Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians by Caro LaFever Page B

were on his private plane zipping through the air.
    He’d ignored her on the entire flight.
    Unwanted baggage once more.
    Yet unlike the flight to New York, this time her reaction was very different. She hadn’t felt irritation. This time, to her horror, she’d been hurt.
    With a snort of disgust, she turned away from the amazing view and scanned the grand mausoleum she’d quickly grown to despise. The place reeked of wealth and class and modern design. Black and white leather furniture on icy white carpets. Monochrome photos of the city were placed with military precision on the walls. The only hint of color was provided by two large green plants that looked like they’d been shipped in from some African grassland. The long fronds continually hit her face when she walked by.
    Not a hint of personality in the entire place.
    No family pictures on the walls.
    No special treasures gracing the pristine tabletops.
    Not one hint of what kind of person lived here.
    The kitchen was stocked full of every cooking device known to man. However, if anyone had cooked a meal there in the past ten years, she’d eat her last painting. The workout room with its mirrored walls resembled a colony of tall black skeletons with various juts of chrome and knobs of white. Marcus spent an hour every morning in the torture chamber. She never went near the room. It gave her the creeps.
    The four bedrooms, with en suite baths, were decorated in the same black-and-white scheme. All of them possessed as much character as a lump of coal. Come to think of it, a lump of coal would fit right into this entire décor. Black and dark and cold.
    What she could do with this place, given half a chance.
    The lighting was terrific. Which made sense since they were on the top of a tall high-rise. The penthouse must have cost a fortune since it took over the entire floor. The sunshine on the first day they had arrived had dazzled her and hidden the basic coldness of the place. With some colored paint on the plain walls, big bold couches and chairs scattered on oriental rugs, her biggest, brightest paintings hung here and there—
    “Good luck with that,” she grumbled under her breath.
    Face it, Darcy .
    The place matched the man. The glimpse of humanity she thought she’d seen in New York City was a figment of her imagination.
    SoHo.
    Her heart ached at the memory. It had been a golden day.
    “Seriously?” She’d stepped onto the busy sidewalk of Canal Street. “You’re going to come with me?”
    “ Si .” Sliding the offensive phone into his suit pocket, he arched a dark brow as he waved the limo away. “Is there a problem with that?”
    “No. Not at all.” Glancing around at the crowds, she pushed back the flustered feeling fluttering inside. After all, she’d spent quite a bit of time with this man during the last few days. Yet this was different, she knew it in her gut. They weren’t going to be on show in Soho. They weren’t going to be acting any kind of role. “Where do you want to start?”
    “Lead the way.” His rich, accented voice lifted at the end as if he were amused at letting her make the decisions for once.
    No one could say that Darcy Moran didn’t know how to trailblaze when given the opportunity. She strode through the crowds, passing the cries of the street vendors hawking their fake purses and junk jewelry until she arrived at the first art gallery she spotted. “Here.”
    “Here it is.” His big presence loomed behind her, not only his body, but his personality and verve. Usually, she didn’t enjoy large men who used their size to make her feel small and insignificant. But in Marcus La Rocca’s case, she didn’t feel that way.
    Safe.
    That’s what she felt.
    The gallery was filled with a hodgepodge of modern art, everything from oil paintings to statues made of steel. Compared to the bustling street outside, the hall was quiet, almost hushed. Walking to the first row of paintings, she studied the way the artist had