‘Did anyone ever tell you that you’re supremely arrogant?’

‘Often. I’m not averse to hearing compliments, Olympia. And nor do I imagine are you. You really are stunning, querida.’

Up close she was even more exquisite. Nic couldn’t take his eyes off her.

‘Save it, Romeo. You may be infamous for your limitless wants and desires, but I’m afraid you’ve reached your limit with me.’

He might have believed her if he hadn’t trailed the back of his index finger down her bare arm excruciatingly slowly and relished the shimmy rustling over her body. Impossible as it was, her infinitesimal gasp and the ghostly pinch of her brow gave him the notion that she hadn’t known a simple touch could affect her in such a tremendous way.

‘You’re scared. Maybe even petrified. Afraid I will prove you wrong? Or fearful you’ll enjoy every minute of it?’ He was baiting her, but there was one advantage to toying with an intelligent woman: he knew exactly what buttons to push.

‘I fear no one. Least of all you.’

THE 21st CENTURY GENTLEMAN’S CLUB

Where the rich, powerful and passionate come to play!

For years there have been rumours of a secret society where only the richest, the most powerful and the most decadent can embrace their every desire.

Nothing is forbidden in this private world of pleasure.

And when exclusivity is beyond notoriety only those who are invited to join ever know its name …

Q Virtus

Now the truth behind the rumours is about to be revealed!

The Ultimate Revenge

Victoria Parker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

VICTORIA PARKER’s first love was a dashing heroic fox named Robin Hood. Then came the powerful, suave Mr Darcy, Lady Chatterley’s rugged Lover—the list goes on. Thinking she must be an unfaithful sort of girl, but ever the optimist, she relentlessly pursued her Mr Literary Right, eventually found him lying between the cool crisp sheets of a Mills & Boon® and her obsession was born.

If only real life was just as easy …

Alas, against the advice of her beloved English teacher to cultivate her writer’s muse, she chased the corporate dream and acquired various uninspiring job-titles and a flesh-and-blood hero before she surrendered to that persistent voice and penned her first Mills & Boon® romance. Turns out creating havoc for feisty heroines and devilish heroes truly is the best job in the world.

Victoria now lives out her own happy-ever-after in the north-east of England, with her alpha exec and their two children—a masterly charmer in the making and, apparently, the next Disney Princess. Believing sleep is highly overrated, she often writes until three a.m., ignores the housework (much to her husband’s dismay) and still loves nothing more than getting cosy with a romance novel. In her spare time she enjoys dabbling with interior design, discovering far-flung destinations and getting into mischief with her rather wonderful extended family.

To my Q Virtus compatriots, Maya Blake and Dani Collins. Thank you for the laughs and chats as we concocted and conceived our brave new world. It’s been an honour and an absolute pleasure.

And for the fabulous Jennifer Hayward, my CP and best bud. Like Olympia Merisi, you rock!

So this one is for you …

Contents

Cover

Introduction

The 21st Century Gentleman's Club

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THEY SAY YOU can’t plan a hurricane.

Nicandro Carvalho could. He could wreak havoc with a smile. And after ten years of planning and months of whipping up a storm he was finally ready to unleash chaos.

Zeus. I am coming for you and I will annihilate your world. As you destroyed mine.

The Barattza in Zanzibar, this weekend’s ostentatious venue for the quarterly meeting of Q Virtus, was warm, and so muggy his flimsy white shirt clung to his body like a second skin and moisture thrived beneath his mask. Still, he strode ruthlessly through the crush of elite billionaires, intent on his pretty petite q—his backstage pass into Zeus’s lair, in the form of a five-foot-three brunette in a haute couture red gown designed to attract and blend in equal measure.

Look but don’t touch was the cardinal rule.

As if Nicandro had ever followed the rules. ‘Rules are for boring fools,’ as his mother would say, although her voice was now a distant echo from the past.

Numerous greetings vied for his attention and he offered a succinct nod or a quick ‘good evening’ and volunteered nothing more. Conversations were like fires—they tended to sputter out if he deprived them of enough air.

His purposeful stride didn’t break—hadn’t since he’d been Nicandro Santos, a terrified seventeen-year-old boy who’d boarded a cargo ship in Rio to hide in a filthy container bound for New York. It hadn’t faltered when he’d concocted a new identity to ensure anonymity from his past life, emerging as one Nicandro Carvalho, who’d sold his pride on the streets of Brooklyn and then wrenched it back by working his fingers raw on construction sites to put some semblance of a roof over his head.

Nor had it swayed when he’d bought his first property, then another, over endless harrowing years, to earn enough money to bring his grandfather from Brazil to be by his side.

An unrelenting purpose and a cut-throat determination that had rewarded him with obscene power and wealth—until he’d been graciously accepted into the covert ranks of Q Virtus, where his sole purpose was to infiltrate and take it down from the inside.

So here he was. And this was only the beginning.

A plan over ten years in the making. Rewriting history to make the Santos Empire—his legacy of a life that had been stolen from him, along with his parents—whole once more.

Nic shut down his thoughts as mercilessly as he did everything else. Otherwise the burning ball of rage that festered and ate away at his insides like a living, breathing entity would surely explode and incinerate everything and everyone in its path.

‘Hey, Nic, what’s the hurry?’

Narciso’s voice shattered his ferocious intent and this time he did turn, to see his friend looking dapper in a tailored tuxedo, sans jacket, leaning against the main bar, Scotch glass in hand, the top half of his face shrouded in a gold leaf mask that reminded him of a laurel wreath.

Nic felt the constricting steel band around his chest slacken as a smile played at his mouth. ‘All hail, Emperor Narciso. Dios, where do they come up with these things?’

‘I have no idea, but I’m certainly feeling on top of the world.’

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Of course you are. How is the ball and chain?’

Narciso grinned at the blatant cynicism, his smile reaching the scalloped edge of gold.

Hideous masks. Requisite to afford them some anonymity, but they only served to aggravate Nic to the extreme—just as everything about Q Virtus did.

A gentlemen’s club for the elite. Prestigious. Illustrious. The most sought-after membership in the world. Run by a deceitful, murdering crook.

Ironic, he thought, that grown men, multi-billionaires, would sell their soul to be a member of Q Virtus, virtually handing their business confidences, their reputation, their respect and trust to a common criminal.

Not for much longer. Not after Nic had finished exposing the cold, hard truth and crushed Zeus beneath his almighty foot.

‘She’s as beautiful as ever. Come, take a spin of the wheel with me. I’d like a quiet word.’

Impatience clawed at him with steel-tipped talons, slashing his insides, but Nic resisted the compulsion to decline outright. It had been too long since he’d seen his friend and he wanted a quiet word of his own.

‘Let’s grab a private table,’ Nic said, not wasting a moment, simply ushering Narciso towards the lavish roulette room and a private table at the back.

Within ten minutes they had drinks in hand and the full attention of a male croupier dressed in red footman’s livery. ‘Gentlemen, please take your bets.’

Nic tossed a five-thousand-dollar chip haphazardly at the marked numbers adorning the roulette layout and waited for Narciso to make his choice.

‘Twenty thousand dollars on black seventeen,’ the croupier confirmed impassively.

Nic whistled a huff of air. ‘Feeling reckless without your lady present?’

‘Feeling lucky. That ball and chain does that to me.’

Yep, his partner in crime was still drugged on a potent cocktail of regular sex and emotion. He just hoped the hangover was a long way off. Nic didn’t relish seeing the lights go out in his eyes. Sad, but inevitable.

The wheel spun in a kaleidoscopic blur and he eased back in his seat to afford them a modicum of privacy. With time at a premium and his patience dwindling he jumped right in. If he waited for Narciso to start the conversation he might be there all night.

‘Tell me something. Don’t you think it’s odd that we’ve never seen a glimpse of QV’s Mr Mysterious? Not once.’

Narciso didn’t waste time pretending not to know exactly who they were discussing. He simply arched one dark brow and spoke in that rich, affluent tone that had used to fell women faster than a forest fire. ‘So the man likes his privacy? Don’t we all?’

‘There’s got to be more to it than that.’

‘So suspicious, Carvalho.’

