Married for Amari's Heir Read online

It was something deeper. Something more. A magnetism that could not be denied.

  Everything about him was designed to capture and hold the attention of an audience.

  And as he drew closer she could see that he was extraordinarily handsome. Olive skin, high cheekbones, a strong, straight nose. And his lips... She couldn’t remember ever noticing a man’s lips before, but she certainly noticed his.

  Rocco Amari was even more beautiful in person than he was in the glossy pages of a magazine. So annoying. Why couldn’t he be a sad disappointment?

  “Ms. Wyatt,” he said, that voice as affecting now as it had been over the phone. “I am pleased to see you made it. And that you found the dress to your liking.”

  That comment made her wish her wine was already here, so she could throw it in his face. He had given her no choice, and he knew it.

  Don’t let him get to you. You have to get to him.

  “It is a very good fit,” she said. “As we have never met before, I was a little bit surprised by that.”

  “Oh, I had you investigated. Very thoroughly.” He took a seat in the chair opposite her, undoing the button on his jacket as he did, and suddenly several members of staff seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “We will have what the chef recommends,” he said.

  The staff melted into obscurity after that and Rocco turned his full attention to her, his dark eyes blazing with a kind of sharpness that seemed to cut through her. It was disconcerting to say the least.

  A new waitress, one she had not seen before, set her white wine down in front of her. Charity grasped the stem, needing something to keep her hands busy.

  “Hopefully that pairs well with the meal,” he said, looking pointedly at her drink.

  “I will say, that is not my primary concern at this point.”

  “It is always a primary concern of mine. I appreciate life’s luxuries. Good food paired with good wine, good Scotch and beautiful women. Which, I must say, Ms. Wyatt, you are.” He practically purred the last bit of his sentence, the roughness in the words rippling over her skin, making her break out in goose bumps.

  What was wrong with her? She didn’t play this game. Didn’t go for flirtations and teases. She always had to keep her wits sharp, and that meant no melting around sexy men.

  “I suppose I should say thank you, but I’m not going to. Because I feel like you’re only putting off the inevitable conversation we must have.”

  “Perhaps I am,” he said. “They serve very good food here. I should hate to spoil the meal.”

  Charity looked to the left and noticed a table full of upscale Manhattanite women staring at them. Likely wondering what a woman like Charity was doing with a man like Rocco. Just as those women read upper class from their perfectly coiffed hair down to the tips of their designer shoes, Charity read low-class pretender. Even a couture dress couldn’t fix that. She had all the hallmarks of a woman who was here on her dining partner’s dime.

  She knew these things because her father had made a study of the upper class. Had learned their every mannerism, in order to inveigle his way into their midst. All the better to steal their money.

  Charity hadn’t spent much time playing those parts. Especially when she’d been young, her function in her father’s schemes had been to play the part of wide-eyed ragamuffin. A downtrodden innocent who desperately needed help.

  It was the role she would be reprising tonight. And while she wouldn’t thank her dad for abandoning her to face the music alone, she would thank him, albeit silently, for giving her the tools to fix the broken mess he’d left.

  “The meal was spoiled for me before I came,” she said, injecting a healthy bit of conviction into her tone.

  Rocco didn’t seem moved by it. He extended his hand, brushing her cheekbone with the back of his knuckles. She was so shocked, all she could do was sit frozen, a flash of heat radiating from her cheek downward. She looked at the table of women again, saw their sneers and looked down at her wine.

  Of course they assumed she was a call girl. Sitting there in that dress in the afternoon. Either a call girl or a kept woman, although there were few differences. They thought they were better than her. Because they were born with what she couldn’t even earn.

  But she was used to that.

  “Come now. I do not want a difficult lunch partner.”

  “You knew people would think this,” she said, her voice low, vibrating with manufactured emotion. “You knew they would think I was your...whore.” She made sure to meet his gaze. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  She nearly cringed at that overbaked line. But she was having a very easy time accessing this justified rage. She almost believed that she was nothing more than a wronged innocent. Almost.

  He moved his hand back to her, and caught her chin with his thumb and forefinger, holding her face steady. And suddenly all her false anger was forgotten. “But, cara mia, that is what you are. You are here because I have offered you something. You are here because I’ve offered you a deal. And, do not forget, I bought everything you are wearing.”

  He was a horror. Nothing seemed to shake him up. He was heartless. Which might be problematic.

  She jerked out of his hold, and he lowered his hand. “Just tell me what you want.”

  The waitstaff appeared again, placing food in front of them, and Charity’s stomach turned. She needed this to be over, soon. The longer this stretched out, the less likely he was to bend.

  Rocco had no such issues with the meal. He ate slowly, in silence, relishing each bite. The minute stretching out longer, every second a torture. She didn’t want to say too much, and she really didn’t want to say too little. He seemed fine sitting in silence, letting her feeling of being a mouse caught in a trap intensify beneath the study of his dark gaze.

