Master of Passion

  Did she have a choice?

  "What would I have to do, exactly?" She stalled for time. "Attend one party that is all..." she prompted, as though she was considering his proposition.

  "Yes. And be nice to me, act as though we are in love," he drawled cynically, and before she could respond he had hauled her into his arms, her own arms pinned to her body.

  At the touch of his hard body pressed against her own, her consideration flew out of the window. "I'm not that good an actress," she spat, her hands clenching at her sides in frustration, itching to slap his arrogant face.

  "I'll teach you."

  JACQUELINE BAIRD began writing as a hobby when her family objected to the smell of her oil painting! She immediately became hooked on the romance genre. Jacqueline loves traveling and worked her way around the world from Europe to the Americas and Australia, returning to marry her teenage sweetheart. The couple now live in Ponteland, Northumbria, with their two teenage sons. She enjoys playing badminton, and spends most weekends with husband Jim, sailing on the Derwent Reservoir.

  Books by Jacqueline Baird

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS

  1079—DARK DESRING

  1358—SHATTERED TRUST

  1431—PASSIONATE BETRAYAL

  1558—DISHONOURABLE PROPOSAL

  16S7~GUiLTY PASSION

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  ISBN 0-373-11683-7

  MASTER OF PASSION

  Copyright©1993 by Jacqueline Baird.

  All rights reserved. Except for use In any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any Information storage or retrieval system, Is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada MSB 3K9.

  All characters In this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown tp the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises B, V.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Parisa stealthily wriggled her slender body through the bathroom window, feet first. The window-ledge dug into her flat stomach as she felt around with one foot for the security of the bathroom floor.

  Damn! she swore under her breath as water seeped into one trainer. She would kill her friend Moya, if she ever got her foot out of the toilet bowl and herself out of this escapade in one piece.

  She must have been off her trolley to agree with Moya's hare-brained scheme to burgle a third-floor apartment in the heart of Mayfair. So what if her friend was being blackmailed? The stupid girl should have had more sense than to pose for some Latin man on a beach in the south of France, wearing only a thong. When Moya's engagement was announced in The Times to the son of a high-court judge whose brother was a bishop, no less, the Latin rat had got in touch with her and demanded money.

  With an inward sigh of relief, Parisa felt her feet finally find the floor, and she slipped into the dark room. She stood quietly, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom and trying to get her bearings. Yesterday, in the cool grey light of a February morning, the plan had seemed simple. Moya had arranged to meet the Italian this morning at his apartment, supposedly to negotiate the return of the photographs, and then she had contrived to leave the lavatory window open. Luckily the man hadn't noticed the open window before leaving for work. As manager of a London casino, there was no fear of him being at home on a Friday evening.

  So far everything had gone according to plan. All Parisa had to do was walk across the hall to the sitting-room, and, according to Moya, locked in a drawer of a leather-topped desk were the incriminating photographs. Moya had watched the man put them there that very morning while fearfully promising to pay him the following day. So why now, ten o'clock at night and pitch-black outside, did Parisa have very grave doubts?

  Still, the place seemed empty, she told herself reassuringly, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she could see the outline of a door on the far wall. She stepped forward, and froze in horror.

  A stream of light beamed across the bathroom from a partially open door at her side. She had almost walked into it. She swore violently under her breath, but the voices she heard were all too audible... Heart pounding with fear, she cowered behind the half-open door. On the opposite wall was a mirror, and in it she saw the reflection of a man. His back was towards her, but the woman standing to one side of him, her arms outstretched, was instantly recognizable to Parisa. It was Margot Mey, a stunning petite redhead and a famous, if not infamous, cabaret singer.

  God! What a mess. Parisa's mouth was dry with fear. She was sure she would be discovered any second. She did not dare move a muscle.

  'I assure you, Margot, I intended calling you tomorrow, but tonight I had and still have business to attend to.'

  The deep, slightly accented voice sent a shiver of horror down Parisa's spine. So this was the 'sleazy little slime- ball', to quote her friend. She might have guessed Moya, in her near frantic state, would get it all wrong. There was nothing small about the man. He must be well over six feet—about six-four, she guessed—and, judging by the breadth of his back, big with it, and he certainly wasn't at any casino, but standing in the bedroom...

  'Luc, darling, don't be angry.' Two slender hands curved around the back of the man's neck. 'I couldn't wait to see you. It's been so long; I've missed you.'

  Parisa could feel the colour flood up her face. Luc- she had heard that name before, but it couldn't be. She shook her head, dismissing the thought, but felt the sweat break out on her brow beneath the thick black Balaclava hat she had pulled over her fine platinum hair. She had to get out of here, and quick. The couple were kissing, and it was obviously only a matter of time before they fell on the bed behind them. But to her amazement the man deftly removed the clinging hands from his neck and stepped back.

