in a row. She had only brought two dresses. In fact she only owned two decent formal dresses. She pulled a dark blue velvet dress, the least fancy of the two, from the hanger, and, trying the drawers, she found her underclothes.

Briskly rubbing herself dry, she stepped into a blue lace teddy, with the suspenders attached. She sat down on the bed and carefully pulled silk stockings up her long legs; then, straightening, she slipped the velvet dress over her head. She crossed over to the mirror and smoothed the fabric down over her slim hips.

Not bad, she thought, eyeing her reflection. The dress was a simple fitted sheath with slightly padded shoulders, and long, narrow sleeves ending in a point over her wrists. The skirt was straight and clung to her slender thighs, ending just on her knees.

She sat down at the dressing-table and proceeded to apply the minimum of make-up to her pale face: a light moisturizer, a touch of blue eye shadow, a sweep of her long lashes with a dark mascara wand, and, to finish, a gentle brush of her cheeks with blusher to add a little colour. She brushed her long hair until it shone like white gold, and deftly swept it up into a chignon on top of her proud head. Lastly she applied a pink lip-gloss to her full lips and sprayed her neck and wrist with her favourite perfume: Dior's Dune-a Christmas present from Moya.

Parisa sighed, a feeling of helplessness enveloping her. She had never felt so alone in her life, and she wasn't sure she could handle the situation. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were full and slightly swollen, and was it her imagination, or were her eyes a deeper blue? She wasn't sure she knew this woman who stared back at her.

Parisa was used to being in control of her life. She liked to think caution was her middle name, but what if there was some truth in her deep-rooted fear that maybe she had inherited the reckless nature of so many of her ancestors? She didn't want to believe it, but the fact was that she was in a foreign country, pretending to be engaged to a man she hardly knew and didn't trust. Was that the action of a sensible woman? she asked herself soberly.

Squaring her shoulders, she stood up. The answer was simple. Yes, because the alternative was the ruination of her best friend's future happiness, and Parisa was not prepared to let that happen. Moya was her reason for being here, and if she had any hope of getting through the rest of her stay in Italy she must keep that fact firmly in her mind. It was worth putting up with Luc if it meant her friend could marry Simon with an easy mind.

She turned once more to the wardrobe. She found the matching soft French navy leather high-heeled shoes and slipped them on her feet. She was ready for anything, she told herself sternly, glancing once again at her reflection as she headed for the bedroom door. She decided to go downstairs and explore a little. Anything rather than take the chance that Luc would come back to the bedroom for her.

She stepped into the hall and turned, her blue eyes widening at the sight of Luc walking towards her. He looked magnificent in a black formal dinner suit, the white silk of his shirt contrasting sharply with the suntanned bronze of his skin. She felt her heart leap and the colour heightening on her cheeks as his gaze flicked from the pale silver gold of her hair to the blue velvet encasing her shapely form. She instinctively lowered her lashes, hoping to mask the devastating effect he had on her senses from his worldly eyes. Ready for anything, she thought ruefully. Anything, except the potent appeal of Luc Di Maggi...

'Good, you're ready. I was on my way to collect you,' he said smoothly, stopping only inches away from her. His fingers caught her chin, and he tilted her head up, the better to examine her lovely features.

'You look stunningly beautiful, Parisa.' His glance slid down her body and back to her face again, his dark eyes gleaming into hers. 'And you definitely warrant the t.i.tle "Lady"-a very elegant lady,' he said with quiet sincerity.

'Yes, well, thank you...' she stuttered. Her flesh burned beneath his fingers, and her body was aware of him in every pore. She could not tear her gaze away from his. He was watching her, motionless, as though by the sheer force of his personality he could bend her to his will. She knew he was going to kiss her, and it took all the will-power she possessed to step back and, ignoring the simmering tension, say lightly, 'Shall we go down? Your mother will be expecting us.'

'Coward.' His mouth curled in a knowing smile, but he allowed her to walk past him and down the stairs, although she was conscious all the time that he was only a step behind her, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end in p.r.i.c.kly awareness.

Dinner was an interminable affair, Parisa thought, as she eyed the thousand-layer cake on her plate. She would never be able to eat it. Already she had consumed a fruit juice, a plate of pasta in a Genovese sauce, and Veal alia Marsala. The conversation had been stilted, to say the least. However hard she tried, she could not act naturally with Luc. She told herself it was because she disliked him, and all he stood for, but deep down inside she had a growing suspicion that the opposite was true. She found it so difficult to be natural with him because she was intensely aware of him in a way she had never experienced before. She resented the unaccustomed feelings and consequently responded to him curtly as a form of self-defence.

