LITMIR.BIZ

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Angelo’s ear.

      “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I am needed. And we’ve barely gotten started.”

      “Don’t worry. We can talk again some other time.”

      “Shall I order you another drink?”

      “No, I’m done.” She pushed the empty glass aside. “I might wander over to one of the coffee bars. And then I’ll make my way back to my room. I can use an early night. Don’t worry about me.”

      He rose and gave her a slow smile. “I find that I can’t help worrying about you.” And her heart twisted.

      And then he was gone.

      Still thinking about that delicious smile—and her reaction to it—Gemma picked up her purse and threaded her way through the packed bar to the exit—where she almost ran into Jean-Paul.

      “Steady, cherie.” He caught her by the elbows. “Can I buy you a drink?” His dark eyes lingered on her appreciatively.

      Sensitive to Angelo’s accusation that Mandy had cheated on him with the Frenchman, and Angelo had warned her in no uncertain terms to stay away from him, Gemma’s first response was to refuse. But what if Mandy had left Strathmos with Jean-Paul? Gemma hesitated, then thrust her scruples aside.

      She needed to talk to this man.

      “I’d love a drink.” She gave him a bright smile to make up for her hesitation. He was back in minutes with two glasses.

      “What is it?” she asked, eyeing the clear liquid uneasily.

      “Surely you didn’t think I could forget, cherie? You’re the only woman I ever knew who drank triple vodka and tonic like water.” He gave her a very knowing smile. “The secret of your success, you called it. And what made you so exciting.”

      Angelo strode out of the Apollo Club. It hadn’t taken long to calm two furious patrons after an accusation of cheating in the discreet back room where a poker game with extremely high stakes was being played.

      In the elevator he greeted an American IT billionaire and his wife who came to the Palace every few months.

      Hurrying out the elevator, he glanced at his watch. Gemma should be back in her unit by now. Downstairs, he stopped beside a porter kiosk and called reception requesting to be put through to her room. It rang unanswered.

      Perhaps she was still in one of the coffee shops.

      He made his way to the entertainment complex. He didn’t find her in the first coffee shop. Nor in large alcove with soft armchairs where a pianist played Chopin. But as he passed the Dionysus Bar he caught a glimpse of copper flame.

      Gemma.

      Frowning, he ground to a halt and looked again.

      It was Gemma. And she was not alone. Jean-Paul Moreau was standing beside her barstool, his arm resting on the bar beside his drink, looking utterly enthralled by her.

       What the hell was she doing with Moreau?

      He’d warned her to keep away from the man. The silver dress she wore showed off her curves and her hair was a vivid flag of colour against the pale fabric. Seated on the barstool, her sleek legs were shown off to maximum advantage.

      Three years ago he’d felt nothing except anger and disgust for Gemma and he’d hardly thought of her in the intervening years. So what the hell had changed? Why could he not stop noticing every detail about her? Especially given that it was clear that nothing had changed—she still hankered after Moreau.

      He gave a grim smile when she jumped as he stopped beside her.

      “Angelo! I thought you were—”

      “Busy?” he finished, and gave Moreau a cool nod.

      “Well…yes.”

      “I sorted the problem out and came back to finish our conversation.”

      “Oh.” Her eyes went round. She glanced in Moreau’s direction.

      Trying to work out how to dump the Frenchman, Angelo suspected.

      “Another vodka?” Moreau offered.

      Vodka? Angelo narrowed his gaze. A flush rose in her cheeks. Guilt. “I thought you didn’t drink much of the hard stuff any more? In fact, I seem to remember mention of a hot drink in a coffee shop after I left you earlier.”

      “Gemma is of age,” Moreau interjected. “She can drink whatever she desires.”

      “I told her to stay away from you.” Angelo shot the Frenchman a killing look. Then he said to Gemma, “What the hell does it matter? Have another goddamned vodka with him.”

      Deeply disappointed he turned and walked away. He told himself he didn’t care what she did. Gemma Allen was bad news. A liar. A faithless little cheat. The anger she’d ultimately caused him three years ago had not been worth the pleasure she’d given him in bed.

      And she hadn’t changed. The sooner he put her out of mind the better.

      “Angelo…”

      His long, angry strides had already carried him out the bar, across the entertainment complex and he was headed for the lobby to the elevators that would take him to his penthouse.

      “What?” He swung around, glaring down at her as a bolt of sensation shook him as she caught his sleeve. He didn’t want this attraction. Not to this woman.

      She released him. “Forget it.”

      “No, you’re here now. So talk.”

      “I wanted to explain why I had a drink with Jean-Paul.”

      Her eyes were wide and dark. Gentle and pleading. He looked past her, clenching his jaw. All she wanted was his help to regain her memory. Nothing more. Better he remember that. “Drink with whom you please.”

      “I wanted to find out if he knew anything about the thirty thousand—”

      “Forget about trying to find out what happened to the damned money. It’s gone. Put your stupidity behind you. So you have some debt, so what? You’re young, you can work it off.” A pause, then he added softly, “On your back if need be.”

      Gemma’s expression changed. He saw the fury, the darkness in her eyes as she registered the taunt. Her hand came up. She swung wildly. Angelo ducked, she missed. A glass vase from the glass table beside the elevator crashed to the ground. A party of guests took one horrified look at them and hurried past. Gemma barely noticed. Angelo knew he should rush after them, offer them a free night, gambling chips. Damage control.

      But he didn’t.

      Right now Gemma had his full attention.

      “How dare you?” She hissed. “How dare you say that, you…you…”

      “Gorilla? Neanderthal?” Behind him the elevator opened. He took a deft step backward. “Who knows, I might even be convinced to consider taking you back to my bed and if you’re very, very good—maybe I’ll help clear that debt.” And he hit the button for the roof garden.

      She rushed forward, balling her fists and swung again. “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last—”

      “Neanderthal in the world?” he finished with a hard laugh, and caught her flailing hands. “You might not be so lucky then. You’ve done it before, why the scruples now?”

      He felt her stiffen with outrage. He secured her arms behind her back and pulled her up against him and his mouth slanted across hers.

      She tensed.

      The elevator shot upward. As his tongue delved into her mouth, Angelo felt her give and lean into him and the familiar arousal shafted through his lower body.

      How could he have forgotten how soft her skin

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