The white ball plopped into black seventeen and a satisfied grunt filled the air. Typical. Served Nic right for not even caring where his chip landed, but right now he had more important thoughts swirling around the vast whirlpool of his mind in ever-narrowing circles. Always leading back to the same thing. Zeus.

‘Maybe he’s not fit for polite society,’ Narciso suggested. ‘Ever thought of that? Rumour has it the man is associated with the Greek mafia. Maybe he’s scarred with a dozen bullet holes. Maybe he’s mute. Maybe he’s shy. Over the last few months—since the last meeting, in fact—the rumour mill has churned up all kinds of ludicrous tales.’

Oh, he’d heard the rumours. Of course he had. He’d started most of them.

‘Doesn’t it bother you that Q Virtus could be dirty?’ he asked, his voice all innocence with the required edge of concern. ‘It obviously bothers some. There are a few members missing this weekend.’

Amazing what a few ‘have you heard?’ whispers in the right ears could achieve. Doubt was a powerful thing—destructive, flammable—and Nic had lit the torch with a flourish, sat back and watched it spread like wildfire.

Narciso shrugged, as if the thought of being a member of a club that was morally corrupt was water sluicing off a duck’s back.

‘The club might’ve had shady beginnings, but even my father and his cronies say the place is clean as a whistle now. You and I personally know several members, and all of them have made billions from mutually beneficial business deals, so I doubt any of it is true. Rumours are generally fairy stories born from petty jealousy or spoken from the mouths of people who have an ulterior motive.’

Very true, that. But the fact that Nic had numerous ulterior motives was something he kept to himself.

‘Still, I want to meet him.’ What he wanted, he realised, was back-up if something went wrong tonight. If he conveniently disappeared he wanted Narciso to know where he was headed.

‘Why? What could you possibly want with Zeus?’

To bring his world crumbling down around his ears. To make him suffer as his parents had—as he had and as his grandfather had.

That old man, whom he loved so dearly, was the only family he had left. The man who’d harangued and railed at him to stand tall, who had propped him up as he’d learned how to walk again when Nic would rather have died in the same bloodbath as his parents.

‘Is there something you want to tell me, Nic?’

Yes. The shock of it made him recoil, push back in his seat until he could feel the knotted gold silk poke through his shirt and agitate his skin. Problem being he didn’t want Narciso dragged into the epicentre of a storm of which he was the creator.

‘Not particularly.’

Mouth pursed, his friend nodded grudgingly. ‘And how do you intend to meet the mysterious, reclusive, notorious Zeus?’

Nic tossed back another mouthful of vodka as his gaze flickered to the petite q he’d been wooing since he’d arrived the night before. There she was, standing near the doors, unobtrusive as always, yet only a hand-motion away. All it had taken was one look into her heavy-lashed slumberous gaze and he’d thought, Piece of cake.

One romantic midnight stroll along the beach and he’d had a thumbprint lifted from her champagne flute. One lingering caress of his hand round her waist and he’d slipped the high-security access card from the folds of her red sheath. What remained was one promise of seduction in her suite that he’d fail to keep and would ensure she was gone from his side.

Narciso followed his line of sight and huffed out a breath. ‘Should’ve known a woman would be involved. I like your style, Carvalho, even if I do think that vodka you drink has pickled your brain.’

Nic laughed, riding high on the narcotic mix of anticipation and exhilaration lacing his veins. That was until he looked into his friend’s eyes and the mirth died in his throat.

What would Narciso and their buddy Ryzard think of him when Nic whipped the Q Virtus rug from beneath their feet? When he lost them the chance of schmoozing with the world’s most powerful men, creating contacts and thriving on the deals that cultivated their already vast wealth. They would understand, wouldn’t they? Narciso was the closest thing to a best friend he’d ever had and Ryzard was a good man. Surely he was doing them a favour of sorts—he knew what Zeus was capable of; they hadn’t a clue.

‘Speaking of rumours,’ Narciso murmured, in a tone that made Nic’s guts twist into an apprehensive knot. ‘I hear Goldsmith made you an offer.’

He practically choked on his vodka. ‘How do you know that?’

Narciso looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. ‘Do you honestly think Goldsmith could keep the possibility of the mighty Nicandro Carvalho, an unequalled dominant force in real estate, becoming his son-in-law a secret for one second? He told my father. Who told me. And I told him that Goldsmith is delusional.’

Nic checked an impatient sigh. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss. Except his silence pulled the air taut, pinching Narciso’s brow and turning his smart mouth into a scowl.

‘Do not tell me you are seriously considering marrying Eloisa Goldsmith.’

No. Maybe. ‘I am considering it, yes.’

‘You’ve got to be joking, Nic!’

‘Keep your voice down! Just because you’ve been blinded by good sex and emotion—ah, sorry—I mean to say just because you’ve found everlasting bliss,’ he muttered, with no small amount of sarcasm, ‘it doesn’t mean I want to sign my own death warrant. A business marriage is perfect for me.’

‘You’re as jaded as I was. Heaven help you if you meet a woman strong enough to smash your kneecaps and drop you at her feet.’

‘If that ever happens, my friend, I’ll buy you a gold pig.’

Narciso shook his head. ‘Eloisa Goldsmith. You’re insane.’

‘What I am is late for a rendezvous.’ He downed the last of his drink as he bolted upright, the lock of his knees thrusting his chair backwards with an emphatic scrape.

‘Why would you even consider it? She’s a country mouse—you’ll be bored within a week.’

Exactly. He could never fall in love with her and he’d have a sweet, gentle, caring woman to be the mother of his children. As to the why—there was only one reason Nic would walk down the aisle at twenty-nine years old. The final goal in his grand slam.

Santos Diamonds.

The business phenomenon that had taken generations to build: his great-grandfather’s love affair, his avô’s pride and joy, the legacy Goldsmith would only gift to Nic along with his daughter’s hand.

He wasn’t enamoured of the idea, but he’d promised himself he’d consider it while he whisked up a vengeful hurricane for Zeus to flounder within. So consider it he would. If only for Avô to see Santos Diamonds back where it belonged. It was the least he could do for the old man.

‘I will be content. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with pleasure.’

The pleasure of the ultimate revenge.

* * *

PRIVATE. NO ENTRY.

Blood humming with a lethal combination of exhilaration and eagerness, Nic swiped his nifty keypad over the high-access security panel. While he’d loathed those early days in New York when he’d been lured to the streets of Brooklyn, he’d met some interesting if a smidgeon degenerate characters walking on the more dangerous side of life, who had always been willing to teach him a trick or two.

Still, his heart slammed about in his chest like a pinball machine until the fingerprint recognition flashed green and he was standing in Zeus’s inner sanctum.

Moroccan-style ironwork lanterns cast eerie shadows down the long corridor and painted the white stucco walls with a brassy wash. The floor was a continuation of the small intricate mosaic that ran through the hotel but here, in Zeus’s lair, the colours were richer—deep amber, bronze and heavy gold, as if gilded by Midas’s touch. And that touch had embellished every scrolled door handle, fingerplate and urn.

Arched double doors, elaborately carved, encompassed the entire wall at one end of the floor, and as he drew closer faint murmurs slithered beneath the gap like wisps of smoke unfurling to reach his ears. Someone having unpleasant dreams, if he guessed right. Definitely female.

Mistress? Wife? The man was reclusive and malevolent enough to hoard a harem as far as he knew.

Gingerly Nic curled his hand around the gold handle and smirked when the lever gave way under the pressure of his palm. This was just too easy.

Door closed behind him, he stifled a whistle at the vast expanse of opulence.

Ochre walls were punctuated with arched lattice screens, allowing the shimmering light of the ornate candelabra to spin from one room to another and dance over every gilt-edged surface almost provocatively. But it was the heady scent of incense that gave the atmosphere a distinctly sultry feel, heating his blood another few degrees and coaxing his eyes towards the bed.

Mosaic steps led up to a raised dais, at least eight feet square. The entire structure was shrouded by a tented canopy made with the finest gold silk—the weighty drapes closed on all four sides, with only a small gap at the bottom edge. Clearly an invitation to take a peek as far as he was concerned.

