One Month with the Magnate (7 page)

Emilio dipped his head and nuzzled her cheek, his breath warm against her skin, then his lips brushed the column of her throat and Isabelle's knees went weak.
Thank goodness she had the wall to hold her steady. One kiss and she was toast. And it wasn't even a
real
kiss.

His other hand settled on the curve of her waist, the heat of his palm scorching her skin through the fabric of her uniform. She wanted to reach up and tunnel her fingers through the softness of his hair, slide her arms around his neck, pull him down and press her mouth to his. The anticipation of his lips touching hers had her trembling from the inside out.

He nipped the lobe of her ear, slid his hand upward and as his thumb grazed the underside of her breast she had to fight not to moan. Her nipples tingled and hardened. Breath quickened. She wanted to take his hand and guide it over her breast, but she kept her own hands fisted at her sides, afraid that any move she made might be the wrong one.

His lips brushed the side of her neck, her chin. This was so wrong, but she couldn't pull away. Couldn't stop him. She didn't
want
him to stop.

His lips brushed her cheek, the corner of her mouth, then finally her lips. So sweet and tender, and when his tongue skimmed hers she went limp with desire. In that instant she stopped caring that he was using her, that he didn't even like her, that to him this was just some stupid game of revenge. She didn't even care that he would probably take her fragile heart and rip it all to pieces. She was going to take what she wanted, what she needed, what she'd spent the last fifteen years
aching
for.

One minute her arms were at her sides and the next they were around his neck, fingers tunneling through his hair, and something inside Emilio seemed to snap. He shoved her backward and she gasped as he crushed her against the wall with the weight of his body. The kiss went from
sweet and tender to deep and punishing so fast it stole her breath.

He cupped her behind, arched against her, and she could feel the hard length of his erection against her stomach. If not for the skirt of her dress, she would have wound her legs around his hips and ground into him. She wanted him to take her right there, in the hallway.

But as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. Emilio let go of her and backed away, leaving her stunned and confused and aching for more.

“Good night, Isabelle,” he said, his voice so icy and devoid of emotion that she went cold all over. He stepped into his office and shut the door behind him and she heard the lock click into place. She had to fight not to hurl herself at it, to keep from pounding with her fists and demand he finish what he started.

She had never been so aroused, or so humiliated, in her life. She wasn't sure what sort of game he was playing, but as she sank back against the wall, struggling to make sense of what had just happened, she had the sinking feeling that it was far from over.

 

Damn.

Emilio closed and locked his office door and leaned against it, fighting to catch his breath, to make sense of what had just happened.

What had gone wrong?

Things had been progressing as planned. He had been in complete control. He'd had Isabelle right where he wanted her. Then everything went to hell. Their lips touched and his head started to spin, then she wrapped her arms around his neck, rubbed against him and he'd just…
lost
it.

He'd been seconds from ripping open that god-awful uniform and putting his hands on her. He had been
this-close to shoving up the skirt of her dress, ripping off her panties and taking her right there in the hallway, up against the wall. He wanted her as much now as he had fifteen years ago. And putting on the brakes, denying himself the pleasure of everything she offered, had been just as damned hard.

That hadn't been part of the plan.

On the bright side, making Isabelle bend to his will, making her beg for it, was clearly not going to be a problem.

He crossed the room to the wet bar and splashed cold water on his face. This had just been a fluke. A knee-jerk reaction to the last vestiges of a long dormant sexual attraction. It was physical and nothing more. So from now on, losing control wasn't going to be an issue.

I
sabelle stood at the stove fixing breakfast the next morning, reliving the nightmarish events of last night. How could she have been so stupid? So naive?

Just tell me what you want and I'll do it.

Well, she'd gotten her answer. He hadn't come right out and said it, but the implications of his actions had been crystal clear. He wanted to make her want him, get her all hot and bothered, then reject her. Simple yet effective.

Very
effective.

As much as she hated it, as miserable and small as he'd made her feel, didn't she deserve this? Hadn't she more or less done the same thing to him fifteen years ago? Could she really fault him for wanting revenge?

She had gotten herself into this mess, she'd asked for his help, now she had to live with the consequences. She could try to resist him, try to pretend she didn't melt when
he touched her, but she had always been a terrible liar. And honestly, she didn't have the energy to fight him.

The worst, most humiliating part was knowing that if she told him no, if she asked him to stop, he would. He would never force himself on her. He'd made that clear the other night. The problem was, she didn't
want
to tell him no.

Unlike Emilio, she couldn't switch it off and on. Her only defense was to avoid him as often as possible. And when she couldn't? Well, she would try her hardest to not make a total fool of herself again. She would try to be strong.

She would hold up her end of the bargain, and hopefully everyone would get exactly what they wanted. She just wished she didn't feel so darned edgy and out of sorts, and she knew he was going to sense it the second he saw her.

