Dangerous Ladies (31 page)

More than that, when Brandi discovered what he had done, she would be angry. It might take him several days to get back into her good graces, and he didn’t want to wait. He wanted her as he’d had
her today, as he’d had her last weekend, in his bed for the slow, heated loving, for the impetuous, graceless matings. He wanted her . . . always.

“Brandi, we need to talk.”

At his expression she caught her breath. Color bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes dropped as if she were shy. Then they rose, and she said, “Yes, we do. Do you know what I discovered today in that falling elevator?”

“What?”

“That I love you.”

He gripped the back of the chair hard enough to make the metal crack.

“I shouldn’t,” she said. “You’re the wrong man for me. You fit none of my requirements. You’re flighty. You want adventure. You’re immoral. You don’t respect the law. But I can’t help myself. I adore you.”

“As I adore you. Brandi . . .” She stunned him with her fierce courage. He had been anguished that she believed the worst of him, yet was it not braver to open her heart to him when she credited him with a notorious character?

Lust, shimmering beneath the surface, roared into the full heat of an Italian summer. He found himself beside her, holding her head in his hands and kissing her. Kissing her with a rough need he could barely rein in.

She responded. . . . Their impetuous need in the elevator was nothing to this. Her mouth sought his again and again.

He slid his hands inside her jacket, relishing the narrow width of her waist, lifting his hands to her breasts and knowing that inside her bra, her nipples had peaked.

She shed her jacket and pushed his off his shoulders.

What was it about this woman? He’d had other beautiful women, yet she tasted fresh, new, and something about the way she reveled in his response hinted at the desperation that drove her to this moment, this night, and her own confession.

Twined in each other’s arms, they stumbled toward the bedroom.

In between kisses, he said, “Brandi, I promise . . . I will be everything you want. Honest . . . I will be honest.”

For one moment she buried her head in his chest as if she cherished his pledge. Then she lifted her head. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’ve never lied to me. I know who you are. I couldn’t bear it if I believed you were a knight in shining armor and discovered . . . you weren’t.”

But he had lied to her. He’d lied to her about almost everything, and unless he bound her to him now, she would lash out at him for making a fool of her. “I’m not a knight in shining armor. I’m what you want—I’m the dragon.”

She laughed tremulously, pleased that he remembered.

Lifting her, he carried her to the bed. He laid her on the comforter. Leaning his forehead on hers, he said, “I promise to be the man you first imagined me to be. I
promise.
”

She struggled to turn her head away. She didn’t want to fall into his enchantment.

“Brandi. Listen to me. I promise my heart—”

“Your heart?” Her gaze leaped to meet his.

“My heart is in your keeping. Surely you’re not surprised?”

“Why would I think you . . . you . . .”

Her uncertainty amazed him. “Love you? Do you think I take every woman I meet to my room? Do everything I can to keep her at my side? Insult a judge? Get remanded into—”

Brandi shoved him away and sat up. “You did do that on purpose!”

“But of course. I would do anything for you. Only for you.” He grinned at her indignation. “I wanted to be with you. I wanted to see if fate had at last given me what I most desired—a woman of intelligence, of beauty, and of kindness.”

She gazed at him as if he were a strange beast. “You’re not like any man I’ve ever met.”

“I would hope not.” He pressed her down on the bed again. “I
don’t want to remind you of anyone else. When you think of love, I want to be the only man you can imagine. But I promised you my heart. Can’t you promise me your trust?”

She surrendered. At last she surrendered. “I trust you, Roberto. No matter what happens, I trust you.”

A
ringing noise woke Brandi out of a deep and satisfied sleep. “Roberto?” She groped, but he wasn’t in the bed beside her.

The ringing noise continued.

Her cell phone. She fumbled, searching in the dark. Located it by the blinking red light that signaled a call. A glance at the clock told her it was midnight. Midnight. And—she stared at the caller ID—was that her father’s phone number?

He never even called her in the daytime.

In a flash she imagined a heart attack. A car wreck. Some desperate need that made him want, at last, to talk to his middle child.

Flipping open the phone, she blurted, “Daddy. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” His wrathful voice blasted her ear. “What’s wrong? I have a daughter who’s a goddamn groupie, that’s what wrong!”

“What?” She shoved the hair out of her eyes, trying to comprehend what he was yelling about. “Who?”

“You didn’t think I’d see the pictures, did you? Your stepmother couldn’t wait to show them to me. My wonderful daughter, the one I always compare that pathetic son of hers to, cavorting with a jewel thief!”

Daddy was talking about
her.

“Kissing cheeks with a bunch of gangsters. Dressed like a two-bit hooker!”

She straightened up. “What pictures?” She might be half-asleep, but she didn’t need to hear him call her a hooker again.

“In the paper on the front page of the society section. The
Chicago Tribune
has been slavering over that creepy Italian ever since he showed up in your town. I knew McGrath and Lindoberth was representing him, but damned if I knew you’d decided to sink your law career to screw him!”

She had that sick feeling in her stomach, the one she always got when she talked to her father. “I have not sunk my law career.”

“You’d damned well better not have. You owe me for your education. You owe me big. Vanderbilt wasn’t cheap.”

She had hoped this was some sort of nightmare.

His nagging about money convinced her it was real.

“I got into one of the best law schools because I’m one of the smartest people in the country,” she reminded him sharply.

“Don’t take that tone with me. You’re as stupid as your mother.”

She’d heard that a few too many times. “I am not stupid, and neither is my mother!”

