Mary Lyons - The Italian Seduction

by The Italian Seduction (lit)

  Despite having had many glamorous girlfriends in the past, he’d never yet met the one woman with whom he wished to share the rest of his life—to be the mother of his children and—a very important point as far as he was con­cerned—someone of whom his beloved mamma would ap­prove.

  It might seem strange that, having reached the age of thirty-eight, he still regarded it as important that his mother should have a good opinion of his future wife. But she was, without doubt, one of the cleverest and shrewdest women of his acquaintance. Which was one of the reasons why he’d never taken any of his girlfriends to the family home in Tuscany.

  The fact that his mother had clearly disliked Gina, whom she’d met when staying with him in Milan last year, hadn’t helped matters, of course. Especially just lately, when a distinct change had suddenly come over his girlfriend, who now seemed almost obsessed with the urge to marry him. Even forcing himself to be unkind, and bluntly pointing out that he wasn’t in love with her, had done little to clear up the situation.

  Gina was now making constant references to the fact that her ‘time-clock’ was running out, creating dramatic scenes and weeping all over his carpets. Exactly why she should be so very keen to nail him down he had no idea. But, while he must obviously end the affair as soon as possible, it was equally obvious that he couldn’t just dump someone with whom he’d had such a long relationship.

  Maybe he ought to buy her a new apartment, as a parting gift? Although, knowing Gina, Lorenzo told himself sar­donically, she would undoubtedly prefer a large, highly ex­pensive piece of jewellery, and a flashy car!

  Unfortunately, he’d been far too busy lately to spend the time either sorting out or resolving the situation. Something which he must clearly do as soon as possible, on his return to Milan.

  Having come to a sensible, rational decision, Lorenzo opened his eyes, and noted with surprise that they were now travelling slowly through a small country village.

  That’s odd, he told himself with a frown. He was almost sure ...no, he was certain that they hadn’t taken this route earlier this morning.

  ‘I don’t remember this village.’ He turned his head to gaze at Antonia. ‘Are we returning to London by a different road?’

  ‘No. After the events of today, I didn’t think you’d want ‘, to face a long journey,’ she told him. ‘So, I phoned my brother and his wife, and arranged for us to spend the rest of the weekend with them.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘You’re clearly feeling tired and weary. Which is why I reckoned you needed a hot bath and a comfortable bed as soon as possible,’ she added hurriedly, bracing herself for the strong objections of her passenger, who appeared to be in a really foul mood.

  She was quite right—he was.

  In fact, Lorenzo found he was deriving considerable sat­isfaction from being able—at last!---to give voice to his long list of complaints. Freely expressing his views on her suitability as a bodyguard, he then turned his attention to those aspects of her character which he found particularly annoying. Specifically, her unbelievably arrogant, dictato­rial and high-handed attitude to men in general—and him­self in particular!

  Antonia concentrated on her driving, deliberately closing her ears and ignoring the storm of rage filling the vehicle.

  Weary, bruised, and in need of a good night’s sleep, Lorenzo was clearly at the end of his tether. Which was why she’d had no compunction about deciding to take him to her brother’s house, in a village only a few miles outside Cambridge.

  ‘Feeling better now?’ she asked, slowing down and turn­ing off the road, before turning to give him a wry smile as he finally ran out of steam.

  There was a long, heavy silence as she drove through a pair of tall iron gates, and on down a long gravelled drive, before Lorenzo finally gave a snort of harsh, rueful laugh­ter.

  ‘Yes ...you utterly horrible woman—I am!’ he admitted with another grim laugh as she finally brought the vehicle to a halt outside a large mansion. ‘But don’t push your luck, hmm?T

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she murmured, which produced another cynical grunt of laughter as she switched off the engine, and turned towards the man sitting beside her. ‘OK...here we are,’ she said. ‘Just to put you in the picture: my brother’s name is Tom Simpson, and he’s a professor of medieval history at Cambridge University.

  ‘His wife’s name is Flavia,’ she continued. ‘Not only is she very nice, but she also happens to be very wealthy in her own right. Which, since university professors do not earn high salaries, is how they come to be living in a house of this size,’ Antonia explained, getting out of the car and coming around to open the door for Lorenzo.

