If she hadn’t been in such dire straits the artist in her would have longed to explore this tantalising glimpse into Rocco de Marco. Her eyes snagged on his powerful form as he bent and stretched. Her insides twisted and tightened—who was she kidding? Her interest in this man stemmed from a much more carnal place than an interest in aesthetics.

Rocco rounded on the petite woman who now stood in his apartment and curbed his physical response to that pale freckled skin and the wild russet hair which still trailed over one shoulder to rest on the curve of one small breast. The wild look in her eyes just before she’d sprinted away from him downstairs was burnt into his memory. It had touched something deep inside him. A memory. And he’d lost precious seconds while he’d been distracted.

She was nothing like the soignée beauties he usually favoured. Women renowned for their breeding, looks, intellect and discretion. Women who wouldn’t have allowed him to lay a finger on them if they knew what kind of world he’d been born into.

Anger at his own indiscriminate response and something much deeper—a dark emotion which seethed in his gut as he thought of her as Steven Murray’s lover—made him say harshly, ‘You will tell me everything. Right here and now.’

When she flinched minutely, as if he’d struck her, he ruthlessly clamped down on the spike of remorse. She looked very pale and vulnerable all of a sudden. Rocco chastised himself. She was no quivering female. There was an inherent strength about her that warned of a toughness only bred from the streets. He recognised it well, and he didn’t like to be reminded of it.

He dragged out a nearby chair and all but pushed her into it. Her small heart-shaped face was turned up to him and his insides tightened. Dio, but she was temptation incarnate with those huge brown eyes and those soft pink lips. Displaying a kind of artful innocence. His instinctive reversion to Italian even in his head just for that moment surprised him. He’d spent long years doing his best to erase any trace of his heritage. His accent was the one thing that proved as stubborn as a stain, reminding him every time he opened his mouth of his past. But he’d learnt to embrace that constant reminder.

There was a long, tense silence, and Rocco tried to figure out what was going on behind her wide eyes. And then she looked as if she was steeling herself for a blow. ‘What did you mean when you said Steven stole a million euros?’

Rocco opened his mouth and was about to answer when he stopped. Incredulous, he said, ‘You have the temerity to still pretend ignorance?’

He saw her small hands clench to fists on her lap. He remembered how spiky she’d been with him that night at the benefit, and how intrigued he’d been by her. He remembered kissing her hand, the feel of slightly rough palms which had been so at odds with the soft skin of the women he was used to, and how it had sent a dark thrill though him. She must have known exactly who he’d been and they must have been laughing at him all week. He burned inside. He hadn’t felt so uselessly humiliated in years.

She’d seen him in a weak moment and he didn’t like it. At all. He hadn’t been weak since he’d left Italy far behind him, with its stench-filled slums and the humiliation he’d endured. Thinking of that restored Rocco’s fast unravelling sense of control. With icy clarity he said, ‘Who are you, and how do you know Steven?’

Gracie glared balefully at Rocco de Marco. He had the uncanny ability to make her feel as if you had no option but to comply with his demands. The man was like a laser.

‘Well?’

The word throbbed with clear frustration and irritation. He was standing in front of her, hands on hips. His shoulders were broad under the white shirt, tapering down to lean hips. In the dim light he was like some beautiful dark lord. Heavy black brows over deepset pools of black. High cheekbones. A strong nose with that slight misalignment. And those lips … full and sensual. The lock of hair she remembered still curled on his forehead, but even that didn’t soften the taut energy directed her way.

Half without thinking Gracie said, ‘I’m Gracie. Gracie O’Brien.’

His mouth took on a disdainful curve. ‘And? Your relationship to Steven Murray?’

Gracie swallowed. She was afraid if Rocco de Marco knew she and Steven were related he would expect her to know where he was for sure. She could feel the blush rising even as she formulated the words. She’d never been able to lie to save her life. ‘He’s … he’s an old friend.’

Rocco’s eyes went to her mouth and he said mockingly, with a chill kind of menace, ‘Liar.’

Gracie shook her head. Protecting her twin brother was so ingrained she couldn’t fight it. And didn’t want to. He’d protected her over the years as much as she’d protected him. Just in a different way. ‘That’s all he is. An old friend. We go back … a long way.’

Rocco’s mouth twisted and disgust etched his features into a grimace. ‘You go back to a double bed in a squat somewhere.’

Gracie paled at the very thought. Bile rose. She shook her head more strongly. ‘No. No.’ She stopped short of saying That’s disgusting, and closed her mouth. ‘Really … it’s not like that.’ She’d half risen out of the chair and her hand was out, as if that could reinforce her words. She sat back down abruptly.

Rocco folded his arms across his chest, but that only brought her attention to the awesome strength in his arms, the bunched muscles. She felt curiously light-headed all of a sudden, but put it down to the fact that she hadn’t eaten all day.

‘I’ll tell you what it’s like, shall I?’ Rocco didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘You’re Steven Murray’s accomplice, and both of you were stupid enough to think that you could come back to the scene of the crime to recover something important. What was it?’ he continued. ‘A flash drive? That’s the only thing small enough to have escaped our searches.’

Before she knew what was happening Rocco was right in front of her, hauling her out of the chair. Amidst her confusion and shock Gracie was aware of the fact that his touch on her arms was light, almost gentle this time. The contrast of that touch to the fierce energy crackling around them made her even more confused. But he was squatting at her feet now, running big hands up her legs.

It took a second for the fact to register that he was frisking her. His hands were now creeping up the insides of her legs. She reacted violently, jerking away, hands slapping everywhere, catching Rocco’s silky head. He cursed and stood up, catching hold of her arms again with his hands. This time he wasn’t gentle.

‘You little wildcat. Hold still.’

Holding her captive with one hand, he quickly delved into her pockets with his free one and turned them out. The speed with which he moved made Gracie feel dizzy. Soon she was standing there with the linings of pockets sticking out and the disconcerting feeling of his hands probing close to her skin.

This time when she jerked back he let go, and she almost stumbled. She felt violated—but not in the way she should have. It was in some illicitly thrilling way.

‘You …’ she spluttered. ‘I’d prefer to be dragged down to the police station than have your hands mauling me.’ A sudden realisation sliced through the frantic pulse in her blood and she asked faintly, ‘Have you called the police?’

Rocco stood back. His face was flushed. With anger, Gracie had to assume, not liking the way her blood pooled heavily between her legs even as she struggled to concentrate. He had gone very still.

He shook his head and with clear reluctance admitted, ‘I haven’t called the police because I don’t want the news that I employed a rogue trader to get out. It could ruin my reputation. Image and trust are everything in this game. If my clients knew I’d jeopardised their precious investments I’d be finished within days as rumour and innuendo spread.’