Indebted To Moreno

His feet came to a sudden halt, not letting him move forward. He caught her swiftly indrawn breath, noted the extra tension in every muscle that held her slim frame tight, drew in her stomach and lifted the swell of her pert breasts above the embroidered belt that circled her waist.

‘Red...’

If only he knew how much she hated that once affectionate nickname! That focussed stare held her transfixed, unable to look away in spite of the fact that she felt as if his gaze were searing through her skin, burning her eyes to dust. Slowly he lifted a hand, touched her face, the blunt tips of his long fingers resting so lightly on the cheekbone under her right eye.

‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s been...interesting...meeting up like this.’

‘Interesting—that isn’t the word I’d use to describe it.’

Devastating, earth-shaking, came closer. So many times in the past she’d dreamed of just this meeting happening—and dreaded it in the same moment.

‘But I need to tell you. I am not the man that I was.’

‘I can see that. That is, if Moreno is really your name,’ she challenged.

‘Jett was only ever a nickname. Moreno is my family name, though I didn’t use it then—before.’

Abruptly his mood changed, his eyes becoming darker.

‘They let me go, you know,’ he said. ‘There was no evidence against me.’

The conversational tone of his voice was at odds with what she read in the taut muscles of his face. Just how had Jett become this Nairo Moreno?

The man who stood before her was light years away from the wild, rough-haired youth she had once known. The one who had stolen her heart only to break it just a few weeks later, crushing it brutally under his booted foot. Was he the member of a Spanish aristocratic family he claimed to be or—that nasty slimy feeling slithered down her spine again, making her shiver—had his obvious wealth and position been bought with the proceeds of other activities in the years since they had known each other? There might have been no evidence of the crime she’d suspected him of, but he had clearly come a long way in ten years and that spoke of a ruthlessness and focus that few men possessed.

Something she didn’t want to dig into too deeply. And a very good reason to get out of the contract to design a dress for anyone in his family if she possibly could.

‘You will not tell anyone about the time we knew each other.’

It was a cold-blooded command, laced through with a powerful seam of threat, a warning as to what would happen if she was fool enough to reveal anything he wanted kept hidden.

‘Not even Ms Cavalliero.’

‘I doubt if she’d need to know.’ Not when she already knew every dark detail about Nairo Roja Moreno. And wished she didn’t. ‘I certainly won’t be telling.’

‘Make sure you don’t.’

The finger that rested on her cheek traced a slow, gentle path down the line of her jaw, to rest against the corner of her mouth, hooded eyes watching every flicker of expression across her face.

It was all that Rose could do not to turn her head sharply, pull away from that small, lingering touch. She wanted to move, desperately longed to back away, and yet at the same time that simple touch was so familiar, bringing back memories of the feel of his hands on her skin, the taste of his mouth...

She couldn’t go there. She mustn’t go there!

‘Take your hand off my face.’ She hissed the words out as much against the feelings that were stinging her as at him. ‘I didn’t give you permission to touch me and I...’

She couldn’t continue in the face of his unexpected soft laugh and the way that he deliberately twisted his hand so that the backs of his fingers were now against her skin. Deliberately he stroked his fingers down her cheek again.

‘I said don’t do that!’ This time she couldn’t hold back and jerked her head away in angry rejection.

His laughter scoured her spine, but he lifted his hand slowly, bronze eyes gleaming with wicked mockery.

‘My, you do have a tendency to overreact, querida. It didn’t use to be that way. I can recall a time when you would beg for my touch.’

‘Then you must have an amazing memory. It was a very long time ago.’

‘Not long enough,’ Nairo drawled, the smile evaporating fast. ‘Some things you just don’t forget.’

‘Really? Well, I’m afraid my recollection isn’t as good as yours—and it’s certainly not something I want to revive.’

Making the movement look as if she were only wanting to ease his departure, she slipped away from him, holding open the door again.

‘I’ll pass on your messages.’

The words showed every trace of the effort she was making to get them out, fighting against giving in to the burning response even that most gentle of touches was sparking off all over her skin. One flick of a glance up at him was more than she could cope with. She could see herself reflected in those burnished eyes, small and diminished in a way that made her legs feel weak as cotton wool.

‘I’ll tell her—everything you said.’

‘Except that you knew me before.’

How did he manage to inject such deadly poison into six simple words? The stepfather she had run from in a flight that had ended up with her living in the squat might have ranted and roared, bellowing threats, but he had never managed to make her quail inside in the way that this quietly spoken command could do.

‘Except for that,’ she managed jerkily.

For another dangerous moment his fingers still lingered too close to her face, but then, just as she thought that she couldn’t keep control any longer, he lifted his hand away and let it drop to his side. The smile that he flashed on and off was like burning ice, no emotion at all in it.

‘See you around, Red.’

‘Not if I see you first.’

The words were muttered to an empty space. He’d gone, striding out into the darkness and the rain without a single glance back. It was as if defiance of his presence was all that had been holding her upright as she sagged back against the wall and let the door slam back into place.

He was gone. And she was free, safe—for now.

But it was only a temporary reprieve. There was no way she could hold off having Jett—in the form of Nairo Moreno—back in her life while he still wanted to see Rose Cavalliero. Right now he had no idea that she was the Rose he’d come to talk to, but she couldn’t hope to let that last for very much longer. He would put two and two together, and when he did, then he would be back.

She had to get rid of him; she couldn’t cope with him intruding into her life. Not just because of the past but because of the shocking effect he still had on her today.

Slowly her hand crept up to her face, covering the spot where Nairo’s fingertip had touched her. She almost expected it to have etched a brand into her skin, marking her as his. He had done that long ago, hadn’t he? He had touched her life and encircled her with bands of emotional and sexual steel so that she had never been able to break free. Even now, all these years later, he could still invade her life and if she wasn’t careful he would leave it in ruins all over again.

CHAPTER TWO (#ufada0f11-934c-58c4-9dc8-0002d6120c31)

HE SHOULD NEVER have let himself touch her.

Nairo slid his car into the nearest empty parking space, stamped on the brakes with uncharacteristic lack of care and switched off the engine. His concentration had been shot all afternoon, in a way so untypical of him that it felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a form of madness. The tips of his fingers still seemed to burn with the imprint of that touch, the connection of skin on skin, even though it was hours since he had walked out of the shop and left Red behind. He was sure that if he brought his hand close to his face he would still inhale the perfume of her skin, the fresh, unique combination that was this woman mixed with the light floral scent she had worn.

Or perhaps that was because the cloud of her personal body perfume seemed to enclose him ever since he had realised just who she was. It had been like that after they had first become lovers. In the squat she had always washed every day, even in the freezing water that was all they had available, and the scent of her skin had been the only thing that was fresh or clean in the grubby little room that they had called ‘home’.

Waking up each morning to find her curled against him, the soft hair, longer and redder than she wore it now, falling over her face, had made him feel as if life was worth living at a time when he had had serious doubts on that matter.