Dark hair, black as the midnight sky, was cut in a corporate-short back and sides. His face, clean-shaven, was all strong planes and sharp angles.
He was neat and well dressed for all he was wearing riding leathers. Expensive, good-quality leathers as far as Serena could make out. Not the kind of gear any biker she’d ever seen would wear. Only now did it dawn on her that Luca might not be the wild rider she’d barely registered. Eyes the colour of chocolate with flecks of gold met her gaze.
She must have taken a knock to her head. Why was she so focused on the mouth-watering sex appeal of the biker who’d bowled her over and then come to her rescue?
No wonder the receptionist had flirted with him.
Bet she wasn’t just practising. He’s gorgeous.
Hot and suddenly breathless, she lifted the heavy mass of hair off her neck and tipped her head back. Her messy bun had fallen down and her hair tie was missing. By now, it’s probably disintegrated by hundreds of wheels mashing it into the road.
But Luca did stop to help.
Luca of the biker leathers and a smile that charmed. Luca of the sexy eyes—were they the bedroom eyes Elissa drooled over in her Netflix films?
Distracted, Serena edged forward on her chair.
All that leashed power. All that sexy hunk of man.
She pressed her thighs together.
It’s just the drought in your love life making you think like this.
He’d carried her as though she weighed nothing, held her against his broad chest, her head cradled on his shoulder. She wished her memory could hold onto the feel of his chest and his arms wrapped around her.
The breeze wafted the scent of lemons from the terraced groves above and the angle of the sun made their bright yellow pop. Luca’s scent, fresh and crisp and oh so expensive—that’s what the lemons reminded her of. Her nose had been pressed into his neck, so close she could have tasted him.
Lost opportunity, Serena.
Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back and concentrated. Ralph Lauren mixed with clean male sweat under laid with a musky scent, uniquely his. Even now, when he was yards away, the sensual memory triggered a response. She rocked forward on her seat to ease the ache between her thighs.
“Ms. Bannon? Are you there?”
God, had she said something? Groaned on the phone? What?
She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m here.”
“I am sorry to have taken so long. The president has requested the meeting be moved to tomorrow at ten. Will that suit you?”
Waves of gratitude to Luca for encouraging her to phone competed with relief. She still had a chance to make her pitch. And she’d be fresh after a good night’s sleep.
“That will be very suitable. Thank you.” She clicked off the call and exhaled with a huge sigh. Now if only Luca had similar luck with her bags.
3
Luca ended his call, well satisfied with his efforts. Serena’s lost baggage had been found and handed in at the terminus by the driver who remembered her.
Who wouldn’t? She was striking even hidden beneath ill-fitting business grey. It had taken him a while to work it out but he was now certain; the grey suit was camouflage, although he suspected Serena wore it like armour. Against what was less obvious. He thought about it as he waited for her to finish her call.
His PA, Gabriella, would collect the lost bags and drop Serena’s gear off at his apartment. What was clear from the cheap material and ugly style of her clothes was that she had little money to spare. If he could convince Serena to accept his hospitality—assuming she had similar success with her call to reschedule her appointment—then he would offer her a room and they could both relax and perhaps get to know one another.
It was odd, this desire to get to know Serena better.
With all the other women he dated, initially he was attracted to them by their looks.
Am I really that shallow?
He didn’t like to think so, but there was something about Serena that was quiet, a calm, gentle beauty. Her determination attracted him as much as her looks. She piqued his curiosity.
Yes, he would admit to enjoying the idea of playing knight to this damsel in distress.
Could he convince her to ride pillion to Sorrento? What was her hang-up about riding on a motorbike?
Or is it me she’s not sure about?
There was something naïve about her response to the doctor’s receptionist. Naïve and buttoned up.
But when she looked at him— Luca shook his head.
He had often been accused of being arrogant, but surely he wasn’t so arrogant that he was imagining the attraction that flared between them?
He folded his arms and leaned against the corner of the trattoria, watching her. She sat, phone pressed to her ear, a dreamy expression on her face.
Against the backdrop of the sun-kissed blue waters of the sea, Serena’s hair stood out like a beacon flame.
She closed her eyes and tilted her face upwards to the afternoon sun, slipped a hand beneath her hair, and lifted the shining mass off her neck.
Copper and bronze strands drifted on the breeze.
Like a Botticelli angel, or Venus rising from the sea.
Luca smiled. He wasn’t usually prone to flights of fancy.
He enjoyed women, but he appreciated the aesthetics in the line of his bike and the purr of its engine. And he found himself pausing to appreciate the beauty of Serena, the arch of her back, the thrust of her breasts as she lifted her hair.
She edged forward on the chair. The grey skirt tightened and her curves—subtle curves he’d run his hands over barely half an hour ago checking for broken bones, curves that now enticed and beckoned him—were outlined in all their glory.
He shifted uncomfortably.
Curves like hers deserved to be admired, not hidden beneath clothes more suited to an Italian nonna. Better yet, they should be admired with every sense, explored with every part of his body—eyes, lips, tongue, hands—skin on skin. Clearly she was a woman made to enjoy pleasure.
