by Kim Lawrence
Poppy’s knees gave and she grabbed the first thing that came to hand—his sweater. ‘About what?’ she whispered.
One hand slid to the base of her spine, his long fingers splaying across the curve of her bottom. ‘This,’ he said, hauling her body into his as he lowered his head and covered her soft mouth.
Poppy melted, her body moulding to his hard male frame, excited beyond belief by the raw hunger in his kiss as she kissed him back with a feverish desperation, her hands sliding under his sweater and over the smooth silky skin of his back.
Gianluca’s groan was lost inside her mouth as, with his mouth still connected to hers and half carrying her, he backed her into the wall.
Poppy was dimly conscious of the cold roughness of stone against her back as she continued to kiss him, stopping only to gasp, ‘Oh, God!’ when she felt the brazen thrust of his erection as it ground into the softness of her belly. ‘Please … yes … you’re …’
Breathing hard, his glittering gaze glued to her flushed face, he reached out to push the door open.
Poppy shook her head; she could hardly breathe. ‘No … I can’t wait … here now … I need …’
His nostrils flared. ‘Now …?’
She nodded, breathing as hard now as he was.
Both her hands grasped in one of his, he lifted them above her head. With his free hand he caressed her body until she gasped and pleaded.
The sound of his zip was loud. Poppy could feel the tremors running through his body as he pressed her against the wall, their bodies sealed at waist level.
Holding her eyes, Luca wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground then in one smooth motion slammed up and into her.
After the frantic coupling was over Poppy would have slid to the floor had it not been for the arm still banded around her middle.
Her eyes were closed as he swept her up into his arms and carried her back up the stairs.
Back in bed, he removed her clothes, then his, and got in beside her. She shivered as his warm skin touched her own.
‘The things I do with you … I never imagined, Luca,’ she whispered.
He kissed her with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. ‘Piccola mia,’ he murmured.
‘I can’t keep my eyes open.’
‘Don’t try.’
Like a kitten she was asleep in seconds. Luca lay awake watching her sleep, not moving for fear of disturbing her, not even when the moth-eaten cat came to sleep on his feet.
She woke alone, but it was not Luca’s absence that struck her—there was something else … Then it hit her: the silence.
It was over.
The bathroom when she got there showed signs of recent use but … no message on the mirror. She blinked to hold back the sudden rush of tears.
When she got to the kitchen Luca was standing staring out of the window. He turned his head when she walked in.
‘I wondered where she was,’ she said, looking at the cat that curled around his ankles. ‘She likes you.’
‘That’s the food I gave her.’
‘The wind has dropped,’ she said brightly.
‘So it has.’
‘And it’s stopped raining.’ He was treating her like a stranger almost and after last night …?
Come out of your fantasy world, Poppy, she told herself. Last night was just sex … She could almost hear him saying it.
‘Yes.’ He rubbed a hand across the dark growth on his jaw. The dark shadow was a lot more defined this morning. Along with his heavy eyes it gave him an air of dangerous dissipation that was extremely sexy.
‘Have you tried the phones yet?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s stopped raining.’
His brows lifted. ‘So you mentioned. The weather seems to have affected your mood.’
She gave a light laugh. ‘I do not do conversation until after my second cup of coffee.’
‘There’s no coffee.’
‘Your point being?’ She lowered her gaze and exhaled. ‘This is it, then.’
He turned back to the window. ‘It is what?’
‘Goodbye.’ She was filled with admiration for her calm delivery. ‘I expect someone will be here soon, we’re rescued … back to the real world—electricity, clean clothes, phones … civilisation.’ The wrench of yearning she felt as she looked at him made her feel physically sick.
A nerve clenched in his jaw as he turned to look at her. ‘It does not have to be …?’
‘Be what?’
‘Goodbye.’
Her heart began to thud in response to the enigmatic response. ‘So what exactly are you saying, Luca?’
