In Christofides' Keeping (8 page)

‘Damn you to hell, Rico,’ Gypsy said shakily. Too many nights when she’d woken aching for this man’s touch were mocking her now.

‘Well, if I’m going to hell then you’re coming with me.’

He pulled her right into him, and her T-shirt and jeans were no barrier against his long, lean,
hardening
body. A tremor of pure arousal shot through her as his head descended. For a split second Gypsy tried to articulate something negative, but their breaths were mingling, and then his mouth was slanting over hers with expert precision and she was lost…

She was back in time, on the street outside that club, after putting her hand over Rico’s mouth because she didn’t want to know his name, because she didn’t want any kind of reality to intrude on the moment. And he’d pulled her into him and kissed her for the first time.

The kiss then, as now, had been the culmination of
an intense build-up. His mouth was hard and firm, and yet soft enough to make her melt and yearn and lean into him even more. Tacitly telling him of her approval, of her desire. Rico groaned deep in his throat and deepened the kiss, plundering Gypsy’s mouth, finding her tongue and stroking along it with erotic mastery. His hands had moved down to clasp her hips, fingers digging into her waist. Her hands clung to broad shoulders. She could feel her hair loosen from its topknot and fall down over her shoulders.

Between her legs she was burning up, the ache she’d been feeling for two years growing more acute with each passing second, with the tantalising promise of fulfilment. As if reading her mind, Rico pulled her even closer, his big hands spreading around her buttocks to lift her against him slightly, so that she could feel his arousal more fully.

And all the while their mouths clung, and a desperation was building in the kiss, as if they’d both suddenly realised the depth of the passion they’d been missing for two years. Gypsy strained higher, her hands going to Rico’s head, where her fingers tangled in silky strands, keeping his head against hers. Not allowing him to escape…

With another guttural moan, Rico impatiently found and pushed up Gypsy’s T-shirt, smoothed his hand up over her waist and belly to cup her breast. With a gasp she couldn’t hold back she tore her mouth away from Rico’s and looked up—dazed, dizzy.

At that moment a little squeak came from the baby monitor. They both tensed and froze. The red mist of arousal cleared from Gypsy’s brain and the present moment came back. She was plastered to Rico’s front,
all over him like a clinging vine. And his hand cupped her lace-covered breast intimately.

No other sound came from the monitor, but Gypsy used the impetus to push roughly away from Rico, who stood there looking dishevelled and utterly gorgeous, cheeks flushed, eyes so dark they looked black in the dim lighting. More buttons on his shirt had been opened. Horror gripped her. Had she done that?

She backed away and hit the window, was glad of the support. She felt as though she might just slide down it and land in a heap of sprawled limbs. ‘I don’t know…’ she began shakily ‘…that was…’

‘That,’ Rico said grimly, sounding utterly composed, ‘was something we will return to—without interruption.’

Gypsy shook her head, and quivered as Rico strode forward and caged her in, putting his hands either side of her head on the thick glass.

‘We’ve just proved that this desire has not died. If I were to seduce you right here and now I could have your legs around my waist and take you right against this window.’

The carnality of his words made Gypsy blush brick-red, even as the image in her mind strangled any denial she might make. She just shook her head again—pathetically.

Rico brought a finger to her cheek and trailed it slowly and sensuously down over her jaw, and lower, to the V of her T-shirt which rested just above her cleavage. His eyes met hers. ‘You won’t be going anywhere, Gypsy. Not until I say so.’ A chill entered his voice. ‘And if you do, I’ll find you. So you see, no matter where you go, I’ll simply bring you back. You and Lola are mine now, and I always claim what’s mine.’

At that moment the monitor sprang to life again, and Gypsy jumped. A plaintive wail sounded.
‘Mama…’

‘I hate you, Rico.’

He smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I hate you too, Gypsy. But conveniently enough our desire seems to exist in spite of our mutual antipathy.’

Gypsy finally managed to bring her hands up to knock Rico’s down, and on extremely wobbly legs, feeling perilously close to tears, she left the room to tend to Lola.

