She remembered the way he had switched from warm and giving to cool and indifferent after they had made love. Surely an ability to compartmentalise like that was a much bigger obstacle than his lofty status? Was she hoping that he would change? That everything would change and that they would walk off towards the sunset, hand in hand?
Deep in her heart, she knew what she should do.
So what was stopping her?
He was. Just him. Just by being Nico. The very essence of the man himself. She had wanted him from the first moment she had set eyes on him, and the wanting had only increased. She had wanted him when she had thought he had nothing, and she wanted him still.
‘I don’t know,’ she said truthfully, but the doubt in her voice sounded like an invitation to be convinced.
‘We could go there later, cara mia.’ The velvet voice brushed deliberately over her senses. ‘Spend the night in each other’s arms. One night. Tonight. Why would you say no to that?’
With a mixture of excitement and dread, Ella knew that she could not resist. One night—what harm could it do? She nodded slowly, as if she was giving the matter consideration, but in reality it was to prevent him from seeing the vulnerability in her eyes, which was making her feel as raw and as naïve as a teenager.
She lifted her head, and now her gaze was proud and fearless. She had made her decision and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.
‘Why not?’ she said lightly, and pushed open the car door. ‘Will you pick me up? Or shall I put on a dark cloak and wait on a shadowed corner?’
He laughed, suddenly filled with a reckless excitement. ‘I will pick you up at eight,’ he said. ‘And I will cook for you again.’
But food was the last thing on Ella’s mind as she soaked away the picnic dust from her body in a long bath.
No doubts, she told herself sternly as she brushed her damp hair. That’s not the point of the exercise.
And the point of the exercise was…?
She slammed her hairbrush down on the dresser. Pleasure. Enjoyment. Simple, normal stuff—and she was not going to get heavy.
She slipped out of the side-door of L’Etoile to find his car waiting, and she slid into the seat beside him.
He smiled as he turned the ignition key. ‘You smell like flowers, cara. A meadow of flowers.’
She was glad that the dim light concealed her blush of pleasure. But it’s just the continental way, she reminded herself as the powerful car purred its way out of the capital. The men were schooled in elegant compliments in a way that Englishmen simply were not. She had found that out at the very beginning.
But sweet words could turn a woman’s head, even if that was the last thing in the world she needed, and Ella felt an unbearable sense of expectation as he negotiated the bends. In a way, this tryst was nothing but a cold—or hot!—blooded sensual arrangement between two consenting adults, and yet not even that knowledge could still her mounting excitement. Soon she would be in his arms again, and suddenly that was the only thing that mattered.
The house was in darkness as he unlocked it, but he clicked a switch and light immediately flooded from a huge chandelier. Yet Ella barely noticed the grand and elegant proportions, the pieces of antique French furniture that were dotted around the hallway, for he pulled her into his arms with a hungry groan, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply, like a man who had been underwater for a long time.
He moved away and cupped her face between his palms, his black eyes glittering with an intensity that was brighter than the light overhead.
‘Bed,’ he whispered, and, taking her hand in his, led her up a wide and curving staircase.
Her mouth was too dry for words—but what use were words at a time like this? She was long past the stage of pretty protests that maybe they should eat supper first, or perhaps they should have a drink, because she wanted neither.
This felt grown-up—almost too grown-up—yet nothing could stop the heated longing that was clamouring its way through her veins, the longing to feel his skin next to her once again. Nico as Nico—stripped of everything—just a man of flesh against her flesh.
He pushed open a door to reveal a beautiful bed, hung with richly lavish embroidered drapes, and he turned her towards him, his eyes holding hers for one long, impenetrable second.
‘Now kiss me,’ he instructed quietly. ‘Kiss me, cara mia.’
It was a command that she could not have resisted even if the building had been tumbling down around them. She looped her arms around his neck, stood up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, and his soft moan filled her with delight and with daring.
As his lips opened beneath hers, and their tongues laced in languid exploration, she pressed her body closer to his and felt his breath mingling with hers as he gave another moan.
It was as if they had each been schooled in what was to come next for they moved in synchrony, in a silent wordless dance towards the bed, as if they had practised the steps over and over again, and yet Ella knew she had never moved like that before. Had he?
With hungry, conspiratorial smiles, they slid onto the bed.
‘Gabriella—’
But she touched her finger to his lips to silence him and began to unbutton his shirt. Words would destroy the fantasy that he was hers—at least with her body she could pretend.
She had never taken the lead quite like this before, and there was a vague corner of her mind that wondered whether such a dominant man would allow her to. But her disquiet was only fleeting, for she could see from the look of rapture on his face that he was loving it.
She trickled her fingertips down over the tiny hard nipples, tracing butterfly circles around the sensitised flesh, and his hard, lean body writhed with pleasure.
‘Che cosa state facendo a me?’ he groaned softly.
Her hands moved to the hard, flat planes of his hips. ‘In English, please!’ she teased.
But he shook his head, the words forgotten and already redundant.
