“STOP”.
I’d never read Fifty Shades of Grey, or seen the film, but I felt sure that Rocco Noble had. From the second I walked through the door; I was in thrall. Every cell in my body wanted him.
You’re weak and pathetic, Molly Napier, I told myself.
In the past I’d had bad sex, fast sex, cheap sex, drunken sex, good, maybe even thrilling, sex. Not in huge quantities like Lenny, with numerous partners, but I generally thought I recognised what pleased me and turned guys on. I knew my way around a man’s body. But I’d never felt such abandon, such intensity, never ever surrendered myself in that way. But I had my limits. After we disappeared into the void together, I wondered, not for the first time, who the hell Rocco Noble was. What was he trying to prove? What was his game? Why were we going at each other as though we wanted to kill? I understood where I was coming from, but the oddball guy with clever eyes and dazzling smile defied me.
“Hell,” Rocco said, throwing himself off me stoked and slick with sweat. We both were. “Got carried away.”
“Is that what it was?” My voice rasped. I was spent and there was a dull ache between my legs. I’m sure I had a love bite on my neck. I reached over, grabbed a glass of water from the bedside table. My hand was shaking so much it nearly slipped through my fingers. Taking a greedy gulp, most of the liquid dribbled down my chin. At least we’d made it to bed. Eventually. The room looked like it had been trashed. Christ knows what the rest of the cottage looked like. My knickers were torn and the remnants clung for dear life to the bedpost. Rocco’s shirt lay ripped on the floor. Several buttons had popped off my shirt and littered the carpet. If we kept this up, we’d both need new wardrobes.
He stretched out, hands above his head, hair damp at the temples, muscles in his torso rippling. Gym-bunny, I thought and said so.
“Weights when I can be arsed. I’m not one of those guys who’s religious about it.”
‘Religious’ was not a word I’d associate with Rocco Noble. Despite his superficially clean-cut persona, there was something strange going on underneath, some of it positively Heathen. What demon drove him? Instinctively, my thoughts returned to Scarlet and to a contract killing in the mean streets of the capital.
Familiar with the hollows and flat planes of his body, the fine line of hair running from his navel, I was surprised I’d missed a small tattoo high up, on his inner left arm.
“That must have hurt.”
“Yup.”
I studied it inquisitively. Looked like a Japanese style temple. Inside, in classic script, the letter ‘D’. Intrigued, I asked Rocco what it signified.
“Someone I knew.”
The closed expression on his face gave him away. “Who was she?” I teased.
Unclasping his hands, his arms dropped back to his sides. Not amused.
“Must have been special.” I felt awkward, like I sometimes did when I said the wrong thing to Mum.
Rocco turned towards me, smoothed a lock of hair away from my face. I looked at him intently. “Cute move to bring me flowers.”
“It was meant as a genuine apology.”
“I’m astounded by your detective skills.”
Rocco tapped the side of his nose.
“Why not go to the shop? It would have been simpler.”
“Your parents and where you come from are part of you.” He didn’t smile. It wasn’t said to flatter. He appeared to be serious about me. Muscles in my stomach contracted. “I like your mum. She isn’t what I expected.”
“Funny observation.” And distraction.
“She seemed quite a character—”
“Tall, blonde, big eyes?”
Rocco nodded.
“That’s my aunt Dusty, my mum’s sister.”
“Right,” he said, eyes alive, as if putting together my family tree. He ran an index finger along my ribs, tracing the hollows and curves of my body. “You’re very tense.”
“It’s nothing.” I rolled away, reached for my underwear.
“It clearly isn’t.”
He crooked himself up on one elbow. Interest sparking.
“I did something ridiculous,” I said, “and I wished I hadn’t because now I don’t believe the police. I don’t believe my brother. I don’t damn well believe anyone or anything.”
“Do you believe me?” he said.
I didn’t answer.