With a deep roll-top bath in the centre of the floor, it was easily the most stunning bathroom she had ever seen, and discovering the remote controlled stereo system built into one of the cupboards in the bedroom—complete with extensive CD collection—had been the double-chocolate-fudge icing on the cake.
From where she lay, chin-deep in scented bubbles, she had the whole of Florence laid out before her. She could see the dome of the Duomo, the closely packed terracotta-tiled rooftops of the narrow streets, the twinkling lights of the piazzas. Swinging a dripping foot over the side of the bath, she let the beauty of the music and the perfection of the setting work their magic.
Her limbs felt warm and languid from the heat of the water, and a pulse beat insistently at the top of her thighs at the prospect of what she was planning to do. Letting the exquisite notes pour over her, she added her voice to that of Butterfly, remembering as she did so the feeling of Raphael’s eyes upon her as she swayed down the catwalk towards him. Her whole body throbbed. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back against the rim of the bathtub, abandoning herself completely to the music. Arching her dripping arms above her head, she sang with all her heart.
Raphael hesitated. He should leave.
Obviously.
But.
He found himself drawn forward. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as her voice drifted out across the scented air. Unselfconsciously sweet and true, it soared effortlessly up to the highest notes, the acoustics of the bathroom giving it an even more flattering resonance.
And she knew the words, he realised with surprise.
He stopped when he reached the doorway. Through the half-open door, in the candlelit dusk, he could see one glistening brown leg draped enticingly over the side of the bath. He swallowed, somehow managing to stop himself from going further into the room, but unable to prevent his imagination from generating the images of what he would see if he did.
He cleared his throat, both to draw attention to his presence and to clear the sudden constriction there that seemed to be making it difficult to breathe.
A tidal wave of foam cascaded over the sides of the bath as Eve let out a squeal of alarm and slipped down until her chin was level with the surface of the water.
‘How long have you been there?’ she gasped.
‘Long enough to be impressed. You have a beautiful voice. And it seems I was wrong—you do speak Italian after all.’
‘Not really,’ Eve replied shakily. ‘I just know some of the words from Butterfly, which somehow never seem to come up in general conversation. Anyway,’ she continued, her outrage increasing as her fear subsided, ‘was there a good reason for you to sneak into my room uninvited? Or did you just want to frighten the living daylights out of me?’
‘I knocked. I thought I heard you say come in. Fiora sent a drink up for you.’ He rattled the ice cubes in the glass. ‘And she asked me to tell you that dinner will be in half an hour, if you’d care to get dressed.’
‘Dressing for dinner?’ Eve had a sudden vision of herself and Raphael in evening wear, sitting at opposite ends of a long, polished mahogany table while Fiora waited on them. ‘Are you always so formal?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I simply meant as opposed to eating naked.’
His tone was light and mocking. The music had finished, and for a moment the silence spread around them like a dark pool. She was glad the open door stood between them, so he couldn’t see the deep blush that was rising from her cleavage to her cheeks at the thought of sharing a meal with him … naked.
She took a steadying breath. ‘Not a good idea,’ she said as lightly as possible. ‘Especially if soup is on the menu.’
‘It so happens that it isn’t tonight …’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘But even so … I’ll expect you in half an hour.’
Knickers. So much for Operation Seduction. Not only had he caught her completely off guard, and rather scuppered her intention to appear mysterious and sophisticated, he’d also totally shattered the atmosphere of tranquil relaxation. Hauling herself up crossly, Eve let the water cascade off her body before stepping out of the bath and looking round for a towel.
‘Damn, damn, damn!’
Still dripping wet, and starting to shiver slightly in the breeze from the open windows, she headed for the bedroom, where the pile of towels still lay on the bed as Fiora had left them. Dusk had fallen properly now, and the only light in the bathroom came from the candles. The rest of the room was filled with shadow. Eve was halfway across the polished floor when she caught sight of herself in the huge and ornately carved mirror.