According to Mrs. Medina's “list,” Emilio didn't leave for work until nine-thirty on Saturdays, so Isabelle didn't have to see him until nine when he came down for breakfast. If she timed it just right, she could feed him right when he walked into the kitchen, then hide until his ride got there.

Of course he chose that morning to come down fifteen minutes early. She was at the stove, trying not to incinerate a pan of hash brown potatoes, when he walked into the room.

“Good morning,” he said, the rumble of his voice tweaking her already frayed nerves.

She took a deep breath and told herself,
You can do this.
Pasting on what she hoped was a nothing-you-do-can-hurt-me face, she turned…and whatever she had been about to say died the minute she laid eyes on him.

He wasn't wearing a suit. Or a tie. Or a shirt. Or even shoes. All he wore was a pair of black silk pajama bottoms
slung low on his hips. That was it. His hair was mussed from sleep and dark stubble shadowed his jaw.

Oh boy.

Most men declined with age. They developed excess flab or a paunch or even unattractive back hair, but not Emilio. His chest was lean and well-defined, his shoulders and back smooth and tanned and he had a set of six-pack abs to die for. He was everything he had been fifteen years ago, only better.

A lot
better.

Terrific.

She realized she was staring and averted her eyes. Was it her fault she hadn't seen a mostly naked man in a really long time? At least, not one who looked as good as he did.

Lenny had had the paunch, and the flab, and the back hair. Not that their relationship had ever been about sex.

Ever the dutiful housekeeper, she said, “Sit down, I'll get you coffee.” Mostly she just wanted to keep him out of her half of the kitchen.

He took a seat on one of the stools at the island. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard, filled it and set it in front of him.

“Thanks.”

Their eyes met and his flashed with some unidentifiable emotion. Amusement maybe? She couldn't be sure, and frankly she didn't want to know.

Make breakfast, run and hide.

She busied herself with cutting up the vegetables that would go in the omelet she planned to make, taking great care not to slice or sever any appendages. Although it was tough to keep her eyes on what she was doing when Emilio was directly in her line of vision, barely an arm's reach away, looking hotter than the Texas sun.

And he was
watching
her.

She would gather everything up and move across to the opposite counter, where her back would be to him instead, but she doubted his probing stare would be any less irritating. She diced the green onions, his gaze boring into her as he casually sipped his coffee.

“Don't you have to get ready for work?” she asked.

“You trying to get rid of me, Isabelle?”

Well,
duh.
“Just curious.”

“I'm working from home today.”

She suppressed a groan. Fantastic. An entire day with Emilio in the house. With any luck, he would lock himself in his office and wouldn't emerge until dinnertime. But somehow she doubted she would be so lucky. She also doubted it was a coincidence that he chose this particular day to work at home. She was sure that every move he made was calculated.

She chopped the red peppers, trying to ignore the weight of his steely gray stare.

“I want you to clean my bedroom today,” he said, reaching across to the cutting board to snatch a cube of pepper.

Of course he did. “I thought it was off-limits.”

“It is. Until I say it isn't.”

She stopped chopping and shot him a glance.

He shrugged. “My house, my rules.”

Another calculated move on his part. He was just full of surprises today. He was manipulating her and he was good at it. He knew she had absolutely no recourse.

He sipped his coffee, watching her slice the mini bella mushrooms. But he wasn't just watching. He was
studying
her. She failed to understand what was so riveting about seeing someone chop food. Which meant he was just doing it to make her uncomfortable, and it was working.

When she couldn't take it any longer, she said in her most patient tone, “Would you please stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“Watching me. It's making me nervous.”

“I'm just curious to see what you're going to cut this time. The way you hold that knife, my money is on the tip of your thumb. Although I'm sure if we keep it on ice, there's a good chance they can reattach it.”

She stopped cutting and glared at him.

He grinned, and for a second he looked just like the Emilio from fifteen years ago. He used to smile all the time back then. A sexy, slightly lopsided grin that never failed to make her go all gooey inside. And still did.

She preferred him when he was cranky and brooding. She had a defense for that. When he did things like smile and tease her, it was too easy to forget that it was all an act. That he was only doing it to manipulate her.

Although she hoped someday he would show her a smile that he actually meant.

“Despite what you think, I'm not totally inept,” she said.

“No?”

“No.”

“So the pan on the stove is supposed to be smoking like that?”

At first she thought he was just saying it to irritate her, then she remembered that she'd been frying potatoes. She spun around and saw that there actually was black smoke billowing from the pan.

“Damn it!” She darted to the stove, twisted off the flame, grabbed the handle and jerked the pan off the burner. But she jerked too hard and oil sloshed over the side. She tried to jump out of the way, but she wasn't fast enough and molten hot oil splashed down the skirt of her dress, soaking through the fabric to the top of her thigh.
She gasped at the quick and sharp sting. She barely had time to process what had happened, to react, when she felt Emilio's hands on her waist.

He lifted her off her feet and deposited her on the edge of the counter next to the sink. And he wasn't smiling anymore. “Did you burn yourself?”

“A—a little, I think.”