Nic slipped off his shoes by the door and stepped closer on sock-clad feet, his pulse thrumming with the devilry of being somewhere he shouldn’t and half hoping, half anxious that he’d be caught.

The sudden bolt of lightning that flashed through the room, followed by a sonorous crack of thunder didn’t help. His heart leapt to his throat.

Sumptuous cushions and layers upon layers of super-fine silk in white and gold embraced the still mound of a woman veiled by the caliginous shadows.

He watched, waiting to ensure she slept on, frowning at the odd sizzle of electricity that ran beneath his skin. If he were the suspicious sort who believed in Brazilian claptrap he’d think his ancestors were trying to tell him to get the hell out of here. As if.

Nic shook himself from the bizarre trance and skulked round the rest of the palatial suite, prowling between overstuffed sofas in a rich shade of cocoa, towering fern trees that plumed from barrel-wide bronze urns and the ritzy copper-toned spa tub raised on another dais in the bathing room.

The entire effect was stunning, but it had a homely feel—as if the guest was in fact the owner and he’d decided to give the sheikhs of the Middle East a run for their money.

Finally, in the farthest room, was the answer to his prayers. A wide leather-topped desk strewn with business files and paperwork.

Hope unfurled and he sniffed at the air tentatively, while anxiety curled its wicked tail around his ribcage. Not fear of being caught—more fear of never finding the truth. Never finding what he was looking for. Never coming eye to eye with Zeus himself. Or should he say Antonio Merisi.

Ah, yes, Antonio Merisi—aka Zeus. A name that had evaded him for years—as if trying to connect the god-like sacrosanct prominence of Zeus with a flesh and blood human capable of being destroyed was impossible. But Nic had friends in places both high and low, and anything was procurable for a price.

It had been a torturous exercise in patience to discover any other Merisi business interests apart from Q Virtus. Not an easy feat, considering they’d been buried in aliases, but he’d struck gold within weeks and found one or two to set the wheels in motion. Make dents in the man’s bank balance. Contaminate his reputation. See how he liked his empire destroyed. As long as Nic got to watch it crumble. To see the very man responsible for his parents’ death languish in hell.

Standing behind the desk, he hauled himself up from his pit of rage and resentment and fingered the portfolio at the top of towering pile.

Merpia Inc.

Merpia? The largest commodities trading house in the world.

Eros International.

That one he’d guessed, from the abundance of Greek mythological connotations surrounding the club and a brief mention of the Merisi name in the company portfolio. Consequently he’d plagued the stockmarket with rumours two weeks earlier.

Score one Carvalho.

Ophion—Greek shipping.

Rockman Oil.

Dios...

Multi-billion-pound ventures. Every single one of them. This man wasn’t wealthy— he was likely one of the richest men in the world, with millions scattered across a vast financial plain.

The dents Nic had made would be a drop in the ocean.

He battled with an insurgence of disheartenment until another file snagged his eye.

Carvalho?

His hand shot out...then froze when a sharp voice splintered his rage.

‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. Hands up, back away from the table, then do not move a muscle or I’ll blow your brains out.’

Busted. Just when things were getting interesting. Still, his lips twisted ruefully at the sound of a husky, sultry feminine voice.

Nic flicked his hands in the air with a high school level of flippancy to lighten the mood and twisted his torso to spin around.

‘Now, now, querida, let’s not fight—’

The practised snick of the safety catch on a revolver made him rethink. Fast. It was a sound that resonated through his brain and threw him back thirteen years. Even his back stiffened, as if he were waiting for the echo of a bullet to penetrate his spine. Rob him of the dreams of his youth. End life as he knew it.

‘Stay right where you are. I did not give you permission to move.’

A shiver glanced over his flesh at the cool, dominant tone, as if he’d been physically frisked not just verbally spanked.

‘As you wish,’ he said, taking his voice down an octave or three and coating it in sin. ‘Though I’d much rather conduct this meeting face to face. More so if you are as beautiful as your voice.’

Maybe it was her barely audible huff or maybe it was the impatient tap of a stiletto heel on wood but Nic would swear she’d just rolled her eyes.

‘Who are you and how did you get into my suite?’

Suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation hit him. Was he actually being controlled by a woman?

Shifting on his feet, he made to swivel. ‘I’m turning around so we can have this conversation like two adul—’

A sharp sound like a whip cracking rent the air and Nic’s jaw dropped as he married the sound of a silenced bullet with the precise hole in the oil painting of a wolf about three feet from his head.

How ironic. Lobisomem. Portuguese for werewolf. His Q Virtus moniker.

Omen? He damned well hoped not.

The smell of the gunpowder residue curled through his sinuses and the past seemed to collide with the present, making his stomach clench on a nauseating pang. Sweat trickled down his spine and he had to surreptitiously clear the thickness from his throat just to speak.

‘Crack shot, querida.’ Question was, why wouldn’t she let him turn, look at her?

‘The best, I assure you. Now, tell me I have your undivided attention and that you will behave.’

Nic had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to win this argument. And that voice... Dios, she could read him passages from the most profoundly boring literature in the world and he’d still get sweaty and hard at the sound of her licking those consonants and vowels past her lips.

‘I will be on my best behaviour. Scout’s honour.’

Not that he’d ever been one. At the suggestion his mother had arched one perfectly plucked, disgusted brow, told him the idea was simply not to be endured and that she’d rather take him to the country club to play poker.

How he’d loved that woman.

Ignoring the misery dragging at his heart, he strived for joviality. ‘Though if it’s co-operation you’re looking for, I’ll be far more amenable without a gun trained on my head by an expert marksman.’

‘Trouble must follow you if you’re familiar with the sounds of a loaded gun. Why does that not surprise me?’

‘Guess I’m just that kind of guy.’

‘A thief? A criminal? Insane?’

Dios! Why was everyone calling him insane today?

‘Misjudged was more the word I was thinking of. Or maybe I’m simply enigmatic, like your lover. Or is he your boss?’

‘My...boss?’ she replied, with a haughty edge that said no man would ever lord it over her.

He almost rolled his eyes then. ‘Okay, then, your lover.’

That earned him a disgruntled snicker.

‘Think again. And while you’re at it who are you talking about? Who is my boss supposed to be? Who are you looking for?’

‘Zeus, of course—who else?’

The room hushed into a cacophony of silence; the lack of sound so loud his ears rang. No doubt a pin dropping would have detonated in an explosion of sound.

Nic pounced on the lull—he’d always liked creating a big bang. ‘I have a meeting with him here. Tonight. So if you’d like to run along and get him I’d be greatly appreciative.’

A stunned pause gave way to a burst of incredulous laughter. The kind that was infectious. It was rusty—as if she didn’t get much practice—but it was out there, all smoky and sultry, and it filled him with a scorching hot kind of pleasure.

Who the devil was she?

‘A meeting, you say? I think not. And I believe you are toying with the wrong woman, stranger. So forgive me if I just run along and leave you with some friends of mine.’

From nowhere three hulks had three guns trained on various parts of his anatomy and he fought the violent urge to cup his crotch. Because 1) despite evidence to the contrary he was of high intellect, and 2) despite their tailored Savile Row attire their eyes were dull from a hard life and the inevitable slide into madness.

Splendid.

For pity’s sake, why guns? Why not knives? He hated guns!

‘Ah, come now, querida, this is hardly fair. Three against one?’

‘I wish you the best of luck. If you survive we will meet again.’

He’d always been a lover, not a fighter. Still, living on the streets had taught him more than how to break a lock—which was just as well because he was nowhere near done with this night or this woman.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT. Walked out. Left them to rid her of the criminal in their midst. Here she’d been expecting news of his disposal to the authorities, or his being shoved onto a plane to Timbuktu, and instead she was standing in the security room faced with three decidedly sheepish guards and a fifty-two-inch plasma screen filled with the image of a prominent, high-profile billionaire tied up in her cellar!

‘I don’t believe this,’ Pia breathed.

Exquisitely tall.

Beautifully dark.

Devastatingly handsome.