She stopped, suddenly overtaken by insecurity. The plan was ridiculous anyway. There was no way an inhibited, pitifully inexperienced girl like her would ever be able to seduce a man like Raphael Di Lazaro. Was there?
Slowly she faced the mirror, experimentally pulling in her stomach and thrusting out her breasts, then lasciviously sweeping her hair up off her neck and holding it loosely on top of her head. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the bath, and the candlelight cast a glow onto her skin, lending a golden voluptuousness to her generous breasts and softly rounded hips, and throwing flattering shadows beneath her cheekbones and ribs. Crystal droplets of water still glittered on her arms and throat, and ran in slow, caressing rivulets between her breasts and down her thighs.
‘You’ll be needing this.’
Raphael’s voice from the doorway made her start. Holding out one of the sumptuous towels, he moved towards her, his expression unsmiling, his eyes hooded and unreadable.
‘Thank you. I can …’
In a trance, she watched in the mirror as deftly he wrapped the towel around her. In the candlelight and against the snowy whiteness of the towel his forearms were dark, dark brown. His movements were firm and capable as he rubbed her upper arms through the thick fabric, and her protestations died on her lips as she meekly submitted to his ministrations. Half in a dream she noticed that her eyes glittered with desire and her lips were plump and parted. She ran her tongue over them.
She stumbled slightly as he abruptly let her go.
‘There. Now, do you think you can manage to get dressed by yourself, or shall I send Fiora up?’
His voice was cool and faintly sardonic. Eve’s chin rose a fraction in shock and defiance as she registered his indifference. Pulling the towel more tightly around herself, she swept out of the bathroom with as much dignity as she could muster, resisting the urge to slam the door behind her. As he impatiently began to extinguish the candles Raphael was painfully aware of the ironic symbolism of the gesture.
If only the burn of his own desire could be so easily snuffed out.
It was a mistake to have brought Eve here. He should have paid for her to stay at the hotel for another night, having persuaded her to book onto a London flight tomorrow morning. Not that it would be easy to persuade Eve to do anything, but her friend to whom he had spoken on the phone that morning could be a possible ally—
At exactly that moment, almost as if he had made it happen himself, he heard the faint ring of a mobile phone above the sound of water draining noisily from the bath. In the semi-darkness it wasn’t difficult to spot the greenish glow of its screen on the marble-topped washstand, and he picked it up, wondering if it might be the same girl.
A quiet curse escaped his lips as he recognised the number on the screen.
Luca.
No. He had had no choice but to keep Eve with him, he realised grimly as he slipped the phone into his pocket. Whatever it was that she knew, Luca was onto her, and he would go to any lengths to shut her up. Two years ago he had let his pride prevent him from protecting Catalina. He would not make the same mistake again.
Besides which, she wasn’t to be trusted! Irritation prickled through him at the thought that she had almost succeeded in making him forget the small detail of her profession and her purpose for being here. She was a journalist.
From now until Luca was safely in police cust
ody he was not letting Eve Middlemiss leave his side. No matter how miserable that was for both of them.
For the briefest moment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as he bent to blow out the last candle. His habitual blank sardonic mask had slipped, and he was jolted by the raw emotion that burned in the dark hollows of his eyes.
Swiftly, ruthlessly, he blew out the delicate flame and the image was gone.
But the unwelcome memory remained.
CHAPTER SIX
THE hallway was shadowed and silent as Eve came slowly down the stairs twenty minutes later. Beneath the thin silk of her dress she could feel her heart hammering wildly at the terrifying, exciting prospect of what she was about to do.
Never before had she deliberately, wantonly, set out to seduce someone, and thinking about it like that the idea horrified her.
But she was shamefully aware that it aroused her a whole lot more.