She undressed him as slowly as she could, until the tension between them was so fraught that it was almost unbearable. Her hands were shaking as she skated the silken camiknickers down over her hips, and then she climbed on top of him. Their eyes met in a silence broken only by their rapid breathing as she slowly lowered herself onto him, encasing him in her tight, exquisite heat.
And that was when it became too much. A little cry escaped from her lips, and suddenly she was trembling and out of control.
He was watching her, and he understood perfectly, pulling her face down to his to kiss her and tangling his hand in the satin hair before turning her onto her side and beginning to move inside her.
Ella gasped, and it was much more than the feeling of him filling her, deep and hard and true—it was the way that their gazes were locked, watching each other’s reaction in a way that was almost scarily intimate.
She thrilled to see the pleasure that rippled up from his body to make his face relax in helpless rapture, and his delight fed hers until she could watch him no more. Until the waves that had been building and building rocked over her with a power that obliterated everything except the shuddering man within her arms.
He watched her orgasm, holding back his own, almost resenting it, because he didn’t want this to stop. The urge to give in was unbearably strong now. Signore dolce, but he was having to battle with his body not to go under with each deep thrust. It was that feeling all over again. Like reaching the top of the mountain. Or falling from the stars.
He began to cry out then, his release bittersweet as he was caught up in spasms of pleasure so sharp that he felt he might die right at that moment. And then he let go, while the warm waves drifted over him, his eyes closing as he breathed in the soft, feminine fragrance of her.
For a while he held her tightly, but then suddenly and abruptly he rolled away and lay staring up at the ceiling, where the moon was making flickering silent movies in monochrome.
And Ella felt the sensation of
loneliness creep in, where there had been only pleasure and fulfillment. He had done it again, she realised. Shut down. Shut her out. The closeness, the sense of complete unity—that was purely physical. Maybe he didn’t realise he was doing it…
‘Hey,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t do that!’
She reached her hand out to him and ran her fingertip from shoulder to elbow. He turned his head to look at her, but he was not smiling.
‘Don’t do what?’ he questioned coldly.
The tone of his voice should have warned her, but Ella was in such a state of helpless rapture that she chose not to heed it. She shrugged. How could he learn if she didn’t teach him? ‘You go all distant after we’ve made love. It can still be intimate, you know,’ she added softly. ‘Once it’s over.’
Her flame-red hair looked like quietly gleaming fire in the light of the moon, but her eyes were in shadow and he knew that he could not continue to take from her—not when she gave so generously. For that had not been just mind-blowing sex—that had been making love. That was why it had felt so different. So wild. So free. So dangerous.
Nico knew what she was offering, and that if he continued to accept it without any return—or even with the unspoken promise of some return—then he would be nothing more than an emotional thief. However much it might hurt, he had to tell her. Though wasn’t there a part of him that hoped that she might forgive him anything in the face of honesty?
His eyes were bleak as they searched her face. ‘I don’t love you, Gabriella,’ he said quietly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ELLA let Nico’s words sink in, like a heavy rock disappearing without trace into the murky water, but her initial feeling was one of an almost euphoric relief. It was like going to the doctor and demanding to know the truth about a prognosis, because only then would you be able to tackle the problem head-on.
And cure it.
But the euphoria was almost immediately replaced by a feeling of real fear, and she wanted to say to him, I know! I’m not stupid, Nico! I’ve known all along, and I would have been able to come to terms with it in my own time and in my own way if only you could have pretended.
Just for one night.
One beautiful make-believe night.
Cure it?
How the hell was she going to do that? By playing dumb? By feigning ignorance? By saying in a cool, collected way, What the hell are you talking about?
No. He had had a lifetime of people telling him what they did not mean. Skating over the surface. Hours of conversation that was not real conversation, merely superficial small talk. If she was going to take anything away from her brief fling with him, it was going to be honesty.
And pride.
‘I know that, Nico,’ she said, and her voice was almost gentle. Funny, that. How softness should appear from nowhere, utterly concealing the shattering knowledge that this would be the last time. But it wasn’t his fault. Not really. He was the man he was, not the one she wanted him to be.
He frowned, as if this was not the reaction he had been expecting. ‘I’m twenty-eight,’ he grated. ‘And I don’t want to settle down. With anyone. I don’t need to settle down. And when I do it’s going to be with someone—’
‘Someone suitable,’ she cut in wryly, seeing his narrow-eyed look of irritation. But hell, hadn’t he interrupted her enough times in the past? ‘I know that, too, Nico. Why the hell are you bothering to tell me all this?’
And why now? Couldn’t he have waited until the morning and left her with the memory beautiful and intact? Not tarnished with the bitterness of truth.
She sat up, the turmoil of her thoughts almost making her forget that she was naked until she saw the smoky response of his eyes. He reached for her, as if conditioned to do so, but she shook him off. ‘Don’t,’ she said steadily. ‘Please don’t touch me.’
There had never been a situation in his life that he could not charm his way out of, but he could see that she meant it. Stubborn, obstinate woman. He stifled a sigh. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat something.’
