Which sounded a little like a refusal to tell him!
‘Right,’ he said, in a rather dazed voice. ‘We’re here.’
The restaurant had clearly been chosen as much for its discreet setting as its breathtaking view of the sea, but it only reinforced Ella’s sensation of inhabiting a different world. There were women wearing a fortune in gems glittering around their necks, and she spotted a famous actress getting very cosy with a man who was definitely not her husband.
But all eyes were on them, watching as they weaved their way to a table in a candlelit alcove.
He ordered red wine, and then a steaming dish that arrived in a covered and distinctively patterned deep blue earthenware pot.
‘What a beautiful dish,’ observed Ella.
‘You like it? It is produced only in Islaroca, on the north west corner of the island.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
‘You soon will—there’s a big export drive going on at the moment.’
It had been Nico’s baby—his attempt to change something of the island’s reputation for being just a tax haven for people with too much money. On an island with few natural resources, it seemed madness not to capitalise on the pottery industry—though Gianferro had initially opposed the expansion. His damned brother and his need to control!
When the waitress took the lid off the casserole, Ella stilled for a moment and turned her eyes towards Nico. ‘I recognise this,’ she said, sniffing.
He held her gaze. ‘That’s because I cooked it for you at the beach,’ he said softly. ‘Our national dish.’ The corners of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. ‘But this one probably won’t be quite as good as mine.’
He was right, it wasn’t—but Ella suspected that was because her hunger was not so honed as it had been back then.
And senses were both evocative and nostalgic—taste no less so than sight or sound. One mouthful was enough to transport her back to that time and place, to recall his kindness and his gentleness towards her. Her memory froze and then galloped forward, to rekindle even more evocative memories…
She gazed across the table towards him and felt the tiptoe of longing take slow, skittering steps up her spine.
He saw the tip of her tongue flick out to moisten her lips and felt the dry, hard ache of need as he watched her.
‘Gabriella—’ he whispered.
But his words were interrupted by a small flurry of activity at the door. Heads were raised and turned in its direction, and Nico’s eyes narrowed as a flamboyant-looking man with a shock of yellow hair beamed and began to walk towards their table.
He gave a small sigh, but Ella heard it. It was tinged with resignation and irritation, but his dark, handsome face did not make a flicker of reaction.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s the owner and sometimes chef,’ he answered. ‘He’s a bit of a star on the island, as modern-day chefs so often are.’ He gave a cynical smile. ‘I thought he was in Paris.’
Ella stared at him as realisation began to dawn. ‘Has he…?’ She hesitated, because her supposition sounded so bizarre. ‘He hasn’t flown back all the way from Paris especially because you happen to be having dinner in his restaurant?’
His eyes mocked her. ‘Well, what do you think?’
She thought it was completely crazy, that was what she thought.
Ella watched while the owner bowed to Nico, his eyes barely giving her a second glance. As though she didn’t count. But, oh, Nico counted—that much was plain to see from the fawning bonhomie, the implication that Nico could demand a fresh strawberry flown from the Highlands of Scotland and a minion would immediately be dispatched to secure it.
After he had left, Nico studied her. ‘Do you understand a little now, Gabriella—why I did not tell you who I was?’
And Ella nodded, feeling…feeling as if she had somehow been too hard on him. Had she been guilty of looking at it from just her viewpoint, without thinking of his?
‘It must have been quite something…to be anonymous,’ she said slowly.
‘It was a taste of freedom which I found exhilarating.’ He shrugged. ‘And one which was heady enough to allow me to repress the knowledge that I was keeping something back.’
The same sense of freedom that made people such fans of dangerous sports, she realised. It all made sense now. ‘I wouldn’t have reacted quite so angrily,’ she said, ‘if I’d known.’
A faint smile touched his lips. ‘No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. But in one way I’m glad you didn’t know. For once it was good to have someone behave…’ He shrugged his shoulders and gave a faint smile. ‘Well, normally, I guess.’ And that had not changed. He could never remember having such a candid conversation with a woman.
