‘YOU …’ Gracie echoed faintly, still reeling after the lift doors had opened to reveal … him. In a haze she asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
Rocco de Marco’s hands pulled her from the lift, forcing her legs to move and she heard the faint swish of the doors closing again behind her. Her heart was thumping, and shock choked her at being faced with this man again.
His hands were on her arms like vices. ‘I own this building,’ he ground out, dark eyes blazing down into hers. ‘I think the more pertinent question is this: why are you here, looking for Steven Murray?’
Dimly Gracie realised that he recognised her from that night they’d met a week ago. But there was no comfort in that. Adrenalin was pumping through her at seeing Rocco de Marco again, but from one look at his face she could take a wild guess and assume Steven was far away from this place. And in big trouble.
She couldn’t speak. She could only look up into the most arrestingly handsome features she’d ever seen for the second time in just over a week.
His grip tightened. ‘Why are you here?’
Gracie shook her head, as if that might force oxygen to her malfunctioning brain. ‘I just … I thought he might be here. I wanted to find him.’
Rocco’s mouth tightened into a flat line. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that Steven Murray is in any number of locations now—none of which are close to here if he’s got half a brain cell. He’s done what most criminals do: they go underground.’
Gracie’s heart stuttered at hearing her own fears so baldly spoken, but her innate protectiveness surged upwards even as her conscience protested. ‘He’s not a criminal.’
One of Rocco’s brows arched up. ‘No? Then what would you call stealing a million euros?’
If Rocco de Marco hadn’t been holding her arms then Gracie would have fallen down. A million euros?
‘What is he to you? Your lover?’ He almost spat the words out.
Gracie shook her head and tried to back away—a futile exercise while he still held her arms. Paramount was the need to protect Steven at all costs as she tried to assimilate this mind-boggling information.
‘I’m just worried about him. I thought he might be here.’
De Marco all but snorted. ‘He’s hardly likely to return to the scene of the crime. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to try and steal another million from the same source.’
Gracie felt trapped and claustrophobic, but fire surged up. ‘He’s not stupid!’
With a desperate wrench to get away that had more to do with this man’s intensely physical effect on her than anything else, Gracie finally freed herself from his hands and whirled around, wildly searching for escape. She spotted emergency doors in the distance and sprinted, hearing a faint curse behind her. Just as her hands were about to touch the bar her shoulders were caught and she was twirled around, landing with a heavy thud against the doors. Rocco de Marco was glaring down into her face, hands either side of her head, effectively trapping her.
On some rational level Gracie knew she shouldn’t have run, but the shock of hearing what her brother had done was too much. She realised now that she’d just made herself look as guilty as Steven.
As if reading her mind, Rocco de Marco breathed out and said in a chilling voice, ‘You’re obviously in this too—up to your pretty neck. The question is: why did you come back here? It must have been to get something important.’
She shook her head, her anger fading as fast as it had risen and leaving her feeling sick. ‘Mr de Marco, I swear I’m not involved. I’m just worried. I came because I thought Steven might be here. I don’t know anything.’
His face grew even harder and it sent a shiver through Gracie.
‘You knew who I was last week when we met.’
It wasn’t a question. She shook her head again. There was a quivery feeling in her belly at the thought of that meeting now. ‘No … I didn’t. I had no idea. Until that man came and used your name.’
As if not even listening to her, Rocco de Marco said, ‘You were there with Murray as his accomplice. You and he cooked the whole thing up.’
Gracie just shook her head. It was throbbing with a mixture of anxiety and lingering shock. Rocco de Marco’s focus seemed to come back to her, and with something that sounded like a snarl he stood up straight and took her arm, ignoring her wince. He was frogmarching her back to the lift and Gracie panicked, having visions of police waiting for her downstairs.
She started to struggle. ‘Wait … Look, please, Mr de Marco, I can explain …’
He cast her a dark look as he punched a button on the lift. ‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do.’