And infamous for satisfying his limitless wants and desires. Not—as far as she was aware, and she generally knew more than most—renowned for being a felon.

‘Nicandro Carvalho. I almost shot Nicandro Carvalho!’

Pia’s insides shook like a shaken soda can ready to spray. He’d been in her bedroom. Maybe watched her sleep. She’d been half naked when he’d swaggered into her rooms and for a split second she’d thought her past was catching up with her.

But what really ratcheted up her ‘creeped-out’ meter was the fact she’d shot her favourite painting. Of a werewolf. Lobisomem. How freaky was that? Considering she’d code-named him herself.

‘It would have been his own fault! What was he doing, snooping around in there?’

All three testosterone-dripping men in the room flinched at Jovan’s holler but Pia was used to his bark—especially where she was concerned. Protectiveness didn’t come close to the way he went on. Ridiculous. You would think she was eight, not twenty-eight.

‘More to the point, how did he even get in here?’ she said, glaring at her supposed security staff, who flushed beneath her scrutiny. ‘Find the breach and deal with it. Someone betrayed me today and I want them found.’

Skin visibly paled at her tone. ‘Yes, madame.’

Purposefully avoiding the image on screen—because every time she looked at Carvalho the lamb she’d eaten for dinner threatened to reappear—she speared Jovan with her displeasure. ‘Did you realise who he was before you roughed him up? Tell me you went easy on him.’

‘Easy?’ Jovan said, with a hefty amount of incredulity, and she only had to glance across the room to see why.

One of his men sported a black eye and a broken nose, the other winced with every turn and the third had a pronounced limp.

‘The guy should be a cage fighter! I recognised that pretty-boy face within minutes and I still wanted to pulverise him, regardless. He could have hurt you, Pia! So what if the man has money? Only last year they discovered that billionaire who had buried thirty-two bodies in his back yard!’

Heaven help her.

‘All right—calm down.’ If he worked himself up any more he’d either have a seizure or charge back in there to finish Carvalho off. Which would now be a manageable feat, considering he’d tied the stunner to a chair so tightly the ropes were likely cutting off his circulation. ‘Like every member, he’s been checked out thoroughly.’

Born in Brazil to a lower class family, he’d sailed to New York to make his fortune. The fact he’d come from nothing, was a self-made man, had gained her deepest respect from the start. Pia had first-hand experience of being hungry, feeling worthless, powerless, and she never wanted to revisit that hellhole ever again. The amount of determination it would have taken Carvalho to rise from the ashes with no help had fascinated and charmed her in equal measure.

‘If there was something amiss about him I would know.’ Yet suddenly she wasn’t so sure. Her instincts screamed that this man was far more than he’d initially appeared.

‘People don’t tend to put “serial killer” and “rapist” on their résumé, Pia.’

Valid point.

She tapped at the pounding spot between her brows, feeling as if she’d been given a complex puzzle with half the pieces left out.

‘I’m missing something vital. I must be. First he breaks in, then he has a snoop at the files on my desk. Eros longer than most—I’d know that red file anywhere—and then...’ She ran her tongue over her top front teeth. ‘Now, isn’t that a coincidence? That Eros International should catch his eye.’

The company had taken a suspiciously abrupt beating on the stockmarket of late. Though in all honesty Eros’s share decline had been the least of her concerns. Ugly rumours were abounding, hitting her where it hurt. Her reputation.

Could he be the thorn in her side? The man who’d been making discreet enquiries about Zeus, about the club, about her businesses—the very man who’d been spreading filth and lies?

Maybe. After all, in her world anything was possible. But why?

Stuff it. She had no intention of waiting around while some property magnate ruined her life. If he was to blame.

‘Turn off the screens. I’m going in there.’

She wanted answers and there was only one way to get them. She just hoped she was wrong and there was some perfectly good explanation for his breaking and entering. Yeah, right. Call her foolish, but she didn’t want Nicandro Carvalho to be at the centre of her current storm.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

While Jovan dismissed his men with a quiet word her gaze sought out Nicandro Carvalho once again. Obscenely grateful that her dinner stayed put and she remained apathetic and unflappable. As if the sight of a six-foot-plus Brazilian hunk with a bloodied lip was an everyday occurrence. She was good at that. Projecting absolute calm composure while her stomach revolted at the sight of her Lobisomem in a snare.

She rubbed her own upper arms, sore with the faint echoes of pain. She wanted to scream and rail at Jovan for trussing him so tightly. Perhaps she’d tie him up until control was lost, handed to another. See how he liked it.

‘Did you have to cut off his blood supply?’ she asked, cringeing inwardly at her snippy tone. Not for Jovan’s sake. He was more like the bothersome older brother she’d never had, so she didn’t bother to pull her punches with him. But the last thing she needed was to come over unhinged to her staff. ‘Women are emotional liabilities,’ her father would say. Not her. Not since he’d made her into a living, breathing machine.

‘Who cares if I did?’ Jovan asked.

Pia cared—for some bizarre reason. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. Just as she wasn’t about to admit that at times she’d secretly watched Nicandro Carvalho over the past year. There was something darkly arresting about him. One look at his brooding beauty, at that dark skin that looked as if exotic blood ran through his veins, and she felt giddy with it all.

Pia was tall for a woman, and yet his towering height, wide shoulders and the thick biceps bulging from where his arms strained made her feel like a porcelain doll. Though he was snared, anyone could see his bearing was straight, confident, almost regal—like titan warriors and powerful gods. Not an image she would expect from a boy born in the Rio slums. The fact that he took pride in that fact, felt no shame for his poor origins and preferred to acknowledge the truth and stand tall with dignity, had lent him a kind of reverence in her eyes. She’d never been able to shake the stigma of it all.

Hung loosely about his face, his hair was the deepest shade of brown. She suspected it would curl when wet, drying into untamed flicks that twisted to his shoulders and fell wantonly about his face. Sharp brooding eyes almost black in their depths were framed lavishly with thick dark lashes: luscious, evocative and dominating.

And there was that word again—regal—rolling through her mind as she frantically tried to piece together the how and why he had broken into her suite and was now trussed to a chair. None of it made sense.

Jovan’s hard voice ripped her attention from the seriously ripped Carvalho and she spun to see him leaning his six-foot-five frame against a bank of security screens.

‘He did this to himself, Pia. Let me deal with him—please?’ His chiselled features twisted, playing out a complex series of emotional shifts.

‘No. He wants something.’ Right then she flashed back to their brief conversation. ‘And I suspect it is something only Zeus can give—otherwise why lie about having a meeting prearranged? So before he destroys my club with his ugly rumours, or costs me another twenty-five million on the stockmarket, I want to know why.’

Jovan grumbled in the way Pia had learned to ignore. ‘So what do you intend to do with him?’

Stress and worry lined his brow, reminding her of the day they’d met. When he’d swept her into his arms as she’d lain knocking on death’s door outside her father’s palatial entryway. Sixteen years old and before then she hadn’t even known her father existed. Without Jovan, Pia doubted she would have survived in her father’s frigid Siberian world.

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I have no idea.’

Commodities? A cinch. Juggling multi-million-dollar investments every day? A breeze. Dealing with people? Excruciating torture.

‘I’ll just have to play it by ear. Question him. Find out what he wants and why.’

Jovan snorted. ‘Good luck with that one. He is arrogant. Overly cocky and dangerously determined.’

‘Then we are equally matched. I don’t believe in coincidences, Jovan. My gut tells me he’s responsible for the rumours and the mayhem at Eros, and if so he wants something and won’t disappear until he gets it. It would be foolish of me to take my eyes off him for one second.’

‘So we put him on watch. Twenty-four-seven.’

‘Or I go in there. Deal with him. Quickly. Quietly.’

‘Pia, please. It is too risky.’

‘Since when have I been afraid of a little risk?’ Never. Fear would never touch her heart again. ‘He’s sure to tell me far more than he would ever tell you, and I’ll hazard a guess he’ll remain obstinate until he meets the man behind Q Virtus anyway.’

‘He’ll be waiting a long time.’

‘Quite. So I’ll put him off. Persuade him to deal with me and figure out what he’s looking for. Why he’d chance his membership, his reputation, his business and fortune, by toying with the club. With me personally. He must know Zeus could bring him down.’