'Easter wedding is very nice, yes, Parisa.'

'I don't think so.' Parisa answered Signora Di Maggi rather bluntly, but was not quite able to say a flat 'No'. The old lady's delight in the engagement was so obviously genuine, and in other circ.u.mstances Parisa couldn't help thinking she would make a lovely mother- in-law. But Parisa was having very little success in keeping up the pretence of a loving fiancee. The subdued elegance of the dining-room, the obvious wealth of the master of the house was in direct contrast to her own shabby home, and she could not get it from her mind that these people were crooks. Luc's mother must be perfectly well aware of how her son made his money, and yet she seemed like any proud mother. The hypocrisy of it-the servants, the fine food and wine all paid for with dirty money. She shot an angry glance at Luc. How was it possible to be attracted to a man-and her own innate honesty forced her to admit he did attract her in the most intense way-and yet know he was outside the law?

Her blue eyes rested on his black down bent head, her expression one of complete bafflement; she didn't understand what was happening to her. She was drawn to him, and yet he was everything she hated in a man.

Luc had been attentive and smiling, but after a particularly caustic comment from Parisa he had given up any pretence of being a loving fiancee. Then, after a brief exchange in Italian with his mother, which Parisa had not understood a word of, he had lapsed into a brooding silence, which was trying Parisa's patience to the limit. It was his stupid idea, and he should have known it would not fool his mother or anyone else, she thought bitterly, and wished she could just get up and walk out.

He lifted his head and looked straight at his mother. 'Scusi, Mamma. I need to talk to Parisa privately.'

To Parisa's astonishment he upped and walked around the table and caught her arm, muttering, 'Come along to my study.'

She flashed his mother a rather nervous smile as she was hastened out of the door, Luc's arm at her elbow.

'What did you do that for?' she demanded angrily as soon as they were in the hall.

'I need to talk to you. Please don't argue,' Luc said and, opening yet another door off the huge hall, he led her into a book-lined study. 'Sit down,' he commanded tersely, indicating a deep leather b.u.t.toned chesterfield beside an elegant marble fireplace.

The fire was lit and the flames danced and flickered in the darkness, until Luc strolled across the room and switched on a table lamp standing on a large carved-oak desk. Even so, the room was not brightly lit. The fire cast eerie shadows on the wall, and as she looked across at Luc his expression was hidden from her by the same shifting shadows.

It was as though he did not want her to see him. She watched as he sat down behind the desk, for all the world as if he were going to conduct a board meeting. She noticed his long fingers pick up a letter-knife, fiddle with it and replace it. He shuffled some papers in front of him. If she had not known better she could have sworn he was nervous.

'So what is so important I could not finish my pudding?' she asked scathingly. The silence in the room was getting to her. She hadn't wanted the fool pudding, in any case.

'You have never had a lover, have you?' he demanded arrogantly, lifting his head to stare across at her.

'What?' Parisa could not believe her ears. He had dragged her from the dining-room to ask that. Her mouth hung open; her blue eyes widened with shock. 'You're crazy,' she finally mumbled, shaking her head.

'No, and you have not answered my question, Parisa.'

'And I'm not b.l.o.o.d.y well going to,' she said furiously. The nerve of the man!

'You will not swear in my presence,' Luc stated emphatically, striding across the room to lower his large body on to the chesterfield beside her. Her brief defiance vanished and she watched him fearfully, daunted by the determination in his grimly set features.

'But this time I will forgive you. You are right to be afraid of me, Parisa. You do not need to answer. My mother is invariably right, and I can see the answer in your hot cheeks.' His hand brushed lightly down the side of her face and she jerked away from his touch. 'No, stay.' His hand on her arm prevented her getting to her feet.

Parisa shifted warily until she was backed into the corner of the settee. Luc's arm was resting along the back, his other hand holding her wrist in his lap. 'Your mother,' she murmured, completely lost: she did not know what he was talking about.

'Exactly, Parisa.' He grasped the hand that bore his ring, then rubbed the stone, and Parisa felt a flash of guilt at the embarra.s.sment she had caused in the jeweller's, along with a tingling warmth along the length of her arm.