R
ICO
sat heavily on the couch once Gypsy had left. In truth his legs felt profoundly unsteady. His heart was racing and, despite the coolness he’d just projected, the taste of Gypsy, the feel of her, the scent of her, had all acted like the most powerful aphrodisiac. If they’d not been interrupted by Lola just now, he wouldn’t have been far from freeing himself from his confining clothes, pulling off her jeans and surging up and into her moist heat against the window he’d just taunted her with. He burned with a need he’d only felt once before—the night he’d met her.

He reeled at realising how quickly passion had blazed—literally within minutes of arriving in the door from work. But something about the way she’d told him that she intended to leave had unleashed a wave of possessiveness and desire inside him so strong that it still astounded him.

Through the baby monitor he heard Lola’s cries abate, and Gypsy saying in a voice that sounded suspiciously husky, ‘What is it, sweetie? You woke up?’

Even at that Rico tensed all over again, and cursed volubly. And then the monitor went suddenly silent, as if Gypsy had realised he might hear them and had turned
it off, and he had to restrain himself from going down to the room and demanding irrationally that she put it back on.

That Friday morning Gypsy got the call which meant the inevitable end of life and freedom as she and Lola had known it. In a curt voice Rico wasted no time in informing her that he had the paternity test results and they were positive.

You could have saved your precious money
, Gypsy wanted to hurl at him but didn’t. She merely listened to him tell her that he’d be home soon to talk to her, and put down the phone.

While Mrs Wakefield gave Lola some lunch, Gypsy paced the floor of the living room. Every nerve in her body was coiled tight, and had been ever since that kiss three nights ago. Since then she’d done everything possible to avoid being alone with Rico—much to his evident and mocking amusement. His steel-grey eyes followed her with heavy-lidded intent whenever they were together—which hadn’t been that often, as he’d been working till late most days, confirming for her that he would fall into a predictable pattern of work. Even that hadn’t induced feelings of recrimination, only something suspiciously like disappointment.

Her motivation had changed from an intense desire to get away from Rico and his autocracy to the treacherous desire for her own self-protection. She was already so vulnerable to him, and now she was even more vulnerable. Because clearly her mind had absolutely no control over her body. And her body wanted Rico so badly that she dreamt of it when she slept and craved it when she was awake.

She hated that she could be so weak, that even
knowing Rico was intent on controlling them she could still desire him so badly.

Just then she heard the unmistakable sound of his return, and went to see him standing at the door of the kitchen, taking in the sight of Lola happily chirruping away with Mrs Wakefield, causing a circle of destruction around her highchair. He had a look on his face that made Gypsy’s heart twist, and then he said, sounding suspiciously gruff, ‘Mrs Wakefield, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter—Lola.’

Mrs Wakefield smiled affectionately. ‘Well, I could have told you that the minute I saw her. She’s the image of you.’

As if just becoming aware of Gypsy’s presence Rico turned his head, and all that warmth was gone in a flash. She shivered. He hated her. He really hated her now that he had incontrovertible proof that he was Lola’s father.

He turned back to Mrs Wakefield and asked, ‘Would you mind taking Lola for a walk when you’ve finished here? I have some things to discuss with Gypsy.’

The older woman said yes easily, and Rico looked back to Gypsy and said curtly, ‘My study—now.’

Feeling like rebelliously stamping her foot and saying no, Gypsy took a deep quivery breath and followed his tall, broad figure down the hall and into the study. It was dark and book-lined, with all sorts of modern technology humming silently.

Rico turned and watched Gypsy enter the room, shutting the door behind her. Feeling acutely aware of her effect on him, and not liking it one bit, he sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms.

She looked at him with that familiar wary defiance, and a part of him felt the need to soothe, to protect and
comfort. She looked incredibly young and innocent—her face clear of make-up, her hair pulled up high into a ponytail of crazy corkscrew curls that he wanted to loosen over her shoulders. But he quickly quashed the impulse.

