The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

by Spencer, Catherine

  He couldn’t protect her from that, but he could see to it that these few days in Paris were as idyllic as his considerable power and money could make them. She’d need a few perfect memories to sustain her, once she was flung into the arduous and unforgiving business of viticulture. Right at that moment, however, she was fading visibly.

  “I couldn’t get a dinner reservation before nine,” he told her, which was a lie. Regardless of the hour, there was always a table for him at Clarice’s, the elegant little restaurant he often patronized, as much for its exceptional cuisine as its convenient location to the hotel. “We’ve got nearly three hours before we have to leave, and I suggest you use some of that time to relax.”

  “I think I will.” She flexed one knee and winced. “In fact, I think I’ll soak in a nice, hot bath.”

  “Excellent idea,” he said, sternly turning his thoughts away from the image of her long, lovely body in all its naked glory.

  He waited until she’d shut herself in her room before attending to the calls waiting to be answered, as indicated by the flashing light on the telephone. Ten in all, nine of which he returned, and one he ignored. That Ortensia Costanza was also in Paris for the convention didn’t surprise him, but he had no intention of allowing her to interfere with his time there.

  Unbuttoning his shirt, he ambled to his own bathroom, shed the rest of his clothes and stepped into the shower. Jets of hot water pummeled his body, sluicing away the dust of the day, and dulling the edge of weariness travel always induced. Drying off, he shaved, combed his hair and helped himself to the bathrobe the hotel supplied.

  Left to his own devices, he’d have ordered a meal delivered to the suite and watched something mindless on television, an indulgence he seldom allowed himself in the normal order of things. He suspected that, had he asked, Arlene might have gone along with the idea, but lounging around in a state of semiundress was a temptation he wasn’t about to fool himself into believing he could withstand.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t a complete barbarian, and the bottle of Krug he’d had sent up wouldn’t remain at optimum temperature indefinitely. Confident she’d still be relaxing in the bath, he collected the wine and two glasses, and let himself into her bedroom. “Are you decent in there, Arlene?” he said, tapping on her bathroom door.

  She let out a muffled yelp of surprise. “Of course I’m not decent! I’m in the tub!”

  “Hidden under a blanket of bubbles, I’m sure.”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Good enough.” Not waiting for permission, he pushed open the door and strolled to where she reclined in the marble tub with only her head visible above a snowy mound of froth. She’d turned off the bank of lights above the vanity and left the room swathed in the flickering shadows of lavender-scented candles.

  Sputtering, she regarded him from wide gray eyes. Steam curled around her face and left tendrils of hair clinging damply to her forehead. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “It’s customary to enjoy a little champagne when bathing at leisure at the Paris Ritz,” he said blandly, pouring the wine and offering her a glass.

  One slender arm emerged from the bubbles, a modest amount of body, to be sure, but enough for his first inkling that perhaps he’d underestimated his powers of resistance. He cleared his throat and backed to the vanity, a safe distance away. “Salute—or, as they say in France, à la vôtre!”

  “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, eyeing him mistrustfully.

  “Then simply enjoy it, cara. And stop looking so fearful. I promise I haven’t laced the wine with an aphrodisiac. You’re not going to lose your inhibitions and leap all over me.”

  Her gaze remaining fused with his, she took a tentative sip. “Is this how you treat all the women you entertain here? Catching them at a disadvantage, and plying them with alcohol?”

  “The only women I’ve entertained here are my sisters. Fond of them though I am, serving them champagne in the bathtub doesn’t fall under the heading of brotherly obligation. They have husbands to take care of things like that. You, however, have only me.”

  “Is that how you view me? As an obligation?”

  “You know very well that I do not. I’ve made no secret of how very attractive I find you, and how much I desire you. Not even you, Arlene, can mistake that for obligation.”

  She swallowed and concentrated very hard on the bubbles rising in her glass. “You must find me laughably unsophisticated that I’d agree to come away with you for the weekend, yet be so self-conscious about your seeing me naked.”