  'Not tonight, Margot. I told you I'm busy. I'll see you home,' he said coolly.

  'But Luc...

  'No.'

  Parisa almost felt sorry for the woman, her beautiful face flushed with anger at the man's arrogant rejection, but the fury was quickly masked behind a sensuous smile. 'Turned down by the master of passion himself!' she husked throatily. 'Why, Luc? You know how good we can be, and it's been so long.'

  Parisa just managed to stifle a snort of disgust. 'Master of passion'—what a joke! Master of pornography, more like. Couldn't the woman see what a jerk the chap was?

  'Maybe, but not at the moment. I will make it up to you tomorrow, I promise. But now you must leave.'

  'Does that mean you've reconsidered and will take me to Italy next week for your mother's party? After all, Luc darling, we
have been together for almost a year. A very wonderful year,' she breathed throatily.

  Parisa almost choked. Had the woman no pride?

  'Margot, let's get one thing straight. There is no way I can introduce you to my mother, and you know that. Your affairs have been legion and very public,' he chuckled. 'The whole of Italy, including my mother, saw the picture of you dancing naked on the table in the best restaurant in Rome, with a member of the government as your companion.'

  'You mean I am good enough to sleep with, but not to marry,' the woman cut in bitterly.

  'Be realistic. We have had an excellent arrangement, you and I.' The man's hand curved coaxingly around the woman's shoulder. 'Don't spoil it by asking more. Now, you really must go. As a matter of interest, how did you know where to find me?' His voice faded as, to Parisa's relief, he urged the woman towards the bedroom door. But for a second Parisa had the uneasy feeling that his voice was familiar.

  'Your arrival was in the newspaper and I knew you had bought the casino, so when you weren't at the usual place I checked with the casino, and they gave me the address of..

  Parisa could hear no more, but her blood boiled with anger. The swine must have blackmailed a hell of a lot of women if he could afford to buy one of the biggest private casinos in London. She heard the door shut, and then the sound of yet another door closing told her they were gone.

  Carefully she wiped her sweaty palms down over her slim hips. The black leotard she was wearing absorbed some of the moisture. That was a close shave, she thought, breathing deeply until slowly her heartbeat returned to something like normal. Then, swiftly and silently, she moved out of the bathroom and into the hall.

  The excitement that had sent her adrenalin sky-high as she had climbed up the fire-escape had now turned to a deep fear, bordering on panic. She must have been mad! she told herself, but resolutely she crossed the hall, opened yet another door and found herself in a large, gloomy room. She did not dare turn on the light, but carefully withdrew a torch from the pouch on the wide leather belt circling her waist. She switched it on. Yes, there was the desk. Swiftly crossing the room, she tried the first drawer. It was locked. Digging once more into the pouch at her waist, she found a penknife. Her fulllips quirked in a brief smile. If the scout troop could see her now!

  Bending over the desk, she inserted the knife between the wood and the lock, and wriggled it around. Nothing happened. It looked easy enough on the movies, she thought with exasperation, and, leaning lower, she began jabbing at the stubborn lock. A sharp crack and she'd done it!

  There was the packet of photographs. Quickly she took them out and, straightening, she ran the torch over the snaps. Yes, it was Moya all right. Considering some people bathed completely naked in the south of France, they were hardly pornographic. If Moya had been marrying into any other family, they would not have caused a ripple. Parisa smiled in satisfaction. Mission accomplished! She turned and walked straight into a large male body.

  'Got you.'

  She did not know what had hit her. Before she could cry out a strong-muscled arm had caught her around the waist, and flung her down on the floor. Parisa opened her mouth to scream when her attacker landed heavily on top of her, knocking the air out of her lungs so that the scream came out as a high-pitched squeak. She was enveloped in the musky scent of a warm male body. Parisa, stunned for a moment, made no attempt to escape. Still dazed, she realised she was flat on her back on the floor with what felt like a ton weight sitting on top of her. Her wrists were jerked above her head and pinned to the floor, and she saw an am raised to strike her.

  'Get off me, you great brute!' she screamed, finally finding her voice. 'Or I'll call the police.' She was so furious that she never realised the incongruity of her remark, and with all the breath knocked out of her she was not in much of a condition to fight. But she did her best, bucking wildly beneath the hard body trapping her.

  The hand that she had thought was about to strike her roughly pulled the black Balaclava from her head. Her platinum hair fell down in wild disarray as a large hand cupped her chin.

  'Well, well, what have we here?'

  He sounded like a ham actor in a B movie, Parisa thought irrelevantly, but quickly lost her sense of humour, suddenly aware of her appalling predicament. His heavy thighs gripped her waist. He was bent over her, his other hand firmly clasping her wrists. She was helpless. She felt the warmth of his breath on her face, and by the dim light of her torch, which was now lying on the floor, she saw the man's face for the first time...

