CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Even without turning around , Luca Romano knew what he’d see. He would recognise her voice anywhere—despite not having heard it for almost exactly three years. There was something in her tone—husky, sultry without trying to be, honest and emotional—that evoked an instant, visceral reaction.
Just like the first night they met.
He clutched the Scotch and, in an exercise in restraint, continued to stare straight ahead, his eyes focused on the bottles of liquor that lined the back wall of the bar. All the while, Imogen crooned a slow ballad, the simple acoustic strains of her guitar an easy match for the din of the crowd. Even above the noise, there was a purity to her music that made it impossible not to listen, not to hear.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, just as they had the first time he’d seen her, and out of nowhere, a thousand unwelcome memories rushed through him. That night, when he’d come to this very bar, in a foul mood, wanting to drown out the thoughts that persistently dogged him—of his failings and his guilt—and had seen Imogen for the very first time. She’d been singing, just like this, and her voice had done more than a succession of whiskies could: she’d been all he could focus on, a balm unlike any he’d ever known. She’d been the birthday present he’d allowed himself, a moment of weakness in which he’d surrendered to an animalistic need and passion, telling himself it would only be for one night.
Only he’d been wrong. The balm Imogen offered had been addictive. Another night had followed, and another, then many more, all tempestuous, overwhelmingly hot, the kind of passion that had made him want more and more, until he’d wondered if he’d ever get enough of Imogen Grant.
He’d had the knowledge in the back of his mind that it had gone on too long, that he was wanting her too much, almost coming to need her. As if she was some kind of sorceress, making him think he deserved that sort of happiness when he knew that to be the last thing he could ever enjoy, after what he’d done—or what he’d failed to do.
Luca had long carried the responsibility of his family’s deaths, and the guilt of that was something he would carry for the rest of his life. So too his need for penance. Many times, he’d wished he hadn’t lived. He’d wished he’d died alongside them and been spared from the fate of remembering his failures. But he hadn’t, and so he’d committed to the only path he considered viable: a life of sacrifice. A life in which he went through the motions but astutely denied himself any of the pleasures other people took for granted.
The morning she’d told him she loved him, he’d wanted to stop the world spinning.
No , he’d wanted to scream. You don’t love me. You can’t. No one can.
But instead, he’d broken up with her, ending it in such a way to ensure she’d never want to see him again, because at that point, he’d known that was for the best—for him, and for her. Not only did Luca refuse to allow himself happiness, he knew he couldn’t be trusted—not with another person’s life. Not after what had happened to his parents and younger sister. He’d been responsible for their deaths—how could he ever trust himself not to make another fatal mistake, just like he had on that god-awful night? It was a risk too big to take—even if he thought he was worthy of her love.
Oh, he didn’t doubt she’d loved him; Imogen was just that kind of person. Good and open, honest and emotionally available. A virgin when he’d met her, in more ways than one. While she’d been sexually inexperienced, he realised now she’d also been totally inexperienced with the world, and that had been part of the appeal. She was so different to the women he’d been with in the past, so unjaded, so uncynical. So easy and happy.
So warm.
Because he’d always gone for a certain type of woman before Imogen. Knowing the limitations of what he could offer, Luca had been careful to sleep with women who were as disinterested in a relationship as he was. Casual sex, very occasionally, was the most he was willing to allow for.
He dipped his head forward, staring at the amber liquid in his glass, willing it to flood his body with steel, to make him strong. He threw it back then turned slowly, bracing for the sight of Imogen, wondering if she would be very different. It had been almost three years—not long, really, but at the same time, going from twenty-two—which she’d been then—to twenty-five could bring about several changes in a woman’s life.
She might be married now, for all he knew.
Even the turn towards the stage he executed with a mechanical slowness, as if to prove to himself every step of the way that he was in control.
And then he saw her, and he knew: he wanted her still.
Three years hadn’t changed that.
Her honey-brown hair was in some kind of braid, pulled over one shoulder and loose enough that tendrils had escaped on either side of her love-heart-shaped face, framing it like a piece of art. Her eyes were almond-shaped and wide-set, a caramel brown in colour. Her skin was tanned, covered in a dozen or so tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and the top of her cheeks. Her lips, usually pale pink but painted a deep red tonight, were naturally a Cupid’s bow shape. She closed her eyes as she sang, tapping one boot-clad foot against the bar of her stool, her fingers moving as if they were in a ballet, glancing across strings and somehow producing the kind of music that had the capacity to reach inside a person and fundamentally change them.
