by Lucy Ellis
He didn’t wipe the rim, just took a swig. Ava watched the muscles working in his throat and tried not to stare.
It was so unfair. Everything about him made her want to jump him.
She literally felt him smile as he recapped the bottle.
‘I would never have slept with you if I’d been in the right frame of mind that night,’ she muttered, more to herself than to him.
He stilled, and the easy amusement was suddenly long gone.
‘Cosa?’
She hadn’t meant it, but she discovered she couldn’t back down. If she did he would see too much—her fear of intimacy—and he’d put two and two together. She feared that exposure more than his anger.
‘You heard me.’ She avoided his eyes. ‘I was upset and not thinking straight and you were in like a shot.’
‘I think you should get your facts straight, Signorina Lord,’ he drawled, those golden eyes watchful, ‘before you start making accusations.’
Ava swallowed hard, staring past him, chin up. She so didn’t want to have this conversation here and now. It was too intimate, there was nowhere to run to, and he was right beside her—seeing too much, holding the power to slice and dice her fragile ego.
‘You threw yourself at me,’ he observed, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Ava flinched.
‘You did it last night, and you did it seven years ago,’ he continued remorselessly. ‘It seems to be your modus operandi, tesoro. I’m guessing I shouldn’t feel flattered.’
As she absorbed the impact of his opinion of her the motorbike’s engine roared into life again and Ava gripped the hard column of his waist.
He didn’t say anything else all the way down the mountain—because, really, what more was there to say?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE HOTEL, LIKE EVERYTHING about Gianluca Benedetti, was not what she’d expected. It was subtle and charming and took advantage of the best water views in Positano.
As he crossed the foyer, shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves shoved up to the elbows, hand-tooled shoes dusty and scuffed, Gianluca still managed to look like an advertisement for a high-end men’s fragrance—one of those where a guy came out of water or walked down a beach or gazed knowingly over the naked body of a lithe, bronzed woman.
Ava was all too aware she looked like a woman who had been dragged backwards through the underbrush.
A posse of beautiful leggy girls on their way out fluttered and smiled and broke into a flurry of giggles as Gianluca held the door for them.
Completely unnecessary, as far as Ava could see. They had arms and hands, didn’t they?
One of the women stopped to speak to him. Did he have to linger?
Flirt.
Her heart started to pound, and not in a good way. Well, that was fine. She could look after herself.
She folded her arms and looked around. She spotted the welcome desk and headed over.
She was just handing over her passport when a deep voice intruded, ‘She has a room, Pietro.’
Ava ignored him.
‘As I was saying, I would like a single.’
But the desk clerk was looking over her shoulder. Frustrated, Ava rounded on Gianluca. ‘Could you butt out?’
He merely looked at her, with stone-cold disapproval, and Ava’s bravado-meter dipped.
Because she was behaving this way for the most obvious reason. She was jealous.
‘Notice me!’ was what she wanted to say. But what would he notice? A tired, grubby, irritable woman who had done nothing but snipe at him all day.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sounding stiff and all wrong yet again. ‘That was rude of me—’
‘It’s been a long day already, Ava, and I have business to attend to,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ll have a car made ready for you in the morning to take you on to Rome, or Ragusa. Whichever you prefer.’
What she preferred was to put her head on his shoulder and apologise for every horrible thing she’d said today, to have him cradle her face with his hands again as he had on the bike, and not to look at other women.
That was never going to happen now, and she was feeling too tired and sorry for herself to get mad about it.
In the lift he took out his phone, which was as good a message as any from where she stood. Enclosed in a small space with him, she couldn’t help inhaling the scent of him. He smelled so good, even after all the tramping around, the bumping through underbrush on that motorcycle. He smelled of hot male skin and grass and salt and a little bit of petrol fumes from the bike.
It was a heady combination on him, but probably not so entrancing on her, and she held herself even more stiffly, folding her arms, wishing she could just vanish into merciful invisibility.
A furtive glance at their reflection in the mirrored walls only reinforced the contrast, and Ava realised in a rush of self-actualisation that he was right. These clothes did her no favours.
When had she started dressing this way? When had not wanting to draw attention to herself become a kind of self-obliteration? Bernard had said a woman in her position, with her figure, needed to be careful. So she was careful. High-necked blouses. No skirts. Nothing that would draw attention to her femininity.
No wonder it was no skin off Gianluca’s nose if she was in Ragusa or Rome or wherever.
On their floor, he keyed open a door and stepped back to allow her inside.
She had expected something like the luxury sports car he drove—state-of-the-art, a little bit flashy, lots of grunt. A Gianluca Benedetti signature.
Instead he’d booked her into a boutique hotel which seemed to be something out of a Grimm’s fairy tale, with wood inlay on the walls, cool patterned parquet underfoot and a mix of charming antique and quirky contemporary furniture. She took in the arched and vaulted doorways and windows, which would make the occupants feel they were inside something not of this era and quite wonderful. Unexpectedly she felt close to tears.