  Worse, the longer he looked at her, the more acutely aware she became of the feeling of the soft, expensive lingerie that was beneath her dress. It was something about the way he looked at her. The fact that he knew.

  She could see it in his eyes. That he knew exactly what she was wearing, and that he knew what she might look like in the items he had sent.

  He was looking at her as if she was a possession, as if he owned her already.

  And the fact was, he might. The longer she sat there, the longer she’d had to fully understand her potential fate and the circumstances she found herself in. She didn’t know what he would demand of her yet. But she knew the alternative.

  Yet another thing he had accomplished by bringing her here. He highlighted the difference in their stations.

  She was a waitress; she was a woman. Her ties to criminal activity were irrefutable, though she had never once been arrested. Her father was gone with the money he had taken from Amari Corporation, and he likely wouldn’t resurface even if Charity were brought to trial. Actually, if Charity were brought to trial he would be less likely to surface than ever. Because Nolan Wyatt would not stick his neck on the chopping block for anyone. Not even his only daughter. Not when it was between a life of luxury—albeit a temporary one—or life in prison.

  Charity would be made the example. She would be brought to court, a scarlet woman who had stolen from a man who worked hard for his money. And she would go to jail. She could see it playing out now.

  But he was prepared to offer her a deal. One that would mean avoiding jail.

  Realistically, she wasn’t sure she could turn it down no matter what it was.

  Even if it was the worst.

  In that moment she hated herself for being such a coward. For entertaining the idea of selling herself in exchange for avoiding time spent in prison. But she was afraid. Jail was the big bad. Growing up, the law had been a terrifying prospect, men in uniform the enemy.

  It was a fear that was bred so deeply into her that just thinking about it now made her b
reak out into a cold sweat. She was afraid of the unknown, and while both options she was entertaining in her mind were unknown, one would be over much faster.

  You don’t know that’s what he wants.

  No, she didn’t know. But he had sent lingerie, and that said an awful lot.

  And she wasn’t naive about men. Her father was a liar and a manipulator. And both in word and by example, he’d taught her how to identify other liars and manipulators. Charity wasn’t naive about anyone or their motivations.

  She liked to be prepared for the worst. And in this case... Well, in this case it meant that Rocco had dressed her for the job he intended her to perform.

  Another waiter appeared as soon as Rocco had cleaned his plate. “Dessert, Mr. Amari?”

  “No—” the words left Charity’s mouth before she could reconsider them “—no dessert.”

  “Please have dessert and coffee sent to my suite,” Rocco said, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Ms. Wyatt and I are ready to retire.”

  “Of course, sir.” The waiter inclined his head, his bland expression not betraying any thought whatsoever, and scurried away to do Mr. Amari’s bidding.

  Charity’s stomach sank to her toes, a sick feeling overtaking her. He wanted to take her somewhere private. He wanted to get her alone. Nothing good would come of that. “Are we going to discuss the deal?” She didn’t want to leave the dining room. She needed him to change his mind here.

  “Of course. Up in my room. And this is the part where I will discover if you heeded my warning.”

  Her heartbeat sped up, her pulse beating rapidly at the base of her neck. “What warning?” she asked, her throat dry. Because she knew which warning. She knew.

  “If you are not wearing the lingerie I sent, I am about to find out.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything,” she said, her eyes meeting his. She tried to remind herself to dial it back. To appeal to him on an emotional level.

  Challenging a man like him wouldn’t get her anywhere. He was all alpha male. If she tried to go at him head-on, he would push back. But if she played the weak, simpering female, she might just be able to arouse his protective instincts. She had to remember that. She had to stay in character.

  “You will agree to whatever I ask. Because if we go to court, I will win. You know that to be true.”

  She swallowed hard, not bothering to disguise it. She wanted him to see her every nerve. Every flicker of fear in her eyes. Being brave wouldn’t win any points with him. “I don’t understand how this would benefit you.”

  “But you see, cara, that is not for you to understand. I do not have to explain myself to you. I merely have to present you with your options.” He put his hands on the table, his large fingers splayed over the pristine white cloth. “So you tell me, would you rather come to my suite or go to jail?”

  Charity looked down at her untouched lunch, her lips cold. “If those are my options I would rather go to your suite,” she said, determination washing through her like a tide.

  She could still turn this around. She would make him see that she was just a victim. She repeated the mantra over and over again. If she said it enough times, she might believe it. And if she believed it...all the better to make him believe it, too.

  “Very good.” Rocco stood and walked toward her, extending a hand as though he were the perfect gentleman seeing to his companion. She didn’t accept the hand, standing up on her own, taking the hard glitter in his eyes as a personal triumph.

  “I very much appreciate a strong-willed woman. But I also require compliance when it is demanded.” He straightened his cuffs, buttoned his jacket, then raised his focus to her, his dark gaze locking on to her. “I hope very much that you have given it where I have commanded. Otherwise, you will find my threats are not empty.” He held out his hand, and this time she took it. “Now, come, cara mia. It is time for us to adjourn to my room.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SUITE WAS BEAUTIFUL. There were massive windows that overlooked Central Park, letting a generous amount of natural light in, bathing everything in warmth, in sunlight. For a moment, she simply stood in the doorway, pretending she was only taking in the sight of a beautiful room. One that was well out of her price range, one she would typically never even get to look at.