Does she know that?
Her tongue slid across her upper lip—the sensuous move of a woman lost in a fantasy?
Her naïve miff at the receptionist assumed an interesting and promising possibility. He’d nearly missed seeing it because he’d been convinced she had a concussion. That she wasn’t herself.
But what if, even then, she’d been subconsciously practising those skills he’d explained? The more he contemplated the idea, the more he was sure he was right. Serena Bannon was a woman yet to realise a sensual awakening. He could give her that, with a serving of romance.
Like a knight of old, he would make Serena’s pleasure his quest.
She finished her conversation, and closed her phone.
Had she succeeded in her quest?
The corners of her mouth tilted up.
Apparently so.
With deliberate calm, he strolled back, pulled out a chair and sat facing her.
“Are we in luck, then?”
“Seems like this is my lucky day. First, you don’t kill me, and then my meeting has been postponed to tomorrow morning.”
“Luck comes in threes. Your bags are safe and well, and being collected probably as we speak.”
She toasted him with her espresso, and then tossed back the coffee. She gasped and grabbed the water. “I’m used to lattes. That stuff could kill you.”
“Or keep you going.” He drank his in one swallow and left money for the coffee beneath his cup. “Ready for your riding debut?”
4
Sleek black and gleaming chrome, Luca’s motorbike waited like a slumbering beast.
He expects me to climb aboard this?
Serena’s breath snagged on snarls of remembered grief and the espresso she’d downed not long before rose up the back of her throat. The mere thought of climbing on that machine sent chilly fingers skittering down her spine. A fist-sized lump of fear lodged in her stomach. She tugged the lapels of
her jacket higher and held them beneath her chin.
“What do you think of her?” Luca’s gaze shifted from his motorbike to meet hers.
Serena knew engines.
Like her step-father, she lived and breathed them.
This Ducati was built for speed.
All there would be between her and the hard black road, hungry for her flesh and bone, was a powerful, growling motor.
Nothing but air all around. And the bike, like a giant mechanical bull, biding its time to buck her onto the unforgiving bitumen.
“It looks—” Terrifying. Deadly. Monstrous. “—huge.”
Luca expected her to sit behind him on that?
The thought of climbing onto that death trap freaked her out, but worse was the sting of guilt. Riding this beast of a machine would break the solemn promise she’d given her stepfather.
I promised I would never ride a motorbike. Ever.
Guilt, and that promise, made her choice simple. She could not break her promise.
“I—can’t do it.” She ignored the tendril of relief making the decision gave her. And, decision made, the bike seemed far less threatening.
She stepped away, hands behind her back, a twinge of something—surely not regret?—tugging at her.
True, Luca’s bike was powerful and dangerous, but it was also a thing of beauty.
“You can. She is designed to carry two.” Passion and appreciation gleamed in his eyes. He stroked a hand along the engine housing with the sensuous touch of a lover. “Look at her; she’s beautiful. Italian motorcycles are built for speed, but with the elegant lines of a lady.”
If Luca was right about the lack of buses, how else was she to reach her destination?
Serena tipped her head to the side, torn.
But I promised—
All she needed to do was climb aboard. Luca had guaranteed her she would safely reach Sorrento.
All I have to do is break a promise.
Her gaze flicked from Luca to the motorbike and back to him.
Fear and imagination morphed into one tangled skein.
On that bike she’d be plastered against him, her legs bracketing his, her thighs pressed against his leather-clad butt.
And I can’t decide what frightens me the most—Luca, or riding on his bike?
Adrenaline pulsed through her body, spiced with anticipation.
Odd how she recognised that old yearning for something more, something different, something beyond always being safe. Something exciting.
Two days after her mother had hurtled off that motorbike to her death—she had promised—
“I promised my stepdad I’d never drive a motorbike.”
Luca’s gaze locked with hers. “Why?”
If only there were a simple answer.
Serena sucked in a sharp breath and released it slowly.
Explaining would bring it all back. The ghastly newspaper images, the mangled motorbike with its crumpled fender and shattered light. The lone shoe and handbag flung yards away on the pavement, her mother’s broken body.
She shook her head. “It’s not about you, Luca; it’s the bike.” She looked at him, willing him to understand. I was lucky today.”
“Lucky?”
“My mother died after a motorbike ran her down.”
She heard Luca’s horrified, indrawn breath, saw dismay fill his eyes, the pallor of his olive skin. “Madre di Dio, Serena, I am so sorry.”
“Afterwards I—I promised Dad I’d never drive a motorbike.” She looked away. “I’ve never wanted to, either.”
“I will find a car to take you to Sorrento. I would never have suggested my bike if I had known.”
“How could you have known? It’s—fine, Luca. I’m fine. I just don’t think I can—”
“I understand, although just to be clear, you wouldn’t have been driving. I let no one drive my motorbike. You would have been riding - a passenger only.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed it on. “I will see if a car can be found for you.”