Her heart was thudding, her palms grown clammy with this new turn of developments. And he was doing it again—appealing to some soft inner core of her. But surely that would only complicate things.
Because what he said didn’t actually change anything. It made his actions more understandable, but his motivation remained the same. He had wanted sex with her, and that was what had happened. It might have been the most wonderful thing in her life so far, but she imagined that it was like that all the time for a man like Nico.
And the most fundamental fact of all could not be changed.
That he was a prince and she was just an ordinary young woman from the countryside. And unless she kept that to the forefront of her mind she was heading straight for heartbreak.
Nico drifted his eyes over her. She had drunk, he noted, very little—was that deliberate?—but she seemed less defensive than before. Nonetheless, instinct still told him that he must tread very carefully. He sensed that she was close to surrender, but one false move and he could blow it.
Later, when they were seated in the intimate interior of the luxury car, Ella waited breathlessly for a move that did not come. She was aware that her overriding feeling was one of disappointment. Stop it, she thought. Stop wishing for something that could only ever be bittersweet.
The car pulled up outside L’Etoile and he turned to her, his dark eyes glittering. ‘Shall we drive to some of the towns and villages on your list tomorrow?’ he suggested.
Ella nodded, her heart beating so hard that she was surprised he couldn’t hear it. ‘Okay.’
‘We’ll make a day of it,’ he said casually. ‘And I’ll bring a picnic.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘YOU know that Gianferro spoke to me yesterday?’
‘Did he?’ Nico didn’t take his eyes off the road. They were heading towards one of Mardivino’s least pretty villages because Gabriella wanted to have a look at it, but she hadn’t told him why.
‘I’m thinking,’ she had said, and would not be swayed.
It was, he thought wryly, an oddly erotic experience to tussle with a woman who would not be swayed.
‘So what did he say?’ he questioned, as he negotiated a narrow road that was a dream on the bike but not quite so amenable to the four-wheel drive he had considered necessary for this journey.
‘He worries about you.’
Nico gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t tell me—he gave you the “dangerous sports” lecture?’
‘You know about that?’
‘Of course.’ He changed down a gear. ‘It wouldn’t matter if I was strolling sedately along the beach at Solajoya—if Gianferro didn’t approve, he would attempt to talk me out of it. It’s less a fear of the consequences, in his case, and more the fact that he likes to control—it’s in his blood. He takes his heir-to-the-throne responsibilities a touch too seriously sometimes. That’s why Guido doesn’t live here any more. Why he got out just as soon as he could.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Oh, I’ve just learned to ignore him,’ he said softly.
‘Sounds like a bit of a communication problem to me.’
‘Skip the amateur psychology, Gabriella. If I want advice about how to deal with my brother
, then I’ll ask for it.’
There was silence in the car, the kind of claustrophobic, in-car silence that grew like a heavy, oppressive cloud.
‘That was harsh of me,’ said Nico eventually.
‘No, you’re right.’ She shrugged. ‘Your relationship with your brother is none of my business.’
No, it wasn’t. Her personal opinion wasn’t the reason he had brought her here—her professional opinion, maybe. But that wasn’t strictly true, either, was it? The job had simply been a manoeuvre to get her here; her seduction had been uppermost in his mind. But she had embraced the project with an enthusiasm that impressed him, and yet he still remained a stranger to her bed.
His brow creased into a frown. Nothing was turning out as he had planned. Why was she continuing to hold him at arm’s length when he knew damned well that she wanted him?
‘We’re here,’ he bit out, as the car bumped its way over the dusty road that led to the village.
It was an unprepossessing place—high and barren, the sea so far away that it looked like a sapphire strip of ribbon in the distance. Nico looked around him; he hadn’t been here for years.
