“What did you do about it?”
“Do about it? First I said no. Mossimo Fossera waited for him to . . . I don’t know . . . discipline me, I guess, but he instead started talking in Italian. Fast.”
Uncle Charles looked down. If he was trying to hide his smile, he wasn’t doing a good job.
“So I went and conversed with the ladies! Who, by the way, were barely coherent in any language except hair spray and contraceptives.” She leaned on the desk, hands flat, and silently demanded Uncle Charles look at her. When he did, she told him her greatest fear. “Listen, Uncle Charles, Mossimo Fossera wants him to steal something, and I’m pretty sure Mossimo is threatening Roberto’s grandfather. What are we going to do?”
“Do? We’re not going to do anything. If Roberto Bartolini decides to do a job for Mossimo Fossera, we can do nothing.” When Brandi would have interrupted, Uncle Charles held up one hand. “Please remember who we are. We’re not policemen, not FBI agents, not superheroes. We’re lawyers, and our job starts and finishes in the courts.”
“However, apparently I am a babysitter who’s going to be held responsible by Judge Knight if Roberto does steal something.”
Uncle Charles nodded. “Yes, if Judge Knight deems that any misconduct of Bartolini’s could be laid at your door, he could create problems for us in the future. Make sure you stick with Bartolini so Knight has no reason to doubt your vigilance.”
“But I’m losing my reputation as a reliable lawyer before I even start work!”
“Miss Michaels, if you believe that, you underestimate the prestige of this firm.”
Miss Michaels. Okay, so she’d annoyed him. “I’m sorry, but do you know what it’s like fighting your whole life to be taken seriously and having that undermined in an evening?”
“No.” Uncle Charles stood up, came around the desk, and took her arm. “But I assure you, you’ll find the gossip around the office among the other young ladies most envious.” He led her toward the entrance. “Now, Brandi, you go ahead and dress up for Bartolini; I know he enjoys seeing a pretty girl as much as I do. Anyway, I always thought you worked too hard. When this is over and you’re buried in dusty law books, you’ll look back and wonder what you were complaining about.” He unlocked the door. He opened it. “If you’re worried about not having the right clothes—”
“That’s not it!”
“—ask Melissa where we keep corporate accounts, and you can charge whatever you need on McGrath and Lindoberth.” He patted her cheek. “That will be fun, won’t it?” He ushered her out and shut the door while she stared at him in disbelief.
“Dress up for Bartolini?” she said to the solid oak. “Because he enjoys seeing a pretty girl?”
Dear God, Uncle Charles was a dinosaur. An insulting, patronizing, chauvinistic old dinosaur.
“Are you done?” Roberto asked.
Slowly she turned to face him.
He looked as charming as ever, but she detected smug satisfaction in his expression.
Jackass. “I sure am,” she drawled sarcastically. “Make sure you stick close. I’d hate to lose you in the crowd.”
She stalked past the glaring Melissa, out the door, and down the hall. She punched the button for the elevator.
Roberto walked up beside her, their coats thrown across his arm, elegant in the latest of his endless Armani suits. He wore a white shirt, a red tie, perfectly shined black shoes . . . yet his hair was tousled and untidy, as if he’d spent the night making love.
Not with her, though. Not with her.
Damned if she was going to give in to their attraction just to get the same kind of satisfaction she could get from any appliance that took D-sized batteries. Not after that talk with Uncle Charles. Especially not after last night.
“What did he say that made you so angry?” Roberto asked.
“I was angry when I got here.”
“Yes, but you were angry at me. Now you’re angry at both of us.”
“He made it good and clear what my function is in this firm. He wants me to charge evening gowns on him so I can look good for—” She choked rather than finish the sentence.
“Me. Hm. Yes. I can see that would be irritating.” The elevator opened, and Roberto held the door while she stepped in.
“Like you care.”
“Of course I care.”
“No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t make me go to these parties!” She punched the button for the ground floor.
“I’m not making you go to the parties. I’m going, and you’re going with me.” He took her hand as the elevator doors closed. “Last night I loved holding you in my arms for our first dance.”
“Yeah, I loved it, too—right up until the time Alan and his bimbo bride saw us.”
“What did you expect me to do?” Roberto’s mouth tightened. “Allow him to show you such disrespect?”
“I didn’t expect you to punch him in the face!”
“He called you a whore.”
Yeah, he had. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but she was the kind of woman who thought it was better to shrug off that kind of humiliating public display rather than compound it by making a scene. “You broke his nose.”
“Perhaps next time he sees a lady he’ll think twice before insulting her.” No matter what she said, Roberto wasn’t backing off. His brown eyes were flat and cold, his features rocky with disdain.
But retribution fostered retribution, and Alan had shot her a glare that promised trouble. “I saw flashes from the crowd. Someone took photos of us.”
“It happens.”
The elevator began its descent.
“Maybe to you, but I’m not a glamorous Italian count, and you’ve been remanded into my custody, and I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble, and if Alan presses charges—”
“Sh.” Roberto gestured her to silence.
“What do you mean, sh? I’m just saying . . .” Then she realized why he was listening. The elevator sounded . . . funny. Like something was slipping.
