Redemption Of The Untamed Italian (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  Not only that, a lick of nervousness was making her fingers quiver a little, so she poured herself a half glass of the fine champagne she’d added to the order, wondering if it might ease her energetic nerves.

  Her eyes flicked to her phone, and at the precise moment she expected him the door pushed inwards and she smiled to herself, glad his punctuality hadn’t failed him. Her nerves were already stretched to breaking point. She stood, focussing on controlling her outward response, pretending she was at a shoot, assuming a look of cool calm that she definitely didn’t feel.

  She saw his eyes as they ran over her body—she’d deliberately chosen this dress, the same one she’d worn to the restaurant the first night they’d met, the dress he’d pulled from her body the first time they’d made love. She felt the hunger in his eyes, the need in his body, and her own body trilled in response.

  She was actually looking forward to this. Looking forward to sharing a meal with him—not grabbed from the kitchen when hunger finally drove them out of bed but a proper meal, across a table, with conversation and...

  And what?

  She understood the need for caution. In the back of her mind, she remembered every sentence he’d uttered that told her how temporary this was, how determined he was to resume his normal life as soon as their allotted two weeks were up.

  And yet, they were sleeping together. It might not mean anything, in the sense of romance and a future, but it still felt strange to know his body intimately when she knew so little of his mind, his stories, his history and life.

  ‘What’s this?’ He removed his tie as he crossed the room, hanging it over the back of the chair before stepping on to the terrace. The sun was low in the sky, casting the world in shades of violet and gold, and they bounced off his face so that she had to bite back a gasp at the sheer magnificence of him.

  ‘A table,’ she quipped, her voice a little raspy, waving a hand towards it. ‘Somewhere you sit when you eat a meal.’

  ‘You don’t like it when I feed you in bed?’ There was a growl to his words as he pulled her body. Heat burst inside her veins.

  ‘Oh, I like that very much,’ she responded with a smile. ‘But I thought we’d try something different tonight.’

  He said nothing, but his eyes showed a hint of something—warning, or a wariness, that she instinctively understood.

  ‘This isn’t a date—relax. I’m not trying to entice you into anything more than the deal we’ve made.’ She sobered, scanning his eyes thoughtfully. ‘What’s wrong? Is sharing dinner against the mistress rules or something?’

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’ His smile was barely a lift of his lips. He stepped away from her, reaching for a chair and separating it from the table, holding it so she could be seated. But as she eased herself into it with a grace that was borne of natural instinct rather than professional training, his fingers lingered on her shoulders and he dropped his head so he could whisper in her ear, ‘Let’s see how long we last.’

  A frisson of anticipation straightened her spine and her breasts tingled, her nipples tightening in ready response to his huskily voiced promise. But it was a challenge, a throwing down of the gauntlet, and she wanted to prove him wrong, to prove to both of them that they were capable of having a conversation that wasn’t punctuated by sensual need.

  He took the seat opposite, but didn’t shift forward, so he was far enough across the table to regard her with a kind of scrutiny that filled her body with little electric shocks.

  ‘I gather you don’t generally date the women you sleep with?’

  His nostrils flared as he exhaled. ‘You have an unusual interest in my previous lovers.’

  The accusation smarted. She shook her head in an instant denial. ‘Not at all. I’m just trying to understand how this usually works.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her smile was rueful and lacking humour. ‘So I know what to expect after you?’

  It was both the wrong—and the right—thing to say. His features cracked with something dark and intense, something like absolute, visceral rejection. It was the first time in Jemima’s life that she realised she could get some kind of dark pleasure from an emotion like envy. It was over in a heartbeat, his expression cleared of anything, but it had been there, she was certain of it. He didn’t like the idea of her being with someone else. It was why he’d made such a big deal about the other lover who—out of pride—she’d invented.

  ‘I’m not a good barometer of normal when it comes to relationships.’

  ‘Why not?’ In spite of her best intentions, curiosity flared to life.

  ‘Because I don’t have relationships,’ he drawled, the words mocking, but she refused to be cowed.

  ‘Why not?’

  He reached forward and topped up her champagne flute without touching his own glass.

  ‘I don’t have time.’

  She frowned. ‘You have as much time as anyone else.’

  ‘My work is my life.’ He lifted his shoulders, dismissing her line of enquiry.

  ‘Why?’

  His eyes flared briefly with surprise, but he tamped the reaction down quickly enough. ‘I employ over eighty thousand people around the world. You don’t think I have a reason to be busy?’

  ‘Mmm...’ She tilted her head to one side, considering this. ‘But you must have people who report to you, a chain of command.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Certo. But I oversee it. Every aspect.’

  For no reason she could think of, a shiver ran down her spine. There was such a mark of determination in his voice that it almost felt like a warning.

  ‘Every aspect?’

  ‘This surprises you?’

  Her smile was instinctive. ‘Actually, it doesn’t.’ She dipped her head forward a little.

  ‘No?’

  ‘That you’re a control freak? Oh, I think that’s patently obvious.’ She lifted her gaze then, fixing him with a curious stare. ‘Look at the way you manoeuvred me into your bed.’ It was a joke, said with a smile, but his expression sobered for a moment.