This was what desire did to you. It clouded the ability to think straight. To see what was real. And what was real was this: Gypsy was
not
innocent. She might not be mercenary in a monetary sense, although the jury was still out on that, but she was mercenary in a far worse way as far as Rico was concerned. She would have quite happily kept Lola from him—perhaps for ever. And it was clear that she was not going to give him any straight answers. She trusted him about as much as he trusted her—that much he suspected they would agree on.

Bitter, futile anger rose
again
in acknowledgement of what he’d missed out on, but Rico pushed it down. He had to be cool, controlled. Stake his claim and leave Gypsy in no doubt as to who held the power between them.

He saw her hitch her chin up imperceptibly. ‘You wanted to talk?’

He inclined his head slightly. ‘As I told you earlier, I now have proof that I’m Lola’s father.’

Gypsy crossed her arms across her chest, inadvertently pushing her breasts forward. Rico kept his gaze lifted with an effort, and shifted irritably on the desk.

‘And…?’ Gypsy asked, with all the hauteur of a queen.

Rico bit back a reluctant smile. He had to hand it to her for bravado. No one stood up to him the way she did. And he admired that, even if he didn’t like admitting it.

‘And that means that I am now going to exercise my
rights as her father to care for her, provide for her and protect her—as befitting my heir.’

Gypsy’s generous mouth tightened. ‘You can do that all you want. Just let us get on with our lives and we can work out some custody arrangement.’

Rico sneered. ‘You think I am going to allow you to return to that hovel of a flat with
my
daughter?’ He dismissed the very notion with a slashing hand, making Gypsy flinch slightly. Perversely that made him contrite, and angry for feeling it. ‘I am not interested in custody arrangements. And I am certainly not interested in being forced to stay in the UK so that I can drive into that ghetto twice a month to see my daughter for a few measly hours.’

Gypsy’s arms fell, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. ‘We’ll take you to court. You can’t do this.’

He arched a mocking brow. ‘You’ll take me to court with
what
? Your leftover tips from the restaurant? Believe me, Gypsy, any court you drag me to will be packed to the rafters with my own people. The best that money can buy. Do you honestly think that any judge will look favourably on a mother who wilfully cut the father of her child out of their lives for no apparent good reason? What judge will deny me my right to have access to Lola when they hear how you took it upon yourself to make her solely yours?’

He saw how she paled in the dim light, how she swayed for a moment, and with a silent curse he nearly got up to steady her. He saw her visibly compose herself. He could almost hear her brain whirring.

He decided to go for the jugular. ‘You have no job. You have no prospects, despite the degree you say you have. To work you’re going to need childcare, better
childcare than a pensioner down the road, and to afford childcare you need to work. It’s a catch-22.’

White-lipped, her green eyes huge in her face, Gypsy bit out, ‘So tell me what it is you want.’

Rico relished the moment before speaking. He had Gypsy exactly where he wanted her. ‘What I want is the fifteen months you owe me. You and Lola living with me for fifteen months, so that I don’t miss out on another day of her development.’

This time Gypsy did sway, and Rico got to her just in time to lead her over to a chair and sit her down. In seconds he was back, with brandy in a glass. She waved it away, saying distractedly, ‘Don’t drink…’

He put the glass down, but stood over her and restrained himself from hauling her up and shaking her. She was acting—she had to be. This apparent vulnerability couldn’t be real. And what on earth was wrong with the prospect of fifteen months living in the lap of luxury?

She looked up then, a hopeful light in her eyes. ‘Fifteen months…and then you’ll let us go?’

Rage bubbled inside Rico’s gut. How delusional
was
she? And why did her eagerness to get away from him cause a spike in his gut? ‘Not as such…But I
am
willing, after fifteen months are up, to help set you up in employment, help you find somewhere to live…help you get back on your feet. Providing, of course, that I have full and unimpeded access to Lola and a say in her future.’

Her mouth tightened again, and he could see her hands in fists on her lap.

‘And in the meantime you plan on dragging us around the world with you? What kind of a life is that for a small child? She needs a routine, Rico, not a billionaire
playboy father. Or are you planning to leave us in a sterile apartment like this one and visit whenever the mood strikes?’

