Until Twilight
Desiree Holt & Cerise DeLand
Book 3 in the Nemesis series.
Isabella Sebastiani has the best instincts. For defusing bombs. But the moment she spots Lane Hallowell in the piazza in Florence, she knows her instinct for finding an irresistible lover has improved. Yes, she’s to meet Lane for a job interview. Sì, her mind tells her to ignore his tempting good looks and his incomparable charm. But her body tells her to embrace him. And her heart demands she take him home with her. Into her arms. Her bed.
A seasoned security operative, Lane shouldn’t be enthralled by a woman within minutes of meeting her. But the cool, professional explosives expert fascinates him and he’s determined to protect her from harm. As the two of them track a group of terrorists from Florence to Rome and on to Paris, Lane and Bella learn that time doesn’t matter when passion demands a future filled with love.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Until Twilight
ISBN 9781419934728
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Until Twilight Copyright © 2011 Desiree Holt & Cerise DeLand
Edited by Helen Woodall
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication July 2011
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Until Twilight
Desiree Holt & Cerise DeLand
Chapter One
As she wove her way through the diners at the tiny circular café Isabella Sebastiani was not in the mood to be shocked. Not twice in one day. She’d already endured one trauma this morning in Florence’s Bargello when she had defused the worries of that ancient gallery’s young director over a suspected bomb in a small, lady’s purse. That had been a false alarm that made her late for a very important job interview.
But halting in her tracks in front of the replica of Michelangelo’s David in the Piazza della Signoria, she saw one man whose appearance created a bursting sensation deep in her stomach. No, Bella, deeper than that. She straightened and tamped down the fierce physical attraction that raged like a five-alarm fire in her soul.
“Va bene,” she told herself all was well. She could handle men who were so good looking they were too vain to really care for a woman. Placing one foot before the other, she hitched the straps of her slim leather briefcase higher over her shoulder. “Men do not astonish you.”
Why does this one? She could not take her eyes from him, this man who was a stranger to her, this man who was the only man among those in the café in the piazza who could possibly be the one she was meant to meet.
She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and tried not to stare. No matter that he did not seem to notice her. No matter that at least fifty others dined on the terrace of that same famous little restaurant. He was the tallest one. The fittest. The most mouthwatering. With chocolate-brown curls and fine, strongly chiseled features that rivaled the David overlooking the square, this man appealed to every cell in her body.
And he mustn’t, Bella. If he likes you as a person, if he values your vitae, if he accepts you as his partner in this international security firm for which he works, then you must not want him to pet you, cara.
She wove her way through the diners at the tiny circular tables. May in Firenze began the march of the tourists—and squeezing among the tables required a ballerina’s maneuver of hips and legs that had him fully facing her.
He seemed not to breathe. Not one movement betrayed whatever the hell he thought of her. He sat, one leg crossed over the other, his sunglasses concealing his eyes, yet she felt his gaze burn away her white cotton dress to caress her nipples and her pussy. Can your tongue arouse me more, American?
Her thong became drenched with her cream at the hope he would taste her and delight her. Her nipples hardened and she cursed the fact that her Italian lace bra had no padding to conceal her interest in him.
Do I attract you at all, Mr. Hallowell?
At that moment, he shifted in his chair and she suppressed a smile of satisfaction. That sadly was difficult because now as he faced her fully, she could only admire him more. With his muscular frame molding the expensive black tee shirt to his chest, the gray trousers skimming the long legs, the elegant fingers holding his copy of La Stampa, he consumed her so slowly she felt her labia begin to melt in torrid need. How could he destroy her like that? With a concentration she had never known in any other lover.
Was he going to be her lover?
No. Not now. Not soon. She had just rid herself of one. She needed to be alone for a while. Independent for a while. Unpossessed by a demanding man. She stopped in front of him and removed her own sunglasses. “Buon giorno, Mr. Hallowell.” Smiling, she held out her hand. “Isabella Sebastiani.”
He rose to his feet and towered over her by at least six inches. Her knees went to butter as he shook her proffered hand then cupped her elbow with the other. His skin was warm, his grip strong. “Buon giorno, Isabella. I am very pleased to meet you. Per favore, please sit with me.”
She sank into the wrought iron chair, realizing his Italian accent was good but he chose to communicate with her in his native English. That was wonderful, keeping her on her mark mentally as she sought to keep her eyes from devouring him. She placed her briefcase to the pavement, put her glasses on the tabletop and focused on his arresting face. What nationality was the name Hallowell, anyway? These Americans were so many variations on a theme. His complexion was tanned but not olive. The strong bone structure Nordic. The lips heavily sculpted as any classical Greek god’s. And the eyes? What in hell color were they?