“Who are you trying to convince? Your mother still can’t add two and two and get four, and
you’re
sleeping with a client! Didn’t Vanderbilt teach you anything about ethics?”

“Just about as much as you taught me, Daddy.” She had the satisfaction of hearing him huff.

The satisfaction was short-lived.

He took a huge, angry breath. “Right, and if I don’t have a check for your tuition—the whole thing—on my desk tomorrow, I’ll repossess your ballet lessons.”

His rage was contagious. She stood up on the mattress and bounced with temper. “You’ll get your money. I’ve got a good job. Tomorrow I’ll go to the bank and take out a loan to pay you so I won’t ever have to talk to you again. You’re a controlling, abusive bastard, and I am done trying to please you.”

She had to give him credit: He recognized what she’d done; she’d washed her hands of him. And he replied with all the spite and malice of which he was capable. “You’re no better than your mother. A goddamned, stupid, spineless ballerina worth nothing. When I’m dead, you won’t even have the guts to come to the funeral and spit on my coffin.”

“You’re absolutely right, Daddy. I’m not coming to your funeral to spit on your coffin. I don’t like standing in long lines.” She waited until he stopped sputtering. “Now, Daddy—you’re the last person to criticize anybody for messing up their lives, so next time you want to shout at someone, don’t call me.” She almost shut the phone.

Then she brought it back to her ear. “And don’t call my mother, either.”

Then she hung up.

She
hung up on
him.

She rubbed her stomach and waited for the ache to start, that sick sort of roiling that told her she’d had another run-in with her father.

But it wasn’t there.

She was angry, yes. Furiously angry at him for thinking that providing money for her college gave him the right to shout at her, and mad at herself for being foolish enough to fall into his trap instead of taking out a student loan.

But mostly she felt free, as if telling him off had released her from that spell of fear he’d cast the day he’d walked away from her and her mother. It didn’t matter whether he called her stupid. It didn’t matter whether he admired or despised her. She was done with him. She was an adult. He and his cruel words and his endless spite didn’t have the power to hurt her anymore.

She took a long breath and released it slowly.

But in this world there was someone who did have the power to hurt her.

Roberto.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back to bed to see what was
going on? She needed to be held and praised, to be assured there was more between them than good sex.

Yet the suite was very, very quiet.

Slipping out of bed, she pulled on his robe and walked into the living room.

It was empty.

She checked the bathroom. Both bathrooms.

They were empty.

She looked in the extra bedroom. She looked under the bed.

She stood in the middle of the floor and took a long breath. This couldn’t be happening. There had to be another explanation than the obvious . . . that Roberto had sneaked away from her and right now he was stealing the Romanov Blaze.

Picking up the hotel phone, she called down to the concierge. In her most charming, carefree voice, she said, “This is Brandi Michaels in room . . . oh, dear, I can’t remember what room I’m in!”

“You’re in room four-oh-three, Miss Michaels.” The concierge sounded warm, entertained—and male.

Male. At least she had some luck tonight. “Oh, thank you. I never can remember numbers! Is this the helpful and handsome Mr. Birch?”

“You’ve guessed right, Miss Michaels.”

“It’s not a guess, Mr. Birch. I know
you.
” An older man, dapper and smart, good at his job and happy to be of service. The concierge should never give out information on a guest, but Mr. Birch liked women, and he liked her. If she struck the right notes, she could pull this off. “I am such a silly woman. I forgot to ask Mr. Bartolini if he would get me a bottle of my favorite nail polish while he was out. It’s L’Oréal’s Lollipop Pink; it’s such a beautiful color, and it smells like candy! I just love it! Can you catch him before he leaves?”

“Just a minute.” Mr. Birch put her on hold.

As she waited, she tapped her fingers on the table. The foolishness of her actions infuriated her. Looking under the bed. Calling the concierge and pretending to be a blithe, untroubled lady of leisure. But she couldn’t stand not knowing the truth.

She had to know if Roberto was gone. She had to know if he had lied to her.

The concierge popped back on, and he sounded a little wary. “We’re not sure if he left. There was a man, but he had his scarf over his face and his hat down, and he went out through the kitchen.”

“He wanted a snack. I
told
him to order room service. He probably charmed some hapless cook out of a cookie.” She lowered her voice and confided, “I swear, Mr. Birch, it’s not fair that Mr. Bartolini can eat all the time and still be so thin!”

“So true.” Mr. Birch sounded relaxed again.

“He’s not here. He has to be somewhere. . . . I wish I could find his cell phone number!”

“He met three men behind the hotel.”

“Yes, he went out to have a drink.” If life were fair, she’d receive an Academy Award for Most Indulgent and Amused, when actually she was Most Infuriated and Deceived. “With the Italian guys, right?”

“I couldn’t venture a guess about that.” Mr. Birch responded in the same spirit of amusement.

“Dark hair, dark eyes, all speaking Italian?”

“I believe that’s right.”

“Great! I do have Greg’s cell phone number. I’ll call him and catch Roberto that way. Thanks so much, Mr. Birch!” She hung up briskly—then flung the phone across the room. It thumped against the wall. It skittered across the table and bounced across the carpet. The antenna broke off with a snap. And that small act of violence wasn’t enough—she wanted to stomp it to smithereens.

Roberto had sworn he wouldn’t steal the Romanov Blaze. He’d promised her he would never steal anything again, that he would live on the right side of the law. For her. He’d said he would do it for her.

And instead the bastard had screwed her senseless, left her sleeping, and gone to do just what he’d promised he wouldn’t.

Her father had called her a groupie and a hooker.