  “But that’s the whole point, Arlene,” he said gently. “I see only as much of you as you care to show me, and I can say in all honesty that, at this moment, it amounts to very little.”

  But enough for his imagination to complete the picture and send the blood surging to his loins. Glad of the dim light, he adjusted the layer of thick terry cloth covering him and willed his nether regions to behave. A pointless exercise, of course. A man’s greatest weakness was his inability to control or disguise his arousal.

  Fortunately she was too concerned with maintaining her own modesty to worry about his. “This place we’re going for dinner,” she said, running her finger over the rim of her glass, “is it very dressy?”

  “It’s not black tie, if that’s what you mean, but yes, I’d say it’s moderately dressy. Does that present a problem for you?”

  Her suds-draped shoulder peeped out of the bubbles in a brief shrug. “Not really. I just don’t want to embarrass you.”

  They’d had this conversation once already, just last Saturday, and he thought he’d made it plain enough then that nothing she said or did could ever embarrass him. Yet looking at her now, he saw an abyss of uncertainty in her eyes, and he knew exactly its cause. “Do yourself a favor, Arlene, and forget everything your mother taught you,” he said, a flash of anger at the woman’s willful destruction of her only daughter’s confidence taking him by surprise.

  She stifled a laugh. “That’s unusual advice. I’m sure neither you nor your sisters follow it.”

  “My sisters and I are blessed with a mother who has our best interests at heart. It would appear the same can’t be said about yours, and I venture to guess the reason is that she’s jealous of you.”

  “Oh, hardly! My mother is the epitome of chic. I’m a terrible disappointment to her.”

  “In what way?”

  She wrinkled her elegant little nose. “I’m plain.”

  “That,” he said flatly, “is a matter of opinion. Of greater interest, at least to me, is what makes her so unfeeling. Can you imagine telling a child of yours she was plain, even if you believed it to be true?”

  “Never!” Her eyes blazed with fierce intensity and she sat up slightly out of the water so that it lapped in soapy little waves against the top of her breasts. “If I had a daughter…oh, if I had a daughter…! I would tell her every day how beautiful she was—or him, if I had a son—and it would be true because, in my eyes, they would be beautiful! The most precious, beautiful children in the entire world!”

  Realizing too late that he’d struck a nerve, he stared at her, taken aback by her impassioned response. “You crave a child,” he said.

  She shrank up to her chin under the drift of foaming bubbles, as if trying to hide her most shameful secret. “I’d like to have a baby, yes.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “A husband, for a start. I’m surprised you’d even ask, given your views on marriage and families.”

  “Are you saying you’ve never met a man you’d even consider marrying?”

  Her lashes fluttered down, lustrous gold-tipped veils shielding her eyes. “You ask too many questions, Domenico, and this water’s growing cold.”

  And he was treading on dangerous territory. Marriage and children were topics he avoided discussing with women, lest they leap to unwarranted conclusions about his intentions.

  Glancing at his watch, he said smoothly, “It�
��s time you finished getting ready, anyway. We’ve got only about forty-five minutes before we have to leave.”

  The breath of relief she let out as the door closed behind him sent a drift of foam sailing over the side of the tub to the marble floor. The water might have grown cool, but her blood raced fast and hot through her veins.

  She’d almost had a heart attack when he showed up without so much as a by-your-leave. Not because he might have caught her naked as the day she was born, but because he’d surprised her in a fantasy woven around him that had left her nipples hard as pebbles and the secret flesh between her thighs tingling.

  She wasn’t a virgin. Afraid she might be missing something spectacular, she’d succumbed to the pleadings of a man she’d dated when she was twenty-two. They’d “done it” in his bed, in his apartment. He’d said all the right things, and been very proud of his performance. And left her wishing she’d stayed home with a good book. The best she could say about the experience had been that it was over quickly. She had no idea how it felt to climax.