And they were going . . . too fast. “Roberto?” She clutched at him. Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one . . . the floors went whooshing past. The elevator was almost . . . they were plunging to the ground.
“Roberto flung himself at the control panel, swearing, pulling emergency buttons.
And as abruptly as the drop started, it stopped.
Brandi fell hard.
When she opened her eyes, she found her cheek on the floor. She stared at the brown-and-teal industrial-grade carpet, at the expanse of polished wood wall, and at Roberto, sprawled beside her.
Stretching out his hand, he caressed her chin, but his fingers trembled. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. How close are we to the ground?”
He lifted his head and looked. “We stopped on twenty-four.”
“I’m awful.” She was. She was sick with fear, her voice shaking.
“It could have started falling as soon as we stepped in.”
That was so stupid she couldn’t stand it. “Yeah, because if we hit the ground from twenty-four we’ll be dead as hell, but if we fall from thirty-nine, they’ll have to scoop us up with a snow shovel.”
“Off the ceiling.”
She didn’t laugh.
In a reassuring tone he said, “Elevators have a lot of safety features.”
“We just fell ten floors.” Even terrified she could see the obvious.
“And stopped.” He caressed her chin again. “That was no accident. There are governors that slow a plummeting elevator, and electromagnetic brakes—”
“And a really hard surface at the bottom if none of that works.”
“The manufacturer guarantees the safety features will work. Plus there’s a shock absorber at the bottom.”
“If the manufacturer guarantees the safety features will work, why did he put a shock absorber at the bottom?”
“Ah, good. You’re snapping at me. You are feeling better.” He helped her to sit up. “Just
a minute. Let me see if I can rouse anyone—”
A woman’s voice blared through the speakers. “This is Officer Rabeck. Is there anyone in there?”
“Yes. Yes! There are two of us!” Roberto’s Italian accent was deep and strong, as if the drop had shaken him back to his roots. “What happened?”
“We don’t know, but don’t worry. We’ll get you out.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’ve got some idea, I’m sure.” Roberto slashed her with a CEO’s authority.
Reluctantly the officer said, “It seems that the computer is malfunctioning.”
“Malfunctioning? How is that possible?” He got to his feet and addressed the speaker as if Officer Rabeck were standing before him.
“We’ve got a hacker. The cameras in the elevators aren’t working, the safety measures are barely holding—”
Brandi found herself on her feet. “So this is malicious?” she shouted.
“We believe so, but let me assure you, we have our best men on this. . . .” Officer Rabeck turned away from the microphone. Obviously she didn’t mean for them to hear, but her tone carried. “What do you mean, they’re trying to cut off the speakers right now?”
With a frying sound the speakers went dead.
Too stunned for words, Brandi looked at Roberto.
He leaned against the wall, his jaw outthrust, his eyes angry. “I’m sorry, cara. This is my fault.”
“Your fault? I know you have a huge ego, but how do you figure it’s your fault?”
“It’s the Fosseras. They’re having a power struggle.”
“And you’re involved . . . how?”
“Mossimo is a man barely hanging onto his authority. He’s planned a job. He wants the Romanov Blaze.”
Roberto’s casual revelation took her breath away. “Aim high, I always say.”
“I’m essential to completing that job.”
“So you agreed to do it?”
“I did. But if Mossimo doesn’t get the diamond stolen—”
“He’ll fall and the next man will step in.” She got the picture. Her knees gave out and she slid down the wall. “So they want to kill you.”
“There’s a lot of money in reselling stolen jewels, and head of the syndicate in Chicago is a prosperous position.”
As if to reiterate his theory, the elevator dropped another few inches.
Brandi screamed.
“It’s all right.” He sat next to her and slid his arm behind her shoulders. “It’s all right.”
“My God.” She sat straight and stiff. “We’re going to die. We’re really going to die.”
He nuzzled the nape of her neck. “Have I told you how sexy you look in black and red?”
In astonishment, she turned to look at him. “How can you be so calm?”
He smiled, a tender curve of the lips. A lock of his hair flopped over his forehead. His eyes warmed her with heat and admiration. “Cara, there is no one with whom I would rather meet my end than you.”
She was going to die, but in the arms of the handsomest, sexiest, most noble man she’d ever met. It didn’t matter that he was a jewel thief or that he paraded her through Chicago like arm candy or that he planned to steal the Romanov Blaze and, if he lived, would no doubt succeed. He was a marvelous lover who’d led her to ecstasy. He’d taken her mother under his protection without complaint. And for all her protests, when she saw Alan sprawled on the floor, blood spurting from behind his hand, she had experienced a burst of joy. He’d given her that—a taste of savage retribution because he wouldn’t allow a petty, foul-minded little jerk to abuse her.
The elevator dropped another few inches.
She didn’t scream this time.
She attacked him.
With her hands on either side of his face, she held him still for a kiss that told him how desperately she wanted him.
He responded with an equal ferocity, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as if he needed the taste of her to survive. His fingers skimmed up her silky stocking to the lacy elastic around her thigh.
Her eyes closed when he touched the bare skin between her legs; she savored ecstasy while teetering on the sharp edge of disaster.