  'You!' she squeaked. 'I might have known.' He was older, but there was no mistaking the black, winged eyebrows, the hard line of his jaw, and the ruthless black eyes.

  'Dio. Parisa.'

  She stared, mesmerized as his handsome face came closer. Then everything went dark as his mouth crushed down on hers. He kissed her with a savage, angry passion—not a kiss, a defilement. Her head began to swim; she was going to pass out if she did not breathe soon.

  Then a blinding light flashed in her eyes. The man's head jerked up, but he did not set her free. Dazed, Parisa moved her head to one side and saw a pair of elegantly shod feet, a slender, very feminine ankle.

  'Really, Luc, surely you could have waited until you got to the bedroom?'

  'Tina. You've arrived.' A deep, rasping voice echoed in Parisa's stunned mind.

  'At the wrong moment, obviously.' The light laugh was followed by a shocked cry. 'My God! Parisa Belmont, after all this time! I never knew you two had kept in touch, but I'm delighted. I always thought you would make a great couple.'

  From flat on her back on the floor, Parisa looked up into the grinning face of Tina Franco, a girl who had briefly attended the same boarding-school as herself. Parisa muttered a polite, 'Good evening, Tina.' Had she really said that? What an idiot. It was all just too much. The whole fiasco bore all the hallmarks of a French farce.

  She closed her eyes. This was a nightmare; it had to be. But the weight of the man straddling her was very real; the slight, lingering trace of his cologne teased her nostrils. Suddenly her eyes flew open. There was no mistaking the hard masculine length of him pressing into her stomach. The filthy swine was fully aroused...

  'Let me up,' she whispered fiercely, her pale face scarlet with embarrassment. As if he had just realised the intimate position they were in, he immediately jumped to his feet. Keeping his back to the latest arrival, he stretched out a hand to help Parisa to her feet. Not letting go of her hand, he slowly turned to face Tina.

  'Sorry about that, cousin, but you did promise to call earlier.'

  'Yes, well, Gino and I decided to eat first. We weren't sure if the apartment was near a restaurant. He's waiting downstairs in the taxi; we are flying back to Italy tonight.' And, holding out a black briefcase, she added, 'All the papers you wanted are in there. I have to dash!' Turning a brilliant smile on Parisa, she concluded with, 'It is great to see you again. I'm sorry I haven't time to chat, but you must come to the party on Tuesday. Luc's mother will be delighted to meet you. Ciao.' And she was gone.

  The silence was deafening. Parisa tried to ease her hand from Luc's, but, without a word, he tightened his grasp and half dragged her across the room to a large hide sofa, and with a jerk of her hand he pushed her down. 'Sit down.'

  She had no choice but to obey. Nervously she rubbed her cramped fingers. If she had had the slightest suspicion that the man Moya had been involved with was Luca Di Maggi—Luc, to his friends—she would have run a mile. She had met the man once, at the tender age of fourteen, and she had hoped never to see him again.

  'So, Parisa Belmont—or should I say Lady Parisa Hardcourt-Belmont?' His mocking drawl grated on her shredded nerves. 'We meet again, and it is obvious age has not taught you any discretion. Perhaps you could explain what you think you are doing, dressed up like a cat burglar, and breaking into this apartment.'

  He was towering over her, and for the first time that evening she got a really good look at him, a feeling of h
elplessness washing over her as she stared up at him. Huge and elegant, his dark jacket taut over his broad shoulders, his white silk shirt open at the throat, revealing the firm tanned flesh beneath, the slight dark shadowing of body hair clearly visible. He was powerful, all male and, as her wary blue eyes met his, absolutely furious.

  'If you are so desperate for money I would have thought a woman of your obvious charms could have tried the oldest profession, before resorting to stealing,' he said cynically, his dark eyes raking her slender frame with a blatant sexual thoroughness that left her feeling as if he had stripped her naked.

  She swallowed nervously, looking away, and her glance fell on the packet of photographs lying where she had dropped them on the carpet. The sight of them reminded her why she was in this mess, and grim determination stiffened her spine. She sat up straight, lifting her head to stare into the harsh face of her adversary.

  'It is not money I am after. That is surely your game, Luc. But you tried to blackmail the wrong girl when you picked on Moya. She is a friend of mine.' She did not bother to mask the derision in her brilliant blue eyes. It was this man who was outside the law, not her, she told herself firmly. 'As for breaking in…'

  I left the door open for a moment.' He said the words softly, as though he was talking to himself, and for a second Parisa caught a puzzled look in his dark eyes as his gaze swung searchingly around the room. 'You walked in.' He moved towards the desk, opened the drawer, then noticed the photographs on the floor and, bending down, picked them up.

  She did not bother to correct him. There was no need for him to know she had seen him with his mistress. Parisa watched him flick through the photographs, his sensuous mouth curving in a knowing smile.

  'You came for these?' he queried, turning towards her.