Praise for Heidi Rice

‘Heidi Rice is simply brilliant when it comes to

writing sharp, sassy and sexy romantic novels!’

—www.cataromance.com

‘The amusing opening spins into

an emotional and heartfelt story.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Hot-Shot Tycoon

‘I was actually breathless while reading this book….

It’s a sensual ride you won’t want to lose

the opportunity of reading.’

—www.thePinkHeartSociety.com on

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

About the Author
About Heidi Rice

HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for the last ten years. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon® novel.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

Also by Heidi Rice

On the First Night of Christmas…

Cupcakes and Killer Heels

Unfinished Business with the Duke

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Good, the Bad and the Wild

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Abby Green, for seeing me to the end of this book,

and being a fabulous roomie in NYC 2011!

With special thanks to Michelle Styles,

who knows the Bay Area much better than I do.

CHAPTER ONE

‘DON’T look now, but he’s here and he’s right behind us.’

Eva Redmond’s heart catapulted into her throat as the urgent whisper from her old college chum Tess sliced through the hum of polite conversation and the tinkle of champagne glasses in the upscale San Francisco art gallery. ‘Are you sure?’

Tess looked past Eva’s right shoulder. ‘Tall? Check.’ She nodded. ‘Dark? Check. Handsome? Check. The only one not in a suit? Check.’ She grinned at Eva. ‘Yup, it’s definitely your rebel scriptwriter.’ Her gaze flicked past Eva again. ‘And you’re in luck. Not only is he alone. But he’s even hotter than his photo.’

Eva stared blankly at the six foot square canvas in front of her—which was titled The Explosion of the Senses, but looked more like an explosion in a paint factory to her untrained eye—and swallowed down the knot of apprehension that had been tightening around her larynx ever since she’d boarded the plane at Heathrow that morning.

The knowledge that the man she’d travelled five thousand miles to meet was standing a few feet away made it feel as if she were trying to swallow a boulder.

‘Goodie,’ she muttered.

Tess laughed and nudged her. ‘Don’t sound so pleased.’

‘Why would I be pleased?’ Eva whispered back, fairly sure Nick Delisantro’s extreme hotness was not going to work in her favour. If only he were a geeky academic. Sticking with what you knew might be dull. But dull had its advantages.

‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ Tess countered. ‘Giving a scorching hot guy the news that he’s the heir to a fortune in Italian real estate is what I’d call a win-win situation.’

Eva nobly resisted the urge to sneak a peek over her shoulder. ‘Yes, but I’m not you, am I?’ she remarked wryly as she studied her friend dispassionately.

In her ice-blue, off the shoulder silk gown and six-inch designer heels, Tess looked elegant, slim, super-confident—and completely at home in the rarefied atmosphere of a gallery opening in San Francisco’s Union Square neighbourhood. Which wasn’t at all surprising. Tess had spent the last three years building a formidable reputation as an events planner in the US and even at university she’d been able to schmooze for England. Eva meanwhile had spent the years since she’d gained her first at Cambridge burying her nose in dusty antiquarian documents and computer research data. She couldn’t schmooze to save her life—and she’d never felt more out of place than among all these beautiful people who had elevated socialising to an art form.

The admission touched some lonely place deep inside. She shook off the thought. She wasn’t lonely; her life was exactly how she wanted it. Settled, secure, content. Until two days ago, when her boss Henry Crenshawe had demanded she travel halfway round the globe to be humiliated in public.

‘And it’s not as simple as telling him he could be the Duca D’Alegria’s grandson. I’ll also have to tell him the man he always thought was his biological father isn’t.’ Eva tensed at the thought of having such an intimate conversation with a stranger. A scorching hot stranger who had steadfastly ignored all her attempts to contact him in close to a month. ‘I shouldn’t have let you talk me into asking him for an appointment here. It’s not appropriate.’

Tess gave an easy shrug. ‘So don’t ask him straight away. Flirt with him first. He’ll be much more amenable. I guarantee it.’

Eva doubted that. She didn’t know how to flirt and this man was a master at it. During her extensive research for the firm’s high-profile new client, it was one of the few things she’d managed to discover about the elusive Niccolo Carmine Delisantro—the man who she had deduced was almost certainly the illegitimate grandson Don Vincenzo Palatino Vittorio Savargo De Rossi, the Duca D’Alegria, was offering a small fortune to locate.

The dry facts of Delisantro’s life had told her very little about him as a person—North London runaway turned successful Hollywood scriptwriter and San Francisco resident who had scripted the biggest box-office hit of the decade five years ago—except that he was a wow with the ladies and he guarded his privacy like a hawk.

‘You can take a look now, and see what you’re up against.’ Tess indicated with her champagne flute. ‘Kate Elmsly’s cornered him,’ she finished, mentioning the perky and persistent gallery owner who had greeted them both earlier.

Trying to even her breathing, Eva turned. And her lungs seized to a halt. The back of her neck bristled as she took a hasty sip of her champagne cocktail. This was worse than she thought.

As she studied the man standing about ten feet away Eva realised she wasn’t just out of her depth, she was in danger of drowning.

Tess was right. The grainy photo she’d managed to find on the Internet didn’t do Nick Delisantro justice.