‘But you’ll place yourself in jeopardy. Under the spotlight. What if he realises you and Zeus are one and the same person? That your father is dead?’

Without thought Pia let her fingers creep up to her throat, where her pulse beat against her palm in a wild tattoo. Such an outcome wasn’t even worth contemplating.

‘He won’t. He’s a man. He’s predictable and he won’t look beyond my breasts. Women are designed for whoring or childbearing in his world—the truth wouldn’t occur to him in a million years. Granted, very few people know Antonio Merisi had a daughter, but my existence is no secret. If he looked in the right places he’d know I exist. When I tell him he’ll think I am merely ornamental—a pampered child—so I doubt he’ll crow to his friends that he was wrestled to the ground by a mere female.’

The man had a superb business mind and a vast IQ, but he was arrogant and conceited and as dominant as they came. Any battle between them would likely stay behind doors.

‘This is my life we’re talking about and the future of a club I swore would stand the test of time.’ Damn the old rules. ‘Damn the dinosaurs that litter the ranks of my club.’

They’d never accept leadership from someone with a sullied past such as hers. Not only that, but the gentlemen’s club was bound by rules—archaic, chauvinistic rules created by troglodytes—that declared only a Merisi man could lead. Only a man could own and control the largest business interests in the world.

Yet here she was. Groomed. Her path decided the moment her father had seen her, semi-conscious in Jovan’s arms. She’d become the son Antonio Merisi had never had. His heir. His corporate assassin. The girl he’d called worthless, tainted, illiterate trash at first glance, making her feel dirtier than the clothes on her back. The same girl who’d then taken his fortune and quadrupled it within the first two years of living under his excessively opulent roof.

She was master of the most exclusive club in the world. Perpetually in hiding. Habitually alone. And that was the way it must stay.

‘If my instincts are right he’s declared war and I’m fighting blind—ignorant of the cause. If I’m to have any chance of surviving I need the right weapon to wield. Turn off the screens, Jovan.’ Her tone brooked no argument. ‘I’m going in.’

The monitors flickered to black and a moment later a faint tap on the door preceded Clarissa Knight, one of the petite q’s, shifting on her feet as she was nudged through the space, a telling flush driving high on her cheekbones.

The pennies dropped more quickly than a Las Vegas slot machine flashing ‘Winner’ in neon lights.

Oh, wonderful. A lovesick puppy.

Pia checked a disgusted growl. ‘Oh, Clarissa, tell me he promised you the world—or at least a permanent position in his bed?’

Simultaneously Clarissa’s eyes fell to the floor and Jovan raised a small, flat high-tech sensor pad in the air, his expression warning her not to underestimate their intrepid foe.

Fingerprint recognition.

Her anger dissipated as fast as it came. She wasn’t going to ask Clarissa how it felt to be used. She remembered humiliation and worthlessness all too well.

* * *

Somewhere in that dark abyss between unconsciousness and lucidity a razor-sharp rapping registered and Nic tried for a gentle head-shake. His temples loathed that idea, twisting his stomach into a tight knot, pleading with him not to even attempt it a second time.

Prising his bruised eye open wasn’t much of a picnic either, but his heuristic brain—not to mention his sense of self-preservation—was keen to know exactly how much trouble he was in.

And he was in trouble. The ropes cutting into the skin of his wrists was a dead giveaway.

Well, he’d been in worse situations. Look on the bright side, Nic. You’re in. Zeus is here. Somewhere. They haven’t thrown you out. Yet.

Neck aching from being slumped forward, he cautiously raised his head to take in his surroundings.

His mind registered the darkness, the shadows prancing around the bare room, before he focused on a single stream of moonlight shining through the only small window, illuminating one stiletto-heeled foot tap-tap-tapping on the floor.

Ah. He suspected that was the culprit responsible for the lethargic woodpecker hammering at his head. Yet, oddly enough, all was forgotten as his appreciative eyes glissaded upwards.

Vintage towering black patent heels with an inch-thick sole. Sculpted ankles and toned calves. Sheer stockings draping long, long luscious legs and disappearing beneath a short, black figure-hugging pencil skirt.

His mind took another detour, wondering when he’d last had sex. Full-on, hedonistic, mind-blowing, erotic carnality usually kept his body taut, but now he thought about it he hadn’t felt the need in months. Little wonder he was famished.

‘Good evening, Mr Carvalho.’

A rush of heat shimmered over his skin like a phantom fire. ‘Well, well, well—if it isn’t my little gunslinger.’

‘We meet again. How are you feeling?’

Mouth as dry and hot as the desert sands, he licked his lips. His voice still came out gravelly with repressed need. ‘Much better for seeing you, querida. Or at least the half that I can see. I do wish you’d come a little closer. You can trust me.’

‘Said the wolf to the lamb,’ she quipped. ‘Was it that charming reprobate tongue you used to gain access to my private suite, Mr Carvalho?’

‘Call me Nicandro, please. I’d like to think my submissive aspect puts us on first-name terms at least. Right now you could do anything you desired to me.’

Straddling his lap would his first choice. Pressing her breasts into his chest and licking into his mouth and down the column of his throat would be the second. The agony of feeling her all over his body but being unable to touch... Exquisite torture.

‘Very well...Nicandro.’

His name rolled deliciously from her mouth with a hint of European inflection. Italian, or maybe Greek. He didn’t miss the fact that she still hadn’t given him her name, but he was too busy imagining thick, dark curling locks and hazel eyes to match that smoky, sultry voice.

‘Let us discuss the misdemeanour of breaking and entering. It stands to reason—our being on first-name terms, after all—that you should tell me exactly what you were doing in my private rooms this evening.’

‘Tell me your name and I will.’

That she didn’t want to was clear. But two could play this game, and he hadn’t needed to hear the safety click of her revolver or the commands she’d issued to the staff to tell him this woman held power. Exactly how much he had yet to figure out.

‘My name is Olympia Merisi.’

Now, that was unexpected. He barely managed to swallow the sharp hitch in his breath.

‘Ah. The little wife, then?’ A healthy dose of disappointment made him frown. What did he care who she was chained to?

‘Little? Now, there is something I’ve never been called. As for me being a wife—angels will dance in hell before I submit to any man.’

Nic could soon change that. In fact he was tempted to make it his mission. Which was incongruous, considering he hadn’t even seen her face yet.

‘A more accurate description for me would be...daughter.’

Everything stopped, as if someone had pressed ‘pause’ on the drama that was his life.

Zeus had a daughter. Well, now, every cloud had a silver lining and it seemed the fates were looking down on him tonight.

How utterly opportune. How devilishly delicious.

This new information gave him extra verve to break loose and he regained his attempts at loosening the knots binding his wrists as he found his tongue.

‘In that case I do hope I didn’t cause too much damage to your father’s security staff. I was hoping to meet the man himself to apologise.’ If he were Pinocchio his nose would have poked her eye out by now.

‘That is very decent of you,’ she said, skating the lines of sarcasm.

‘I thought so too. I’m a very decent man.’

‘That remains to be seen. You see, I have the very old-fashioned view that seducing a member of my staff and breaking into private quarters does not decent make.’

He flashed her a mock-aggrieved look. ‘Now you are just nitpicking, querida. I was curious, that is all.’

A small flat black box spun through the air and landed at his feet with a clatter.

Ah. Busted.

‘I would expect to find such high-tech equipment in the hands of a CIA operative, not a man who is merely curious to meet another. I very much doubt you’d find such a thing in the electronics section at the local store.’

Nic shrugged. Forgot he was slightly incapacitated and wrenched his shoulder. Dios, it hurt like hell. He was going to get her back for this and he’d enjoy every single second.

What had she said? The local store? He wished. It would have been a damn sight cheaper. ‘Let us say I have friends in high places.’

‘MI5? The White House?’

‘The Bronx.’

She huffed out a genuine laugh and, just as it had earlier, a hot kind of thrilling pleasure infused his blood with a sullen pulse of want. Come on, Olympia, show me your face. You’re beautiful—I know it.

