All things considered, the trip home to Jamaica which Nicola had both dreaded and antic.i.p.ated, had turned out very well. True to his word, Antonio had come over on Boxing Day with a check made out to her for seven million Jamaica dollars and a promissory note for her to sign on extremely favorable terms.

"This is extraordinarily generous," she told him, feeling slightly troubled. "We were prepared to pay a much higher rate of interest."

"Nicola, please," he begged. "Do not bore me any further with details. Although I do not share it, I admire your ambition to become a serious planter and am pleased that I am in a position to a.s.sist. Now, let us hear no more about this."

The loan officer had been astonished and had stamped the loan doc.u.ment "Paid" with a slightly regretful expression.

"I would have been pleased to extend the loan further," he told her, "but unfortunately, my superiors dictated otherwise. If there is anything I can help you with in the future, please do not hesitate to ask." He stood and stretched out his hand across the desk.

"Thank you," she said and freed her hand from the very firm grasp in which he had imprisoned it.

The last few days of her vacation pa.s.sed quickly and pleasantly. She rode Sailor just about every day and was quite happy to accept Antonio's offer to accompany her. They went to visit some old friends, the Seabournes, who owned a very secluded and private stretch of beach they used for nude sunbathing. On her last full day in Jamaica, Emma declined to accompany them. She wanted to write, she said, and they couldn't persuade her to change her mind.

"So what is it that you do in London," Antonio asked, as he and Nicola lay side by side in the sun on their beach towels.

She sat up, her eyes on the horizon. "I'm a personal a.s.sistant to a businesswoman. She's an events coordinator," she said carefully.

"Forgive me, but it does not sound very exciting, coordinating events," he said.

She smiled. "Oh, it has its moments," she replied. She lay back again on her beach towel, the smile still on her face.

He raised himself up on one elbow and regarded her attentively. "A woman as beautiful as you deserves more than a few exciting moments," he said shrewdly. "All your moments should be exciting. Why do you not come back to Jamaica, for good?"

"I plan to." She laughed. "But unfortunately, I have a loan to repay, and London is the only place that seems to offer opportunities to make real money quickly."

He was silent for a few moments, then he gave a small nod, as though he had just completed a conversation with himself, and sat up, "Sit up, Nicola," he said. "I have to talk to you."

She sat up obediently, looking at him warily. She had an uncanny feeling she was about to get into what Mum used to call "a situation."

"You do not have to repay the loan," he told her, his eyes holding hers, "because I would like you to be my wife."

She stared at him incredulously, almost ready to laugh because surely he was joking. Then she discerned he was completely serious. "Antonio," she said gently "I think you are letting yourself get carried away. You really shouldn't go around proposing to women you barely know."

"I know what I need to know," he said.

"I'm sorry, Antonio. I just can't."

"You must go back to London, to sort out things there," he said, watching her closely.

Once again, his intuitiveness surprised her. "Yes," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

He looked out over the ocean, then back at her. "If things do not sort the way you want them to, will you come back here to live?"

"Most definitely, yes."

"In that case, I will wait. And when you return, I will ask you again. That is a promise."

She looked troubled. "Don't put your life on hold for me, Antonio. I can't make any promises."

"I am the one who is making the promise," he told her. "And I will wait. All will not be lost until you are married."

She laid her hand briefly on his forearm. "You're a nice man, Antonio. You'll find somebody who deserves you. Now come," she said, getting up briskly. "Last one in the water buys jerk chicken on the way home."

Later that night, she confided in Emma about Antonio's proposal. As far as she could tell, Em didn't have the faintest interest in Antonio as a potential husband.

"Well, I would have had to be blind not to see that he was pretty taken with you," Emma said. "And that you were in love with somebody else," she added perceptively.

Nicola looked at her in surprise. She thought she had hidden everything so well.

"I know you," Emma said. "You've never been in love in your life until now. Is he in love with you?"

She shook her head miserably.

Emma gave her an impulsive hug. "It will pa.s.s, Nicki, even if you don't think so now. Just give it some time."

