by Joanne Walsh
She swallowed again and closed her eyes. A little trickle of sweat ran down between her breasts. Why, oh why, after more than five years of trying to forget him, of occasionally feeling like she hated him, did she still crave him physically?
She thought about last night. It had been a revelation to hear him bare his real feelings about her losing the baby like that. It had made her realize he had grieved in his own way, more than he cared to show. Her heart had opened up a little again to him because she grasped he hadn’t been totally cold and immune to their loss. But, he still stubbornly refused to admit to his affair with Claudia d’Ollio.
At that moment, she heard him stir. Her eyes flew open and she turned back and lay down, hoping he hadn’t known she’d been watching him.
“Good morning, piccola, did you sleep well?” he asked sleepily from behind her. She felt his hand lightly caress her flank and she held herself very still. His touch was way too intimate for two people who were no longer involved with one another . . . yet she could feel her body responding to it and betraying her.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied primly, struggling to get herself under control. “I was a little surprised to find you here next to me when I awoke. Was there any reason for that?”
She heard him give a small chuckle. “I must have drunk too much Barolo, taken a wrong turn and ended up in your bed, instead of my own.”
“You didn’t seem drunk to me last night,” she countered suspiciously.
“I had a couple more glasses after you’d gone to bed, cara.” He lightly kissed an exposed patch on her shoulder where her pajama top had slid down when she’d turned away from him. The touch of his lips on her skin sparked like a live wire in a rainstorm. She clenched her fists to absorb the shock waves. No!
“You don’t mind me being here, do you?” he asked, raising himself up on one elbow and leaning over her, brushing her hair away from her face. “Are you still cross with me?”
She continued to lie rigidly on her side and stared straight ahead, hoping that he couldn’t see the hot blush suffusing her in the gloomy dawn of the winter’s morning. Reminders of her misery and anger last night pricked at her conscience. Yes, she was still cross with him; she’d been cross with him for the last five years. But right now, her brain and body were inexplicably consumed by still wanting the bones of him. “No,” she denied thickly. “What time is it?”
She felt him move his hand to look at his wristwatch. “Just after seven. I guess we’d better get up soon. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. It’s Christmas Eve, so the markets will be crowded. We’ve still got some shopping and preparing to do.” He gave her arm a squeeze and then heaved himself off the bed. Her eyes followed him as he went to the window and opened the blind. “Well, at least it has stopped snowing. Another couple of inches must have fallen overnight. I’ll go check the situation with transport, just in case the airport is planning to open up today, but I reckon nothing will be moving.” He turned to face her and she hungrily took in the full magnificence of him, his spectacular frame silhouetted against the window and looking so sexy in his rumpled shirt and jeans; he was thirty-five years old and in his prime. After all that had passed between them, she despaired at the lump of need that had formed in her throat, and that she still ached so much for him. He yawned and lazily ruffled his hair—the gesture making her lower abdomen dance and tumble—and went next door to the study.
She lay still under the covers and waited, trying to blank all thoughts of lust for him from her mind.
After a few minutes, he returned and stood by the bed. “No go, I’m afraid, cara. Everything is shut down and won’t reopen until at least the twenty-sixth. So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me and a visit to the markets today.”
She pursed her lips and inhaled deeply. “Okay. Thank goodness I packed my high-top sneakers,” she said, trying to sound normal and casual. “Can you lend me a couple of pairs of socks to keep my feet warm and dry? And maybe a sweater? My coat is quite lightweight.”
He nodded. “Sure I can. And we’ll make buying you a hat and a pair of gloves our first shopping task. A Christmas gift from me,” he added.
“Thanks,” she said shortly.
He stood for a moment and a charged silence weighed between them. Then he raised his eyebrows. “Oh, come on, it won’t be that bad. We’ll have some fun, tesoro.” He turned and walked across the room to the door. “I’m heading for the shower and then I’ll start breakfast.”