‘Any normal person would’ve asked for an appointment. Ever heard of a phone?’

‘Believe it or not, I much prefer the personal touch—’

‘Oh, I believe you,’ she interrupted snarkily.

‘Maybe curious was too bland a word,’ he went on regardless. ‘Tenacious?’

‘Foolhardy? Reckless?’

He settled on, ‘Intrepid.’ It sounded better to him.

‘Why? What exactly is it you want?’

‘An audience with the all-powerful mystery man himself. One hour with your father.’

‘Impossible,’ she declared, without missing a beat.

There was something no-nonsense about her. She was overtly frank. And, call him a fool, but he believed her. Thinking about it, she didn’t seem the type to waste time messing around. As if her time was at a premium.

He pondered that while he doubled-checked. ‘He isn’t here?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. On this occasion the journey was too far for him to travel.’

She had an odd tone to her voice he couldn’t fathom, but he still trusted her word. Dangerous? Probably. Considering who her father was. Her father who wasn’t here.

‘Pity.’ Or was it? Eventually this woman would lead him directly to Zeus himself, and in the meantime...? The game was afoot and his to master.

A few days or weeks in the company of this woman would be no hardship. He could burrow into her life, find potential weak spots, and seduce her into his bed. Imagine Zeus’s horror when he discovered Nic had tasted his precious daughter. It was too delicious an idea to reject outright. It needed serious consideration.

‘Is it a private matter, or business?’ she enquired.

‘Both.’

‘Then I’m happy to talk to him on your behalf, or deliver any message you wish. You have my word it will be delivered with the utmost secrecy.’

She began to lean towards him and Nic watched, mesmerised, breath held, pulse thumping frenetically, as she came into view inch by delectable inch. It occurred to him then that she was trying to gain his trust by coming out of the shadows, making eye contact, and figured it was entirely too possible that he was underestimating her.

Nic’s eyes strained to focus as she leaned further still, bending that tiny waist, bringing the low, severe slash of her black V-neck shirt into the light, showcasing a deep cleavage of pearly white skin that made his blood hum.

Every blink of his eyes felt lethargic, every punch of his pulse profound, as she came closer...closer—

Dios...

Legs crossed, she sat with her elbow on her bent knee, chin resting on her lightly curled fist; she was the picture of seductive power.

His jaw dropped so fast it almost dented the floor. He felt his IQ dip fifty points. ‘You are...’ Stupefyingly beautiful. ‘Blonde.’

Eyes sparkling with amusement, she tipped her head to one side, as if he’d given her a complex mathematical equation and no calculator.

‘Ten out of ten, Mr Carvalho. What exactly did you expect?’

‘Greek.’ It was the only word he could muster. Pathetic, really, considering his reputation. But holy hell and smoke and fire, the woman looked as if she’d just stepped off a film noir set, playing the leading role of femme fatale. Visually dominant and unrepentant.

Thick flaxen hair the colour of champagne had been swept back from her face and perfectly pinned in a chic 1950s Grace Kelly look. Then again, the image of Grace Kelly aroused words like innocent, serene. Whereas Olympia Merisi exuded danger and sin. A woman who would refuse to be defined by any man or to submit to her sexuality. All mysterious and seductive. The type whose charm ensnared a man in the bonds of irresistible desire.

There was no other word for it—her beauty was otherworldly, almost supernatural. Pale flawless skin that shimmered like a pearl, high slashing cheekbones that any supermodel would weep for, huge, ever so slightly slanted violet-blue eyes thickly rimmed with black kohl, and full pouty lips painted in the deepest shade of unvirtuous red.

She should have been called Aphrodite, as undeniably goddess-like as she was. An enchantress able to weave her magical powers, leaving her morally ambiguous. She was danger personified—and didn’t that just ratchet up his ‘want meter’ into the stratosphere?

This wasn’t a woman you married—hell, no: the very idea was ludicrous. This was a woman you bedded. Found ecstasy in her body over and over, until neither of you could walk, talk or summon the energy to breathe.

Hauling in damp air, he silently prayed for his arousal to subside, wishing he’d felt one zillionth of this visceral attraction for the petite q he’d earlier declined.

‘Your mother...? Norwegian? Swedish?’ With that natural colouring she had to be.

If Nic had blinked he would have missed it. That pained pinch of her mouth, that subtle flinch of her flesh. It didn’t take a genius to work out that her mother was a touchy subject.

‘French,’ she said, in a tone so cold it was a welcome blast of air-con sizzling over his hot, damp skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Nic shrugged. What was a couple of thousand miles? ‘European. Close enough.’

Her displeased pout told him to drop it, and even he knew some battles weren’t worth fighting. So he did. Well, sort of...

‘Please allow me to apologise for waking you earlier, querida. Or maybe you should thank me. Your dreams seemed too dark to be pleasant.’

Right there. Ah, yes. She might ooze power and control, but beneath all those chilly layers she was still a woman, swayed by emotions, capable of vulnerability. This was going to be child’s play.

‘What haunts your sleep, Olympia?’ And since when had he ever been interested enough in a woman to care?

‘A mere headache.’

Poised and graceful as a ballerina, she stood and pirouetted on her heels, turning her back on him. No doubt to soothe the raw nerve he’d struck. But what really bothered him was the weird, not to mention scary idea that he wanted to take it back, soothe her pain himself.

Instead his eyes followed her like a heat-seeking missile, and he detonated at the sight of the tight curves forming her lush heart-shaped bottom and the perfectly straight black seams splicing down her sheer stockings.

Every thought in his head exploded with the extra blast of heat to his groin.

Holy smoke. She was the sexiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He couldn’t wait to taste her. To get up close and personal with that stunning hourglass figure. To mould his hands to her flesh, sip at her skin for days. And he would. There was no woman in the world he couldn’t beguile and lure into his bed.

After she’d taken a turn around the chair she came to stand in front of him. Up close and personal.

Nic ground his back teeth, scrambling for a reprieve from the sexual tension that choked the air around them and took his hard-on from uncomfortable to agonising.

Turned out the fates had had their eye on the ball the entire time—because if there was one sure-fire way to rid him of lust they’d found it.

Olympia bent slightly at the waist—to look into his eyes or to endeavour to intimidate him, he wasn’t sure and didn’t particularly care—and he reckoned he was so far gone he would have begged for her mouth right there and then. If a large black diamond teardrop, spectacular and rare, edged with twenty-four brilliant-cut white diamonds totalling fifty-two carats, with a net worth of approximately forty-six point two million dollars, hadn’t chosen that precise moment to tumble from the sumptuous lace confection encasing her breasts.

Nic jerked as if that bruiser bodyguard was back with a fist in his guts. One punch and a tsunami of anger and hate and pain threatened to pull him under, drag him into the depths of hell. His chest felt crushed and toxic adrenaline rushed through his body, hardening his wide shoulders, searing down his arms, until he was able to contort his wrists and almost pull free of the ropes. Just a few seconds more.

He wanted to rip that platinum chain from around her neck, tear those jewels from the warm cavern of her skin. Just as Zeus’s henchman had ripped it from his mother’s lifeless body.

O Coracao da Tempestade. The heart of the storm. The Santos diamonds.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. So many memories. So much heartache. So much pain.

Nic had always surmised that Goldsmith owned the jewels, along with the rest of the company. The thought that they’d been separated thoughtlessly, like meaningless pieces of chattel, had broken his heart. He could only presume that when Zeus had sold off Santos he must have kept the diamonds to gift to his pampered daughter like some kind of obscene trophy.

Did she know how her father had come to own them?

A shudder racked his entire body and he broke out in a cold sweat.

Dios, did she know they were smothered in blood?

If she did he would make her life a living hell.

The fist gripping his heart threatened to squeeze the life out of him. It took everything he had to remain calm, not to jump to conclusions or lose the hold on his temper.

Gracefully she straightened before him, and the vigilance narrowing those striking violet eyes told him she was well aware that the Lobisomem now sat before her, struggling to stay leashed.

Not any more.

The rope finally fell away from his wrists and it took all his remaining strength to keep hold of the bonds, control his face into an impassive blank slate so she would be none the wiser. Timing was everything, and he hadn’t bided his for years only to trip over his anger and fall at the first hurdle.