No mere human being had a right to that level of perfection. Thick wavy hair the colour of rich caramel curled to touch the collar of a worn black leather bomber jacket, which matched his thin black sweater and jeans. Sharp angular cheekbones with a hint of stubble, tanned olive skin to highlight his Italian heritage and a honed, muscular six foot plus physique combined to set him apart from the pampered crowd of local celebrities and dignitaries. His dark brooding masculine beauty drew female eyes, and hers were no exception—the relaxed, almost insolent way he leaned against the bare brick column as the gallery owner chatted effusively only made him seem more aloof. Surly, sexy, supremely magnetic, effortlessly successful as a hunter-gatherer but with a dangerous edge, Nick Delisantro was the perfect male prototype to ensure the survival of his species.

Eva sighed, a shiver running down her spine then sprinting straight back up again. While she was the female prototype to ensure it failed. An academic whose knowledge of men and sex included a few fumbled encounters as a post-grad and a secret passion for florid historical romance novels that had half-naked men with exceptional pecs on the covers.

She swung back to face ‘The Explosion of the Senses,’ her own senses imploding as her gaze skimmed down the designer gown Tess had lent her. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she murmured, more to herself than her friend. ‘I look ridiculous.’

The crimson velvet creation with its split skirt and plunging neckline would look sensational on her friend, but Eva was two inches shorter and had several extra inches round the bust. The gown had made her feel exhilarated when she’d squeezed into it an hour ago, but now only made her feel like more of a fraud.

She wasn’t one of those stunning damsels in distress with long flowing tresses and enough spirit to bring a marauding pirate captain to his knees. She was a risk-averse academic with a wardrobe full of beige who was still technically speaking a virgin at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

Tess placed a comforting hand on Eva’s forearm. ‘You do not look ridiculous. You look voluptuous.’

Eva crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Flashing my boobs at him is not the way to go here,’ she said, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. ‘I should just go to his agent’s office tomorrow morning and ask him for an appointment.’ That would be the safe, smart thing to do, and had been Eva’s plan all along until Tess had discovered through her many contacts that Nick Delisantro was attending tonight’s gala opening and wheedled them both an invite.

‘Cleavage is never a bad thing where men are concerned,’ Tess asserted. ‘And you said this commission is important,’ she urged. ‘If his agent blows you off, what are you going to tell your boss?’

Eva didn’t have an answer for that. Mr Crenshawe had told her in no uncertain terms that Roots Registry valued the De Rossi commission, and if Eva delivered the missing heir before one of the rival companies the duca had hired located him too, she would finally be in line for a promotion.

It was a powerful incentive. Eva adored her job. Poring over diaries and journals and correlating the evidence left by birth, marriage and death certificates allowed her to imagine lives often lived centuries ago—their passions, their pain, their triumphs and tragedies. And the promotion she’d worked so hard for would finally give her the job security she craved.

Tess craned her neck to peer past Eva. ‘It looks like he’s shaken off Kate,’ she continued. ‘Go now.’ She prodded Eva with her elbow. ‘Brush past him on your way to the bar. The dress will do the rest.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’ Eva asked tentatively, not sure the revealing dress was something she could actually control.

Tess shrugged. ‘Then you haven’t lost a thing. We’ll go back to my place and you can try out plan B for Boring tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’ Eva took a shuddering breath, feeling as if she were about to walk the plank—in nothing but her underwear. ‘I’ll walk past him on my way to the toilet.’ How hard could that be? ‘But then we’re leaving.’

She handed Tess her empty champagne flute and smoothed shaky palms down the luxurious velvet. The soft, seductive material brushed against her thighs as she concentrated on not falling flat on her face in the unfamiliar four-inch heels she’d also borrowed from Tess. She glanced towards him as she drew level, positive he wouldn’t even have noticed her. And froze.

Heavy lidded chocolate eyes, as bold and insolent as the rest of him, caught hers and held. The image of Rafe, the pirate captain from her favourite, much-thumbed novel, shimmered like a mirage then cleared. A shaky breath gushed out as she stared back, transfixed by the way the overhead light caught the golden flecks in his irises. The colour was unusually striking and very familiar. She’d seen the exact same shade when the duca had arrived at their offices in London to hand over his dead son’s journal.

His grandson’s lips lifted a fraction on one side, as if he were enjoying a private joke, then his gaze dipped. Eva’s heart punched her ribcage with the force of a heavyweight champ.

The lazy perusal raked over her sensitised skin like a physical caress, before his gaze met hers again. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked, the tone husky and amused, curt British vowels laced with the hint of a Californian drawl.

Eva shook her head, her tongue apparently stapled to the roof of her mouth.

‘So why have you and your friend been spying on me?’ he asked.

Good Lord, he has bionic hearing.

Eva’s breathing choked to a stop. Then released in a rush as her common sense caught up with the kick of panic. He couldn’t possibly have heard them—with all the hard surfaces the noise level in the gallery was loud and discordant. He must have spotted Tess watching him. Tess wasn’t exactly subtle.

‘We couldn’t help it,’ she said, trying to think of a viable excuse. ‘You’re a lot more intriguing than the art.’

‘Is that right?’ One brow lifted, making her breathing accelerate. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment. A daytime soap would be more intriguing than this stuff.’ The disdainful comment was belied by the wry tone. ‘What’s so intriguing about me?’

Eva’s breathing slowed and she began to get a little light-headed.