“Lorenzo,” she called out just before he exited. She sat up. “You weren’t drunk last night, were you?”
He stopped and threw her a heart-stopping smile. “No,” he said. “No, I wasn’t.”
When he’d gone, Ashlynne leapt out of bed and hurried into the ensuite bathroom, where she stripped off her nightwear and dived into the shower, setting it at tepid and letting the cooling water run over her until her internal thermostat had begun to function again at a regular temperature.
Her hair always required some detangling in the morning using her own Curly Bird products. Minutes later, deep in thought, she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror as she carefully teased out her damp curls. She was—what was that word her mother used?—discombobulated. Out of kilter, all over the place, kind of in bits. It really wasn’t surprising. In the last twenty-four hours, she had bumped into her ex-husband and reluctantly agreed to spend Christmas with him. She’d discovered that he, the man whom she cried over and tried so hard to stop craving, did have a heart, did have feelings about their lost baby after all. She tugged hard at a knot in her hair with her special ionic brush. And she still craved him as much as she ever did. It was as if someone had pulled the rug out from under her, as far as her feelings for Lorenzo were concerned. She’d been surviving for the last five years on her rage towards him, drawing on it for strength to get on with her life. But perhaps it hadn’t been entirely justified. The brush stilled in her hand. No, that wasn’t right. What about Claudia d’Ollio? She thought of the voluptuous brunette, with her slanting, sly caramel eyes, tan complexion and torrent of shiny rich-tawny-brown hair and her heart hardened again, her equilibrium balancing a little. He was still denying what happened with Claudia, the rat.
The feelings of overwhelming attraction, the sexual tension, weren’t they just a reflex? An old habit that was taking its time to die? Yes, that’s what it was: just a reflex. As long as she remembered that, she might survive.
She finished drying her hair with her special smoothing towel that didn’t cause her curls to frizz, then returned to the bedroom, where she pulled on her jeans and a spare T-shirt that she’d packed just in case, along with her sneakers, for her trip to Athens. Then she lightly applied some makeup and gathered her hair up into a messy bun on the top of her head. Grabbing her tablet and a notebook and pen on the way out, she made her way along to the kitchen, from where she could smell coffee brewing and hear the sounds of Lorenzo preparing breakfast.
“Hey,” she said brightly, walking into the room’s warmth.
Lorenzo looked up at her from where he was cutting hunks of bread. He had showered but hadn’t shaved, and had changed into a cream wool polo-neck sweater and black jeans, both items of clothing, she noted, hugging his lean, fit form and making him look like a male model on the Milan catwalk.
It’s just a reflex and you’re stuck here for Christmas. Make the best of it. She took a deep breath. “You know what? I’ve got some Greek honey in my suitcase that would go like a dream with that bread. I’ll just go and get it.”
She retrieved the jar from her room then returned to set it down on the kitchen table.
Lorenzo looked at her curiously as he placed a plate piled high with the bread and another small plate with butter on the table top. “Do you always carry honey with you in your luggage? Aren’t you sweet enough?”
“Ha, ha. It was intended for my mother as part of her Christmas gift, but she won’t be getting it now.”
“You could give it to her for New
Year.”
“If I’m home by then.” She turned and looked at the snowy kitchen window. “No, let’s enjoy it now. A little something from me to say thank-you for having me.”
They settled at the table and tucked into fresh bread with honey and conserves, fruit, delicious little pastries and milky lattes. Ashlynne switched on her tablet, hooked up to Lorenzo’s wi-fi and brought up a search engine.
“I’m looking for recipes for plum pudding,” she announced, typing in her request. “A nice light plum pudding,” she amended.
Lorenzo smiled over his coffee cup. “You really are determined to make one, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” she replied, scrolling the screen. Her eyes landed on a link to a recipe for a plum pudding cake. That sounded good. She clicked on it and a page on an American website called Bramble House loaded, with a recipe for a sweet and spicy plum cake intended for a Thanksgiving party, alongside one for pumpkin pie. It looked yummy and fairly easy to make, and as if it had the requisite lightness.