Nic discreetly cleared his throat and turned his voice to a rich, evocative volume that would diffuse her doubt.

‘Apologies, querida, my mind wandered. While I appreciate your offer to relay my business to your father, I stand firm. Let us say the topic is of a delicate nature.’

Olympia took another step back and he dug his nails into his palms to stop himself reaching out, gripping her waist, hauling her into his lap, punishing that seductive temptation of a mouth, taking his revenge on her glorious body.

Instead he carried on—as if his heart wasn’t tearing apart. ‘I don’t know you well enough to discuss it with you. I’m sure you understand.’

Stalemate. He knew it. She knew it.

Agitation leached from her. ‘No’ was clearly not a word she was used to hearing.

‘Then I can’t help you any further, Mr Carvalho. As for this evening—I’m sure you understand there has been a breach of trust, and as you’re unwilling to explain yourself your membership will be placed under review. I can—’

‘However,’ he continued, as if she’d never spoken, knowing it would rile her, determined to gain the upper hand, ‘if I had the opportunity to get to know you I might change my mind. Spend a few days with me, bonita. I’d love the chance to put things right between us. To prove I’m not so bad after all.’

She crossed her arms over her ample chest and arched one flaxen eyebrow. ‘You think me a fool, Mr Carvalho. The way to my father is not via my bed.’

Brainy and beautiful.

‘Maybe not, but I guarantee you would enjoy the ride. You’re tempted—admit it.’

‘As much as I am tempted to skydive from thirty-thousand feet without a parachute.’

He grinned—he couldn’t help it. Despite her unfortunate parentage and the bauble now nestled back in her deep cleavage he kind of liked her. Such a shame she wore a harbinger of tragedy around her delicate throat. He wondered then if she truly knew of its origins, because surely no woman in their right mind would wear it if they were well-versed in the omen it carried. The wrath of his ancestors. Strange, he’d never really believed in any of it. Until now. Because clearly Nicandro had been led to it—to her—to wreak his revenge.

He wanted it back. And he would have it. After he’d taken her. After he’d slid the diamonds from her throat in a slow, erotic seduction she would never forget.

Nic ignored the remnants of his Catholic morality—the stuff that still percolated inside whatever passed for his soul these days—which were suggesting he wasn’t being strictly fair, involving her. Odds were she was as crooked as her father.

‘I could have you in a heartbeat,’ he declared. Exaggeration on his part—she would be hard work. She was feisty and wilful and brimming with self-determination—which would make her final moments of surrender all the more delicious, precious.

‘You will never have me, Nicandro.’

By the time he’d figured out those were her parting words he was wrestling with a bout of what was surely affront—because the little vixen was halfway to the door.

Nic lurched from the chair and reached the door before she did, slamming his palm flat on the dense block of wood. If she was shocked he’d torn from his hold she covered her surprise quickly enough—simply froze to the spot like an ice sculpture and peered at him the way someone would a cockroach.

‘Want to bet?’ he said, making his voice smooth, richer than cognac and twice as heady.

A cold front swept over him, pricking his skin through the superfine material of his shirt.

‘Anyone ever tell you that you’re supremely arrogant?’

‘Often. I’m not averse to hearing compliments, Olympia. And nor do I imagine are you. You really are stunning, querida.’

Up close she was even more exquisite. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

‘Save it, Romeo. You may be infamous for your limitless wants and desires, but I’m afraid you’ve reached your limit with me.’

He might have believed her if he hadn’t trailed the back of his index finger down her bare arm excruciatingly slowly and relished the shimmy rustling over her body. Impossible as it was, her infinitesimal gasp and the ghostly pinch of her brow gave him the notion that she hadn’t known a simple touch could affect her in such a tremendous way.

‘You’re scared. Maybe even petrified. Afraid I will prove you wrong? Or fearful you’ll enjoy every minute of it?’ He was baiting her, but there was one advantage to toying with an intelligent woman: he knew exactly what buttons to push.

‘I fear no one. Least of all you.’

That haughty retort hung in the air, coaxing another smile from him. She was sewn up tighter than a drum.

‘Prove it. Spend two weeks in my company. If you win and evade my bed I will desist in my attempts to meet with your father and resign my membership from Q Virtus with no fanfare. You have my word.’

Because her evasion would never, ever happen.

Those big violet eyes narrowed on his. ‘Together with a full explanation? Because I know there’s more to you than meets the eye and far more to this meeting you desire with Zeus. I want to know why.’

It occurred to him then that she must work for her father in some way. Must have come in his place this weekend. She might have already put two and two together and suspect he was at the root of the dissent at the club. Not that she could prove it.

‘Of course I’ll tell you everything you want to know. However, if you lose, and I take your body as mine, have you at my mercy, you’ll arrange a meeting with Zeus and take me to him.’

Two days and she’d succumb. Three at the most.

For long moments she simply stared at him, and it was shocking to admit but he’d have given half of Manhattan to know what she was thinking. He’d never given much credence to the term ‘closed book’, but this intriguing package was still wrapped in Cellophane.

Finally she gave a heavy sigh, as if she really didn’t have much of an alternative. As if he’d pushed her into a corner with his refusal to tell her anything and she had nowhere else to go but to follow him.

What had he said? Child’s play.

‘All right. Here’s the deal. Zeus will be in Paris in eight days. If you win, I guarantee you’ll meet at a specified time and place. You have my word.’

A smile—so small yet inordinately confident—curved her luscious lips. He wished she’d do it more often—it made his heart trampoline into his throat.

So bold she was, so sanguine, so sure he would fail and she would be the victor. He almost felt sorry for her.

‘But when you lose I will have you on your knees, Nicandro.’

‘If I lose I’ll go down with pleasure, Olympia.’

Eyes locked, they stared at one another. Neither giving an inch. And he’d swear the air sparked with electricity, tiny arrows of fire that bounced from one point of contact to another. One strike of a match and they’d blow sky-high.

‘Then you have a deal...Nic...’

Welcome to three days of torture.

Even the way she purred his name like that, drawing out the N, made him hard.

‘Splendid. And every deal should be sealed, don’t you agree?’

Without giving her time to bat an eyelash he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. There was no better place to start the war, and his body begged for just one kiss, one taste.

Gossamer-light, Nic brushed his lips across hers and lavished the corner of her mouth with a lush velvet kiss. Electricity hissed over his skin, his blood seared through his veins on a scream of satisfaction, and before he knew it he stepped closer. Her breasts crushed against his chest and he fingered her sweet waist while he swept his tongue across the seam of her lips, demanding entry, commanding more.

Dizzy, as if she’d put him under some kind of spell, his mind stripped itself clean and he nipped at the plump flesh and sucked gently, desperate to be inside her warm heaven. She tasted of sweet, hot coffee liqueur, and if she’d just let him in...

After a few more seconds he drew back. Frowned.

Passive, emotionless—she hadn’t moved one muscle and her skin was like ice, her blood-red lips equally devoid of warmth. Even her violet-blue stare was cold and vacant.

The shock of it made his tone incongruous. ‘Olympia, you are frozen, querida.’ A coil of serpents in the pit of his stomach couldn’t have unsettled him more.

Lifting her chin she gifted him a small smile. Except it wasn’t cold—it was sad.

‘I am frozen...querido. Inside and out. Ah, Nicandro, you really have no idea who you are playing with, do you?’

Her hand to the handle now, she hauled the door wide and he floundered for a beat, stepping backwards, his foot crushing the small black sensor pad she’d tossed at him earlier.

The inevitable crack snapped him back to his wits. ‘Hold up there, ice queen. The petite q. She was innocent in all this. Promise me the girl will—’

‘Be removed from the premises. Good evening, Nicandro.’

Next thing he knew she was gone—the razor-sharp tap-tap of her towering heels vibrating in the void around him.

‘You really have no idea who you are playing with, do you?’

Wasn’t that the truth?

CHAPTER THREE

PIA PULLED THE double doors to her suite closed behind her and fought the urge to slump against the carved wood. Bad enough that she raised her fingertips to the corner of her mouth to chase the faint echoes of his kiss, shimmering over her lips like an iridescent butterfly.