But Gabriella shook her head. How easy it would be to gloss over it. To go downstairs to his kitchen and let him seduce her with his cooking and conversation, to sip wine and become lulled, so that eventually the stark reality would fade into the background. And then they would kiss again and make love—only it would not be the same—how could it be? Because, despite the odds being stacked against them having any kind of future together, that hadn’t prevented a stupid side of her hoping that maybe they could.
But his words had destroyed all hope, and without hope what was left?
Pride, she reminded herself. She still had that.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, trying to keep the sadness from her voice. ‘There is no point. I want to go back to L’Etoile right now, and tomorrow morning I’m catching a flight back to England.’
He swore softly. ‘Damn you, Gabriella,’ he responded, and his words were equally quiet, but tinged with acid. ‘I’ve been honest with you,’ he said bitterly, wishing that he had said nothing until the morning. ‘Why can’t you just accept that?’
‘Accept your terms without question, you mean?’ she asked stiffly. ‘Terms which don’t give a stuff about my feelings? Sorry, Nico, but you can’t have it all ways. You can’t play the poor little misunderstood Prince who needs to keep his identity secret because of all the baggage that goes with his title and then turn round and arrogantly demand the unquestioning obedience which is part and parcel of that title!’
‘How dare you say that to me?’ he demanded.
‘How dare I?’ Her green eyes flashed fire at him. ‘I’ll tell you how I dare! Doesn’t the fact that we’ve just made love give me any rights at all? Or do you treat all your women as though they are commodities? To be used until they begin to threaten you, or make demands on you which aren’t part of your Royal game plan?’
‘That is enough!’ he rapped out.
‘No, it is not enough!’ she retorted. ‘Maybe it’s time someone started responding to you as a normal human being—but you can’t take it when they do, can you? You profess to hate the restriction of Royal life, but you can’t wait to hide behind it when it suits you!’
‘Hide?’ he echoed furiously. ‘Me? Hide?’
Ella gave a cynical laugh as she realised she really had struck home. ‘So I’ve offended your macho image, have I, Nico?’ she questioned, and her eyes were sparking a challenge at him. ‘Don’t you know there’s more to being a real man than jumping on motorbikes and endangering your life into the bargain?’
‘Enough!’ he snapped.
But she was driven on by a need so relentless that she could not have stopped even if she had wanted to.
‘You say that you have a problem with Gianferro? Well, I’m not surprised—he’s worried sick about you! Just how long do you intend to carry on being “The Daredevil Prince”, with your crazy stunts? Until you’re an old man of fifty—tearing up the mountain roads on a motorbike? How sad it that?’
‘I am not listening to another word of this!’ he raged. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs!’
‘Yes—run away, why don’t you? You’ll probably spend the rest of your life running away from the truth!’
For a moment there was an incredulous silence. ‘Running away?’ he echoed.
‘I think so. Subconsciously.’ She stared at him, poised on this moment of revelation like a diver about to plunge into the water, and she dived in fearlessly. ‘But you’ll never be happy until you work out what it is you’re running from.’ She stared at him, waiting breathlessly for his response, like a condemned woman praying for leniency from the judge. But he simply gave a bitter and sarcastic laugh as he reached for his shirt.
‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said, barely flicking her a glance.
In a way it was the worst possible reaction. At least when he had been furious she had felt they were still connected in some way—as if a row was validation that there had been more be
tween them than simply sex. But this new, barely feigned boredom was humiliating. As if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her.
Had her words wounded him? She had spoken in anger, yes—but she had felt justified in doing so. Her intention had been to enlighten and help him, not to hurt him.
Tentatively she reached towards the ruffled dark hair, but he moved away and slid his legs over the bed. He pulled on his jeans with a dismissive gesture that broke her heart into tiny pieces and she realised she had blown it for ever—detonated it with her harsh words.
No. He had blown it, too—by enforcing rigid rules that put paid to any growing closeness between them.
She reached for her crumpled camiknickers and shook them, seeing him watching her, the way the movement made her unfettered breasts swing freely. She saw his mouth tighten.
‘Hurry up,’ he snapped, and walked out and left her, his face an icy mask of haughty froideur.
With trembling hands she dressed in that moonlit room, her skin still flushed and rosy with the aftermath of their incredible lovemaking. And as she straightened up from fastening her sandals she caught a glimpse of herself in the Venetian mirror that hung over the ornate fireplace.
There she was, in her chainstore dress, her hair all mussed. The strange half-light cast by the moon only added to the surreal image in the mirror. She had no place here, nor ever would.
Slowly she began to descend the wide, curving staircase. Nico waited at the bottom, his dark, glittering eyes watching her as if she was some new species he had encountered and he was unsure of just what she was going to do next.
And she watched him, with eyes that were equally uncertain.
Wasn’t there a part of her that regretted her words? A part of her that would now be responsive to having her mind changed? If Nico took her into his arms and kissed her and tried to cajole her into staying, would she honestly be able to resist him?
The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House 0f Cacciatore Book 1) Page 12