  Unless she was running a con.

  That’s all this is. You’re just running a con. And on the other side, lies freedom. You never have to do it again. You can be done.

  She took a deep breath and kept examining the room, delaying the moment this became real. The floors were marble, rugs stationed throughout, beautifully appointed matching furniture with solid wood detail in the seating area, with a bed that boasted a matching frame in the bedroom. It was a large bed, with rich purple velvet coverings, and more pillows than she had ever seen in one place before.

  For a moment, it was nice to look at. For a moment, it seemed innocuous.

  But only for a moment.

  Then Rocco came to stand behind her, the heat from his body intense, energy radiating from him and throwing everything inside of her out of alignment. As if he’d reached into her chest and moved everything around.

  He had certainly reached into her life and done that. Moved everything around, put things on their ends.

  “Dessert should be here shortly,” he said, breezing past her and walking into the room. “Make yourself at home.”

  As if that was going to happen. “It’s difficult for me to feel at home here.”

  “Oh yes, I imagine it is quite different to your little apartment in Brooklyn.”

  Charity froze. Of course he would know all about her. He had sent the clothes to her home, after all. But hearing the details of her life spoken about by a perfect stranger just didn’t sit comfortably.

  “Do you have to imagine?” she asked, her tone crisp. “Don’t you happen to have full walk-through photographs of my home available for your perusal? You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “The art of war. One must know their enemies. Or so I have read.”

  “And I’m your enemy?”

  He closed the distance between them, curling his fingers around her arm, pulling her close. The contact of his skin against hers struck her like lightning. “You stole from me. People do not steal from me,” he said, his face close to hers, his tone deadly.

  She could sense then that he was every inch the predator she had feared. And whatever she had been afraid he might ask of her, it would likely be that and more. Because there was no softness in him. No compassion.

  He was the sort of man who only understood one thing. The cutthroat, black-and-white nature of revenge. Of killing or being killed, hunting or being hunted.

  That would limit her ability to manipulate. But her strength would lie in him underestimating her.

  He thought she was his prey. But he didn’t know that beneath this lacy monstrosity beat the heart of a beast. She had been brought up in a hard environment, with instability and poverty and all the rest.

  She hadn’t survived by being weak.

  “My father lied to me,” she said, putting her hand on her chest, feeling her heart beating hard beneath her palm. “I really thought he had finally gotten honest work. I had agreed to help him garner investments from reputable companies. I did not know he was going to take that information and siphon money out of your accounts. I promise I didn’t know.” The lie came easy, even looking into those flat, dark eyes. Because protecting her own skin was second nature. Was the most important thing. The only thing.

  “Your name is on the wire transfers. Your name is connected to the bank account the money went into.”

  “Because I agreed to help him set the accounts up.” And she knew, even as she tried to explain, that it was going to do nothing to move him. But she wasn’t going to simply s
tand here and allow him to level accusations at her. Not when they weren’t true. Not while she still had a chance to get him to understand.

  “Then you are a fool. Because everything I can find about Nolan Wyatt says that he is a con man. Now and always.”

  “He is,” she said, her throat tight. “But I—”

  There was a knock on the door to the suite and Rocco released his hold on her, stalking to the entryway.

  “Room service, Mr. Amari,” the man on the other side of the door said. “Where would you like me to put the tray?”

  “I will take the tray.” Rocco took control of the tray and closed the door, wheeling the coffee and two pieces of chocolate cake to the center of the room.

  If she couldn’t eat a light meal of vegetables and salmon, she was hardly going to be able to eat this.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to believe the best of someone?” She hoped he had. She hoped he did.

  “Never. I only want the truth.”

  “I’m giving it to you. And I can only explain away the fact that I helped my father by saying I wanted to believe the best in him when I shouldn’t have. He’s the only family I have. I just wanted him to be telling the truth this time.”

  She found herself very convincing. She would be shocked if he didn’t.

  “So much that you were willing to take a chance on helping him with another fraud?”

  “My dad is small-time. I didn’t expect anything like this from him.” That much was true. She’d had no idea his designs were quite so grand. A million dollars. He’d overplayed his hand. The idiot. Anything smaller and Rocco wouldn’t have noticed, much less pursued her like this. “Yes, he’s stolen fairly large amounts of money before, and I know it. I didn’t live with him most of the time I was growing up, but when I did, we would always have times where we would move, and then we would have something for a while. A house, food, money, clothes. But it would always disappear very quickly. We would find ourselves dodging landlords, dodging police. Then, we would move again. Dad would get jobs, he called them. Then we would move again, and have things for a while. And the cycle would repeat. Eventually, he stopped taking me with him when he moved.”