Old habits truly did die hard, because for the first time in years she was second-guessing herself—and that really didn’t bode well. Suddenly spending time with Nicandro Carvalho seemed like a bad, bad idea. But what alternative did she have? Wait it out until he struck again? God only knew what havoc he’d wreak next, and she could not let that happen. Not in her world.

‘Pia?’

She jumped clean off the floor, then flushed guiltily like an idiotic schoolgirl who’d just had her first kiss from a long-time crush and her big brother had been spying on her. She didn’t want to think how close to the truth that was.

‘Where did you come from? I thought you were escorting our nefarious burglar to his suite?’

Jovan watched her warily from where he sat looking incongruous—his large frame stiff and upright—perched on the edge of her delicate gold silk daybed.

‘Mission accomplished.’

Oh.

Pia’s eyes shuttered at the concern marring his face. He wanted to ask if she was okay but he wouldn’t. He didn’t like making her feel weak. Emotional. Not when she was supposed to be a machine. But therein lay the problem. Machines didn’t tremble with the touch of man’s hand, at his finger breezing down her arm. Machines didn’t suffer a glitch after a soft evocative kiss from his warm lips. And machines certainly didn’t stare into his eyes and feel something close to longing, wishing for the impossible.

For one heart-stopping moment she would have done anything to kiss him back. Anything to feel his scorching heat melt some of the ice inside of her—ice that was so terribly, terribly cold. But Pia knew that surrendering to meaningless brief moments could shower you in a lifetime of regret, and he’d chosen the one route to her bed with a guaranteed outcome of failure and causing her maximum levels of pain.

He was using her. To get to Zeus. To Q Virtus. Ignorant of the fact he’d already been in Zeus’s company for most of the evening. If it wasn’t so humiliating and didn’t exhume such loathsome feelings of worthlessness she would laugh. Sorry, Nic, I’ve already learned my lessons in love. Pia could spot a seduction routine a mile off and erect her barricades with ease.

Being used for the Merisi fame and fortune years ago had thrown her hard-earned self-respect to the wolves—with a little help from her father’s constant stream of berating anger during the miserable aftershocks of her affair.

‘Women are weak fools with vulnerable hearts, Olympia. You think he wanted your body? Your mind?’ he’d hollered, as if the idea that any man could desire her for simply being Pia was unfathomable. ‘True lust is greed for money and power. Surrender to a man and he will strip you of your fortune and glory and leave you as nothing more than a whore in his bed. Trust no man. Not even me.’

That her hollow, cold flesh should now answer to the practised tongue of a Don Juan with criminal tendencies who was quite possibly trying to take her down could only be the cruel joke of a universe that despised her.

Now she had to drag him across Europe for the next few days, on a schedule that was impossible to change, trying to delve into the intricacies of his mind while he tried to delve into her knickers.

Not in a million years.

She’d just have to keep her head on straight and her eyes on him. The man could hardly kick up a storm if she was watching over his shoulder, and it would give her plenty of time to unearth what game he was playing and why.

The anxiety of it all—the possibility that she was in danger of having everything she’d worked so hard for taken away—made her feel sick to the stomach. And that’s not the only thing that has you rattled, a little voice said. She told that voice to hush up.

‘You look tired, Pia,’ Jovan said.

She was. Bone-deep tired. But machines weren’t supposed to get tired. So instead of crawling into bed she tried to pretend that she didn’t ache all over, lifted her chin, strode towards her office and got back to business.

‘I’m fine. You worry too much.’

That wasn’t fair. He cared about her and she would be for ever grateful for that small mercy in her life. It would have all been so easy if there’d been flames of attraction between them, but there wasn’t so much as a flicker—never mind the high-voltage current that was still racing through her body from—

No, no, no. She was not going there.

‘Get Laurent from Paris on the phone and tell him I’ve found him a new concierge. Then ask Clarissa Knight to pack her bags and come to my office. She’s wanted to be based near her mother for months and this is the perfect opportunity. With a bit of luck she’ll find some fresh eye-candy in days, and Mr Carvalho will be reduced to a distant memory. Just make sure Mr I’m-Sex-Incarnate-and-I-Know-It doesn’t see her leave.’

It was far too dangerous to keep her here, bewitched under Carvalho’s spell. No doubt he’d promise her the world for more secrets, and if the girl thought Pia was casting her out of a job and had convinced herself in love with the Brazilian bad-boy anything was possible.

Even Pia—who’d been vaccinated against the Nicandros of the world—had sensed him drizzling charm all over her as if she were a hot waffle. Clarissa wouldn’t have stood a chance. Had he slept with her? Devoured her over and over again? And why that imagery made her feel queasy was anyone’s guess.

‘You are going soft in your old age, Pia,’ Jovan said.

The only thing going soft was her breasts.

‘I’m not so vain that I can’t admit to fault. The girl is far too sheltered to be surrounded by Q Virtus players, some of who are no better than vultures preying on female flesh, but she needed the extra money to send home and I caved.’

While those were the facts it wasn’t the entire truth, and she knew it. The truth was Nicandro had used the girl, and it left a bitterly sour taste in Pia’s mouth. She was utterly disappointed in him—and that was highly idiotic, because it meant she’d placed him on a pedestal just from what she’d read of him, meant her emotions had been engaged. Fool.

‘Of course you caved. The girl genuinely needed you. I know you hate to admit it, but you like being needed.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Did she?

‘Okay, you don’t. So, do I have the pleasure of escorting him to the airport?’ Jovan asked, with no small amount of enthusiastic glee, as he walked towards her desk, where she was standing shuffling papers from one towering pile to another.

The fact she was making a mess to avoid this subject didn’t go unnoticed.

Oh, hell, this was not going to go down well.

‘No.’ And since she didn’t have the energy to tell Jovan he’d be escorting them both—together—and then deal with the inevitable fall-out—which was so unlike her it was frightening—she said, ‘I’ll explain later. Get going or you’ll miss Laurent.’

Jovan did a quick U-turn and headed towards the door—and the action popped a memory like some maniacal jack-in-the-box. Nicandro’s swift volte-face. One minute the consummate charmer, the next a predator. The lobisomem she’d seen from the start.

Strange, that all it had taken was one scan of his membership request, one perlustration of his past, one glance at the nebulous depths of his eyes and his moniker had bitten into her brain. Lobisomem: werewolf. A survivor despite or perhaps in spite of his origins. A lord of the night. His darkness a phantom entreaty to her soul.

But for several heartbeats in that room there’d been such violent anger in his eyes. A change so swift, so absolute, she’d felt the sharp edges of panic for the first time in years.

Where had it come from, that vitriol mutating his gorgeous whisky-coloured eyes to black pools of hate? Indifference she might have understood—but hate? Such a strong emotion. Made him appear dangerous. Deadly.

At first she’d thought his abrupt one-eighty had something to do with her diamonds—the only gift her father had ever given her, the only time he’d ever shown her he cared. It was the only possession she’d ever truly adored. Yet Nicandro had stared at them with a look of abject horror. It was the why that was bugging her. Yes, large black diamonds were extraordinarily rare—hers was one of a kind—but the way he’d gone on you would think it was an evil eye, some kind of black art mumbo-jumbo.

Rubbing at the aching spot between her eyes, she decided it was nigh on impossible to figure him out.

‘Jovan, before you go, what’s the name of that private investigator we occasionally use?’

He stilled beneath the archway leading back to the main suite and looked over his shoulder at her keenly. ‘We have several. Though it’s usually Mason, who tows the legal line—or McKay, who has no compulsion about being morally corrupt if given the right incentive.’

Another crook. Wonderful. Bad enough she was hearing rumours of Q Virtus being associated with the Greek mafia. Did she have Mr Carvalho to thank for that one too? She’d thank him, all right. With a swift knee-jerk in his crown jewels.

When she had the proof. If it was him.

So foolish, Pia. You’re still hoping there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this—an explanation that has nothing to do with Nicandro Carvalho, aren’t you? She couldn’t answer that question and not hate herself.

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