Was he flirting with her?

‘You don’t belong here,’ she stammered, the fierce buzz of anticipation in her stomach coming from nowhere. ‘But you don’t care. That’s unusual in a social situation. The normal response is to want to participate. To be part of the crowd. That makes you intriguing.’

The words trailed off as his lips quirked in a curious grin, softening his angular features.

Stop lecturing, you idiot. You sound like a professor.

He straightened away from the column, making her aware that he was at least half a foot taller than her, even in her borrowed heels.

Lifting his arm, he propped it against the column, angling his body so he shielded them both from the rest of the gallery. He stood close enough for her to smell the tantalising musk of soap and leather and pheromones. And see the crescent shaped scar drawing a white line through the shadow of stubble on his cheek. The pirate fantasy flickered at the edges of her consciousness. She forced it back, but not before the pulse of heat rippled over her skin and made her heart rate shoot back up to warp speed.

‘You worked all that out after a few minutes?’ he drawled.

Guilt tightened the muscles in her throat.

Not exactly.

‘That’s what I do. I’m an anthropologist.’ Of sorts. ‘I study people and their behaviour patterns. How they interact socially and culturally.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie, and she had a BSc to prove it.

‘An anthropologist,’ he said, savouring the word as if it were a rare single malt whisky. His gaze roamed over her, and her nipples squeezed into hard, aching points. ‘I’ve never met an anthropologist before.’

And he wasn’t meeting one now, she thought, her gaze flicking away from his. This was the perfect time to tell him the truth—that she was the woman whose phone calls and email messages he’d refused to return for three and a half weeks. But instead of seizing the opportunity to get down to the business of begging him for an appointment, the butterflies already fluttering in her stomach went AWOL, and she hesitated.

She’d never had the chance to flirt with a man like this before. Never been studied in that frank, assessing way, the pulse of awareness arching between them more potent than any drug.

‘Anthropology can be fascinating,’ she heard herself murmur, feeling inexplicably needy.

‘I’ll bet,’ he said. ‘Although you’re wrong about me.’ His gaze drifted over her hair, which Tess had spent an hour taming into a chignon. ‘I belong here just fine.’ Lowering his arm, he hooked one of the stray curls that had fallen out of the chignon. ‘But you, on the other hand, don’t belong at all.’ The back of his finger brushed her cheek, the touch subtle but so unexpected, she jumped.

He chuckled. ‘What are you afraid of?’

You.

Heat pulsed in that secret place between her thighs at the intimate question. She wasn’t afraid of him, that would be ludicrous, it was just that she’d never been touched like that before, with a sense of entitlement.

‘I’m not afraid,’ she blurted out, the urge to run sudden and instinctive and oddly intoxicating. ‘I have to go to the rest room.’

He tucked the lock of hair behind her ear with a care that made her heart throb in unison with her pulse points. ‘Let’s discuss anthropology when you get back.’

The suggestion was casual but proprietary and only disturbed her more. She might be a novice at this, but she didn’t think this conversation had anything to do with anthropology any more.

Giving a non-committal nod, she rushed away, sure she could feel his golden gaze boring into the bare skin of her back—with the patient, predatory instincts of a lion hunting a gazelle.

The preposterous image made her breath catch. She had to get out of here—before she completely lost her grip on sanity. Plan B for Boring would have to do, because Plan A was way too terrifying—and exciting.

Colour me amazed.

Nick huffed out a rough chuckle as he watched the sexy anthropologist dash through the crowd and admired the swing of her hips in the stop-light red dress.

When was the last time he’d met someone so intriguing, especially at one of these tedious social functions?

He’d have to send Jay, his publicist, a thank you note for insisting that he venture away from his laptop tonight. Except that he hadn’t really attended the gallery opening at Jay’s insistence, but out of sheer boredom having spent the day staring at a screen full of rubbish.

Leaning back against the column, he closed his eyes, shutting out the hum of inane chatter and hoping to deter anyone from approaching him while he waited for the Woman in Red’s return.

She’d captivated him, which was surprising in itself. He didn’t appreciate being watched or whispered about, and he’d spotted her and her friend doing exactly that. But there was something about the way she had peered at him, with none of the usual calculation or confidence he had come to expect from the women that approached him. And then when he’d got a better look at her, his senses had kicked into overdrive like those of a hormonally charged teenager.

He kept his lids closed, picturing her, and tried to determine the trigger. Creamy, translucent skin? Wide blue eyes so dark they were almost violet? The flutter of her pulse visible in the graceful arch of her collarbone? Russet curls that had escaped the mass of hair artfully piled on her head? The swell of her breasts revealed by the plunging neckline of her gown? The fresh, simple scent of soap and spring flowers? The crisp, precise London accent that he hadn’t heard in years?

Any one of those things could have turned him on. He was a guy after all. But still, she wasn’t conventionally beautiful: not particularly tall; her eyes had been maybe too big, she had a slight overbite and her forthright observations about his character had unsettled him. Even though they could only have been a lucky guess.

Weird? There was no explaining the ferocity of attraction. Not really. Except maybe…?

He opened his eyes, found himself shifting round to look at the doors to the rest room.

