It Started With A Proposition: Blackmailed into the Italian's Bed / Contract with Consequences / The Passion Price. Miranda LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
not be humiliated by you, Gino. You will treat me with respect. If you cross the line of decency just once, the deal’s off. I’ll tell Chad myself I had a one-night stand with an old boyfriend and take my chances. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘I have no intention of leaving this dinner with you, either. I will go to the Regency independently. Leave my name and a spare key card for me at Reception.’
‘But they’ll think you’re a paid whore if I do that!’ he protested.
‘They wouldn’t be far wrong, then, would they?’
Gino scowled. ‘I’ll tell them that my wife will be joining me after a late flight from Melbourne.’
‘No,’ Jordan snapped. ‘I will not pretend to be your wife.’
‘You’ve become very stubborn.’
‘I’m an adult woman now, Gino, not a silly young girl.’
‘I preferred the silly young girl,’ he said, his expression still disgruntled.
‘I’m sure you did. So the deal’s off, is it? You don’t want me any more now that you’ve discovered the stubborn new me?’
He stared into her eyes for a long moment. ‘Stop trying to pick a fight with me, Jordan. You and I both know that neither of us wants that. Now eat your dessert; it’s delicious.’
‘I can’t eat any more,’ she said, and pushed the plate away.
‘You need taking in hand, woman. Which I will take pleasure in doing as soon as this dinner is over.’
‘In your dreams,’ she snapped.
‘No. In the French Bordello suite at the Regency. In a four-poster bed. All night long.’
JORDAN was standing at the window behind her desk, staring blankly down at the city, when her office door opened.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Kerry said.
Jordan turned and smiled a small smile at her friend. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you’re in some kind of antisocial mood. You couldn’t wait to get out of that dinner, could you?’
‘I didn’t have much of an appetite tonight,’ Jordan said.
‘The food was good, though, wasn’t it?’
‘Very good.’ Jordan glanced at her watch. She would have to be leaving soon. Gino had warned her not to be late, and he’d already been gone ten minutes.
‘How did you get on with Mr Bortelli?’
‘What?’ Jordan looked up. ‘Oh, not too bad. He liked the food.’
‘He didn’t make a pass at you, did he?’
Jordan stiffened. ‘Why on earth would you say that?’
‘Just a feeling. You seem…agitated.’
For a split second Jordan was tempted to tell Kerry everything. But she just couldn’t.
‘I’m still strung up after last week. The Johnson case was rather draining. I…I might take a break from work shortly.’
‘You know, I think that would be a good idea. Why don’t you surprise Chad by flying over to the States?’
Jordan shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want to do that.’
‘You’re not having second thoughts about marrying him, are you?’
Jordan swallowed. ‘Actually, I am.’
‘Oh, Jordan,’ Kerry said, her face falling.
‘Yes, I know. I’m a fool. Probably a bigger fool than you realise.’ Suddenly tears filled Jordan’s eyes. She had to get out of here, and fast. Blinking madly, she wrenched open her desk drawer and retrieved her purse from where she’d left it earlier.
When she lifted her eyes back to Kerry’s she had herself under control again. ‘I need to go home and get a good night’s sleep. See you on Monday.’
‘Look after yourself,’ Kerry called after her as she hurried from the office.
No one was in the lift on the ride down, giving Jordan the perfect opportunity to slip off her engagement ring and pop it into the zippered section of her purse.
No way could she wear Chad’s ring whilst she was with Gino. He wouldn’t allow it, anyway.
The security man in the foyer asked Jordan if she wanted him to call her a taxi. The Regency was a relatively short walk away—only a couple of blocks. But on a Saturday night any walk in the city could be dangerous—especially for a woman on her own.
Jordan would normally have taken a taxi, but not this time.
She welcomed the cool night air outside, welcomed the risk.
If someone mugged her or accosted her, then it was only what she deserved.
Of course no one did either, and she was pushing her way through the revolving glass doors of the hotel’s entrance in less than ten minutes. By then her heart was pounding behind her ribs and her face felt flushed. Another glance at her watch showed that it was only just after ten-thirty.
Her stiletto heels clacked on the marble floor of the arcade as she hurried along it—past the bouncer who stood at the doorway to the Rendezvous bar, past the bistro and the boutiques. The arcade led into the hotel foyer proper, and the reception desk was on her left.
Jordan hated that she’d have to deal with a male desk clerk. She’d been hoping for a woman.
‘Ahh, yes…Ms Gray,’ he said, with a knowing little smirk on his fleshy lips as he handed her the key card. ‘Mr Bortelli said you were to go right up. The French Bordello suite is on the twelfth floor.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied coolly, hoping her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.
The ride up to the twelfth floor felt surreal, with her conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Her brain kept telling her not to do this. She could still turn round and go home. But her body refused to obey.
Before she knew it she was standing in front of the door which had French Bordello Suite marked on it in gold letters.
Should she knock, or let herself in?
Her right hand balled into a fist as she lifted it to knock.
A few short but agonising seconds passed before the door was wrenched open.
Gino stood there, his black eyes glowering impatience at her. He’d taken off his jacket, she noted, and the bow-tie. He’d also opened the top button of his white dress-shirt.
‘You took your time,’ he grumbled.
‘I walked.’
‘You what?’ he snapped, then grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, kicking the door shut with his foot. ‘What kind of risk-taker are you, woman?’
Jordan could have told him, in no uncertain terms, but decided not to say a word. Instead, she yanked her hand out of his, and was about to head further into the room when she ground to a halt.
‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed.
Jordan just stood there, shaking her head at the over-the-top décor. Had the designer copied rooms in a real French Bordello? she wondered. Or simply come up with what a French Bordello might be like in his or her imagination?
The colours were too rich for Jordan’s taste, the furniture way too ornate. At the same time there was no denying