Gypsy looked up at Rico and felt as if her neck might snap. She was so tense. His words were whirling sickeningly in her head, and along with them his obviously smug sense of satisfaction at having got her exactly where he wanted her. She needed space. She had to digest this—even though she knew with fatal certainty that what he said was true: she wouldn’t have a leg to stand on in court, and had no means to get there. And, she had to acknowledge heavily, she only had herself to blame. If she hadn’t taken the decision to keep Lola a secret who knew how things might have developed?

He answered her now, coldly. ‘On the contrary. My main base is in Greece. I live between Athens and the island of Zakynthos. Most of my business is conducted there. This is actually my first visit back to London in…two years.’

The way he said the words, as if he was remembering that night, made the air crackle between them. Feeling claustrophobic, Gypsy blurted out before she could censor her words, ‘You’re not going to…to demand that we get married…?’

Rico looked down at her. He was far too close. He arched one brow. ‘Is that what you’d like, Gypsy? Is that what you’re holding out for? Nothing less than matrimony?’

Before she could say that it was the last thing in the world she wanted he continued. ‘Curiously, I have no desire to marry someone who believes that she has the divine right to play God with a child’s life. Any wife
I choose will understand the concept of honesty and trust.’

Standing up, because the feeling of claustrophobia was getting worse, and not liking they way he’d said he had no desire to marry her had impacted her somewhere very secret she bit out, ‘Men like you don’t even know the meaning of
trust
or
honesty.
And if I had to go back in time I’d make the same decision all over again.’

Gypsy expected Rico to move back to give her space. But he didn’t. He brought his hands up to her arms and held her. Gypsy tried to pull away but his hold tightened.

Her words had hit a nerve. His eyes flashed, his jaw tightened. ‘I’m not finished. I haven’t told you the other thing I want.’

Gypsy’s whole body was tensed against the inevitable effect of Rico’s proximity. They were practically touching. All she’d have to do was take a deep breath and her breasts would push against his chest. Anger at realising that, and wanting it, made her lash out. ‘
What?
Haven’t you asked for enough? What more can I give you?’

He looked at her for a long moment, his steel-grey gaze intent, focused. And then he said, with devastating simplicity,
‘You.’

His words sank in, slowly, and with it came an awful trickling of heat through her veins and into her belly. She started to struggle in his arms. ‘No…
no
…I won’t have it. I don’t want you.’

But Rico just kept on holding her and said, ‘Stop lying to yourself, Gypsy.’

He brought his hands up to her face, fingers around the back of her head, holding it. His thumbs were warm on her jaw. To her utter horror she could hear her breaths coming, hard and shallow. She put her hands over his, as
if she could pull them down, and entreated with everything she had, all her secret vulnerabilities where this man was concerned, ‘Rico…
please
don’t do this.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t
not
do this.’

And with his big hands cupping her face and head, crowding her utterly, he lowered his head to hers and took her lips in a kiss of soul-destroying and surprising sweetness. As if all the tension and animosity between them was an illusion. If he’d been hard and forceful it would have been easier to remember to fight, but this…this was something else entirely.

Gypsy emitted a sound that was somewhere between a moan of capitulation and frustration. Rico urged her even closer, and she could feel him taking out her hairband and letting her hair fall, combing through it and twining long strands around his fingers. Her treacherous hands dropped.

And meanwhile his mouth was on hers, getting hotter and harder, opening her to him. He stroked his tongue along hers, enticing her to explore. And Gypsy felt her legs weaken.

In mere seconds the world shifted, and Gypsy found herself straddling Rico’s lap on the chair, facing him, her legs either side of his powerful thighs. His hands were still on her head, allowing no quarter as he brought her face back to his and set about undoing every one of her defences. With a moan Gypsy had to place her hands on his chest, to stop herself falling forward completely, but that action transmitted the heavy beat of Rico’s heart right through to her bones.

His hands came down to her waist, searching for and finding the bare skin between her jeans and top, stroking sensuously. Gypsy was aware that she was arching her back, but couldn’t stop it. She was in another world
where time and reality didn’t exist. And, weakly, she resisted reality.