The local people still harvested their olive crop, but these days they had to compete with the mass-farming methods of larger countries, such as Greece, and it showed. The place looked run-down, the small restaurant on the main street tired. They walked through the village and back, struck by its emptiness and its silence. No one was on the streets bar a couple of children scratching symbols in the dust, who stared at them with wide, curious eyes. Certainly no one recognised him. It was like a ghost town, thought Nico dazedly.
‘No one ever comes here,’ he said slowly, as their footsteps drew them back to the car. Not even him. He might tear around the island on his motorbike, but he never really stopped long enough to look. To stand and stare. He shook his head, like a man waking from a long sleep. What could he do to help these people? he wondered.
You didn’t have to be the heir to care, he realized, and part of him resented the fact that it had taken this stranger, this Englishwoman, to show him this. But who else would have dared? Who would have looked him straight in the eyes and said the things to him that Gabriella had done?
And didn’t her complete lack of connection with his island give him the rare opportunity to express himself? What would it matter to her?
‘I have neglected places such as this.’
She heard the guilt in his voice. ‘You can’t do everything, Nico,’ she said softly.
‘I could do more,’ he said suddenly.
‘I agree. In fact, I think I have a solution for places like this—well, certainly this place in particular.’
She was good at her job, he recognised suddenly. Very good. His instinct that fresh eyes would provide a fresh perspective had been a sound one. Just so long as she understood her limitations…
Her hair looked like spun gold as the sun beat down on them, warming his skin, inexorably filling him with a languid feeling of contentment. She had sensibly worn a hat to shade her face, and it had the effect of making her look very pure and innocent.
Innocent?
With breathtaking clarity he recalled her skill as a lover, and the deep aching that he had been doing his best to suppress suddenly burst into life and dominated everything.
‘Do you…do you want to hear it?’ asked Ella, suddenly breathless—because when he looked at her like that it made her feel… She swallowed, suddenly aware of the sound of a distant bird, of the strong, heavy beat of her heart.
‘Do I want to hear…what?’ he questioned evenly, deliberately misunderstanding, deliberately sending her a silent, sensual message with his eyes.
She wanted him to stop that—and yet she wanted him to go on looking at her like that for ever. ‘My…idea, of course.’
He gave a slow smile. ‘Want to tell me about it over lunch?’
Her heart was now crashing a symphony beneath her breast. ‘It’s a little early for lunch.’
‘We can look at the scenery for a while.’
Ella shrugged—as if it didn’t matter, as if she didn’t care. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, and wondered where the brisk, cool businesswoman had disappeared to. Lost in the soft ebony promise of his eyes, that was where.
He drove towards the interior, stopping the car near a small copse of trees she didn’t recognise—tall, graceful trees, with broad leaves providing a canopy and tiny blue flowers intertwined. It was beautiful but it was secluded, Ella realised, her heart beating even faster. So ask him to take you somewhere else, mocked the inner voice of sense.
‘Do you want to spread the rug out?’ he asked carelessly. ‘And I’ll bring the picnic.’
Shutting the door on sense, she did as he asked, spreading the cashmere rug out on the grass with fingers that were trembling. As he put the basket down and sat beside her she knew what was about to happen. She wondered not would she be able to resist—but whether she really wanted to resist.
Nico leaned back on his elbows and studied her. Her body looked taut, expectant—oh, God, yes. It was shady beneath the trees and the dappled sunlight rippled over them in a kaleidoscope of gold.
‘Why don’t you take your hat off?’ he suggested softly. ‘I can’t see your eyes.’
She wasn’t sure she wanted him to. Wouldn’t he be able to read in them her doubts, her fears? And, most of all, her longing. They were supposed to be working, yet working was the furthest thing on her mind right now.
But she removed it anyway, feeling as shy as if he had asked her to strip for him, and her hair tumbled down over her shoulders like heavy silk.
‘Your beautiful eyes,’ he murmured. ‘So very green.’
His voice had dipped and softened, but his own eyes were bright—and hard. Her mouth felt dry and the tip of her tongue snaked out to moisten it. Say something, she thought. But words suddenly seemed as foreign as the place in which she found herself.