Fear and trepidation silenced Gracie as he pushed her into the lift ahead of him, yet kept a hold on her arm, and pressed another button once they were in. Silence, thick and tense, swirled around them, and Gracie cursed herself for coming here in the first place.
Standing next to him in the lift, she had a very real and physical sense of the disparity in their sizes. Her head barely grazed the top of his arm. His tautly muscled strength radiated outwards, enveloping her in heat. Gone was any trace of the man who had oozed warmth and seduction the night they’d met. Evidently if you moved within his rareified milieu you were accorded his attention. A few steps out of it, however, and it was an entirely different story.
Gracie did not need this situation to demonstrate to her that someone like Rocco de Marco would look right through her if he saw her in her natural habitat. Her stomach twisted. She’d faced down many opponents over the years with plucky resilience, but for the first time she recognised someone who was immovable. And more powerful than anyone she’d ever encountered.
Oh, Steven, she groaned inwardly. Why did you do this?
He’d rung her earlier, and she could still taste the acrid fear in her mouth when he’d said, ‘Gracie, don’t ask any questions—just listen. Something has happened. Something really bad. I’m in serious trouble so I have to go away …’
She’d heard indistinct noises in the background, and Steven had sounded distracted.
‘Look, I’m going away and don’t know when I’ll be able to get in touch again. So don’t try and call, okay? I’ll e-mail or something when I can …’
Gracie had clutched the phone with sweaty hands. ‘Steven, wait—what is it? Maybe it’s something I can help you with …?’
Her heart had nearly broken when he’d said, ‘No. I won’t keep doing this to you. You’ve done enough. It’s not your problem, it’s mine—’
Gracie had cut in, with fear constricting her voice. ‘Is it … drugs again?’
Steven had laughed, and it had sounded a little hysterical. ‘No … it’s not drugs, Gracie. To be honest, it might be better if it was. It’s work … Something to do with work.’
Before she’d been able to ask him anything else he’d said goodbye and cut her off. She’d kept calling his phone but it had only answered with an automated message to say that it was out of service. With a sick feeling she could well imagine he’d chucked his phone. She’d gone round to the small, spartan bedsit that he’d been so proud of and found it trashed, his stuff everywhere. No sign of him. And then she’d remembered him mentioning work and so she’d come here, to De Marco International, to see if by some miracle he was sitting in his office.
But she hadn’t even got that far. The minute she’d seen Rocco de Marco’s face she’d known her brother was in serious trouble.
Gracie was so preoccupied that it was a moment before she realised they’d ascended and she was being walked out of the elevator and into what looked like a penthouse apartment. The stunning dusky views over London added a surreal touch to the events unfolding.
A huge full moon was rising in the beautiful bruise-coloured sky, but it went unnoticed as Rocco let her go and moved about, switching on lights which sent out pools of inviting warmth. Gracie shivered and rubbed her arms. The rush of adrenalin and shock had dissipated, leaving her feeling drained.
She looked around and was surprised to notice that the penthouse, for all its modernity, exuded warmth and an understated opulence. The parquet floor added an antique feel, and the heavy dark furniture stood out against the more industrial architecture, somehow working despite the apparent incongruity. Huge oriental rugs softened the austere lines.
If she hadn’t been in such dire straits the artist in her would have longed to explore this tantalising glimpse into Rocco de Marco. Her eyes snagged on his powerful form as he bent and stretched. Her insides twisted and tightened—who was she kidding? Her interest in this man stemmed from a much more carnal place than an interest in aesthetics.
Rocco rounded on the petite woman who now stood in his apartment and curbed his physical response to that pale freckled skin and the wild russet hair which still trailed over one shoulder to rest on the curve of one small breast. The wild look in her eyes just before she’d sprinted away from him downstairs was burnt into his memory. It had touched something deep inside him. A memory. And he’d lost precious seconds while he’d been distracted.
She was nothing like the soignée beauties he usually favoured. Women renowned for their breeding, looks, intellect and discretion. Women who wouldn’t have allowed him to lay a finger on them if they knew what kind of world he’d been born into.