‘I’ll be staying around until Aunt Isabel’s affairs are sorted and I’m assuming you …?’ He arched a brow and she nodded. ‘We could meet up …?’
Poppy’s expression froze. ‘Have sex, you mean?’
His jaw clenched. ‘Yes, have sex.’
‘Yes!’ she blurted. She looked away, biting her lip and wishing she had at least pretended to consider it.
‘Good. Then that is settled.’
He made it sound simple but Poppy knew it was not. Having a wild passionate affair in an isolated castle was one thing … ‘God knows what Gran will say …’
‘There is no need for Aunt Isabel to say anything.
With a little discretion there is no need for anyone to know.’
‘A secret, you mean.’
‘I like to keep my personal life just that.’
‘And I suppose if anyone realised you were sleeping with Maria Cunningham’s daughter …’
Her ready understanding of the situation was a relief. ‘The press would have a field day.’ He shuddered at the thought of her being pursued by tacky tabloids. It was something he was determined to protect Poppy from.
‘And I don’t suppose that your family would be too happy either …’
‘What has it got to do with—?’
‘Poppy, lass, am I glad to see you!’
They both turned to see a big red-headed man in a bright red waterproof standing framed in the doorway, beaming from ear to ear as he lifted a mobile phone to his ear and yelled.
‘Yes, Uncle Fergus, she’s here and she’s safe and sound and it looks like the daft Italian bloke who bought the boat isn’t dead. Yeah, he’s here large as life, aye … aye, I will.’ Still smiling, he slid the phone back into his pocket and explained rather unnecessarily, ‘That was Uncle Fergus.’
Poppy slid a surreptitious glance towards Luca to see how he was coping with being referred to as the daft Italian and found that he was not looking at Dougal but at her, his dark intense stare aimed directly at her face. She looked away quickly but not before he sent a deep shiver through her body.
‘Your gran and Uncle Fergus—they were all really worried about you when they heard that idiot had ferried you out here and left you. But not to worry—I’m here now and there’s no need to cry, lass.’
‘I’m not crying,’ Poppy said, wiping a hand across her damp face.
‘Any chance of a cuppa?’
Poppy laughed and said, ‘Definitely. I really can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.’ A sliver of the anxiety she had never quite managed to totally rid herself of appeared in her eyes as she tacked on, ‘Gran—is she …?’
‘Och, she’s fine, or she will be now she knows you’re all right.’ Unzipping his waterproof, he walked over to Gianluca, his hand outstretched. ‘Dougal.’
Gianluca allowed his hand to be briefly clasped in the beefy grip.
‘Gianluca Ranieri.’
‘I’m thinking there are going to be a few people happy to see you, Mr Ranieri. I must say you look pretty fit for a dead man.’
‘A dead man?’ Gianluca echoed, only half his attention on what the other man was saying. Most of his mind was focused on the slim figure in the periphery of his vision. Their unfinished conversation frustrated him.
‘Aye, they found the boat, or what remained of
it. The coastguard hasn’t called off the search yet but, I have to tell you, they don’t really expect to find anyone alive.’
‘As you see, I am.’ Gianluca’s agile mind began to assess the implications of this information. Hopefully the news of his demise had not spread beyond the locality—if so the financial markets would not have been affected.
The cheery Scotsman’s next words dashed this hope.
‘There are television cameras all over the place, not just the BBC—from all over and foreigners too. The bars are doing a roaring trade. You must be famous. God, wait until they find out you’re not dead!’ He chuckled, clearly amused by the prospect.
Gianluca felt less inclined to laugh over the thought of a media scrum. This was going to make concealing an affair with Poppy even tougher.
‘And when they see you getting off the boat with the lovely Poppy here …’ He released a silent whistle and directed what Gianluca judged to be a lecherous leer Poppy’s way. ‘I hope you’ve no jealous lady at home.’
‘I think it would be better all round, Dougal, if you took Mr Ranieri back first and come back for me, if that’s no problem for you?’