‘Are you thirsty, cara mia?’ he questioned, and his voice sounded husky and slumberous.
Italian, he had said, was the language of love. But this isn’t love, she tried to tell herself. It’s sex, pure and simple—for him.
‘Stop it,’ she whispered.
‘Stop what?’ he questioned, as he began to open the hamper. ‘What kind of a host would I be if I didn’t look after my guest?’
He had thought of bringing champagne, but champagne was too clichéd—and it held bitter memories. She had offered him champagne as an empty gesture once before, but she had been angry with him then. She didn’t look in the least bit angry now. She looked soft, and vulnerable, but ready and waiting—like a delicious cake just waiting to be cut. He took a silver flask from the hamper, filled a cup to the brim with iced lemon and handed it to her.
But Ella was shaking as she took it from him, her fingers trembling in a way over which she seemed to have no control. Some of the cool, delicious drink reached her mouth, but more of it splattered down the front of her dress, leaving damp splotches over the hectic rise and fall of her breasts like giant tears.
He took the cup from her with a hand so steady it could have performed brain surgery, and drank some himself. Then he put the cup down and leaned his face close to hers.
It swam in and out of focus—the dazzle of his eyes, the silken olive skin, the lush, sensual lines of his lips. She seemed to be able to breathe in his virile scent, and she was aware of the silence that surrounded them. The slow, heavy pounding of her heart was the only sound she could hear.
Yet he seemed so utterly in control—while inside she felt as fluttery as a captured butterfly. The balance is all wrong, she told herself, and yet deep down she knew that this was what she had wanted all the time.
‘Gabriella,’ he whispered. ‘You have made me wait, and I can wait no longer.’
His breathtaking honesty made her melt—or maybe it was the warmth of his breath on her skin that did that. Sometimes you could block out a need and a desire so much that w
hen you gave it a peep of life it erupted and became unstoppable.
‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ she said helplessly, as he ran the flat of his hand down over her hair.
‘Oh, yes, we should,’ he murmured. ‘It has been too long—much, much too long.’
‘Nico—’
He stilled her words with the touch of his mouth, brushing his lips against hers with a light, experimental touch, feeling her shiver in response and then make a little moan of protest when he moved away again. He bit back a small smile of triumph as he kissed her again—only this time his hands slid up her back and captured her, moving her body hard against his.
Ella was lost in the piercing sweetness of him as he kissed her over and over again, until she was helpless with wanting. Deep, hard kisses, that sent her senses reeling as she moved restlessly beneath him, forgetting everything. Forgetting the deceit and the differences and all that had gone before, just kissing him, and touching him, the man whose own desire was like touch-paper to her senses.
He felt as if he was drowning, sucked deep and then deeper still into a dark swirling vortex of desire as he pulled her to the ground, overwhelmed by the need to take her. Swiftly.
‘Nico!’ His hand was on her leg, rucking her skirt up.
‘Touch me,’ he urged, hot fingertips finding the cool skin of her thigh. She gasped against his neck. ‘Touch me.’
She moved her hand down, laying her palm over him to cup his hardness, and he moaned softly, almost helplessly. She felt a heady power because he was as much at her mercy as she was at his. She put her mouth close to his ear. ‘You’ve…you’ve got me so I can’t think straight…’
‘Then don’t think. Just enjoy it.’ Like I do. He shuddered as her fingertips touched him so intimately. ‘Oh, Dio, yes!’ The words were torn from his lips in a warm torrent. All restraint had vanished. He had never felt so out of control—and it terrified him nearly as much as he exulted in the feeling. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing that you were going to jump even though to do so would be madness.
Aware that this was something he had to do, if it wasn’t going to be over before it started, he pulled her hand away, taking it to his mouth and gently biting her fingers. ‘Lentamente. Take…it…slow…’ he urged.
The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House 0f Cacciatore Book 1) Page 10