Isabella had to know. “I hope you have not waited long. I was called to an urgent meeting this morning.”
“Not a problem. I am here in Florence between assignments and taking a few days’ rest.”
“Ah, bene. I see. How do you like our city?”
He inclined his head. “Adore it. My mother is a professor of Renaissance architecture at the University of Chicago. Florence is a second home to me.”
How coincidental. “How intriguing. My father is an expert in Renaissance frescos of the Duomo here and throughout northern Italy.”
“All the things we learn at home from our parents become a part of us,” he murmured in a baritone that stroked her skin like the whisper of sheerest Luccan silk. “Is that how yo
u first discovered you wanted to restore fine paintings?”
“It is,” she confirmed, knowing he had read her résumé and perhaps even memorized her career path from art restorer to explosives expert.
“You have come far for one who is only twenty-eight.”
“Sì, I work hard,” she said and smiled, causing him to lean forward and allow her to catch a whiff of his cologne. Bergamot? Verbena? The man was a feast for the senses. No, Bella, fermate! Stop this. “My first case was to restore a painting by Caravaggio that had been mutilated by a bomber.”
“I read that. The thieves had taken it from the Uffizi, put a false canvas on the back of it, encasing a film of C4 inside, intending to return it to the gallery and blow up the building in high tourist season of July.”
She grinned, making him firm his lips. At last, a reaction. Molto bene. “I compliment you on your background check of me. All of you at Nemesis obviously do a fine job of researching your candidates for employment.”
“Thank you. We pride ourselves on that.” He sat back, folded his hands in his lap and just stared at her. Calm and steady as the sun moving across the sky.
She let him look his fill until her pussy was so swollen, so very wet, she had to say something to divert the urge to grab his hand and lead him home with her. “And Signora and Signore Molloy? They are enjoying their honeymoon?”
“They are,” he said with such diplomatic aplomb she swore she was going to make him wait for years—decades!—before he ever got her into bed. “They apologize for their tardiness today, but there was an accident on the autostrada from Milan. Many cars and a few trucks are piled up. They will proceed south as soon as the highway is cleared.” Hallowell nodded, his lips curving in a way that stretched his firm jaw in a grin and brought out a dimple in his left cheek.
Could she place her lips there? No, Bella. “Ah, unfortunate.”
“Luckily, their delay gives you and me an opportunity to get to know each other.”
She nodded, but she burned with irritation at his suave demeanor. Meanwhile, I blaze from head to toe in an irrational inferno of desire for his hands on my skin. “I have never worked with a partner.”
“I myself have never had a permanent one.”
In life? Or only in work? Curse your wandering mind, Bella. “Frankly, Mr. Hallowell, I don’t know how to share. My expertise in bomb detection and dismantling is one I have cultivated for nearly five years. I have had supervisors in the Italian police and I have belonged to a team. But never assigned to one man to work with, day after day. Forgive me for my bluntness, but I must say these things.”
His dark brows rose only fractionally. “If we are to work together, there is no other way to proceed.”
“Sì, I agree.”
“Buon giorno, Signorina.” The waiter clad in black appeared at their side. In Italian, he asked for her order.
“Hot chocolate,” she replied without looking up at him. “And four of the dark chocolate truffles filled with vin santo. I hope you will share them with me, Signore Hallowell?”
“Grazie, I will. Nothing more for me at the moment, prego,” he instructed the waiter who left them pronto.
He seemed so self-contained, so utterly unflappable, that she knew she would have to lead the conversation. Folding her hands in her lap, she willed her body to a serene pose she knew was a lie and said, “Tell me about Nemesis from your perspective. I know it from the corporate website and from a few of my friends who have hired the group. But I must know what you think of management. The salary. The travel. The assignments.”
His mouth hitched up in a one-sided grin. The dimple came out to play. “You are interviewing me?”
She spread her hands out wide and arched her brows at him. “Naturally. You learned all you need to know about me, sì?”
His face fell. His body, if it were possible, became more still. “Not all, Bella.”
The words, the tone, his endearing address of her suspended them both in a moment in time.
“Tell me,” she managed after god knew how long, “about the company.”
He began a litany of facts about Nemesis. The size of the security firm. The date it was organized by Nicole Welles. How she added her oldest friend, Maddie Sommers, to the staff, and then Maddie’s new husband, Dan Foreman. How Lane himself had come on after a stint in the Secret Service. Now the recent addition of Nicole’s new husband, Adam Molloy who was a former Israeli Mossad agent, added depth to the organization that consulted for independent companies and governments alike. “We take only the assignments which we are drawn to ethically. And we do an assessment of our likelihood of success, all before we sign any contracts with a client.”