Anger at his own indiscriminate response and something much deeper—a dark emotion which seethed in his gut as he thought of her as Steven Murray’s lover—made him say harshly, ‘You will tell me everything. Right here and now.’
When she flinched minutely, as if he’d struck her, he ruthlessly clamped down on the spike of remorse. She looked very pale and vulnerable all of a sudden. Rocco chastised himself. She was no quivering female. There was an inherent strength about her that warned of a toughness only bred from the streets. He recognised it well, and he didn’t like to be reminded of it.
He dragged out a nearby chair and all but pushed her into it. Her small heart-shaped face was turned up to him and his insides tightened. Dio, but she was temptation incarnate with those huge brown eyes and those soft pink lips. Displaying a kind of artful innocence. His instinctive reversion to Italian even in his head just for that moment surprised him. He’d spent long years doing his best to erase any trace of his heritage. His accent was the one thing that proved as stubborn as a stain, reminding him every time he opened his mouth of his past. But he’d learnt to embrace that constant reminder.
There was a long, tense silence, and Rocco tried to figure out what was going on behind her wide eyes. And then she looked as if she was steeling herself for a blow. ‘What did you mean when you said Steven stole a million euros?’
Rocco opened his mouth and was about to answer when he stopped. Incredulous, he said, ‘You have the temerity to still pretend ignorance?’
He saw her small hands clench to fists on her lap. He remembered how spiky she’d been with him that night at the benefit, and how intrigued he’d been by her. He remembered kissing her hand, the feel of slightly rough palms which had been so at odds with the soft skin of the women he was used to, and how it had sent a dark thrill though him. She must have known exactly who he’d been and they must have been laughing at him all week. He burned inside. He hadn’t felt so uselessly humiliated in years.
She’d seen him in a weak moment and he didn’t like it. At all. He hadn’t been weak since he’d left Italy far behind him, with its stench-filled slums and the humiliation he’d endured. Thinking of that restored Rocco’s fast unravelling sense of control. With icy clarity he said, ‘Who are you, and how do you know Steven?’
Gracie glared balefully at Rocco de Marco. He had the uncanny ability to make her feel as if you had no option but to comply with his demands. The man was like a laser.
‘Well?’
The word throbbed with clear frustration and irritation. He was standing in front of her, hands on hips. His shoulders were broad under the white shirt, tapering down to lean hips. In the dim light he was like some beautiful dark lord. Heavy black brows over deepset pools of black. High cheekbones. A strong nose with that slight misalignment. And those lips … full and sensual. The lock of hair she remembered still curled on his forehead, but even that didn’t soften the taut energy directed her way.
Half without thinking Gracie said, ‘I’m Gracie. Gracie O’Brien.’
His mouth took on a disdainful curve. ‘And? Your relationship to Steven Murray?’
Gracie swallowed. She was afraid if Rocco de Marco knew she and Steven were related he would expect her to know where he was for sure. She could feel the blush rising even as she formulated the words. She’d never been able to lie to save her life. ‘He’s … he’s an old friend.’
Rocco’s eyes went to her mouth and he said mockingly, with a chill kind of menace, ‘Liar.’
Gracie shook her head. Protecting her twin brother was so ingrained she couldn’t fight it. And didn’t want to. He’d protected her over the years as much as she’d protected him. Just in a different way. ‘That’s all he is. An old friend. We go back … a long way.’
Rocco’s mouth twisted and disgust etched his features into a grimace. ‘You go back to a double bed in a squat somewhere.’
Gracie paled at the very thought. Bile rose. She shook her head more strongly. ‘No. No.’ She stopped short of saying That’s disgusting, and closed her mouth. ‘Really … it’s not like that.’ She’d half risen out of the chair and her hand was out, as if that could reinforce her words. She sat back down abruptly.