  ‘I presumed you were a part of the deal that night. I honestly thought you’d come with the intention of flirting with me, of seducing me.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  His lips flickered, a smile returning to his face. ‘No?’

  ‘You know that’s not what happened.’ She reached for her water and took a sip. ‘Laurence wanted that night to feel social. Truth be told, I think he was probably intimidated as all heck at the idea of meeting you and thought I might make that a bit easier.’ She bit down on her lip. ‘It’s not like he threw me to the wolves—or wolf, in this case.’

  Amusement sparkled in Cesare’s eyes. ‘And yet, here you are, in the midst of the wolf’s den.’

  ‘I don’t think wolves live in dens.’

  ‘They rear their young in them.’

  Surprise at his knowledge had her arching her eyebrow. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I have a place in Alaska. I go there when I need to work without disruption. A few times a year at least. I learned very quickly that if I didn’t become an expert in the local wildlife I wouldn’t live very long.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ she asked, momentarily distracted.

  ‘Alaska?’

  She nodded. ‘Your place there.’

  ‘It’s... You would hate it,’ he laughed ruefully, the sound doing strange things to her nerve endings.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s as far from this as you can imagine.’ He waved a hand around the balcony, so beautiful, so luxurious, at the boats bobbing in the background, the air of wealth that was everywhere you cared to look in Cannes.

  ‘It’s an old log cabin, built some time in the sixties. It’s in the middle of nowhere—you have to either hike for twelve hours t
o reach it, or you can fly in and land on the lake. The forest is too thick to bring even a helicopter down. When I bought the place, there was no kitchen, no bathroom, nothing. Eventually, I added a small room with basic amenities—no hot water, though—and there’s now a small solar-powered generator that means I can run a light and a fridge.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You cannot imagine me there?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ The first time she’d met him, hadn’t she been reminded a little of a wild animal? Though he dressed himself in bespoke Savile Row suits, he was clearly a man ruled by passions, powerful in a way that was wild and untamed. ‘What do you do while you’re there?’

  ‘I work, uccellina.’ The words held a gentle reminder. ‘And sometimes I fish.’

  ‘How can you work? Is there cell reception?’

  ‘Some kinds of work require a complete lack of interruption. I do my best strategising out there. It’s where I tend to have big-picture realisations.’

  ‘So you can see the forest for the trees?’ she prompted, a smile playing around her lips.

  ‘Exactly.’ He rewarded her pun with a grin of his own.

  ‘It sounds kind of amazing.’

  He laughed, dismissing her conclusion. ‘I think you would truly hate it. There are bugs and bears and leeches and there is not a lot to do.’

  She bristled at the implication contained in his words. ‘And because I’m a model I can’t also like the outdoors?’

  ‘Because you are a model, or because you were raised in a particular way.’ He said the words with undisguised scorn that had a thousand questions filling her mind. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘What do you know about the way I was raised?’

  His expression was darkly speculative. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Let’s see. Your parents were proud of you but somewhat removed from your day-to-day life. You had a nanny, possibly two, who taught you from a young age—languages, reading and etiquette, because old-fashioned manners mattered almost more than anything else to your parents. You were sent away to school at some point, though you never had much pressure put on you to achieve academically because your future was secured irrespective of your grades. You were encouraged to socialise in a certain set, with your parents ensuring you spent your time with “suitable” children. You received an allowance—a generous one—and knew you had a trust fund waiting for you. All of your closest friends were of a similar social standing to you. Am I wrong in any of this, uccellina?’

  He wasn’t. In fact, his rendition of her childhood was so accurate that a shiver danced over her spine. The one thing he’d missed out was the loneliness she’d felt after Cameron had died. Loneliness at having lost a beloved older brother, her companion and friend, and loneliness at the way her parents had seemed to withdraw from her, pulling back so she was an island in the midst of everyone’s grief, completely set aside from the world. Only Laurence had understood—Laurence, who had been close in age to Cameron, who’d considered him one of his closest friends.

  Her voice shook a little, the effect of his summary cutting deep. ‘And, because of this, you think I can’t enjoy the outdoors?’

  ‘You tell me,’ he invited.

  She breathed in air that was fragranced partly by the salt of the ocean and partly by his masculinity, and her body responded, her heart pounding with the intensity of her pulse.

  ‘I travel a lot for work.’ She pushed aside the troubling memories of her childhood, but a frown lingered on her face. ‘But always to places like this. I’m in Milan so often, I might as well be a local.’

  His expression could almost have been described as triumphant. She continued before he could speak.

  ‘But in each of these cities I make it my mission to find the gardens.’

  He leaned forward a little, surprise obvious on his features, and she felt a burst of satisfaction at having confounded his expectations in some small way. ‘The gardens?’ he repeated, as though perhaps something had been lost in translation.

  She made a noise of assent. ‘The gardens. And, whenever I can, I slip away and lose myself in their little corners and hidden pockets. I walk amongst the flowers and I smell them and touch them.’ She smiled, her tone conspiratorial. ‘Sometimes, I even pick them.’