Gianluca flashed her a look. ‘Thank you for your input, Miss Ramsay, but—’
He stopped, a mental image of Poppy walking straight into the eye of a media storm flashing before his eyes.
She wouldn’t know what had hit her.
‘That is an excellent idea,’ he finished smoothly.
‘No problem,’ Poppy said with a shrug. She had offered so it was irrational to feel piqued by his ready agreement to the scheme.
Why would he object? He wanted to keep things secret. He didn’t want the world to know he’d been stranded in a Scottish castle alone with a woman—especially one with a notorious mother.
Dougal was not too happy with the scheme. ‘Are you sure about this, Poppy? It doesn’t feel right leaving you alone.’
‘I think Miss Ramsay is more than capable of looking after herself, or so she keeps telling me.’
Poppy lifted her chin. ‘Yes, I am.’ Allowing her frozen expression to melt into a warm smile, she turned to Dougal. ‘I’ll be fine, just don’t forget I’m here.’
‘If you say so … I had strict instructions to bring you back.’
Poppy pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek. ‘Where am I going to go?’
Dougal enfolded her in a bearlike hug, swinging her off the ground. The uncomplicated warmth of the spontaneous gesture of affection brought a teary glaze to Poppy’s eyes as she hugged him back.
Setting his teeth together, Gianluca endured the tender scene, a growl locked in his throat.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘we should make a move now. Then you can return for Miss Ramsay.’
Dougal cast a wistful look at the kettle, but agreed with the suggestion.
Gianluca followed the other man to the door and then turned back to Poppy. ‘I’ll sort the press—it might take some time but we’ll meet up very soon, I promise, cara. What’s your mobile number?’
Poppy reeled off the digits automatically, noticing he didn’t jot them down.
‘I assume that you’ll be staying with your grandmother in the village?’
She nodded. ‘I would think so, unless she wants to come straight back here.’
‘Stall her.’
Oh, yes, and that was going to be so easy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TWO hours later Poppy was sitting in the small boat as they chugged across the choppy seas of the sea loch towards the whitewashed village, the cat in a basket on her lap.
‘When we got off the boat it was total chaos,’ Dougal was telling her. ‘They were swarming everywhere. I don’t mind telling you I was fair scared out of my wits when those bulbs started flashing, but the man he didn’t even blink! God, but he’s a cool customer.’
He flashed Poppy a sideways glance and she dutifully agreed with his admiring assessment. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘And when they started sticking the microphones right in his face, mind the man—he just smiled.’ Dougal gave a quiet chuckle.
‘So are there a lot of people … press still there?’
‘Don’t you worry. One of his people came out as I was leaving and said he’d give a press conference up in the village hall.’ He consulted his watch. ‘About now, so there won’t be a soul outside.’
‘His people?’
‘Aye, there were loads of them, some with the walkie-talkie ear-piece things, waiting when he arrived. I think they were expecting to be organising transport for a corpse.’ He saw Poppy shiver and said hastily, ‘Sorry, love, it must have been grim out there during the storm.’
To Poppy’s relief the subject switched to the weather, a theme that lasted until they reached the village.
Fergus and his wife Emma owned the village store. They were both delighted to see her. Her grandmother’s welcome offered less hugs and more stern lectures.
She pronounced herself sad she had produced a granddaughter with so little common sense and thought for others.
But it turned out a lot easier than she had anticipated to get her grandmother to stay over in the village. The reason became obvious when she got to her feet.
A slight sprain, nothing more, Isabel Ramsay had announced, revealing a heavily strapped ankle.
She could, she declared, after warning her granddaughter not to fuss, get around fine with the aid of a stick, but the stairs at the castle might, she admitted, prove a problem and the castle did not boast a bathroom on the ground floor, otherwise she would have been quite comfortable sleeping on the sofa.
‘Now, tell me, what about Gianluca—when did he turn up?’