And realised that by far the most captivating thing about her had been her unguarded response. Her breathing had quickened, her pupils dilating wildly as soon as she stopped in front of him. The truth was he’d always been jaded where women were concerned. Even as a boy. Once he’d grown up, he found himself craving sex as much as any man, but for him it had never been more than a physical release. And as a result in the last few years, ever since The Deadly Touch had made him one of the hottest properties in Hollywood, he’d developed a cynicism about the women he dated that meant while sex was satisfying, it had become less and less exciting.

He knew precisely which buttons to press to get the response from women he wanted. But when was the last time a woman had responded to him so instinctively—and with so little caution? She’d been so transparent, the instant physical connection between them so intense, he was sure it had to be an act. But act or not, he was still captivated. And intrigued. It was certainly a very long time since he’d felt this level of attraction. He glanced round, smiling at his own impatience, then pushed away from the column as he spotted her standing by the rest-room doors, talking into her cell phone. Not talking, pleading by the look of it. She snapped the phone closed, stuffed it into her purse, then rushed out of the back entrance of the gallery.

He was so astonished, it took him a moment to figure out that she’d left. Acting on impulse, he charged after her, snaking his way through the crowd.

Where the hell was she off to in such a hurry? He didn’t even know her name. And he wasn’t finished with her yet. Not by a long shot.

CHAPTER TWO

‘HEY, wait up.’

Eva’s head whipped round at the shout from behind her. She skidded to a halt, stumbling as she recognised the tall silhouette backlit by the light from the open doorway.

Strong fingers grasped her arm, steadying her. ‘You okay?’

The firedoor crashed shut, throwing the alleyway into shadow.

‘Yes,’ she murmured, cursing the guilty blush burning her neck. ‘Thank you. I’m not used to these heels.’

His fingers stroked down her arm, setting off a series of lightning bolts, before he let her go. ‘I always wonder why women wear those ankle-breakers.’

‘To make our legs look longer.’

He gave a gruff chuckle, the sound strangely intimate in the darkness. ‘Is that so?’ She saw his head dip as her eyes adapted to the low light. She took a staggered breath and his tantalising scent engulfed her, masking the aroma of wet pavements and disinfectant.

‘You don’t need any help on that score,’ he remarked, his voice low and amused.

She wrapped her arms around herself, the chilled autumn air not the only thing causing her goosebumps. Was he flirting with her again? Why had he followed her? And why was his attention as intoxicating as it was terrifying?

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘Given that broken ankles are even less attractive than short legs.’

He laughed again, the rough murmur chasing the blush into her cheeks.

Stop being so literal, you muppet.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, mercifully ignoring her pathetic attempts at conversation.

‘I…’ She choked to a stop. She didn’t have an answer. Her instinctive need to flee from him seeming even more ridiculous than her small talk. ‘I wanted some fresh air. It’s stuffy in there,’ she lied.

Unfortunately, the lie didn’t quite come off when she shivered.

‘You’re cold.’ Shrugging off his jacket, he lifted her bag off her shoulder. ‘Here.’ Warm leather surrounded her. His scent clung to the garment, and she had to purse her lips to stop from sighing.

‘Let’s go for a ride.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she stammered, the tone of his voice making all sorts of inappropriate, but far too appealing, thoughts pop into her mind.

‘A ride.’ He buried his hands in his back pockets, hunched against the cold in the crewneck sweater and nodded down the alleyway. ‘I’ve got my bike round the corner. And I was looking for an excuse to escape myself.’

‘You mean a motorbike?’

Placing a warm palm on the small of her back, he directed her towards the end of the alleyway, subtly leading her in the direction he wanted to go. ‘It’s a great way to see the city. You’re a Londoner, right? Like me.’

‘Um, yes,’ she said, dazed by the little sizzles of electrical energy where his palm rested on her lower back.

‘So when did you arrive?’

‘I…’ She paused. She should tell him now. But her tongue seemed to get stuck in neutral again. ‘This afternoon. I’m visiting my friend Tess.’

‘The other nosey one?’

She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yes, sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ he said as they drew level with a monstrous black motorbike, its swirling logo and silver trim gleaming dangerously in the street lamp light. ‘I like getting talked about by beautiful women.’

‘Oh,’ she said, not sure how to take the compliment. Was he trying to be funny? She looked good tonight, but no one would mistake her for beautiful, not unless they were seriously myopic.

Unlocking the box at the back of the bike, he lifted out a helmet. ‘Put this on.’

She took the helmet without thinking. Standing dumbfounded as he mounted the huge machine with easy grace.

He glanced back at her. ‘Hop on.’

‘But I’m wearing a dress,’ she said, struggling to slow things down a little. She’d never been on a motorbike before, especially not with a man of his… Power. ‘And heels,’ she added. ‘What if I fall off?’

Placing a proprietary hand on her hip, he nudged her round to face him, took the helmet from her, and plopped it on her head. ‘You won’t.’ He tucked the tendrils of hair into the helmet with a focused concentration that had her pulse throbbing in her throat. ‘Not as long as you hold on tight.’

Fastening the helmet’s strap, he ran his thumb across her chin. The tiny touch made her shiver and her tongue slipped out of its own accord, licking lips that had gone dry as a desert.

His gaze dipped and she pressed her lips together, the buzz of anticipation almost unbearable. When his eyes lifted back to her face, she could see amusement. And a disturbing intensity.

‘Where do you want to go?’ he murmured.