Rocco folded his arms across his chest, but that only brought her attention to the awesome strength in his arms, the bunched muscles. She felt curiously light-headed all of a sudden, but put it down to the fact that she hadn’t eaten all day.
‘I’ll tell you what it’s like, shall I?’ Rocco didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘You’re Steven Murray’s accomplice, and both of you were stupid enough to think that you could come back to the scene of the crime to recover something important. What was it?’ he continued. ‘A flash drive? That’s the only thing small enough to have escaped our searches.’
Before she knew what was happening Rocco was right in front of her, hauling her out of the chair. Amidst her confusion and shock Gracie was aware of the fact that his touch on her arms was light, almost gentle this time. The contrast of that touch to the fierce energy crackling around them made her even more confused. But he was squatting at her feet now, running big hands up her legs.
It took a second for the fact to register that he was frisking her. His hands were now creeping up the insides of her legs. She reacted violently, jerking away, hands slapping everywhere, catching Rocco’s silky head. He cursed and stood up, catching hold of her arms again with his hands. This time he wasn’t gentle.
‘You little wildcat. Hold still.’
Holding her captive with one hand, he quickly delved into her pockets with his free one and turned them out. The speed with which he moved made Gracie feel dizzy. Soon she was standing there with the linings of pockets sticking out and the disconcerting feeling of his hands probing close to her skin.
This time when she jerked back he let go, and she almost stumbled. She felt violated—but not in the way she should have. It was in some illicitly thrilling way.
‘You …’ she spluttered. ‘I’d prefer to be dragged down to the police station than have your hands mauling me.’ A sudden realisation sliced through the frantic pulse in her blood and she asked faintly, ‘Have you called the police?’
Rocco stood back. His face was flushed. With anger, Gracie had to assume, not liking the way her blood pooled heavily between her legs even as she struggled to concentrate. He had gone very still.
He shook his head and with clear reluctance admitted, ‘I haven’t called the police because I don’t want the news that I employed a rogue trader to get out. It could ruin my reputation. Image and trust are everything in this game. If my clients knew I’d jeopardised their precious investments I’d be finished within days as rumour and innuendo spread.’
For a second Gracie felt nothing but abject relief flowing into her veins, but the cruel smile on Rocco’s face made her blood run cold again.
‘Don’t assume for one second that not calling the police gives your lover a reprieve. Do you think an overworked police force or a fraud squad can be bothered looking for one man?’ He shook his head and crossed his arms. ‘I have people looking for Steven right now, and they have infinitely more sophisticated resources at their disposal. It’s only a matter of time.’
Fear constricted Gracie. ‘What’ll happen to him?’
Rocco’s face was hard. ‘After he’s returned every cent of the money? Then I will blacklist him from every financial institution in the world and hand him over to the fraud squad whilst protecting my own anonymity. He could be looking at ten years in jail. I have used my own money to bridge the gap caused by his stolen funds. He owes me personally now.’
Gracie felt weak. She groped to find the chair behind her and sat down heavily. Her brother would never survive another day in jail. He’d told her fervently when he’d got out that he would prefer to die than end up there again.
Rocco frowned. For the first time this evening he could swear the woman in front of him wasn’t acting. She looked like a car crash victim. He had to resist the urge to ask if she wanted a drink.
She was looking at the ground. Not at him. Rocco wanted to go to her and tip her chin up. He didn’t like how disconcerted he felt not being able to look into her eyes. And then she did look up, and her eyes were like two huge dark pools, made even darker against the sudden pallor of her skin.
She opened her mouth. He could see her throat work. She shook her head and finally said, ‘I can’t … I can’t lie to you. This is too serious. I haven’t told you the truth about Steven.’
Rocco felt the hardness return. He ruthlessly pushed down the weakness which had invaded him for a moment.
‘I’m getting bored waiting for it. You have one minute to speak or I will hand you over to the police as an accomplice and deal with the consequences.’
