Sins of the Past. Elizabeth Power

which was on the other side of the table. She had to go around him to retrieve it and did so, giving him a significantly wide berth.

      ‘I’m not a tyrant, cara, but if you’re determined to treat me like one then we are not going to have a very satisfactory working relationship. And that’s something I think we’d better put an end to right now.’

      For a brief heart-sinking moment she thought that he was going to call it a day. Report back to the studio that she wasn’t up to the job and get someone else to come in and work on his precious brief. Bitter experience, though, should have warned her about underestimating Damiano D’Amico: men like him didn’t need anyone else to do their dirty work for them.

      Perched, as he still was, on the edge of the table, when she made to move past him he reached out and in one fluid movement caught her by the wrist.

      Her senses leaping, she felt the little blue vein beneath his thumb start to thrum with the blood that was pumping through her, and with sinking dismay knew that he could feel it too.

      ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she murmured, the way her breath shivered through her from this devastating contact with him giving the lie to her trembling statement.

      He smiled without warmth. ‘Good.’ His eyes were glittering like midnight pools in moonlight, so mesmerising that as he pulled her towards him she felt like a heap of pulsing jelly and could only clutch at the fabric of his other sleeve to stave off the feeling of tumbling down and down into their dangerous depths.

      In a voice that was shaking as much as she was, she challenged, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

      His lips moved in a parody of a smile. ‘I always believe in putting my theories into practice,’ he said, his long ebony lashes coming down as those disturbing eyes dropped to the fullness of her trembling mouth, and before she could find her voice to demand what those theories were his face went out of focus and that mocking mouth was suddenly claiming hers.

      He was still leaning against the table and, caught between his legs, she felt her senses start to reel from the warmth of his powerful thighs, from the movement of muscle beneath the quality cloth of his jacket, and from the hard insistence of his deepening kiss.

      She had to stop this! Some smothered sense of reason tried to warn her that all he was doing was trying to humiliate her, make her pay for what she had just said to him, trying to cut her down to size.

      As his arms tightened around her, though, her body paid no heed to the warning, letting her down as every galvanised cell leaped in recognition of his masculinity.

      Her mouth widening beneath his, she gave a defeated little sound, the hands that had come up to grasp his shoulders now moving of their own volition to plunder the dark, damp hair at the nape of his neck.

      Pulled closer against his hard, lean length, Riva gasped from the magnitude of her crazy response to him, sensations multiplying like locusts at the irrational thrill of this man’s lips and hands that had once turned her into a woman with their skill and their expertise, this man who had been her first lover—and her last!

      Rigid with a sexual tension she couldn’t believe she was feeling, she heard a small voice inside her surface, to remind her of just how and why he had scarred her for any other man with his mind-blowing seduction before the cruel and devastating realisation that he had only been using her.

      With a bitter little sob she wrenched herself away from him, and through gritted teeth managed to grind out, ‘You conceited oaf!’

      Though he had allowed her some merciful space, his hands were still gripping her shoulders. ‘Deny it all you like,’ he said, his strong features flushed, his breathing laboured. ‘But we both know that your body is in conflict with that scheming little brain of yours, don’t we? I might have exposed you and your mother for what you were, but there’s much more to your venomous feeling for me than that, isn’t there, Riva? You don’t like me, cara, because of how I made you feel, because I reduced you to a whimpering mass of sensuality just begging me to take her, which didn’t quite fit in with your plans to bring me to my knees and have me as putty in your greedy little hands.’

      Which was what he had to keep reminding himself of, Damiano thought savagely, thrusting her away from him because—mamma mia!—it had only taken one kiss to convince him of how much he still wanted her. Even now the ache in his loins was so acute that it hurt.

      ‘Believe that if you want to,’ Riva retorted in a small, shaky voice, all the fight gone out of her after the shocking way she had responded to him—a man she hated, and with just cause!

      Trembling from her response, and unsteadied by the way he had so brutally released her, she clutched at the table behind her, breathing deeply to try and regain some composure, staring at the broad span of his impeccably clad back.

      It was no good reminding him of how his interference in her mother’s affairs had indirectly caused the woman’s death. She didn’t even dare to goad him with that now.

      He was angry—really angry—but there was something else, Riva realised. Something that had made him swing away from her, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. As though he were weary of the constant battle he was fighting with her. Or was it some sort of battle with himself?

      Pulling herself up to her full height, which didn’t seem to make a scrap of difference against his dominating six feet plus, surprisingly she found herself saying, ‘If you’ve finished humiliating me, I’ve mapped out a few ideas on the computer that you might like to see.’

      He was shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it down on a chair, and Riva averted her eyes from his hard, tanned torso—visible through the fine shirt—as he came and stooped over the table, pressing keys on her laptop, using the mouse himself.

      ‘Olivia was right,’ he said, after studying her ideas for a few breath-catching moments—because he was much too close, the sight and scent and sound of him invading her senses, and because she wanted his approval of her professional capabilities even if he despised every last bone in her body. ‘You’re very good.’

      Such praise from him in the past would have made her glow with pleasure. All she felt now, though, was relieved acceptance and a strange, inexplicable regret.

      ‘I like to think I’m a better judge of shapes and designs than I am of people,’ she stated pointedly, glancing surreptitiously at her wristwatch when she thought he wasn’t looking.

      ‘Are you in some particular hurry to leave?’ He was using the scroll wheel, and hadn’t even looked up from the screen. But then that shrewd brain of his wouldn’t miss a thing, Riva decided, resenting him, resenting his cleverness, his sharp wits, his cold and calculating mind.

      Nervously, she swallowed. ‘I have an appointment.’

      ‘An appointment?’ He glanced up at her now, his dark eyes raking over her face. ‘An appointment?’ he repeated, straightening up. ‘Or a hot date?’

      She wouldn’t tell him that she didn’t date—not seriously, anyhow—any more than she would tell him that she’d been burned so badly by him during that summer in Italy that she had never allowed herself to get that close to any man since. But if he wanted to think that there was some man in her life who might mean something to her, then let him think it! she thought acridly. Perhaps that way, at least, she would be safe from him—and from herself!

      ‘Damiano …’ The sudden notion that she might need any protection from herself where he was concerned was as abominable as it was startling. Had she wanted him to kiss her? Surely not! Because if that was the case then she was no better than a Judas, even entertaining such ideas about him. How could she dismiss the way her mother had suffered—and at his hands? Forget her lack of will? The drinking? Her depressions?

      He hadn’t even responded to that last supplication. He was still contemplating the rough paper sketches she had made, no doubt mentally adding ideas of his own.

      ‘Damiano …’ It came out