Anywhere you want to take me.

She slammed down on the impulsive thought and the much more impulsive thrum of tension that had her whole body vibrating.

She shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t just impulsive, it was reckless—bordering on inappropriate. And she’d never done anything before that bordered on reckless, let alone inappropriate.

But maybe that was exactly the problem, she realised, as the thrum of tension refused to subside. In that split second of indecision, her whole well-ordered and completely appropriate life seemed to stretch out before her in a rolling canvas of total and extreme boredom and the impulsiveness took hold of her tongue.

‘I don’t know. You decide,’ she said, the whispered words so liberating she heard a strange sound come out of her mouth, which sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

Niccolo Delisantro chuckled back. ‘See, that wasn’t so hard,’ he said, with surprising intuition.

Eva stiffened. Did he know how big a deal this was for her? That adventures were something she’d only ever read about in books? That her life was about as dynamic as magnolia wallpaper?

‘Climb aboard and let’s get this show on the road,’ he added, and she shook off the humiliating thought. How could he know? He didn’t know the first thing about her.

She stifled the little pang of guilt at the thought of how much she knew about him. As soon as the ride was over, she’d tell him who she was. And face the consequences. But just this once, she wanted to give in to impulse.

She adjusted the helmet on her head, then hesitated, studying the enormous machine and the small segment of leather seat available to her.

Adventure was one thing, but how on earth did you climb onto a motorbike that large? In four-inch heels and a figure-hugging designer dress?

He stood up to stamp on one of the pedals and the monster roared to life. She jumped at the explosion of sound.

‘Um… I’m not sure how to…’ She shouted above the engine noise. ‘How do I…?’ He adjusted his wrist and the noise subsided to a dull rumble. ‘Do you have any instructions?’

The colour charged back into her cheeks at the easy grin he sent her over his shoulder.

So much for Eva Redmond, wild child. What kind of a loser asks for instructions on how to mount a motorbike?

Swivelling round, he lowered his gaze to her legs. ‘I’m guessing you’ll have to hike the skirt up.’ The mischievous glint in his golden eyes made colour race over her scalp and stand the fine hair on the back of her neck on end. He leaned over and flipped open a short rubber pedal that stuck out above the gleaming silver exhaust pipe. ‘Step on that and then take my arm.’ So saying he held out his hand.

Biting into her bottom lip, she gathered the skirt clumsily up her legs. ‘Here goes,’ she mumbled as she gripped his arm. Feeling the muscles of his forearm tense, she slipped while placing her instep onto the pedal.

‘Easy,’ he soothed. ‘There’s no hurry.’

She gave him a hopeful smile, praying that her blush was dimmed somewhat by the low lighting and that she wasn’t about to knock the two of them into a heap on the pavement. Then took a deep breath and launched her leg over the bike.

He gave a sharp tug as she did so, and she landed on the leather bench with a huff. Her breath sucked into her lungs at the sudden, explosive mix of sensations. The bike’s heavy vibrations shuddered up through her backside, her nipples hardening into peaks as they touched the unyielding slopes of his back. The skin of her inner thighs sizzled alarmingly as the dress hitched up and she came into intimate contact with the rough denim of his jeans.

The tight muscular contours of his backside flexed through his clothing and the blush intensified.

Oh, God. She’d never been this close to a man before. Ever. The sensations racing through her were both exquisite and yet petrifying on some elemental level. She leaned back, worried he’d feel her nipples poking him, but that only intensified the pressure of his denim-clad butt pressing into her spread thighs. She fanned her hand in front of her face, convinced she was having her first hot flush thirty years too soon.

What had possessed her to agree to do this? What if she passed out from sensory overload and fell off the bike? Then got flattened by a cable car and ended up horribly mangled in the middle of a San Francisco street?

‘Put your arms round my waist.’ The rough command sliced neatly through her panic attack and she obeyed him instinctively. Circling him, she pressed her cheek against the silky smooth cashmere sweater and linked her fingers, trying desperately to ignore the tensile strength of his abdomen beneath her palms.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the bike jerked forward off its stand. He revved the engine, signalling another sensory overload as the shudder of leashed power made her pulse jump.

‘Relax.’ One large palm covered the back of her hands, still locked round his waist. ‘You’re safe. I swear.’ She felt the rumble of his chuckle through her cheek and tried to loosen her death grip.

‘My name’s Nick, by the way,’ he said, his warm palm letting go of her hands to steer the bike off the pavement and into the road with a jolt. ‘Nick Delisantro. What’s yours?’

‘Eva,’ she said, the renewed stab of guilt going some way to calming her rioting nervous system. ‘Eva Redmond,’ she added, then tensed at the realisation that he might well recognise her name and call a halt to the whole fiasco.

She frowned. The fact that she would be desperately disappointed if he did, despite the mix of terror and anticipation making her stomach churn, had to be yet more evidence that she was probably having some sort of weird emotional meltdown.

‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, clearly oblivious to her deception.

She breathed a ragged sigh. But as her cheek brushed the velvet steel of his back she made herself a solemn promise. She would definitely tell him who she was once their wild ride was over. No more evasions.

Assuming she survived her wild ride.

Her heartbeat slammed into her throat as the bike leapt forward like a savage beast, and reared away from the kerb. Eva’s legs squeezed his backside while her arms tightened around his waist, her fingers clasped so tight she was in danger of dislocating a knuckle.