“Found something?” Lorenzo queried.
“Yes, I think so. It’s not a traditional British Christmas pudding, so you’ll be glad to hear there’s not a crumb of suet in sight. It’s a Thanksgiving recipe for plum pudding cake on an American site . . . Bramble House.” She clicked on the Home page. It’s in a place called Marietta, Montana, and it’s a popular venue for weddings and other celebrations. They do their own menus, based on traditional local fare. It looks a really lovely, cozy place.”
“Marietta, Montana. Sounds like cowboy country to me,” Lorenzo remarked. “Well, if it’s good enough for a rugged cattleman, it’s good enough for me.”
“You’ve never rounded up a cow in your life,” Ashlynne shot back, a mischievous grin playing around her lips. She could effortlessly slide back into teasing him. Just like she had done when they were first together . . .
“No,” he agreed, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “Just herds of unruly tourists in my hotels.”
“I thought your hotel group only specialized in luxury accommodations?”
“It does. And, to be fair, the guests usually come in small groups and pairs, and are never less than polite and well behaved.”
“From what I can recall of your hotels, I wouldn’t dare be anything less either,” Ashlynne commented wryly, and resumed the writing down of the recipe for the Bramble House plum pudding cake in her notebook. “How’s business?”
“Very good, considering that there is a continuing recession in Italy. The three La Serenissima boutique hotels in London, Sydney and New York are all booming.”
“La Serenissima—the Serene.” Ashlynne stopped her note-taking and rested her chin on her hand. “I always loved that name.”
“It’s the locals’ name for Venice too, of course,” he said. “La Serenissima, the city of canals and tranquillity. I just wanted to export a little of the magic.”
The way he said it and rested his eyes on her as he did so sent a shiver tingling down her spine. She quickly roused herself before something she hadn’t invited got the better of her and went back to her notebook, distracting herself now by making a shopping list. “I’ll need golden syrup for the cake,” she said in a practical voice, running her eyes over the ingredients, “and plums.”
“We’ll make that detour to the grocery store,” he told her.
“Okay.” Then, a thought struck her. “Oh my goodness! I must call my assistant at work and tell her I’m stranded. I also forgot to phone my mother and tell her I won’t make it back for Christmas at home.”
“Why don’t you use the landline phone in my study to call them,” he offered.
She accepted, appreciating the offer and hurried off down the hall. It was going to be odd explaining to her mum that she was spending the holiday with Lorenzo. But as it turned out, Linda O’Brien seem delighted to know that her daughter was safe and warm and with her ex-son-in-law, and even asked to speak to him. Lorenzo good-naturedly obliged and as Ashlynne listened to him woo Linda again with his own unique brand of charm, she was reminded of when she’d had him meet her family for the first time, after he’d proposed to her. He’d taken the O’Briens by storm, fitting into their modest south London semi-detached home and accepting their simple hospitality with no trace of the superiority or disdain a man of his success and wealth could have shown. Subsequently, her parents been shattered to learn that the marriage of two years was over. True, it went against their Irish Catholicism, but more to the point, they’d loved Lorenzo and, she’d realized as she watched and listened to him animatedly talking, he’d genuinely loved them; he’d never said much about his childhood, but clearly being part of her family unit had meant a lot to him. A small pang of guilt niggled at her: everyone had been hurt and lost something when she and Lorenzo had divorced, not just her.
Lorenzo cut through her reverie by handing her back the phone; Linda wanted a few more words with her. She took it and promised her mother she’d call again tomorrow, Christmas Day, and speak to everyone.
“Bye!” she said for the fifth time, before replacing the handset firmly in its cradle, and noticed Lorenzo leaning against the door observing her. “Mum’s hoping that you can join me in calling them again tomorrow. Sorry!” she grimaced. “My brothers will be there with their wives and kids, and my sister and her boyfriend as well. There’s going to be quite a houseful and they’ll all want a word.”