He stood perfectly still, hating her.
Hating her for the fact he still wanted her.
Hating her for the fact she’d ruined what they’d had by claiming to love him.
Hating her for reasons he couldn’t even fathom.
And then he began to walk, his gait long and slow. He wore an immaculate jet-black suit and a crisp white shirt, his black hair combed back from his brow. He walked with the sort of energy that made people turn and look, even when they didn’t realise he was one of the wealthiest men in the world. He stopped just short of the stage, his eyes holding to her with a steadiness that he couldn’t fight.
She continued to sing, her eyes swept shut, her mouth moving in a way that was making his body tighten just watching her. More memories—her mouth, tentative at first, on his body, and by the end, so skilled at pressing his buttons, at knowing exactly what he liked, wanted, needed.
He suppressed a groan. She finished the song and smiled when the crowd applauded. Her eyes swept across the audience, briefly passing over him without showing even a hint of recognition and then, with a look of sheer terror, returning. He felt the emotions flooding through her even as he displayed none himself, even when he felt none.
Shock. Surprise. Anger. Resentment. Fury. Pain.
He had thought of her from time to time, had wondered if she’d forgiven him, then presumed not. He’d spoken to her in a way that was unforgivable. That had been his intention—and weirdly, at the time, it had been his pleasure. She had offered him something beautiful, something he’d known he didn’t deserve, and so he’d taken a warped kind of pleasure in destroying it. He hadn’t wanted to destroy Imogen, though; she’d been collateral damage. But if she’d created a fantasy of a life together, of being in a loving relationship with Luca, of loving him, then he had needed to annihilate that fantasy.
And so he had.
He saw now that she hadn’t forgiven him.
Her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as she reached for a glass of water, took a sip, then strummed the guitar. The crowd continued to buzz around them.
‘Okay, guys,’ she said, her speaking voice even more familiar than her singing. It was soft and husky, her accent British courtesy of having lived her whole life here in London. ‘Just one more song to finish off. You’ll probably recognise this one.’
She began to strum her guitar, the strains immediately familiar—it had been a hit a couple years ago, a number one song by an American pop star you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing.
But in Imogen’s hands, with her eyes practically cutting through Luca, the words could almost have been written for him. His lips twisted in a wry, mocking smile as she crooned the chorus,
And when the dawn light came
And the world started to glow golden
I saw you for what you really are
A man I’m not beholden
I saw you in all your glory
But glory’s nothing to you
You’re no one I want in my story.
I walked out, I stood tall
Next time I’ll check before I fall.
Good. She should have checked before she’d fallen. And she was right about the glory thing too. Glory was nothing to him.
He’d presumed she’d known that about him, presumed she’d understood.
When he looked back, he wondered how the hell she’d ever thought she loved him. It was a testament to her goodness and nothing else. He’d made a point of restricting their time together to bed. Conversation had been kept to a minimum. She’d been a month-long booty call, nothing more—and he’d been the same to her.
Or so he’d stupidly thought.
His hand formed a fist at his side as memories he went out of his way to suppress seemed to strangle him now. Her smile when she’d arrived at his place, the small gifts she’d brought. Things she’d noticed he didn’t have but needed, foods she’d wanted him to try, the guitar she’d bought at a flea market and left there, because she often picked it up and played, simply because the spirit moved her. Weirdly, he still had it somewhere. The back of his wardrobe perhaps?
She sang the chorus again, and her eyes didn’t leave his face. It hadn’t been written for him, but it might as well have been, at least the way she was singing it.
She finished to rapturous applause, stood, bowed and went to walk off stage. He moved without thinking about it, his steps echoing her own, so that when she stepped into the crowd, he was there, his powerful body so much larger than her slim, petite frame.
Imogen was more than just beautiful; she was interesting. Her face had all the mystique of the Mona Lisa’s. Her expressions were often hard to pin down; there was the sense that her brain was working all the time. It had kept him on his toes and had been part of her appeal. She dressed as she had then—like a musician—in a pair of skinny jeans, a loose singlet top with a silky wrap over her shoulders and a series of long chains around her slender neck, giving her an unmistakably bohemian vibe. He noticed without meaning to that she wore a selection of chunky rings on her fingers, but none bore a diamond and none were on her wedding finger.
‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, as if she didn’t know him. As if they hadn’t spent thirty nights in his bed, tangled in sheets and each other. As if he hadn’t been her first lover. His body tightened at the memory.
He hadn’t known.
He hadn’t expected it.
If he’d known, he would have walked—no, run—away from her. But she’d made a joke about it afterwards, as if it hadn’t mattered, so he’d clung to that.
‘A twenty-two-year-old virgin? Who woulda thunk it?’
‘Imogen.’ His voice emerged deep and raw. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’
Her eyes widened and her lips parted. Hell, he was about three seconds away from pushing her against the wall and claiming that mouth with his own. He cursed inwardly, his whole body on fire.
‘I can buy my own drink. I don’t want anything from you.’ She tilted her chin with defiance; he ached to reach out and stroke it with his thumb.
‘Are you sure about that?’
She gasped again, glanced away.
‘I’m meeting some friends,’ she said after a beat.
‘You sure you wouldn’t rather meet me?’
And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he shifted his hand, ever so slightly, so their fingers brushed and the familiar spark of awareness burst through him. As it did her. He saw it in the flush of her cheeks and the golden of her eyes.
She swallowed hard, her throat shifting visibly.
‘I hope I never meet you again,’ she said, with brutal honesty.
‘I’m not so sure about that. I think you wish you felt that way, but in reality…’
‘You don’t know a damned thing about reality,’ she volleyed back. Her eyes moved beyond him, and she smiled at someone over his shoulder. A tight smile, but it nonetheless changed her face in a way that made his gut roll, and for the briefest moment he was transported back to a time when she’d smiled for him. Not a tight, forced smile but a smile that radiated excitement and anticipation.
‘I know that three years hasn’t changed things between us,’ he growled, dropping his head so he could whisper the words against her ear, his breath warm in the crook of her neck. He knew it drove her crazy and he felt her shiver in response. Power flooded his veins.
‘Three years?’ she managed to respond, but her voice trembled. ‘Is that all it’s been?’
He made a soft sound, a mocking half-laugh. ‘You haven’t missed me?’
‘Like a hole in the head.’
She lifted her hand, perhaps intending to push him away, but instead, her fingers just stayed there, pressed to the crisp white of his shirt. Their bodies were so close, and as the pre-recorded music flooded the venue, the crowd grew louder and seemed to swarm around them, offering a level of anonymity he preferred.
‘So you’re not tempted to come home with me?’
Another gasp. ‘Never.’
Still her hand was on his chest. He moved his hand to her hip, separating her singlet from her jeans so his fingers could brush the bare flesh at her side.
‘It could be our secret. No one would need to know.’
‘I would know.’ She groaned though, as his hand moved around to her back and pushed her forward, so there was not even a whisper of space between his body and hers. He felt the moment she became aware of his arousal. Her eyes flew to his, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed pink.
‘Or we could find somewhere here,’ he suggested, lifting one brow, no longer on the fence about this at all. He wanted her. He needed her. Clearly he wasn’t thinking straight, but it had always been this way with Imogen. She was a sorceress, but now that he knew that, he could control it. One night, one little misstep, and then he’d forget her again.
‘Charming,’ she ground out, but didn’t move away from him. ‘You’re such a pig.’
‘Something I thought you always understood about me.’
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t.’
‘But now you do.’ He dropped his lips to her jaw, kissing the flesh to the side of it, flicking her with his tongue so she trembled against his body. ‘Don’t we both deserve this?’
‘I deserve so much better than this,’ she responded, and he couldn’t help but agree. She did—he didn’t.
Let her go.
It would be the right thing to do. He couldn’t toy with her. Couldn’t destroy her again. He knew how badly he’d hurt her the first time, and while he’d been glad to get her out of his life, glad to remove her from his, to permanently remove the pleasure she’d given him, hurting her had been anathema to him. He didn’t want to do that again.
But she was an enchantress—or perhaps it was just the chemistry they shared. There was something between them that was akin to a drug. He was like a recovering pseudo junkie, and now she was right in front of him, he needed a hit.
‘Come home with me.’
Another soft groan. Of surrender?
‘I’m meeting friends.’