  She’d decided then that sex was vastly overrated and highly undignified, and no one she’d met since had persuaded her to think differently. Until she met Domenico, and with him….

  She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks, mortified. She’d taken shimmering pleasure in letting him touch her intimately. Had known a coiling tension that left the skin behind her knees dotted with goose bumps. A quiver had spread from the pit of her stomach to her womb, leaving her trembling on the brink of discovery. And all this in the front seat of his car.

  So much for dignity! Yet she’d felt not a scrap of shame, and not a moment’s regret beyond the fact that it all ended much too soon. I want you, she’d whispered.

  Well, here he was, hers for the taking, and how did she respond? With a pathetically coy show of reluctance that bordered on outright deception. There were names for women who played that kind of game, and she didn’t like to think of them being applied to her.

  “So start being honest with yourself and with him,” she murmured to her flushed image in the bathroom mirror. “If you really do want him, stop dithering and make the first move before you run out of time.”

  The truth of that stayed with her, prodding her to action all the time she was smoothing body lotion over her limbs and fashioning her hair into a sleek chignon. It whispered to her as she drew a mascara wand over her lashes and slipped into delicate cream silk underwear—she’d always had a weakness for pretty lingerie, as if being glamorous underneath made up for looking so plain on the surface. It nudged her memory as she sifted through the items in her closet.

  The night she’d lost her virginity, she’d worn a sweater whose neck fit so tight that it had become stuck over her ears when Whatever-his-name-was had tried to take it off. One of her earrings had flown across the room and she’d stood there, helpless and humiliated, with half her face squished into a shape nature never intended, while he struggled to free the other half.

  She wasn’t about to suffer a repeat performance again tonight. Too much was at stake. Domenico might consider her untutored in the art of love, but he didn’t have to find her ridiculous, as well. Her choice of what to wear would be dictated by how gracefully she could shed it—or he could remove it. Because, one way or another, she would wake up tomorrow morning his mistress, and if her reign had to be short, she would make sure it was also very, very sweet. For both of them.

  In the end, she decided on the misty-mauve silk-knit dress. Long but simply styled, it was dressy without being ostentatious, and clung smoothly in all the right places. Gail’s purple pashmina shawl, silver pumps and clutch bag, and a pair of her dangling crystal earrings provided the finishing touches.

  That she’d chosen well was immediately apparent when she joined Domenico in the salon. “I’ll be the envy of every man who sees me with you tonight,” he said hoarsely, holding her at arm’s length, the better to examine the gown’s classic Empire lines. The evening was off to a good start.

  Clarice’s lived up to every idealized concept Arlene had ever harbored of what an intimate, elegant Parisian restaurant should be. Framed oil paintings, illuminated by discreet spotlights, glowed against burgundy damask wall panels above rich mahogany wainscoting. Winged armchairs, upholstered in faded tapestry, snugged up to round tables covered by thick white linen cloths whose hems swept the carpeted floor. Candlelight glimmered softly on sterling place settings and sparkled on crystal.

  A harpist half-hidden behind a lacquered screen filled the room with melody. The white-aproned waiters were discreet, melting into the shadows when they weren’t needed, and appearing silently the very second they were.

  She and Domenico dined at leisure on artichoke soup with wild thyme, and lobster terrine. On boneless breast of duck artfully arranged on Belgian endive sautéed in butter and sprinkled with slivers of toasted almond. On apricots from Turkey and crème fraîche drizzled with vanilla sugar. And with every delectable mouthful, every sip of exquisite vintage wine, she was aware of his compelling gaze reminding her of the deadline she’d set herself.

  It was close to midnight when they returned to the Ritz. The witching hour, she thought dizzily, unable to suppress a nervous shiver as he closed the door to their suite and slipped the lock in place. During their absence, someone from housekeeping had replenished the flower arrangements and left crystal brandy snifters and a bottle of cognac on a silver tray.