She shook her head again, feeling even more miserable, if that was possible. She had tried so hard to forget about Anthony, but how could she, when every warm breeze whispered his name in her ear, caressed her skin like the touch of his mouth, making her curl up and die inside with longing. She couldn't go on this way, feeling torn apart all the time. She didn't need all the king's horses and all the king's men to put her back together again. Only one man could do that. He had awakened this need in her and she had to seek him out to find the cure for what ailed her in the touch of his mouth, his hands, in the feel of his powerful erection pulsing hotly inside her. But this time, she wouldn't let him dictate how it would end. She had to rewrite the script and be the one to walk away because that was the only way she would ever find closure.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Anthony replaced the receiver in its cradle, sat for a few minutes at his desk, and looked out the window of his Mayfair town house. The agency had just called to inform him that Nicola had returned to London yesterday. It would be forwarding a full report to him in the next couple of days. Already he could feel the impatience that had dogged him for so long slowly begin to subside. The days had dragged by endlessly, but the nights had been a black sleepless void, lying there in his personal limbo, struggling with the impulse to just get on a plane to Jamaica to find her. Now she was back, and oh so close. He picked up the telephone and dialed Henrietta's private number.

"So what can I do for you, Anthony?" she asked, after the initial pleasantries.

He cleared his throat, which had developed a sudden huskiness, and took the plunge. "I was wondering if you could arrange to have Nicola Edgerton spend the weekend with me, from tomorrow night to Monday. I'm in Mayfair." He knew he didn't have to bother giving her his address. She was well acquainted with it.

"I can try, Anthony," she replied carefully, "but I understood from Nicola that you had terminated the game."

"I did," he said briefly, "but I've changed my mind."

"Well, I can certainly ask her."

"Hen, she's...she may decide she doesn't want to come. If there is anything you can say or do to persuade her I'd really appreciate it."

"You know I'll do my best, Anthony," she a.s.sured him warmly. "Just leave it with me."

Nicola arrived at about six o'clock on Thursday. Henrietta had told him to expect her. As soon as the doorbell sounded he opened the door to see her standing there, wearing her overcoat and high-heeled black boots and carrying only an overnight bag, which seemed to emphasize she wasn't going to take a chance on wearing out her welcome.

The sight of her sent his heartbeat into triple time. She was tanned, and stunning. As far as he could tell, except for the delicate shade of coral lipstick that shimmered on her lips, she was wearing no makeup at all, and on her, no makeup was perfect. Her hair was pulled back from her face, making her large green eyes appear larger still in their frame of thick, sooty lashes. For several seconds all he could do was stand there like an idiot, his eyes feasting on her gloriously exotic face and the luscious gleaming baby mouth that just cried out to be kissed.

He was wearing jeans and a black Boca T-shirt that revealed nicely developed biceps and forearms shadowed on the outside with downy looking fine black hair that invited touching. His broad shoulders and chest strained against the fabric of the tee shirt and she swallowed as an image of herself, pressed against his broad chest, licking his nipples, stormed unbidden into her mind. She deleted it hastily. She really had to get a grip if she had any hope at all of taking control of the situation for a change.

"Time is money," she said, her voice lilting suggestively. "If you really want to spend it standing in the doorway I don't mind, except I can think of at least a hundred other ways that would definitely be more entertaining."

Her words, her whole demeanor broadsided him. He'd sort of expected her to be wary, cool toward him, but this vampish woman with her s.e.xy, teasing voice, her tempting pouty mouth, and bewitching Scheherazade eyes that promised a thousand and one Arabian nights, had sent his already revved up hormones zinging about crazily with a single sentence. His c.o.c.k came to attention instantly, outdistancing his brain by a full nanosecond, the difference between Olympic silver and gold. He ordered his brain to get on the ball. He was definitely going for the gold-all the way.

"Sorry," he said, experiencing a minor chagrin at how lame that sounded. "Come on in."