It only strengthened his resolve. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can.’ He moved the hand at her back lower to cup her buttocks, holding her hard against his arousal. ‘You know I’ll make it worth your while.’
A small sob. A sound that he recognised as one of desperation—and surrender.
Power throbbed through him.
‘Luca—’
Cristo . He loved it, how she said his name. He’d made millions of pounds before he turned twenty-one and had been a billionaire many times over before thirty, but it was the capitulation in Imogen’s tone that truly made him feel as though he had won the lottery.
‘Come home with me and let me hear you scream that,’ he demanded.
‘I hate you,’ she whispered back, eyes huge when they met his.
‘Good. I like hearing you say that much better than “I love you.”’
She gasped. ‘You are such a bastard.’
‘This time, don’t forget it.’
And with every last bit of willpower he possessed, he pulled away from her, waited a few seconds, then walked back to the bar, his long, easy stride concealing how much he wished he was still pressed hard against her beautiful body.
* * *
She was aware of him the whole time. As she went through the motions of catching up with friends, talking, laughing, she felt his eyes on her. He had stopped drinking alcohol. She noticed he held a bottle of mineral water in his hand as he watched her. Imogen sat on her single glass of wine all night. For hours.
She would usually have excused herself sooner, but she liked making him wait. She liked punishing him in some small way, even though she recognised that even thinking about going home with him was the stupidest thing she could ever do.
For so, so many reasons.
Her pulse fired as she replayed their relationship like a time capsule in her mind. The whirlwind nature of it all, how overwhelming it had been, how unprepared she’d been for someone like Luca, how naturally she’d viewed him through the prism of her own parents’ long, happy marriage, how easily she’d believed they were falling in love with one another. How foolish she’d been! How rapidly she’d given him her heart, with no doubt that he’d welcome her proclamation of love and even return it. How devastating it had been when she’d told him she loved him and he’d laughed in her face.
The things he’d said that morning were a part of her now. They’d calcified inside her heart, forming lumps that were embedded in her psyche.
‘You are a silly, na?ve girl if you think this is love. We’re sleeping together, not dating. You are not my girlfriend, and I am not your boyfriend. You’re just someone I’m having sex with when I want to have sex. I could replace you in a heartbeat. No, I will replace you in a heartbeat. Get out of my house.’
She had felt physically sick. She had, in fact, vomited as soon as she’d walked out of his mansion. And then she’d vomited again the next morning. His words were still ringing in her ears, going around and around and around a week later, when she did a pregnancy test and realised she’d conceived their baby.
She paled now to think of Aurora, their beautiful daughter, at home with Imogen’s twin sister, who looked after Aurora while Imogen worked. She thought of Aurora, the baby he most definitely wouldn’t have wanted and didn’t deserve, and knew she was playing with the kind of fire that would burn her badly if she wasn’t careful. She couldn’t let him find out about Aurora. The smart thing to do was run a mile from this man. He had broken her heart; hell, he’d broken her . For a very long time, all the light in her life had been extinguished. If it hadn’t been for Aurora, she had no idea how she would have coped.
Yet his words were spinning through her mind, the things he’d said that awful morning like the laying down of a gauntlet she ached to pick up now. He’d been needlessly callous and utterly cruel, his cutting dismissal of her a wound she would never fully recover from. How could she not make him eat those words? He’d spoken to her as though nothing they’d shared had been special—yet here he was, three years later, clearly still attracted to her. She despised herself for needing that validation, and yet somehow, it mattered. Back then, Luca had been the one who’d called the shots, and she’d loved him too much to question it. But now? What if they could have this one night, and all on her terms? What if they could sleep together, only now, it would be Imogen who walked away—who made him feel worthless and easily replaceable?
Adrenaline sparked in her blood as she slid her empty glass across the table, stood up and excused herself from her friends. She glanced at Luca and then, without waiting to see if he followed, she walked out, aware that in a moment he would join her, and the juggernaut would start all over again.
Not really, though. This was not a juggernaut but rather an indulgence. A single step back in time for the one thing that had been good about them. Sex.
It had been almost three years for Imogen, and there was a fire in her blood that Luca had lit. She’d let him stoke it and extinguish it and then she’d have the satisfaction of walking away all over again. Because not only was he a selfish son of a bitch whom she hated with all her heart, he was also the father of a daughter he knew nothing about, and Imogen damn well intended for it to stay that way.