“I like your principles.”
“Once we are committed, we never stop until we are successful,” he told her in a manner that had her wondering if indeed he really told her about himself and his potential relationship with her. Sì, Bella, you.
The waiter appeared at their side with her truffles and hot cocoa, then placed them before her.
She could not take her eyes from Lane Hallowell.
“We know we need on staff someone whose expertise is explosives. You are the most qualified. You fit our needs very well.”
“And your need for a partner?”
He nodded, then said, “And my need for a very good partner,” as if he caressed her lips, her breasts and her swollen, needy cunt.
Mesmerized, lost, she reached across the table and with two fingers caught the rim of his sunglasses and slowly took them from his face.
His eyes.
Madre Mia. His eyes were a kaleidoscope of green and gold shards of brilliant glass. They were sensuous, large and heavy-lidded, beneath strong, slashing brown brows. And they were more eloquent than any words he might have uttered. He wanted her.
Her breasts beaded.
Her pussy pulsed.
She rose, picked up her briefcase and dropped his glasses inside. Then she picked up his hand. “Leave twenty euro.”
He fished in his trouser pockets for some bills. He had no idea what he threw down. He could only watch this woman who possessed him. She was willowy, but well-endowed. She was a dark-haired siren with onyx eyes and a carriage so regal, he had grown hard since he first saw her pausing in front of the David. Christ knew how he could even open his mouth to talk to her. And if she decided she would join Nemesis, someone had better teach him how to work with her. Because all he wanted to do was kiss her wide, sultry mouth, discover those beautiful, big breasts and make her moan and twist and come loudly in his arms.
And now for all his boyish silent drooling, and all his determination to keep it professional and practical, she was leading him at a determined clip through the piazza toward Santa Croce.
She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her nipples were taut beneath the thin white halter dress. Her expression was closed, focused on her goal.
He could barely walk, his cock was so engorged. So erect. Damn, how far away was her apartment? He tried to remember her address from her vitae and couldn’t. What the hell. She knew where they were going. She knew what she was doing.
The smell of new leather hit his nostrils as they hurried through the narrow lanes of the tanners’ district. Wafting out of the workrooms and shops were the aromas of espresso, chocolate and freshly cut garlic. Golden rays of the dying afternoon sun warmed the buildings and the pavement as the two of them hastened past.
Just this side of the church of Santa Croce, she halted before a building with huge windows and large balconies. She stepped up to its ochre and yellow door. Digging out a key, she turned the lock and proceeded up a winding staircase. She never looked back. She knew he was there on her heels. At the third floor, she paused before another door, opened it and held it as he followed her inside.
Here in the hall made rosy by the twilight rays streaming through a large window at the other end, she placed her briefcase and her keys on a large table and turned to him.
; Her expression was tight, almost pleading with him.
He understood.
And as he took her in his arms and pressed her to the wall, as he lifted one hand and dropped a kiss to her palm, her wrist, her forearm, her elbow, he whispered, “Bella mia, this was never my plan.”
Her head lolled against the wall, her lush mouth fell open. Her hauntingly lovely black eyes absorbed him. “I told myself it was not mine.”
He captured her chin between two fingers. “Once. We’ll make love once.”
She gasped, a stricken look on her face.
Her disappointment broke his heart, fired his pride and made his cock harden painfully.
“This is no interview,” she demanded on a whisper as she outlined his lips with one forefinger.
“No. This has nothing to do with work.” He bent and picked her up in his arms. “This has everything to do with need.”
Chapter Two
Lane wanted to strip the flimsy dress from her body, tear away any scrap of lingerie beneath it so she was naked to his eyes. Instead he drew in a deep, controlling breath. One did not go at Isabella Sebastiani like an animal. This was a woman to be tasted, savored, explored. With this unexpected erotic pleasure he would definitely take his time.
“Bedroom,” he growled in her ear, running his tongue along the sensitive shell.
“End of the hallway,” she gasped, pointing.
Lane strode down the short hallway to the open door at the end into a large, high-ceilinged room He barely noticed the typical Mediterranean-style furniture or the huge windows with a view of the city that she flung open when they entered the room. His attention was focused on the enormous bed that dominated the room. An expanse of carved headboard stretched along the wall, the bed itself covered in what looked like acres of pale, pistachio-green quilt.
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