Crossing the marble-tiled hallway towards the lighted doorway of the salon, she pressed her glossed lips together nervously and smoothed the slippery silk of her dress over her hips. It was the same dress she’d worn for the retrospective party, and the only remotely sexy thing she’d brought with her. Despite the stifling heat of the evening she’d added a sumptuously wide pashmina in soft olive-green, which brought out the colour of her eyes. And, more importantly, concealed the tell-tale outline of her nipples which, after her encounter with Raphael in the bathroom, had refused to play along with her brain in pretending that she was entirely in control of the situation.
If she was going to try to seduce him she would do it with a degree of dignity. Not offer herself up on a plate.
The salon was softly lit by lamps, and the scent of gardenia and roses flooded through the open doors beyond which Eve could see the glint of candlelight on crystal. She was trembling as she crossed the room, and her little jeweled sandals made no sound on the polished parquet.
In the doorway, she hesitated. On the terrace a table was beautifully laid with white linen and heavy silver cutlery, and a huge bowl of pink and apricot roses were shedding their velvet petals onto the snowy damask. A large and ornate silver candelabra provided the centrepiece and cast its soft light into the violet dusk.
Raphael’s head was bent over a newspaper, a slight frown of concentration furrowing his forehead beneath the lock of wayward hair that habitually fell across it. As Eve watched he swept it back impatiently with lean, tanned fingers. The gesture was utterly unselfconscious, but powerfully, exquisitely sexy.
She wasn’t aware of making any sound, but she must have because he looked up sharply. His expression didn’t change at all, but neither did his eyes leave her as he slowly rose and pulled out her chair.
‘I see you did dress, after all.’
Gratefully she sat down, suddenly afraid that her knees might give way beneath her. There was something very intimate about the beautiful candlelit terrace in the warm evening, and it seemed to change the atmosphere, charging it with some invisible electric force that crackled between them like late-summer thunder on the distant hills.
‘Yes.’
He took a bottle of prosecco from the ice bucket and poured it into two slender flutes. ‘As you can see, Fiora doesn’t do low-key catering.’ His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. ‘In this case she seems to have slightly misread the situation.’
She took the glass he offered, trying not to jump as her fingers brushed against his.
‘It’s beautiful.’
He looked around, as if noticing for the first time. ‘It is. Beautiful, but oppressive.’ He gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Welcome to the world of Lazaro. Appearances are everything.’
‘Did you grow up here?’
‘Yes.’
Her eyes met his over the rim of her glass. She took a slow sip of wine, intrigued by the image of Raphael as a little boy in these vast, formal rooms. Suddenly his emotional inscrutability and hauteur seemed more understandable.
‘What was it like? I can’t imagine it was a house where children would feel very comfortable. Did you and Luca have a wild time, sliding down the banisters and getting told off for driving your toy cars over the antique furniture?’
She spoke lightly, trying not to notice the way the candlelight emphasised the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the deep shadows of fatigue around his eyes. By contrast, his voice was like gravel.
‘Not exactly. Luca and I may be brothers—half-brothers, to be more precise—but we barely know each other.’
‘And can barely stand each other, either?’
He grimaced. ‘How did you guess?’
She paused, running her fingers slowly up and down the stem of her champagne flute and trying to focus on what he was saying, rather than the electric current coursing around her pelvis. ‘Oh, let me see. Could it have been the less than affectionate way you greeted him at the retrospective party, and then again today? On both occasions I got the distinct impression that you were more likely to smash his face in than shake his hand.’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘Was it that obvious?’
‘I’m afraid so. Even to someone as “silly and inexperienced” as me.’ She looked up at him through lowered lashes and smiled teasingly. ‘Even to someone as blind and silly and inexperienced as me. What I still haven’t worked out is why.’
Given that she had to be the world’s least experienced flirt, she was taking to it with worrying ease. But flirting with Raphael was as easy as breathing. It was something about the way he moved his long-fingered hands as he spoke, and the triangle of sun-bronzed skin at the open collar of his blue shirt, and his mouth.