  “A nightcap?” Domenico inquired, and she was tempted to say yes, if only to prolong the moment of unvarnished truth when she revealed how deeply she ached for him.

  But drinking herself into oblivion was not her style and would solve nothing. “Thank you, but no. I’ve had enough for tonight.”

  “You enjoyed the evening?”

  There it was: the perfect opening for her to go up to him, take his hand, look him straight in the eye and say something along the lines of, It was wonderful, Domenico, but it’s not over yet. “Very much,” she said, and faked a yawn behind her hand.

  The smile he turned on her made a mockery of her attempt at subterfuge. “You’re exhausted.”

  “Yes. It’s been a very long day.” An endless day, she thought, finding it hard to believe it was only this morning that she’d woken up in Sardinia. She’d lived a hundred thrilling lifetimes since then—and died a thousand tiny deaths inspired by her chronic fear that she wouldn’t measure up to expectation.

  He poured an inch of cognac into a snifter. “You should go to bed.”

  “Yes.” Still, she hesitated, mustering her courage. Willing herself to say simply, I’m ready, Domenico. Please make love to me tonight. Mutely imploring him with her eyes to help her. To make it easy for her to cross the line and take that final step.

  Cradling the brandy balloon between his fingers, he came to her and kissed her. On the cheek. “I’ll say good night, then. Sleep well.”

  She swallowed, the sting of tears so close to betraying her that the best she could manage was a choked, “Thank you,” before fleeing the scene.

  Coward! she upbraided herself, making her way through her bedroom to the bathroom. But its carrara marble floors and fixtures, its gold plated taps and fittings offered no comfort. They were as alien to her world as the notion that she could boldly seduce a man into her bed.

  Idiot! she could almost hear Gail saying. Stop selling yourself short, and seize the moment. It’s not too late.

  But she’d smeared her mascara with tears, and the chignon she’d so carefully constructed was coming undone. As a femme fatale, she left a lot to be desired. Better to sleep on it and see what tomorrow brought.

  Glad to have reached a decision she could adhere to, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and put on her pretty pink nightgown before hanging up her dress in the vast wardrobe. Whoever had replaced the bouquets in the salon had also turned down her bed, she noticed, and left a chocolate and a single red rose on her pillow.

  Chocolate and red roses; the food and flowers of
lovers. Dark melting sweetness on her tongue, just like his kiss. Petals smooth and cool as velvet flesh brushing against hers…

  Suddenly irresolute, she swung her gaze to the door separating her from him. If she were to open it now, and go to him, letting her state of undress speak for itself, would he understand and spare her having to ask? Would he welcome her? Or had she tested his patience too severely?

  Only one way to find out! Gail’s voice teased across the miles.

  Tentatively she turned the knob and eased open the door. Peeped out, and…

  And nothing. A small table lamp cast enough light for her to see that the salon was empty and the door to his room closed. The brandy he’d poured remained untouched in its glass.

  Relief warred with disappointment. Once again, she’d been spared making a decision. Or so she believed. But he was an invisible magnet, drawing her helplessly closer. Her bare feet sighed over the Persian rug. At her touch, his door swung open.

  Outside his open window, the night wind whispering through the branches of the trees in the Vendôme Gardens lured her across the threshold. The moon sailing above the slate rooftops of Paris cast a blue sheen over the big wide bed—and him, half-covered by the top sheet, impervious to her presence.

  She approached him stealthily, ready to flee if he stirred.

  Except for the steady rise and fall of his chest, he remained immobile. His hair, black as ink, fell across his forehead. His lashes, disgracefully long, sprayed thick and lush above his cheeks. Textured by moonlight, the contoured skin of his shoulders, his arms, revealed underlying muscles honed to sleek perfection.

  She touched him. She couldn’t help herself. Her hand took on a mind of its own and came to rest lightly against his chest. He was warm, vital.