Gracie’s head was too tangled up with fear and shock for her even to try and persist in making Rocco de Marco believe she wasn’t related to Steven. His casual mention of jail had decimated her defences completely. Any faint hope she’d been clinging onto that there must be some kind of mistake had also gone. Gracie knew with a defeated feeling that Steven wouldn’t have run if it wasn’t true. He must have been trying to play for stakes way outside his league. Was that why he’d gone for the job in the first—?
‘Gracie!’
Her feverish thoughts stuttered to a stop and she looked up at Rocco. Her name on his lips did funny things to her insides. For a moment she’d forgotten she was under his intense scrutiny. Illicit heat snaked through her abdomen, and in the midst of her turmoil she couldn’t believe he was affecting her so easily.
Taking a deep breath, she stood up, her legs wobbling slightly. ‘Steven is not my lover and I’m not his accomplice … He’s my brother.’
‘Go on.’
Rocco’s voice could have sliced through steel. He’d crossed his arms again and her gaze skittered over those bunched muscles.
Gracie shrugged minutely, unaware of how huge her eyes looked in her small face.
‘That’s it. He’s my brother and I’m worried about him. I was looking for him.’ She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want to let Rocco know that he was her twin brother. That information suddenly felt very intimate.
Rocco’s jaw clenched, and then he said slowly, ‘You expect me to believe that? After everything I’ve just witnessed and after I saw you at the benefit last week? You were both cooking up this plan together.’
Gracie shook her head. ‘No. It wasn’t like that, I swear. I only went with Steven because—’ She stopped. She couldn’t explain about her brother’s inherent insecurity and how badly he needed to fit in. And also she’d realised now why he’d been so abnormally anxious for the past few weeks—way more than she would have expected for new job nerves. She felt sick.
Rocco filled in the silence, ‘Because you and he had a grand plan to do some inside trading and make yourselves a million euros without anyone noticing.’ He emitted a curt laugh. ‘For God’s sake, you couldn’t even help yourself stealing food from the buffet!’
Gracie flushed bright red. ‘I took that food for my next-door neighbour. She’s old and Polish, and always talks about when she used to be rich and go to balls in Poland. I thought they would be a nice treat for her.’
This time Rocco did laugh out loud, head thrown back, exposing his strong throat. Gracie burned with humiliation, her disadvantaged upbringing stinging like an invisible tattoo on her skin.
Rocco finally stopped laughing and speared her with those dark eyes again. Gracie fought not to let him see how much he affected her. It scared her, because ever since her mother had left them, and then their nan had turned her back on them, leaving them to the mercy of Social Services, Gracie had allowed very few people close enough to affect her—apart from her brother.
Becoming slightly desperate, she flung out a hand. ‘I barely passed my O-level Maths. I wouldn’t know a stock from a share if it jumped up and bit me. Steven is the smart one.’
‘And yet,’ Rocco went on with relentless precision, ‘you were with him last week, flaunting yourself in front of me. You knew who I was.’
Gracie sucked in an outraged breath that had a lot to do with the memory of how transfixed she’d been by him that night. ‘I was not flaunting myself. You came over to me.’
At this Rocco de Marco flushed a dull red, and for the first time Gracie had a sense that she’d gained a point. But any sign of discomfiture was quickly erased and his face became a bland mask again. Bland, but simmering—if that was possible.
Quickly, before he could launch another attack, Gracie admitted reluctantly, ‘I was with Steven because he was self-conscious about going alone.’
Rocco’s lip curled. ‘I have yet to believe that you are even Steven Murray’s sister. Why does he have a different surname?’
Gracie shifted uncomfortably and knew she must look pathetically guilty. She looked down. ‘Because … because he fell out with our father and took our mother’s maiden name.’ It wasn’t entirely untrue.
‘Not to mention the fact that you look nothing like him.’
Gracie looked up to see Rocco’s dark gaze travelling up her body, over her chest to her face. She could feel the heat rising. ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I know I look nothing like him. But not all—’ She stopped abruptly, realising she’d been about to say twins. She amended it. ‘Not all families resemble each other. He looks like my mother and I look like my father.’