What wasn’t so easy was remembering that this was just a manoeuvre in a game. She was playing a part, that was all. Cynically acting out a role as a means to an end. The thought made her feel as uncomfortable as the throbbing ache between her thighs.
‘Why what?’
With a fingertip, Eve chased a bead of condensation down the side of her glass. She found herself unable to look at him, but was aware of his eyes following every movement.
‘Why you hate him so much that you had to lie to him about us being together. Was it just to make sure he didn’t get something that you hadn’t got, regardless of whether you really wanted it?’
‘Who said I didn’t want it?’ he said softly.
She was spared the need to answer because at that moment Fiora arrived, carrying a tray laden with food. Which was just as well because Eve couldn’t have spoken anyway. The charge in the air between her and Raphael could have lit an entire city.
Fiora placed a bowl of salad and a basket of warm, fragrant bread on the table, then laid a plate of delicately scented risotto topped with asparagus spears drizzled with olive oil before each of them. Picking up on the taut lines of tension, she beamed knowingly and hurried away.
Eve picked up one of the slender spears and captured its tip between her lips. It was delicious—the essence of hot Italian summer concentrated into one distinctive taste—and she closed her eyes to savour it, realising how hungry she was. When she opened them again it was to find Raphael leaning back in his chair and watching her intently, his face shadowed and unreadable.
Colour flooded her cheeks as she sucked the fragrant oil off her fingers. She felt dizzy. Her pashmina had slipped off her shoulders, and she was painfully aware that her nipples were jutting against the silk of her dress.
She looked down, picking up one of the fallen rose petals and smoothing its bruised surface with her fingers. It felt like damp flesh. Memories of his hands on her body in the bathroom only an hour ago came back to her in a rush of heat.
It was as if he had read her mind.
‘So it seems, Signorina Middlemiss, that you’re something of a dark horse. Where did that exceptional singing voice come from?’
‘My mother was a singer. A soprano. My sister and I spent our childhoods traipsing around from one concert to the next, sleeping in dressing rooms and doing our home
work in the orchestra pit during rehearsals.’
Raphael raised an eyebrow. ‘Your father?’
‘First violin.’ She paused. ‘Apparently.’
‘You never knew him?’
His voice was gentle, and she found herself not wanting to meet his eyes. It was impossible to hate him when he spoke to her like that.
‘No.’
Her answer hung in the air for a moment before the silence swallowed it.
‘Lucky you,’ he said drily. ‘I often find myself wishing I could say the same.’
She gave him a brief smile, grateful in spite of herself that he had been sensitive enough to realise she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘How is your father? Have you had any news from the hospital?’
‘No change. It seems his heart is in pretty bad shape. Though I must say I’m surprised that he has one at all. I never saw much evidence of it when I was growing up.’
‘What about your mother? Were you close to her?’
He was suddenly very still. ‘Yes. She died when I was seven …’
‘Oh, Raphael.’ The small intimacy escaped her lips in a whispered caress before she could stop it. If he noticed he didn’t show it.
Laying down his fork, he leaned back in his chair and continued. ‘My father remarried almost straight away. I was something of a thorn in the side of his new wife, so by the time Luca came along I was safely incarcerated in an English boarding school. Hence our lack of brotherly devotion.’
His voice was low and faintly sardonic, but the pain behind his words wasn’t difficult to detect. Her foolish, traitorous heart went out to him.
‘And your impeccable English.’
‘I had to learn pretty quickly. Not that most of the first words I picked up are suitable for repetition over the dinner table. Pretty Italian boys were something of a novelty.’
‘I bet you were pretty, too.’ She spoke almost without thinking, then blushed. ‘I don’t mean … It’s just, with your bone structure and colouring.’ She looked down at her plate, continuing in a breathless rush. ‘My sister and I always longed to go to boarding school. It sounded like heaven to us. Were you happy there?’
Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys Page 40