‘Welcome to San Fransisco, Eva the anthropologist,’ he shouted back at her.

More like Eva the Fraud.

The quick burst of shame did nothing to dim the heady kick of adrenaline as the bike tilted into a turn and then accelerated up the steep hill into the night.

Eva clung on tight and for the first time in her life allowed herself to rejoice in the thrill of doing something reckless. And unwise. And inappropriate.

And completely and utterly intoxicating.

Terror gave way to fascination as the scent of roasted duck and Szechuan spices made Eva’s stomach rumble. She swivelled her head back and forth trying to take in the kaleidoscope of people as the bike wound through the traffic choked thoroughfare. The oriental faces and exotic hieroglyphics on the signs and posters marked the area out as Chinatown. But almost as soon as she had registered the fact, they took a sharp turn and left the crowded street behind. A cable car trundled past on the cross street in front of them, like something out of a bygone era, but for the tourists in shorts and T-shirts with cameras round their necks sandwiched onto the bench seats. Shuddering over the cable-car tracks, the bike climbed and dipped through hills of ornate Victorian town houses, stopping and starting on every corner. Eva’s heart thumped against her chest wall, the emotion swelling in her throat at the overwhelming beauty of the city gilded by the dying sun.

She threw her head back, let the evening air brush a few escaped tendrils of hair against her cheeks.

Her eyes stung with tears. How could she have spent the first twenty-four years of her life never having done anything remotely spontaneous or daring?

Her parents had been in their fifties when they’d had her. Both of them brilliant academics dedicated to their chosen fields. When she’d been conceived by accident, they hadn’t had a clue how to factor a child into their busy lives. So she’d adapted instead. Which had meant being cautious and responsible and respecting the boundaries they set, even when she was a teenager and every other person she knew was busy tearing them down.

No wonder she was such a coward.

But maybe adventure didn’t always have to be bad. Or contained within the pages of the romance novels her parents had always insisted were ‘a foolish indulgence’.

She blinked furiously and clung tighter as they edged down another steep incline. The man in front of her felt so solid, his broad back sheltering her from the lengthening shadows. Then the bike hit a major road. Suddenly they were leaving the picture-postcard houses, the steep slopes and stepped pavements behind. Trees and parklands sped past and then Eva gasped, her eyes widening in wonder as the Golden Gate Bridge reared up before them, a huge geometric monolith of rusty red steel lit by the dying sun.

The bike thundered through the fingers of fog drifting over the road, the rush of air and noise both cold and thrilling as they zipped past the occasional car, and a monstrous shiny yellow eighteen-wheeler. Squeezing her eyes shut, Eva hugged the only still thing in her universe and felt them both take flight through the traffic, hurtling across the water. The ball of emotion broke lose. Firing up her torso, it burst out of her mouth and she let out a gleeful yell that whipped away on the wind.

She’d been walking through a fog her entire life but now the cloying veil of conformity was being ripped away—making every colour more vivid, every scent more acute, every sense more vibrant.

To think she had lived her whole life and never experienced anything as thrilling as a sunset ride across San Francisco Bay?

Adrenaline and affection blossomed as she clung to Nick Delisantro. How could she ever thank him enough, for giving her this?

CHAPTER THREE

AS the bike wound through the nature reserve on the Marin headlands, taking the climb towards Hawk Hill, Nick glanced at the fingers knotted round his waist and smiled.

He’d hazard a guess that Eva the gorgeous anthropologist had never ridden pillion before, given the way she was attached to him like a limpet. Not that he was complaining. Once she’d got the hang of leaning into the turns, the feel of her clinging to him had been very nice indeed. Her shocked little gasp when they’d hit the Bridge on 101, and her spontaneous shout as they’d raced across it had only added to the heat. Seemed the prim and proper Miss Eva had a wild side. When you factored in the familiar adrenaline kick of being on the bike and the awe-inspiring view as they topped the rise and drifted to a stop at the overlook…

No, he definitely didn’t have a single complaint about his split-second decision to invite her along. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed the city like this—or the feel of a woman’s soft, pliant body plastered against his.

He felt her expel another sharp breath as he cut off the bike’s engine.

‘Wow.’ Her hushed murmur sent a delicious tingle through the short hairs at his nape. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

He tilted the bike onto its stand, flattened his feet onto the ground. ‘Yeah. This is the best view of the bridge.’

They sat for a while in silence, admiring the majestic span of the Golden Gate, blazing a trail across the bay in the sunset, the fog sitting like a carpet of mist over the water and the lights of the city laid out behind.

Reluctantly, he placed a hand over hers, glanced round at wind-stung cheeks and wide violet eyes. ‘It’s safe to let go now.’

Pulling her hands out from under his, she sprang back. ‘I’m so sorry. Was I holding on too tight?’

Her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink, and, despite the camouflage of his leather jacket, he caught a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage.

With a figure like that she couldn’t possibly be as innocent as she seemed. Guys would have been all over her since puberty. But it was still an intriguing act.

‘You’ve my permission to hold on as tight as you like,’ he murmured. ‘But if you want to stretch your legs for a minute and enjoy the view…’

‘Yes… Thank you, I would,’ she said in that very proper London accent, but didn’t budge.