She walked in. and he shut the door behind her. "It's almost dinnertime," he said as she dropped her bag and began to unbuckle her coat. "Maybe we should head right out for dinner. I just have to change clothes. I made reservations at Rubens. Unless you'd rather stay in and order takeaway," he amended hastily, catching a gleam in her eyes. He'd better stay on his toes. She had him doing a tap dance to keep up as it was.

"Well, here's the thing, Anthony," she said. "I think Rubens has a dress code, and quite frankly, love, I'm not dressed." She removed her coat with one quick movement, slung it over the stair railing and stood there, dressed in nothing but a dark green lace camisole with matching high-cut briefs and her boots. He heard a roaring in his ears as blood surged through his veins and flooded his instantly erect phallus. He moved forward instinctively, propelled by a blind need to tear that camisole off her, to see without hindrance all of the dusky nipples peeking through the lace, to feel her skin under his hands, to hold her, stroke her, possess her completely. But she had only just begun.

"Can you help me get these off?" she asked, backing away two steps.

She rested her hand on the newel post at the foot of the stairs and lifted her leg. He glimpsed the soft edible-looking flesh on the underside of her b.u.t.tocks, and desire slammed his gut with the force of a pile driver. He caught hold of her booted leg, seized the zip, drew it down, and eased the boot off. He fondled her calf lovingly, and trailed his hands upward, behind her knee, up the back of her thigh, all the way to her temptingly soft b.u.t.tocks.

Want clawed her belly and she pulled her leg away, resisting it. "Now the other one," she said, raising the still booted leg. This time, when he removed the boot, it was irresistible. He bent down and kissed her knee, then licked his way to the top of her thigh. Her leg wobbled in his hand as his mouth approached the danger zone and she drew it out of his grasp. Now she was standing in front of him in her bare feet.

"Nicola!" he said, his voice choking.

"Definitely a night to order in," she said, stretching her arms above her head like a luxurious feline, the movement hiking the camisole up to reveal a sleek, tanned midriff. He caught her around the waist and pulled her to him, caressing the soft skin with his thumbs and gradually moving upward under her camisole, sliding back and forth across her nipples, feeling them harden under the pads of his thumbs. She arched away from him, a convulsive movement that invited him unmistakably to feast. Bunching the fabric in his hands he pushed it up and leaning down, took her nipple into his mouth, sucking on it with a raw, hard hunger that made her writhe.

Oh G.o.d! His mouth was pushing her relentlessly to the brink. She felt the wetness drenching her briefs as her v.a.g.i.n.a throbbed in preparation for certain invasion. His hunger was communicating itself to her, making her want to reach for him, to suck him into her, do to him what he was doing to her. Her resolution to set the pace was hanging by the thinnest of threads. She buried her face in the downy hair at the base of his skull and grazed his neck with her teeth. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she pulled his head up.

"Wait," she panted. "Wait."

"Wait for what?" he asked, his chest heaving. His face was haggard, deprivation stretching the skin tautly over his cheekbones.

"We have all night," she said, stroking his hot face. "I want to do it with you, all night. But I think you should feed me first." Mischievousness danced in her eyes, and he drew a deep breath. Impulsively, he leaned forward and covered her mouth with his, flicking his tongue over her lips, awarding a consolation prize to his jangled and frustrated nerves.

"Go into the living room where it's nice and warm," he told her, "the fire's switched on. I'll cancel the reservation and order the food. Szechuan's okay?"

"My favorite," she replied.

He watched her as she walked away, her long dark braid swinging teasingly down her back. She looked like a wood nymph, come to entice him back into the forest with her. h.e.l.l, he'd follow her anywhere, anytime, take whatever she felt like giving, sit up and beg or grovel. Name it, and he'd do it.

Nicola sat on the floor in the living room in front of the fire and leaned back against the sofa, her legs curled up under her, wondering where she would get the strength to walk away after this one last weekend with Anthony. Barely inside the door and she had become putty in his hands. What would she be after three whole days? A mindless puddle?