  ‘By the way,’ she added, ‘I know that you’re tired and fed up. But I would be grateful if you could make an effort to be pleasant to them, at least.’

  Not deigning to take any notice of such impertinence—­how could she possibly imagine that he would be guilty of such crass bad manners?—Lorenzo unwound his tall figure from the small sports car. Stretching his limbs, he gazed up at the building before him.

  The setting sun was casting a crimson glow over the tiled roof of the very large old Jacobean manor house which, from its mullioned windows and the big front door, heavily studded with iron bolts, had clearly remained unchanged for the past four hundred years.

  With the sound of pigeons cooing in the nearby tall oak trees, and the sight of sheep contentedly nibbling the rich green grass of the parkland surrounding the house, it was a restful, harmonious scene of peace and tranquillity. Lorenzo took a deep breath, feeling himself slowly begin­ning to relax, at last.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WITH Antonia leading the way, they were halfway across the gravel forecourt when the large oak front door was wrenched open.

  A moment later, a woman was running towards them, with her arms outstretched and speaking so fast that it was a moment or two before Lorenzo could make out what she was saying.

  ‘Oh, my dears! I’ve never heard anything quite so awful! We’ve just been watching it all on the local news. Those students! What will they think of next?’ she cried, barely drawing breath as she quickly embraced Antonia.

  ‘And you must be Lorenzo!’ she exclaimed, turning swiftly towards him.

  ‘Yes. This is very kind of you, but...’

  ‘You poor man! Antonia’s told us all about it. I’m so sorry this should have happened on your trip to England­—hardly what one wants on a holiday, is it?’ she added, slip­ping a hand through his left arm and looking with concern at his other wrist, still bandaged and held in a sling against his chest.

  ‘My dear—how awful! I do hope that you aren’t in too much pain?’

  ‘No... not at all. I...’

  ‘And you must be so fed up. I know what hospitals are like,’ she continued, happily ignoring anything he might say as she carefully led him through the front door and into the large, spacious hall. ‘It’s all hard beds and nasty syrin­ges, isn’t it? The poor nurses are paid an absolute pittance, and run off their feet. The young doctors are totally over­worked, and fall asleep all over the place. While the fat-cat consultants hardly look at you before demanding quite outrageous fees! And no one has the faintest idea of how to make anyone feel really comfortable, have they?’

  Just beginning to wonder whether that blow to his head, earlier in the day, had actually left him brain-damaged, Lorenzo caught Antonia’s eye.

  He was much relieved to note that she was regarding her voluble sister-in-law with a wide grin of fond amusement. So, it looked as if his mind was still in good working order, and that this really was his hostess’s normal mode of speech.

  By the time he found himself seated in a deep, comfort­able armchair, sipping a hot cup of tea and being pressed to have yet another slice from the deliciously moist, large chocolate cake, Lorenzo was beginning to think that he might survive the next twenty-four hours, after all.

  In fact, he was finding it remarkably relaxing to hav
e this slim, petite and very pretty titian-haired woman sym­pathising with his recent ordeal, and clearly determined to try and make her guest feel as much at ease as possible.

  A sharp contrast to her sister-in-law, he thought, turning a caustic eye in the younger woman’s direction. Flavia, who was clearly hanging on his every word, obviously under­stood the art of soothing a man’s ruffled feathers.

  Antonia, who had no problem in accurately reading his mind, was deriving some considerable amusement from the situation.

  Like every man she’d ever met, Lorenzo was clearly en­joying having a great fuss made of him. But just wait until he’d sampled dinner tonight. Because if he thought that Flavia—who had to be the world’s worst cook—had made that delicious chocolate cake with her own fair hands he was sadly mistaken!

  She dearly loved Flavia—quite the nicest of her three sister-in-laws—but Antonia had no illusions about the older woman. A highly successful artist, specialising in portraits of well-known men and women, Flavia might have con­vinced Lorenzo that she was hanging on his every word. But Antonia knew that she was barely listening to what her guest was saying.