‘This is my room?’ she asked in wonder, turning around with an open look on her face. She remembered he had said something about it belonging to a friend. She wondered if she could use it as a conversation-opener, to show him she could be as charming, approachable, friendly as those silly girls downstairs.
She cleared her throat and what came out was, ‘I really must insist on paying—’
The door shut in her face with a neat click.
For a moment Ava didn’t move.
He had never actually been rude to her before, and a part of her brain said it was clearly another message. He had held that door wide for those girls. He had smiled and lingered like Prince Charming. Then turned around and slammed a door in her face.
Yes, it was difficult to ignore that door now several inches from her face.
She wasn’t sure how she got to the bathroom. She wasn’t really aware she was taking off her clothes until the buttons felt fiddly under her fingers. When they wouldn’t shift fast enough she began ripping her shirt off. It wasn’t as if she had to worry about ruining it—she had a thousand more lined up in her closet at home...
She extended her trousers scarcely more care, because really they didn’t deserve it.
Standing in her underwear, she gave her reflection in the mirror a good look. Although of simple white cotton, the set cost more than some people made in a week of work.
There was no use denying that after Gianluca had swept in to her hotel room this morning she’d set aside her usual granny undies to shimmy her way into these.
What a fraud she was.
She hit the shower cubicle, snapping on the jets. The water pounded down on her head as she lathered herself up with the luxury vanilla and clove-scented soap—as far from her own scentless plain bar of soap in her toiletries bag as could be. She washed her dust-laden hair with the complementary products and waited for the warm water to work its magic on her tense muscles.
Instead she had to do battle against the memory of hard hips and thighs between her legs, the feel
of a long, broad and muscular back, the clench of rock-hard abdominal muscles under her hands.
The ache low in her pelvis taunted her.
What are you going to do about it, Ava? whispered a hateful voice. He thinks you’re uptight and frustrated and in need of a shrink.
She hung her head and let the water cascade down.
It was no use.
He was a man who dated models and actresses and hosted private parties at ritzy bars where girls wearing almost nothing draped themselves over him... She was a woman who made lists in her head during sex, when she wasn’t sucking in her tummy and trying to hide her bottom.
It would never work.
Yet he was also a man who flew helicopters in war zones, and had cared enough to try and calm her fears of the helicopter. She lifted her head. And when it had come to getting her out of a bind today he’d come through.
She tried to imagine Bernard with her on the hillside. She would have been responsible for getting them both down.
Ava snapped off the flow of water and stepped out before she drowned herself. She was feeling truly wretched by the time she’d towel-dried her hair, rubbed lotion into her skin and gone in search of fresh clothes.
She couldn’t quite bring herself to pull on another pair of long trousers, and it wasn’t as if she was going anywhere, so she stepped into the boy-leg shorts she slept in and a blue stretchy cotton camisole before brushing out her hair.
She’d order room service and phone the office, check in with her assistant, PJ.
Except it was the wee hours of the morning in Australia.
Which meant, robbed of her go-to, she would have to find something else to keep her mind occupied.
The rest of the afternoon stretched out before her...and the rest of her fearful, boxed-up life which she had come to Italy to change.
She plopped down on the bed and looked around unhappily. She’d come to the conclusion she’d stuffed this up. But was she woman enough to fix it?
* * *
Gianluca only half listened to the earnest conversation of his lawyer as he sat at a table with his legals and a Russian oligarch.
Most women would be grateful to be dropped onto the Italian Riviera for a couple days of R & R. In point of fact he could think of several just off the cuff who would brawl with one another to have the chance of spending a couple of days in his company in these surroundings... He was known for being generous. He didn’t begrudge a woman a little shopping, a little pampering—it always made them far more relaxed and amenable when it came to the point for which they were both here.
Si, there were many women who would appreciate this gesture.
Clearly Ava wasn’t one of them.
She had a sharp tongue, that female, and no sense at all of her role as a woman—to smooth the awkward moment, to expect his assistance.
Instead she pushed him to treat her as he would a man—but what she didn’t understand was that if a man had behaved as she had today he’d be out cold on that hillside right now, not sitting nice and tight in a luxury hotel.
Basta. He’d spent too much valuable time thinking about this. He’d done his duty by her. He could live with the papers’ stories about his supposed latest squeeze—he was used to it, after all. As far as he was concerned there was no need for them to see one another again.
Besides, there was a cure for this. This was Positano. There were beautiful, available women everywhere. Fiery, opinionated Italian women, who knew how to handle a man, knew when to challenge and when to lay down their weapons and offer up some much appreciated docility.
He observed one or two of these paragons as he sipped his vodka.
The Russian, who had flown in for this one-hour face-to-face and would be flying out afterwards to join his mistress on his super-yacht at St Tropez, followed suit.
The lawyers continued to buzz.
When the business of the day was set aside the Russian leaned casually back in his chair and said in his soft, thickly accented Italian, ‘Fly out with me this evening, Gianluca. We can look at the plans over dinner.’