“Thank you.” She was relieved, she told herself. Relieved that she didn’t have to ride the massive machine, relieved she wouldn’t have to break her promise.
But that tingle of anticipation, the wanting to know what it was like to ride with Luca, remained.
While Luca Googled on his phone, Serena turned to admire the view of the bay. Clouds had covered the sun. Blue-grey waves rocked small boats riding at anchor close to shore between two rocky headlands. An ancient tower stood guard on top of the headland to her right, one wall fallen away. To her left a pink and white stucco building crouched above the coastal road. Above it a dark grey and white tower rose beside a green domed roof. Was it a church, or a castle?
Her gaze dropped to the small sandy beach, devoid of people, but populated by scattered palm trees. A closed and shuttered café sat at the far end of the beach. It looked lonely and forlorn. Or am I projecting my emotions onto the scene?
Sea mist hid the distance in a coat of white and . . .
Luca’s comment niggled at her. I never let anyone drive my bike . . . you would be riding - as a passenger . . .
‘Promise me you’ll never drive a motorbike, Serena.’ Dad’s choked request after Mum’s funeral had been specific.
Drive, not ride.
Serena was certain he’d meant her to have nothing to do with motorbikes—ever.
But too clearly, she also remembered his more recent request, one pushed past his swollen and sore throat: ‘Bring home that contract, darling. I know you can do this.’
Was there wriggle-room in the promise she’d made?
If there was ever a time to break a promise, it was now when her father was depending on her.
I know it’s for the greater good, and this makes it acceptable.
“No luck yet, but I’ll find some way of getting you to Sorrento.” Luca calmly scrolled to the next listing on his screen. “If we have no luck this time, I can arrange for a car to come out from Sorrento and pick you up.”
“Please, don’t go to any more trouble for me.”
“It’s no trouble, bella.”
Serena pressed her lips together tightly, and eyed the bike. Could she ride behind Luca and still keep her promise to her dad?
Or am I splitting hairs?
Coming to Italy she’d expected nothing more than a business meeting, speedily conducted and, hopefully, productive for her and her stepfather.
But Italy had handed her the chance of a real adventure, and one with a handsome sexy Italian.
Am I contemplating doing the unthinkable?
She needed to focus on something else; anything else would be preferable to imagining riding that bike, pressed close to Luca’s lithe body.
Her gaze connected with his, like a compass needle finds magnetic north.
The prospect of doing the unfamiliar was as frightening as it was enticing.
She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump of apprehension.
Do I dare?
The real problem might be Luca. His hot gaze caused the sizzle under her skin wherever it landed, like the touch of a hot brand.
She felt the simmering attraction. Did he?
What harm was there be in her enjoying his company for a little while longer?
Who am I kidding? One hour of proximity with Luca won’t be enough. She’d want more, and then how was she meant to focus on preparation for her meeting?
Luca was a detour she couldn’t afford.
Think practicalities.
“I’ll ride behind you.” The words slid from her mouth like a slip lane onto the freeway.
Luca turned off his phone, frowning. “What about your promise to your stepfather?”
“As you pointed out, I won’t be the one driving, only sitting there.”
“And you are—fine with this decision?”
Serena nodded slowly. “I will live with it. My meeting is too important to jeopardise. As a passenger I’ll be true to that promis
e, if not to the intent.”
“Then let us proceed. Andiamo.” He pocketed the phone and gestured for her to climb on first.
Serena tugged at the offending skirt. “Astride won’t work.” Even Luca must see how impossible it was. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m not dressed for riding a motorbike.”
“I noticed. So, you don’t like astride.” He smiled slowly, the double entendre clear as his gaze burned over her hips, down her legs.
Under other circumstances she’d love to be astride.
Me. Astride. Him.
She mentally slapped her forehead. Fantasy wasn’t at all helpful right now. She swallowed and tried to avoid licking her lips. It would be unfair to send him the wrong signal when she had no plans to act on the attraction between them.
“Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe there’ll be another SITA bus along soon. I can catch that.”
“Actually, there won’t be. I checked the schedule. You’re forgetting that now it’s siesta. And mid-February isn’t like high tourist season. Fewer buses operate in the winter months. That was the problem I encountered with the nearest rental car listings. All closed for the off season.”
“So, I’ll wait in the trattoria and drink coffee. I’ve got time now my meeting has been postponed.”
“That is true. Do that if you prefer, but you will still have to collect your bags from my apartment at the other end. My home is a little way out of town.”
“Taxi, another bus to get there? Surely it’s not that hard?”
“Not if you’ve a couple of hours to spare. But why not keep things simple? Ride with me. You can sit side-saddle. It’s less comfortable but I’ll drive carefully.”
“Side-saddle?”
“Your legs, both of them, stay on one side of the bike. Have you not seen Roman Holiday?”
Memory clicked into place. “That was a Vespa for goodness sake and Audrey Hepburn was driving—sort of. And they were in the city, not on a main road with more blind bends and twists than—”
“Over sixteen hundred.”
Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart Page 46