  Those wide green eyes, staring so fixedly up into his face, were far more likely to be noting the planes and an­gles of his high cheekbones. In fact, Antonia was almost certain that the older woman was, right this minute, con­sidering which mixture of oil paints would best reproduce the various flesh tones of his tanned skin.

  Maybe she ought to have warned Lorenzo that Flavia would undoubtedly drag him off to her studio, as soon as possible, unable to resist experimenting with a fresh sub­ject?

  But no, Antonia told herself quickly. Even she was pre­pared to admit that he’d had a really rough day. It would be far better to let the poor man have a good night’s sleep before the full glory of Flavia’s obsession with her art—­and her lack of even the most basic housekeeping skills­—burst upon him in all their glory!

  Temporarily distracted from her urgent desire to draw Lorenzo by the entry into the room of her husband, Flavia quickly introduced Tom to their visitor.

  ‘This poor man has had a simply dreadful time,’ she said as Antonia jumped up to give her brother a kiss. ‘We must make sure that he has a really restful time here in the coun­tryside.

  ‘London is so noisy and full of car fumes, I don’t know how you can bear it!’ she added, turning to Lorenzo with a warm, sympathetic smile. ‘I do hope you will feel able to stay here with us—for the rest of the weekend, at least.’

  Giving her husband a quick nudge—dear Tom was to­tally immersed, at the moment, in the book he was writing about medieval warfare, and hardly knew what day it was-she was pleased when he, too, urged their guest to make himself at home, for as long as he liked.

  ‘I’d be very pleased to accept your kind invitation,’ Lorenzo murmured, clearly not able to face the thought of having to get back into the car for the journey to London. ‘There is, however, a slight problem,’ he added, and ex­plained that neither he nor Antonia had brought a change of clothing with them.

  Luckily, it was Antonia—really such a clever girl, Flavia told herself, giving her sister-in-law a beaming smile—who pointed out that, while the two men had quite different physiques, they were both slim and approximately the same height.

  ‘I think he could well fit into some of your jeans, shirts and sweaters,’ Antonia pointed out to her brother, before turning to Lorenzo.

  ‘This is practically my second home. So finding myself something to wear isn’t a problem. And I don’t suppose you feel like being madly social, and meeting any of the local gentry. So, providing that Tom’s clothes are a rea­sonably decent fit, it won’t matter too much if you aren’t looking your usual smart self, will it?’

  Agreeing that, no, it didn’t matter a bit, Lorenzo will­ingly accepted the offer of his host’s spare clothing, and his kind invitation to spend the weekend. In any case, he was feeling far too exhausted to contemplate leaving to­night.

  Woken the next morning at an unearthly hour, by the sound of a blood-curdling screech just outside his window, Lorenzo leapt out of bed, moving swiftly across the room and throwing open the mullioned casement window. Only to find himself staring down at a large peacock strutting back and forth across the lawn.

  Muttering various oaths under his breath, mostly con­cerning the mad British and their inexplicable fondness for strange animals, he staggered back to bed, falling asleep again almost immediately.

  Woken again some hours later by a knock at the door, he opened his eyes to see Antonia entering the room, car­rying a tray in her hands.

  ‘I hope you’re feeling better today?’ she murmured, set­ting the tray down on a table beside the bed. ‘How’s that sore wrist of yours?’

  ‘It seems fine,’ he said, glancing down at his bandaged limb as he raised himself up against the soft feather pillows, realising that he did indeed feel very much better. ‘Al­though, to be honest,’ he added with a grin, ‘I could have done without being woken so early this morning by that damned bird!’

  ‘It’s a flaming nuisance, isn’t it?’ Antonia agreed with a sympathetic, if slightly nervous smile.

  It was proving difficult to keep her eyes away from the large amount of wonderfully smooth, tanned skin covering Lorenzo’s strong arms and broad shoulders—not to men­tion his wide, muscular chest, liberally sprinkled with black, curly hair.

  This man should be stamped with a government health warning, she told herself crossly. So much erotically entic­ing male flesh was obviously highly dangerous!