She crossed her arms too, feeling ridiculously defensive, and knew it was only because for her whole life she’d wondered if she’d looked more like their mother would she have loved her the way she’d loved Steven? Would she have stayed?
The fact that she’d eventually abandoned them both was little comfort and a constant source of guilt for Gracie. She could still remember the long nights of hugging her brother as he’d cried himself to sleep, wondering where their mother had gone.
For a long time she’d felt it had been her fault, because her mother hadn’t wanted her. It was only with age and maturity that she’d realised their mother had had no intention of ever taking Steven—too wrapped up in her own problems and her own dismal world.
After a long moment of glaring at Rocco, Gracie could feel herself sway. Her vision blurred slightly at the edges. Just as she was inwardly cursing her own weakness Rocco emitted something unintelligible and came towards her, putting a big hand on one arm. She stiffened at his touch, hating the incendiary effect he had on her, but at the same time aware of how close she was to collapsing. Like some Victorian heroine in a swoon. Pathetic.
She tried to pull away, but to no avail.
Rocco said, from far too close, ‘When was the last time you ate, you silly woman?’
This time she did pull free, and glared at him again. ‘I’m not a silly woman. I’ve just been … worried. I didn’t think about eating.’
That black gaze swept up and down again and his lip curled. ‘You don’t seem to think about eating a lot.’
He strode away from her and Gracie watched him, half mesmerised by his sheer athletic grace. He flung over his shoulder. ‘There are some instant meals in the fridge. Follow me.’
Gracie felt seriously woozy now. Rocco de Marco was offering her food?
She tore her gaze away from six feet four of hard-muscled alpha male and looked to the apartment entrance, beyond which lay the private lift doors. Suddenly the distance to freedom seemed tantalisingly close.
As if he’d read her mind Rocco materialised again a few feet away, with hands on his hips, and said softly, ‘Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t make it to the next floor before you were returned.’
Her heart stammered as she looked at him. ‘But … I didn’t see anyone.’
Rocco winked at her, but there was no humour on his face. ‘Haven’t you watched any Italian movies? My men are everywhere.’
Gracie tried to reassure herself that he was just joking, but she had the very real sense that if she did try to leave some faceless person would materialise and frogmarch her back to Rocco. She knew enough from the streets to know when someone meant business. And Rocco de Marco meant business. She was as captive as if he’d tied her to a chair.
He turned to walk away again and with the utmost reluctance, and yet an illicit excitement fizzing in her blood, she followed him.
It was only when Rocco was pressing the button on the microwave oven that a cold wave of realisation washed over him. What was he doing? Feeding the enemy? All because for a moment she’d looked as if she might faint at his feet? Her face had been so pale that it had sent a shard of panic through him, and as much as he wanted to deny it he had to admit that her shock had been almost palpable. And yet every instinct he possessed counselled him not to trust his judgement in this. He’d learnt early how women could manipulate. He’d seen his mother manipulate her way through life right up until she died.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Rocco willed the image away. His hands clenched on the countertop as he heard Gracie come into the kitchen behind him. Why the hell was he even thinking of that now?
He schooled his features and turned around. Something suspiciously like relief went through him when he saw that her cheeks were a bit pinker. Her big eyes were darting around the vast room and he welcomed the surge of cynicism. No doubt she was already calculating the worth of everything. That was what he would have done. Years ago. Before figuring out what he could take.
The microwave pinged and he turned to take out the ready meal, finding a plate and some cutlery. He all but threw it down in front of her, then gestured to a stool and growled out, ‘You’re my only link to Steven Murray, and if you’re going to lead me to him then I don’t want you fainting away.’
Her eyes flashed at that, and her mouth tightened as if she was about to refuse the food. A shaft of desire he couldn’t control made Rocco clench his hands to fists. He hated her for his arbitrary response.
‘Go on. Eat.’