He waited a beat. ‘You’ll have to dismount first,’ he prompted, stifling a grin when the colour highlighting her cheekbones flared again in the fading light.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Shifting back on the seat, she gathered her dress and then bit into her bottom lip as she concentrated on her dismount. It took a moment for her to execute the manoeuvre, during which he got an eyeful of lush thighs and trim calves displayed in silky nylons. He held back a groan, the clumsiness of her dismount making the view even more enticing as her many curves jiggled. Clearly it had been far too long since he’d had that much lush, scented female flesh within touching distance.

Swinging his leg over the bike, he stood behind her as she lifted the helmet off. With her back to him as she gazed out across the city, the top of her head barely reached his chin. Curls of reddish-brown hair, no longer contained by the arrangement at the top, fell in disarray around the graceful column of her neck. Would her hair look all soft and rumpled like that straight out of bed? He stepped close enough to hear the staggered rise and fall of her breathing and to catch a whiff of her through the scent of sea-salt and earth. Spring flowers and soap, the fresh, unsophisticated scent seemed somehow exotic. He wanted to caress the back of her neck so badly he could almost feel her skin against his fingertips.

Burying his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, he tried to recall for about the fiftieth time since he’d spotted her in the gallery why he’d sworn off romantic entanglements a few months ago. Something to do with a script that wasn’t happening, a looming production deadline and the unpleasant scenes when Lisa, his last girlfriend, had finally figured out that he’d meant it when he’d told her he wasn’t that interested in her. But as the once convincing reasons swirled through his mind again, they didn’t stop the urge to reach out and touch.

‘It’s really an astonishing feat of structural engineering,’ she said.

‘Uh-huh,’ he replied. Although it wasn’t the bridge’s astonishing feats of engineering that he was admiring at the moment.

He caught the words ‘truss arches’ and ‘cantilevered suspension’ as she continued to talk, the words rushing out as if she’d swallowed an architectural textbook, and he found the grin tugging at his mouth again. He’d crashed out of school at sixteen and never gone back, so why did he find that serious, studious tone so damn sexy? He let his gaze drift down to the round swell of her backside lovingly spotlit by the bike’s headlamp in rich red velvet—and decided maybe it wasn’t so much the tone, but the contrasting packaging that was so appealing.

As the four-syllable words continued to tumble out she hugged the helmet to her midriff like a long-lost child. She was nervous. The thought added a nice little ego-boost to his attraction. It was kind of intoxicating to get the chance to do the chasing for a change.

As he waited patiently for her to wind down and look at him, something he suspected her lecture on the Golden Gate Bridge was being used to avoid, he pulled one hand out of his pocket.

Time to refocus her attention.

Angling his thumb under the line of dangling curls, he skimmed it across the whisper-soft skin of her neck just above the collar of his jacket.

The lecture cut off and she shot round, her eyes fixing on him at last, her skin pale in the light from the bike’s headlamps.

He smiled. She couldn’t have looked more shocked if he had poked her with a cattle prod. He held out his hand, his thumb still tingling from the subtle contact. ‘You want to give me the helmet? I’ll stick it on the bike.’

She glanced at the helmet, as if she’d forgotten it. She relaxed her hold, and those amazing violet eyes met his again. ‘Thank you,’ she said, passing it to him.

He walked the few steps to the bike and fixed it to the handlebar.

‘Sorry,’ she said again when he turned back to her. ‘I talk too much.’ She looked away. ‘I just…’ Even white teeth worried her bottom lip and he imagined nipping at the plump flesh and then gliding his tongue across to lick it better. ‘I read an article about the bridge’s construction in the in-flight magazine. It was fascinating.’

‘It’s a cool bridge,’ he agreed, letting his gaze linger on her lips. Her bottom lip trembled and then her tongue flicked out to moisten it. The answering jolt of heat hit his groin like an Exocet missile.

His eyes locked on hers as he let out a strained laugh. ‘But right now, I’m finding you a lot more fascinating.’

‘I…’ Eva clamped her mouth shut, before she swallowed her tongue. Or, worse, started spewing loads more twaddle about the Golden Gate Bridge like an overzealous tour guide.

His eyes took another leisurely trip down to her toes and she clasped her arms harder around her midriff, the worn leather of his jacket offering very little protection from the zip and zing of awareness.

Ever since he’d brushed his finger across her nape, she felt as if she’d been wired up to a nuclear reactor. And everywhere his gaze wandered felt as if it were being zapped with several billion kilowatts of energy.

She’d always adored reading about the instant overpowering sexual chemistry between the bold heroines and the impossibly masculine heroes in her favourite romances. But she’d never believed it actually existed in real life. Had simply assumed it was as fictional as all the hyper-real emotions and lavish derring-do. After all, none of her kind and conscientious male colleagues, or Phil, the chess club president she’d dated briefly in college without getting past second base, had ever made her giddy. Her physical reaction to Nick Delisantro, however, was forcing her to reconsider, because it felt every bit as out of control and extraordinary as the most fantastical romantic fantasy.

All this man had to do was look at her, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with erotic promise and warmth flooded every single cell of her body. The skin of her nape was still tingling from the barely there brush of his fingertip, for goodness sake.

She let out a shuddering sigh as she curled her toes in the ankle-breaking heels, forcing herself to meet his gaze. ‘You must be easily fascinated.’