He eased the skirt of her uniform up her thighs. So far up that she was sure he could see the crotch of her bargain bin panties, but protesting seemed silly at this point since he obviously wasn't doing it to get fresh with her. And she knew there was something seriously wrong with her when all she could think was
thank God I shaved my legs this morning.

The middle of her right thigh had a splotchy red spot the size of a saucer and it burned like the devil.

Emilio grabbed a dish towel from the counter and soaked it with cool water, then he wrung it out and laid it against her burn. She sucked in a breath as the cold cloth hit her hot skin.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes dark with concern. “Do you feel light-headed or dizzy?”

She shook her head. What she felt was mortified.

Not totally inept, huh?

She couldn't even manage fried potatoes without causing a disaster. Although, this was partially his fault. If he'd worn a damn shirt, and if he hadn't been
looking
at her, she wouldn't have been so distracted.

Emilio got a fresh towel from the drawer and made an ice pack large enough to cover the burn, while she sat there feeling like a complete idiot.

“I guess I was wrong,” she said.

He lifted the towel to inspect her leg and it immediately began to sting. “About what?”

“I am inept.”

“It was an accident.”

Huh?

He wasn't going to rub this in her face, try to make her feel like an even bigger idiot? He wasn't going to make fun of her and call her incompetent?

Was this another trick?

“It's red, but it doesn't look like it's blistering. I think your uniform absorbed most of the heat.” He laid the ice pack very gently on the burned area. The sting immediately subsided. He looked up at her. “Better?”

She nodded. With her sitting on the counter they were almost eye to eye and, for the first time that morning, she really
saw
him.

Though he looked pretty much the same as he had fifteen years ago, there were subtle signs of age. The hint of crow's-feet branded the corners of his eyes, and there were a few flecks of gray in the stubble on his chin. The line of his jaw seemed less rigid than it used to be, and the lines in his forehead had deepened.

He looked tired. Maybe what had happened at the refinery, compounded by his deal with her, was stressing him out. Maybe he hadn't been sleeping well.

Despite it all, to her he was the same Emilio. At least, her heart thought so. That was probably why it was hurting so much.

But if Emilio really hated her, would it matter that she'd hurt herself? Would he have been so quick to jump in and take care of her? Would he be standing here now holding the ice pack on her leg when she could just as easily do it herself?

He may have been hardened by life, but maybe the sweet, tender man she had fallen in love with was still in
there somewhere. Maybe he would be willing to forgive her someday. Or maybe she was fooling herself.

Maybe you should tell him the truth.

At this point it would be a relief to have it all out in the open. But even if she tried, she doubted he would believe her.

“You're watching me,” he said, and she realized that he'd caught her red-handed. Oh well, after last night he had to know she still had feelings for him. That she still longed for his touch.

She averted her eyes anyway. “Sorry.”

“Did you know that you cursed? When you saw the pan was smoking.”

Had she? It was all a bit of a blur. “I don't recall.”

“You said ‘damn it.' I've never heard you swear be fore.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I didn't have anything to swear about back then.”

It wasn't true. She'd had plenty to swear about. But she had been so terrified of slipping up in front of her father, it was safer to not swear at all. He expected her to be the proper Texas debutant. His perfect princess. Though she somehow always managed to fall short.

She still didn't swear very often. Old habits, she supposed. But sometimes a cuss or two would slip out.

He lifted the ice pack and looked at her leg again. “It's not blistered, so it's not that bad of a burn. How does it feel?”

“A little worse than a sunburn.”

“Some aloe and a couple of ibuprofen should take care of the pain.” He set the pack back on her leg. “Hold this while I go get it.”

She was about to tell him that she could do it herself, but she sort of liked being pampered. He would go back
to hating her soon, and lusting for revenge. She figured she might as well enjoy it while she could.

Isabelle heard his footsteps going up the stairs, then coming back down and he reappeared with a bottle of aloe and a couple of pain tablets. He got a glass down from the cupboard and filled it with water from the dispenser on the fridge. He gave her that and the tablets and she dutifully swallowed them. She assumed he would hand over the bottle of aloe so she could go in her room and apply it herself. Instead he squirted a glob in his palm and dropped the ice pack into the sink.

There was nothing overtly sexual about his actions as he spread the aloe across her burn, but her body couldn't make the distinction. She felt every touch like a lover's caress. And she wanted him. So badly.

So much for trying to resist him. He wasn't even trying to seduce her and she wanted to climb all over him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked.

He braced his hands on the edge of the counter on either side of her thighs and looked up at her. “Truthfully, Izzie, I don't know.”

It was the probably the most honest thing he had said to her, and before she could even think about what she was doing, she reached up and touched his cheek. It was warm and rough.

His eyes turned stormy.

She knew this was a bad idea, that she was setting herself up to be hurt, but she couldn't stop. She wanted to touch him. She didn't care that it was all an illusion. It felt real to her, and wasn't that all that mattered? And who knows, maybe this time he wouldn't push her away.