He pushed her back onto the floor and shoved her skirt up around her waist. From nowhere, a small knife appeared in his hand. His eyes narrowed; he looked cruel. He looked dangerous. He looked desperate. He looked like a pirate, and he sliced off her panties.
She almost came right then.
Instead she lunged for his zipper.
He unbuckled his belt.
Together they pulled his pants and underwear down to his knees.
She spread her legs and pulled him toward her.
He opened her with his fingers.
She whimpered. She was too sensitive. This was too intense. Too fast. Too driven.
Yet . . . she wanted more. She wanted him now.
He was so close she could smell the passion on his skin—an aphrodisiac that made her arch up to him. He placed his hips against hers. The head of his penis probed, then entered on a smooth, glorious glide.
And she came. And came. And came.
Roberto joined her, pounding into her, reaching deep.
One thought surfaced from among the chaos of sensation and glory.
If she had to die, this was how she wanted to do it. Entwined in Roberto’s arms.
In love with Roberto.
23
“We’ve got it!” Officer Rabeck’s voice blared across the elevator’s speakers. “We’ve got control of the elevator! Are you two all right?”
All right? Brandi had never been so all right in her life.
But—oh, God—if the speakers were working, the security camera couldn’t be far behind.
Roberto knew it, too. He touched his lips to hers and withdrew quickly. He dragged her skirt down, helped her to sit up. “We’re fine,” he called.
His voice was gravelly. Probably Officer Rabeck didn’t know what that meant, but Brandi did. She recognized that sound. It meant he’d been well pleasured.
The elevator jerked.
Brandi gasped and clutched at him.
Then slowly the elevator rose, ascending as regally as a queen.
Officer Rabeck said, “We’re bringing you up to floor twenty-five.”
Roberto zipped up his pants, buckled his belt.
“There are emergency personnel here for you,” Officer Rabeck continued.
Using the wall for support, Roberto worked his way onto his feet.
Brandi had drained him—and she was proud. And relieved to be alive. And . . . and she didn’t know what she was.
He offered his hand.
She took it and let him help her stand. She pressed her trembling thighs together. He’d come inside her without protection. She had no panties. This was a disaster—and she didn’t regret a minute of it.
She was alive.
She was in love.
She was such a fool.
“Don’t hesitate to speak with the emergency personnel. They understand you’ve been through a trauma,” Officer Rabeck said. “I’d recommend you go to the hospital, get checked out, and discuss your feelings with the doctors there.”
As the doors slid open, Roberto leaned over, picked up a scrap of red, and stuffed it in his pocket.
Her panties. He’d gotten to them just in time.
A crowd of people stood staring at them—medical and emergency personnel, security, Uncle Charles and his secretary.
Roberto grasped Brandi’s arm. He helped her out onto the solid floor.
She barely refrained from falling to her knees and kissing the carpet.
Uncle Charles grabbed and shook her like a parent who’d been frightened for his child. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Really. Just stunned, that’s all.” She didn’t want him touching her. She didn’t want anyone touching her right now. She was still trembling with the aftershocks of violent orgasm. “I would like to go to th
e ladies’ room.”
He pressed a kiss on her forehead and let her go. “Of course. Melissa, would you go with her?”
“Yes, sir.” Melissa moved to her side.
But before Brandi could walk away, Roberto slid his arm around her shoulders. In a low murmur meant only for her ears, he said, “Cara, we must talk.”
She nodded. Melissa took one side of her, one of the medical personnel took the other, and they headed down the corridor toward the restrooms.
Roberto stood looking after her.
Damn! He’d fallen on her like a ravenous beast, taking her quickly, furiously, wanting satisfaction before he plummeted to his death. He’d demanded her satisfaction, too, and she’d given him that, but now she was avoiding his gaze. Avoiding him.
“Here.” Charles handed him a clean white handkerchief. “Wipe the lipstick off your face.”
Roberto stared at it, then into the knowing eyes of the older man.
“Don’t worry. If I were in an elevator with a pretty girl and I thought we were going to die, I’d kiss her, too.”
If you only knew . . . Roberto mopped his forehead as if wiping sweat off his brow, then cleaned his lips. He shoved the handkerchief in his pocket and buttoned his suit jacket to cover any other betrayals. Hell, as fast as he’d gotten dressed, his shirt might be sticking through his fly.
A policewoman with brown hair, gray streaks, and stern gray eyes stepped in front of him and offered her hand. “I’m Officer Rabeck.”
“Officer Rabeck.” Roberto smiled charmingly, but his gaze allowed for no prevarication. “Tell me what happened.”
By the time security let them out of the building, it was three thirty, the temperature had dropped to twenty below, and the wind was picking up. Brandi and Roberto hurried to the limo parked at the curb and slid inside the dim warmth.
The emergency and medical teams had, with the best intentions, questioned them and suggested all manner of treatment for their trauma. They’d proposed the hospital, a psychiatrist, but Brandi just wanted out of that building. She didn’t want to talk about her fear and her feelings, because sex had triumphed over fear and her feelings were none of anybody’s business. Heck, she didn’t even know what her feelings were.