He cocked his head, observing her with nerve-racking intensity. ‘Not true.’ His lips quirked. ‘If you knew me better, you’d know I’m next to impossible to fascinate.’

She pushed out a little laugh, guilty knowledge tying her stomach in knots. She wondered how fascinated he would be if he knew the truth. That underneath the glamorous camouflage of Tess’s designer dress lurked dull and dependable Eva Redmond?

‘I do know who you are,’ she said, quelling the dreadful stab of disappointment. ‘Our meeting tonight wasn’t an accident. I’ve been trying to contact you for over three weeks to make an appointment with you.’ The twist of curiosity on his lips died. ‘I went to that gallery opening tonight because it’s imperative that I speak to you about—’

He touched his finger to her mouth, silencing her confession. ‘Shh.’ To her amazement his lips curved in a wry smile. ‘I get it.’ He shrugged. ‘If all you want is an appointment, we can meet at my agent’s office tomorrow afternoon.’ His hand fell away and he shoved it back in his pocket.

She stared at him, astonished, not only that he was taking her deception so well, but that he seemed to have been expecting it. Then the greasy knots of tension dissolved and she grinned, giddy with relief. He knew who she was. He knew why she was here. He must have recognised her name after all from all the messages she’d left with his agent and his publicist.

‘If, on the other hand, you want more,’ he continued, and giddy relief turned to giddy shock, ‘then I’m happy to explore how much more. Tonight.’ His rough palm cupped her cheek, the husky tone of voice making the erotic intent unmistakeable. ‘But whatever we do tonight has no bearing on what happens tomorrow. I don’t do favours for sex.’ The light tone made the implication that she might have been suggesting such a thing seem amusing rather than insulting. ‘Even really good sex.’

‘What if it’s not really good sex?’ she asked, the question popping out before she could stop it.

His brows flew up and he choked out a laugh. A hot flush fired into her cheeks.

Good grief, Eva, shut up. It’s not like you’re actually going to take him up on his offer.

But then he brushed the callused skin of his thumb across her bottom lip. And every single reason why she couldn’t possibly allow herself to be seduced by a man as dangerous as Nick Delisantro flew right out of her head.

‘Why don’t you let me worry about that?’ he murmured.

She sucked in a breath, the throb of heat between her thighs painful.

Kiss me.

The words echoed in her mind. But his gaze flared, as if he had heard her plea and he leaned close, surrounding her in his spicy scent, then pressed firm lips to hers. She let out a staggered breath, the contact as unexpected as having the silent yearning instantly fulfilled.

His tongue traced her bottom lip then explored in expert strokes, his hand capturing her head. She opened her mouth to let him in, her palms flattening against his chest, fingers clutching at the soft wool of his sweater as heat sizzled across her skin. Her tongue delved back, timid at first, then growing in confidence, coaxed into action by the warm, wet skill of his lips, his tongue.

The kiss seemed to go on for an eternity, and yet ended too soon.

He lifted his head, those golden eyes locked on hers. Her breathing rasped, her heartbeat hammered, the frantic pounding drowning out the distant hum of passing traffic, the keening cry of a bird of prey.

‘You taste good,’ he said, before nipping at her bottom lip.

‘So do you,’ she replied, mesmerised.

A drop of water splashed on her cheek and she jumped.

‘Damn,’ he cursed softly, brushing the rain off her cheekbone with his thumb. He held his palm up to the sky. ‘We better take this indoors. It’s about to rain.’ His eyes took on a feral gleam in the dark. ‘You want to come back to mine?’

She knew what he was asking, knew what would happen if she took him up on the bold invitation. And knew at every other time in her life before now she would have refused. But the rebellious instinct that had made her climb on his bike and made her hoot for joy as they crossed the bridge geysered up inside her again, like a volcano of need forced to be dormant for far too long. And the refusal got stuck somewhere around her solar plexus.

Tomorrow she would meet him at his agent’s office, give him the details of his inheritance and arrange his first contact with the Duca D’Alegria. Roots Registry would get their all-important commission, her promotion would be secure and she and Nick would never see each other again.

Nick Delisantro was not a tormented pirate captain about to forsake his wicked ways so he could declare his everlasting love. He was a flesh-and-blood man who was clearly exceptionally well adjusted to his wicked ways.

And she wasn’t a gullible fool despite the guilty pleasure she took in reading larger-than-life romantic fantasies. She knew what Nick Delisantro was offering was strictly a one-night deal.

But why shouldn’t she take that crazy leap into sexual fantasy and indulge in the heat of the moment, just for tonight?

She sucked in a calming breath. This was crazy thinking. Was she seriously considering racing headlong into bed with a man she barely knew?

Her breath gushed out and she heard herself say, ever so politely. ‘I’d love to, thank you.’

That would be a yes, then.

The fierce arousal in his gaze was anything but polite as he nodded back. ‘Great, let’s go.’

He gripped her hand, hauling her towards the bike as she picked her way across the rocky ground in the heels.

The lights of the bridge blurred in the drizzle of autumn rain as the powerful machine lurched down the hill in the darkness. Eva’s pulse lurched right along with it, the thunder of her heartbeat drowning out the engine’s roar as she clung to her fantasy man and refused to contemplate the notion that she’d just made the most catastrophic mistake of her adult life.

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