'You and I have a deal, and so far your performance has been woefully inadequate. It wouldn't fool an idiot. At dinner tonight my mother remarked that she was amazed, but glad to note I was showing some respect for my fidanzata, because I had not yet taken you to my bed. She could tell you were still a virgin. I looked at you, and somehow my mother's words crystallized in my mind what had been puzzling me all afternoon. She was right. Wasn't she?' he demanded, his fingers tightening on her hand, his dark eyes searching hers.

'Not that it is any business of yours, but yes.' Why shouldn't she admit the truth? She was not ashamed of it. 'It might surprise you to know that in this decade more and more adults prefer a more cautious approach to intimacy to risking the unpleasant and sometimes life- threatening diseases promiscuity encourages,' she said firmly, the glint in her eyes telling him without words that he should try practicing a little restraint before it was too late.

'Suppose I told you I am not the promiscuous s.e.x maniac you seem to believe I am, Parisa?'

She arched one delicate eyebrow in disbelief.

'No-and I am the Queen of England,' she said sarcastically. What kind of fool did he take her for? she thought furiously. She had seen him with her own eyes with Margot Mey. He had attempted to blackmail Moya into his bed, and just hours earlier he had tried to get her into bed. The man was a fiend, and she would do well to remember that. Though sitting so close to him, with the musky warmth of his body reaching out to her, it was incredibly difficult.

'I have no intention of arguing with you, Parisa. But I think we'd better get one or two things straight before we go any further.'

"Straight"-you?' she prompted with a grim smile. 'Don't make me laugh. You don't know the meaning of the word,' she jeered sarcastically.

'That's it,' he snarled, and grabbed her as she would have stood up, and pulled her unceremoniously down on to his lap.

'Let me go!' she demanded, but his arm around her waist kept her pinned against him. He curved one hand around the nape of her neck, holding her head only inches from his darkly furious face.

'Shut up,' he snapped. 'If you want me to keep my side of the bargain, and give you the photographs, you're going to have to do a whole lot better than you have so far. For a start you can cut out the wisecracks,' he declared, his black eyes seeking hers. 'It's up to you. Are you prepared to make some effort to appear a loving fiancee? Or do you want to call the whole thing off with the resultant unfortunate consequences for your friend?' he demanded hardly.

He was much too close, too threatening to argue with.

'No, I want the photographs.' She had no choice and he knew it. She could not disappoint Moya. 'But what exactly do you mean? Am I supposed to hang on your every word?' she couldn't resist sniping.

Stark fury flashed in his black eyes, and his head bent to kiss her hard and angrily. She struggled, trying to break free, while his mouth ground against hers, deliberately hurting her. Then suddenly something odd happened. One second they were fighting, and furious, and the next they were clinging, moulded together in a burning flare of pa.s.sion.

Parisa lifted her hands, her fingers tangling in the silky black thickness of his hair, and kissed Luc back without even realising what she was doing.

Luc raised his head, his breathing ragged, and they stared at each other, neither one capable of speech. But it was Luc who recovered first.

'Don't look so frightened, Parisa.' His black eyes glittered down into hers. She stared back, her heart racing, her pulse thudding erratically. Her lovely eyes wide and bewildered, she was shocked rigid by her own violent reaction. She couldn't speak.

'I promise I won't do anything without your permission, but, after what has just happened between us, somehow I don't think it will be too difficult to convince a hundred or so very astute people tomorrow night, as well as Mamma, that we are a couple, hmm?'

Her eyes fastened on his mouth, but that was a mistake. Her mouth went dry and she flicked the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip in a nervous gesture.

Luc's quick flare of anger appeared to have vanished, as had her own, to be replaced with a fierce sensual awareness she could not control, and that was her second mistake.

She uttered a small, soundless protest as his mouth covered hers again. Reason deserted her and she felt her body weakening against him. His mouth burned against hers, his tongue toying with hers in a sensuous probing dance. Her arms curved around his wide shoulders of their own volition as the kiss went on and on, demanding more. She felt his muscles flex and tense beneath the smooth fabric of his jacket and she yearned to touch him. She slid one hand down over his muscular chest, her fingers inadvertently scratching over the hard male nipple beneath the fine silk shirt.

Luc groaned, breaking the long, pa.s.sionate kiss, and, drawing away from her, he caught her slender hand and held it firmly against his chest.