Nicola was well aware that to him what had pa.s.sed between her and Anthony was nothing more than business and he had dictated the pace from the beginning, dictated what she should do to turn him on, what would happen after that and when it would end. But she had begun to fall in love with him from the first moment he touched her, and her awareness that he had no feelings for her was killing her and she had come to a decision over the holidays. She couldn't go on feeling torn like this. It had to end. But feeling about him the way she did, she would never find closure by simply walking away. It would leave too much unfinished business hanging in the air. What she would do was restart the arrangement, keep it businesslike by doing whatever he wanted her to do, and then she would simply walk away when it was over. But this time there would be no wagers, no bets. She would make sure that when she left, she would have what she wanted. The money to save her estate. Wasn't it the reason she put herself up for auction in the first place?

But now that she was here, in his arms, surrendering to the feel of his hands and of his lips and his mouth igniting her skin, she was afraid she wouldn't have the strength to pull it off, afraid that she would never find the strength to walk away from him.

When Henrietta Colefax had approached her about returning to Anthony, her first instinct, born of total panic, had been to refuse. "I think you should reconsider, Nicola," Henrietta responded seriously. "Don't lose sight of your goals."

"Is he saying that he wants to be back in the game?"

"I would imagine so. How else would it work?"

In the end she had agreed and now here she was. It was too late to turn tail and run.

His voice broke her train of thought.

"It'll be here in forty-five minutes or we get it for free," he announced, walking into the living room. He dropped to the floor next to her. Immediately, he reached out to toy with her long braid of hair. "I like your hair like this," he told her, eyeing her. G.o.d, would he ever get enough?

"Tell me something," she said. "Why did you change your mind?"

"About the game?"

She nodded.

"Just felt like it," he said, a shade too casually. "Why did you come back?"

"Why not?" she parried, equally offhand. "I can't think of anything more rewarding to do." She flashed him a cheeky smile, inviting him to appreciate her double entendre.

"No other reason?"

"Come on, Anthony. We're both grown up, remember?"

"Yes," he said. "You're right. We are."

A little silence fell. He continued toying with her braid. She uncurled her legs and stuck them out in front of her, flexing her feet in the warmth emanating from the fireplace. Her legs were shapely, her feet average size but slender, elegant, and uncallused, and her toenails were coral, like her lips. Her tan was flawlessly even, from head to her littlest toe.

"How did you get so beautifully tanned?" he asked, not taking his eyes away from her legs.

"Spent some time on the beach in Jamaica over the Christmas holidays," she told him.

Jealousy and possessiveness gnawed him. Her tan was too perfect. He had to ask. "Was it a nude beach?"

"No, just...secluded," she replied, giving him a quizzical glance.

"Were you alone?"

She glanced at him again before replying. "I was born in Jamaica. My sister still lives there, and I'm finished playing twenty questions."

He realized she hadn't given him a direct answer but knew he couldn't press her further.

"Would you like to see the rest of my tan?" she asked, turning toward him and eyeing him naughtily.

"Only if you're prepared to starve tonight because I won't be in a position to answer the door and neither will you."

"Look," she said, ignoring his veiled warning. She pulled one strap off her shoulder, revealing smooth hint-of-copper skin. "I don't even have tan lines."

The soft flesh of her breast pillowed against the fabric, and he was beset by a gnawing hunger that demanded to be a.s.suaged. Swiftly, he descended, searching under the fabric with his lips until his tongue made contact hotly with her nipple. Her response was instantaneous, her arms lifting and clutching him tightly as he crushed her to him, her fingers groping his hair as they came together, his mouth at her breast, hers buried in the nape of his neck in a heated clash of mutual pent-up need that sent them free-falling into a maelstrom of pa.s.sion that stripped away her careful plans and strategies and tossed them into the void.

The insistent chime of the doorbell finally probed their consciousness and they pulled away from each other reluctantly, their breathing shallow and fast.

"Saved by the bell," he groaned. He got to his feet, looked down at his erection that strained against his trousers, gestured futilely, and went to answer the door. When she heard the front door close she got up and went to join him in the kitchen.