  ‘It was a peacock I saw out on the lawn?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, it was,’ she muttered, quickly making an effort to pull herself together. ‘Unfortunately, Tom and Flavia were given the peacock as a thank-you present from an American guest,’ she added, strolling across the room towards the window. ‘Although quite why he chose such a bizarre gift no one quite knows.’

  ‘Not my idea of the perfect present for one’s hostess,’ he agreed with a grin, his gaze travelling over Antonia’s trim figure, dressed in a crisp, short-sleeved white linen shirt, tucked into a pair of tight blue jeans.

  It was the first time he’d seen her wearing casual clothes, and it occurred to him that she was looking much younger and far more relaxed than when formally attired in a smart London suit.

  ‘Unfortunately Flavia can’t persuade anyone else to take on the peacock—and is far too soft-hearted to strangle the beastly bird!’ Antonia told him, leaning casually against the window, feeling more relaxed now that she’d put some dis­tance between herself and the man in the bed.

  While she’d been speaking, Lorenzo had been cautiously eyeing the contents of the tray. After having been presented at dinner last night with the most dreadful, utterly inedible meal he’d ever had the misfortune to come across, he had no expectation that breakfast was likely to be any better.

  However, as he noted the freshly squeezed orange juice, his nostrils absorbing the delicious aroma of newly made coffee, he decided that maybe he might not starve during the weekend, after all.

  ‘You can relax!’ Antonia’s eyes gleamed with laughter, once again accurately reading his mind. ‘Flavia isn’t in the slightest bit interested in food, and never has breakfast her­self. So we normally help ourselves. It’s generally guar­anteed to be the only meal you can get in this house that’s worth eating,’ she added ruefully.

  ‘Yes ...er...that dinner last night was ...well...to be to­tally frank, my dear Antonia, I have to say that I have never had such an appalling meal!’ Lorenzo confessed with a slight laugh.

  She grinned. ‘Oh, yes—everyone knows that Flavia’s cooking is absolutely atrocious. I think it must be the ar­tistic temperament,’ she added reflectively. ‘She really does try and do her best, but the poor darling had clearly for­gotten to cook the chicken breasts—or to remember that mashed potatoes need mashing...’

  ‘Please!’ He raised a hand. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to try
and forget the whole, utterly horrible experience.’ ‘I don’t blame you!’

  ‘Although,’ he added dryly, ‘I now find myself wonder­ing whether your sister’s American guest might not have taken a subtle revenge on his hostess.’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Well, if he had sampled Flavia’s version of raw chicken supreme, he might have deliberately presented her with the largest uncooked bird he could find.’

  ‘Now, that really is an idea, isn’t it?’ Antonia gave a hoot of laughter as she walked back across the room to pour him a cup of coffee. ‘However, you can relax.’ She grinned down at him. ‘Because I made the orange juice and coffee only a few minutes ago. And I reckon you’re fairly safe with fresh toast and marmalade.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said quickly, catching hold of her arm as she turned to leave the room. ‘I wanted to have a quick word with you. And, since I’m not sure about the arrange­ments in this house, now might be as good a time as any,’ he added, indicating that he wished her to sit down on the bed beside him.

  Hesitating for a moment, Antonia gave a slight shrug, before slowly lowering herself down on to the mattress.

  Trying to ignore the close proximity of so much warm bare flesh, now only inches away from her own figure, she suspected that Lorenzo was not, in fact, wearing anything at all beneath the thick feather duvet.

  Not that it mattered one way or the other, of course. She was hardly a nervous virgin, likely to scream at the sight of a naked man. All the same... she definitely wasn’t happy about the situation. Mainly because—let’s face it, she told herself grirnly, every single time she found herself in close contact with Lorenzo something weird seemed to happen.

  Maybe it was nothing to do with him. Maybe it was all in her own head. But even now, when she was fully deter­mined to remain cool, calm and collected, she could almost physically feel the insidious, highly dangerous tentacles of his overwhelming sex appeal slowly wrapping themselves around her nervous figure.