The plans. Drinks and dinner. A bevy of the beautiful girls who travelled the world with one of Europe’s richest men. The oligarch was infamous for his parties. But Gianluca’s thoughts flickered not to tanned skin and lithe, flexible female bodies, but to Australia’s answer to Gina Lollobrigida, wagging her finger at him and lecturing him about Seventies-era James Bond. He wondered what kind of response the Russian would get from her.
Which was when he laughed for the first time since she’d accused him of being a playboy. Which was when he knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere. What he wanted was right here in Positano.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AVA SAT UP GROGGILY. She was in the middle of the bed and a quilt she couldn’t remember drawing over herself was crumpled under her hand.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She remembered lying down and feeling so lousy it had almost hurt to take her next breath. She rubbed her eyes listlessly. Clearly she’d underestimated the toll the day had taken on her.
The quality of light drifting through the windows was different—softer. Some time must have passed. Ava froze. There was a sports coat draped over one of the high-backed chairs, and keys and a phone on the table. Even as she kicked her legs free of the quilt she listened. Running water. It was the shower.
Ava propelled herself off the bed, her hands going to her hair, madly smoothing it down.
He was in her shower—their shower. Were they sharing a room? He hadn’t said anything about sharing a room. Typical! It was a huge presumption on his behalf. Especially when he knew her feelings on the subject...
Ava caught herself mid-tirade.
Her feelings had changed.
Somehow, at some point coming down that mountain, her feelings had changed.
And she was doing it again. Working herself up to avoid facing her fears.
She subsided back onto the bed.
He’d come back to her.
She bit her lip and smiled the smallest smile.
Think, Ava, think. Remember what he said about you being sexually frustrated and highly strung? You could show him. You could make him eat those words.
There was only one teeny, tiny problem—and, given he was a sex god, he might not even notice.
She wasn’t very good at it.
Sex.
But maybe there was an opportunity here for her...
He had all the skill.
She could take advantage of that.
She was here in this beautiful spot, with one of the sexiest men in the world. She remembered very successful sex the last time. Was there ever going to be a more perfect opportunity than this?
Gianluca Benedetti wasn’t a man who did deep and meaningful. Knowing that going in, she wouldn’t attach herself. It would be sex. If she could just relax and follow the dictates of her body, not her conscience...nor her heart...she would be fine.
Just fine.
She eyed the bathroom door. Perhaps if she just checked.
Swallowing hard, she approached the door, carefully laid her ear against the woodwork and listened. Definitely water...and another sound—was he singing?
Somehow the idea that he was singing lifted her spirits. He couldn’t be very angry with her if he could hold a tune. Maybe she could just duck her head in and say— What, Ava? I’m sorry for being defensive. I just hadn’t worked out what I wanted, and now I have. I want you. I want you so much I think I might die of it.
The worst he could do was say no.
He would probably say no.
Would he say no?
The shower partition would be fogged. She wouldn’t even look. And if, say, she glimpsed the shadow of his body behind the opaque glass she’d hardly be breaking any great taboos. Everyone knew men were a lot less modest about these things than women.
Any further reasoning dissolved as she was hit by steam, a partition that wasn’t opaque at all, and six feet six inche
s of naked male, with spread shoulders, a long, broad back and taut, streamlined buttocks above long, powerful legs.
Gianluca stood with his face in the water stream, drenching his hair to black, and he was singing. His voice was a deep, rich baritone, and of course the Italian made everything so much more resonant.
He was just about the sexiest thing Ava had ever seen.
If she backed out now he’d never know she’d been there, but she simply couldn’t take her eyes off him.
She told herself she was thirty-one years old. She’d seen plenty of men naked in showers... All right, two. Two perfectly nice, athletic, healthy men of around six feet—average men.
He turned around, eyes closed, throwing back his head under the spray, drawing one arm up to soap the back of his neck. The breath stuck in Ava’s throat as her eyes dropped to the prize.
Gianluca Benedetti wasn’t average.
He opened his eyes and hot molten gold stared back at her through black lashes stuck together with droplets of water. His gaze dropped to her unfettered breasts and Ava just knew her nipples were doing all sorts of interesting things as her body went into meltdown.
She drank in his olive skin, the dark shadow of chest hair arrowing down to the hard, compact ridges of his abdomen, and his beautiful penis, swelling, darkening with arousal before her eyes.
How can he find me attractive in my boy-leg shorts when I don’t have stick-thin legs?
It was one of those puzzles, like the mystery of the Mary Celeste, destined to go unsolved. But there was no doubt he was looking her over with an expression that would have put any woman’s body issues to rest.
He said something basic in Italian and Ava gave a little gasp as naked, dripping, pumping testosterone, he picked her up as if she was a featherweight and dragged her into the shower, making a cushion of his arm for her as he flattened her against the tiles and kissed her. Just like that. His tongue was in her mouth, his stubble was rubbing against her skin, and her lips felt caressed and devoured all at the same time. She hadn’t known kissing could be like this.
He dwarfed her with the size of his shoulders. They were a wall she couldn’t climb. But she wound her arms up around his neck anyway.