  His own eyes lifted a little at the corners.

  ‘Just one or two, and I take them back to my hotel and put them in a little glass on the window ledge so I can look at them for as long as I’m in town. So it’s not like they’re dying in vain,’ she added with another smile, her blood heating when his eyes thudded to the twist of her lips.

  ‘This I didn’t realise.’

  ‘I feel far more at home in gardens than I do in the city,’ she said with a lift of her shoulders. ‘I always have done.’

  ‘Yet you live in London?’

  She slid her gaze back to his face, to those eyes that saw too much. ‘It’s a good base for someone who travels a lot.’

  He dipped his head in silent concession, but when their eyes met she felt a rush of adrenalin, a surge of need that almost overpowered her.

  ‘I ordered dinner. It’s in the kitchen.’ She stood a little abruptly, so she took a moment to calm her flustered nerves. ‘I won’t be long.’

  She’d half-expected him to follow behind, to pursue the line of questioning, given that she hadn’t really answered him, but he didn’t, and she was glad. Glad for space, glad to have room to breathe, to gather her thoughts.

  A tray of seafood had been expertly prepared. Oysters, scampi, scallops, calamari. She lifted the stainless steel lid from the platter and moved back to the balcony, her heart giving a little skip when her eyes landed on Cesare once more. He sat with his legs wide, his frame relaxed in the chair, his eyes fixed on the view over the bay, so she had a few seconds to observe him in that moment of unguarded repose. Except he wasn’t unguarded; not really.

  There was a tightness and readiness about him that seemed ever-present. As though he never really relaxed. Even his time spent in Alaska was probably spent like this—tightly coiled and ready to pounce.

  He turned to her almost immediately so she skidded her eyes away and pasted a smile on her face, placing the platter of seafood in the middle of the table. Before she could take her seat, his hand curved around her wrist, holding her steady. His eyes searched hers thoughtfully, probing, reading, and she held her breath without realising it.

  She wondered if he was going to speak, but he didn’t. He simply looked, and she felt as though the earth was tipping a little, making it hard to keep her balance.

  It was the work of an instant. He dropped her hand, smiled in that way he had that was more a replica of a smile than a genuine look of pleasure, and turned his attention to the food.

  ‘When is your fashion show?’

  She blinked, her mind temporarily blank before she recalled the Ferante e Caro runway she was committed to take part in.

  ‘Saturday afternoon.’

  He nodded. ‘In London?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Silence. She watched as he lifted an oyster from the tray, ate it then placed the shell down. ‘So why did you come with Laurence that evening?’

  ‘I told you, he thought it would be—’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s why he asked you. Why did you accept?’

  ‘Because he asked me to,’ she said after a slight pause, spearing a piece of calamari with her fork. ‘And because he’s my cousin.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘It’s more than that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You were anxious about the hedge fund.’

  She bit down on her lower lip. She was wary—wary of saying too much, of betraying Laurence’s trust. And yet she felt herself wanting to open up to Cesare. She trusted him in a way she wasn’t sure he deserved.
‘Yes.’ It was a closed off answer.

  She reached for her champagne, sipping it slowly. Then she added, ‘He’s worked hard. I didn’t want to see him lose it all.’

  She could practically see the wheels turning. ‘But you could have afforded to bail him out.’

  ‘Half a billion pounds’ worth?’ She refuted that with a grimace. ‘Not anything like it.’

  ‘Your parents, then? Your aunt and uncle?’

  Briefly, her eyes swept shut, and she saw her parents. She saw them as they were now, so pale and weak, worn out by grief and its relentless toll, weathered by life in a way only those who had walked a path like theirs could understand. And, out of nowhere, she saw them as they’d been then.

  Before.

  Vibrant and happy, always throwing parties and entertaining, laughing and dancing in the corridors of Almer Hall.

  ‘No.’ Her answer, again, was short. ‘No one could help him.’

  It undoubtedly sparked more questions, but suddenly she was a little worn out herself. This had been a foolish idea.

  She was trying to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, and to what end? This was what it was.

  A short relationship—no, not even that. She didn’t know the word to describe their agreement, but she inherently understood its limitations and the fact it wasn’t a real relationship.

  With a heart that was suddenly heavy and a body that was as much Cesare’s as ever, she moved around to Cesare’s side of the table. ‘On second thought, I think we should eat dinner later.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE WAS TRANSFORMED.

  Cesare watched as Jemima moved the length of the runway, her body like silk floating in the breeze, so elegant and effortless, her steps more like a ballet, a glide. The appeal of the clothes was dwarfed by her beauty, their design made insignificant by her universal appeal.

  Her hair had been braided and looped around her head, and she wore subtle make-up: perfect, immaculate. She was irrefutably stunning, but from where he sat in the front row he ached to reach up and pull her hair loose, to tousle it about her shoulders and smudge her lipstick, as he loved seeing it after their kisses. He wanted to kiss her until her mascara had been blinked loose and her cheeks were pink despite the foundation. He wanted her to be uccellina again, not this—Jemima Woodcroft.