‘He’s not dead.’
‘Of course he’s not dead! I didn’t think for one second he was, though nobody would listen to me. I told Flora the same thing. I told her that boy always did have more lives than a cat. If he’d been going to kill himself he’d have done it years ago, all those crazy stunts he used to get up to with you,’ she said, directing a sly look at her granddaughter’s face.
‘And he’s so good-looking. It’s such a waste—he should marry again. Flora thinks so too. What do you think?’
‘I think, Gran, it’s none of my business.’
Helping out behind the counter in the shop that afternoon, Poppy saw firsthand how much media interest the rumour of Luca’s demise followed by his miraculous reappearance had created.
When he did not vanish as anticipated in one of the bullet-proof chauffeur-driven limousines that had appeared in the village, but stayed, taking up residence with his entourage in a local hotel, so did the journalists. The story seemed set to run and run—there wasn’t a news bulletin that didn’t have some reference to him.
She was closing up the shop that evening when the phone in her pocket began to vibrate. Pulling down the shutter on the door, she pulled it out and lifted it to her ear.
‘Hello, cara.’
The familiar rich warm voice the other end drew a silent sigh from her lips. ‘Luca,’ she breathed shakily. ‘You called …?’
There was a short static silence. ‘Did I not say I would …?’
Poppy nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her. ‘Yes, but you didn’t write down my number and—’
‘I have a very good memory.’
‘So how are you …? I saw you on the telly this afternoon. I had no idea that you were so important in a you-get-a-cold-and-the-bottom-drops-out-of-the-market sort of way.’
His voice, deep and tinged with impatience, cut across her. ‘I want to see you.’
Poppy swallowed. ‘I want to see you too,’ she admitted huskily.
‘I had planned for you to join me here tonight, but the damned press are everywhere … I’ll work something out, I promise. Are you all right?’
Poppy wanted to yell, No, I’m not bloody all right, you stupid man, I love you! ‘I’m fine, Luca, and Gran …’
‘I know. I spoke to her on the phone earlier
. She is totally irrepressible, isn’t she? She read me the Riot Act and predicted my early demise. The ankle is really not too bad, then?’
‘She says not … You spoke to Gran?’
‘She offered to call you, but I did not wish to speak to you while you were standing in a room full of people.’
Poppy gave a bitter laugh. ‘Why not? This is hardly phone sex, is it?’ She shook her head and grimaced into the receiver. ‘Sorry,’ she gritted through clenched teeth. The last thing she wanted to do was alienate him by being bitchy and naggy. ‘I was just—’
‘I am frustrated too.’
Poppy gave a sigh of relief. ‘God, yes …’ She stopped as the sound of voices in the background drifted down the line. ‘Well, thank you,’ Luca said in a totally different voice. ‘I will speak to you very soon.’
After the initial press conference Gianluca did not reappear, and when his camp did not offer as much as a sound bite for the waiting press it might have been expected that they drift away. That had certainly been the strategy, and a few did, but to Luca’s intense frustration the bulk remained.
His desperation to see Poppy made him take the risk that he knew was unwise, but, the alternative being he go quietly mad, he did anyway.
Poppy was walking Flora along the beach road that next evening when he appeared, materialising out of nowhere. She gave a choked gasp, dropped the stick she had been about to throw for the dog and stared up at him, her heart climbing into her throat.
Dressed all in black, the light salty breeze blowing in from the loch ruffling his dark hair, he looked simultaneously sinister and sexy. Her heart performed another flip.
‘Heel!’ he said sternly to the dog that greeted him with rapturous enthusiasm.
Poppy’s greeting was more restrained. She was so concerned about keeping her emotions in check and not making a total fool of herself—again—that she didn’t register the tension in his lean body or the telling tautness in his jaw.
He had spoken to Gran again that morning on the phone. She’d been talking about the grants that he had apparently told her were available to repair historic monuments ever since, but he had not asked to speak to her.