“I don’t mind, cara. They’ve always been very accepting of me. They’re nice people.” He paused and she saw a shadow flit across his features. “Not having had much of a family has made me envious of those who do.”
She gave him a rueful smile as she walked towards him, arms folded. “I know.” She stopped when she reached him, sighed and looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry that what happened with us meant that you didn’t get to see my folks anymore.”
He straightened at her muttered apology. “At least, I escaped having to chomp my way through an annual helping of Christmas pudding.”
She looked up at him, wanting to match his humorous reply with a retort of her own. But, as their eyes met, something in his expression kept her silent. He was searching her face now, as if he was looking for something more than just a mocking reply, his gaze intense and smoldering. Her mouth went dry and her pulse quickened, as her antennae picked strong signals from him that she knew only too well. Her arms dropped by her sides and she ripped her eyes away from his, then took a step forward. She had to get out of here before—
But she had no time to move any further. He reached for her and pulled her into his arms, stopping her from leaving the room. She didn’t resist. It was as if her brain and body were controlled remotely by some unseen force that pushed her to him. She relaxed into him, breathing in the faint scent of him—soap and something muskily male.
“We didn’t spend enough Christmases together, did we?” he whispered into her hair.
“No,” she replied, laying her cheek against his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart and feeling the comforting rub of the wool of his sweater against her cheek.
“I’m sorry. I want to make that up to you.”
They stood for a while, not saying anything. Then, she raised her head.
“Lorenzo?”
“Yes, cara.”
“When you came to my room last night . . . you hadn’t had too much to drink, had you?”
“No, cara.” He met her enquiring gaze, looking amused. “You already asked me that,” he said.
“I know. I just wanted to know why you stayed . . . lay down next to me.”
He pulled her to him again, so that she was pressed close to his chest once more and could feel his body’s warmth. “Perhaps I needed a friend.”
There was a pause and she closed her eyes, nestling into him. “Perhaps you needed a friend.”
Her heart’s beat and her breathing quickened as the flames of longing she’d tried so hard to deny caught alight.
His lips caressed the top of her
forehead as his hand snaked around her waist and held her tighter. “Did you still need me, tesoro?”
She gasped, as his question opened up a bonfire of suppressed desire that broke and roared its way through her veins. Her hand rose up to unconsciously claw at a handful of his sweater as she felt the rush of heat reach her head. Right now, she needed him like the fire within her needed oxygen, and it terrified and exhilarated her. She needed to touch him, feel his mouth on her, have him hold her and never let her go.
She pulled away and looked at him. He was scanning her face with heavy-lidded eyes. “I’m sorry, amore . . . You are just so beautiful . . . I just can’t resist . . . ”
Her pulse and breathing raced off the scale as he leaned down and captured her mouth with his, gently at first, until her head fell back and her lips parted. Then, his pressure increased as his tongue thrust inside and he kissed her with what felt like hunger. She responded fiercely, all her emotion, confusion, the pent-up longing driving her to welcome him. She’d forgotten just how good he tasted, how skilfully he touched and teased, his hands roaming up her back and towards her breasts. When his thumbs reached their undersides, she groaned into his mouth, willing him to go further, toy with her nipples, make the beautiful ache low in her groin grow.
He dragged his mouth from hers, his own breathing speeded up. He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, smiling. “I think you still want me too.”
For a moment, she wanted to agree, shout it from the rooftops. But something in his voice—not smugness, but what sounded to her like a kind of triumph at his repossession of her—made the glow in her body subside and her brain re-enter reality. Her heart gave way to her head and senses of defensiveness and vulnerability wandered in, castigating her mightily for her neediness and weakness and crushing the remnants of her euphoria. What had happened to all her strength and resolve to put this man out of her life?