That I want this. I want you. I want you to stop and I want you never to stop.
She removed the olive stone from her mouth and very carefully placed it in the empty bowl. ‘I’m thinking I’d quite like that glass of wine now.’
He straightened. And chuckled? Yes, she could hear the gravelly purr in his throat. Feel the vibrations in his chest. His hands slid off her waist and she returned to her task. Focused on her breathing in an effort to slow her heartbeat.
He placed a glass of wine beside her.
‘Thanks.’ Somehow she managed to sound normal rather than breathless. Lifting the glass to her nose, she inhaled the spicy, berry-scented aroma. Did he also remember her preference for red wine?
Eager to avoid the onset of a tense, awkward silence, she sipped and said, ‘Mmm...nice.’
‘Vino Nobile di Montepulciano.’
She blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘Noble Wine from Montepulciano. Not to be confused with the more commonly known wine derived from the Montepulciano grape in Abruzzo.’ He extracted a tray of rustic-style bread slices from the oven’s grill. ‘Montepulciano is a hill town surrounded by vineyards in southern Tuscany. Vino Nobile di Montepulciano is one of Italy’s oldest wines.’
‘Tuscany?’ Was he trying to put her at ease now with idle chitchat? Okay. Fine. It was safe ground—safer than where they were before. She’d go with it. She had to. She wouldn’t survive the week if she couldn’t handle a harmless conversation with him. ‘I hear that part of Italy is beautiful.’
‘Si. Very.’ He transferred the platters to a slab of granite extending from the island and pulled out two high leather stools. ‘I have a villa in the province of Siena, not far from Montepulciano.’
She sipped her wine, quietly digested that snippet of information. A villa in Tuscany. A penthouse in Rome. Exclusive hotel rooms in London. Not forgetting the housekeeper and, of course, his company jet. However severe his setback at the hands of her father, it hadn’t stopped his meteoric rise to success.
She perched on a stool, decided that now was not the time to challenge him on that, and focused on the food. ‘I’m hungry.’ She studied the platters. ‘Where do I start?’
‘Here. Like this.’ He rubbed a garlic clove on a piece of grilled bread, drizzled over olive oil, piled on tomato and mozzarella and topped it with basil leaves and a grind of salt and pepper. He handed it to her. ‘Bruschetta—tradizionale.’
‘Looks wonderful.’
And it tasted just as good.
They ate and drank and she asked him about Rome and Tuscany, quizzing him on the culture, history and climate of each region. He seemed content to keep their conversation light, the topics neutral, and gradually the pretence of normality eased her tension. Or was that thanks to the wine she’d consumed?
When Leo picked up the bottle again she covered her glass and shook her head. The wine had helped her relax, but too much would lull her into a false sense of comfort.
‘We need a story about where and when we met,’ he said, his gaze fastening on her mouth as she fired in another olive. ‘I suggest we use a version of the truth.’
Conscious of his scrutiny, she removed the olive stone as daintily as she could and washed the pulp down with a gulp of wine. ‘The truth?’
‘That we met at an art gallery in London some years ago and have recently become reacquainted.’
She nodded slowly. ‘How recently?’
He sipped his wine, considered. ‘Five months.’
Five months? Did that account for the time since he’d rejected Anna Santino and then some? Or had it been five months since his last mistress? Abruptly, she killed that line of thought. She didn’t need to know. Didn’t want to know.
‘Okay. Five months.’
‘Good.’ He put his glass down, reached for an olive, the movement bringing his arm into contact with hers. The touch was fleeting, inadvertent, yet instant heat flared beneath her skin.
Without meaning to, she flinched.
His brows slammed down. ‘Damn it, Helena.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t bite.’
‘I know.’
‘Then why leap like a scalded cat every time I touch you?’ Lines bracketed his mouth—deep grooves of displeasure that made her stomach lurch. ‘Do you find my touch so repellent?’
Her eyes flared. ‘No—’
‘Perhaps you were right to have second thoughts.’ He balled up his paper napkin and tossed it over the benchtop. ‘We’ll never pull this off. The whole thing is crazy. Pazzo.’
Panic surged up her throat. ‘It’s not. I can do this.’
‘Can you?’
She pushed off her stool. ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone low and fierce, and before she could stifle the impulse she fisted her hands in his shirt, shoved him against the granite and slammed her mouth over his.
Reckless! a voice in her head screamed, but she silenced it. What better way to prove her ability to play his mistress than with a kiss? A kiss that had to knock him dead, she told herself, letting instinct and boldness take over as she flicked her tongue into his surprise-slackened mouth.
Heat combined with the taste of salt and red wine exploded on her tongue, and when he grunted she thrust deeper, a second time and a third, until his grunt became a low growl against her lips.
Leo moved, shifting his weight on the stool, and she felt the hot imprint of his big hands curving around her buttocks. Then he hauled her in close, his powerful thighs parting to accommodate her, and angled his head to give their mouths a better fit.
And, Lord, the man knew how to kiss. Knew how to use those sensual lips and that wicked tongue to devastating effect. He stroked into her mouth, his tongue hot, demanding, and she almost lost her grip on his shirt. Almost lost her grip on herself.
A warning shivered through her.
How easy it would be for her to let hunger overcome sense and give in to the hot need pulsing at her core. But this kiss wasn’t about sating her needs, or his. It was about taking control. Proving a point. To herself as much as to him.
She wrenched her mouth away, stepped back and watched a range of expressions roll over his chiselled features. Her heart slammed against her ribs and she balled her hands, concentrated hard on calming her breathing.
Leo made no such effort. His breath fired from his chest in short, harsh bursts and a dark flush rode high on his cheekbones. She took in his bunched shirt, wet lips, stunned gaze. He looked like a man who had been thoroughly kissed.
Please, voice, don’t tremble. ‘I can handle this, Leo.’
She leaned in and rubbed her thumb over his mouth, wiping away the moisture from their kiss. His eyes darkened and his hands reached for her, but she backed off before he could touch her.
‘Thanks for supper,’ she said lightly. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in. It’s been a long day and I’m rather tired.’ She paused in the doorway, forced a smile onto her lips. ‘Goodnight.’
By the time Helena closed the door of the guest bedroom her heart was pounding so hard she felt short of breath and dizzy.
With swift, robotic movements that required blessedly little co-ordination, she brushed her teeth, shed her clothes and pulled on pyjama shorts and a matching cami. Then she crawled under the covers of the huge bed and groaned into a pillow.
These seven nights in Rome were going to be agony.
CHAPTER SIX
LEO PUNCHED HIS pillow three times, and when that failed to appease him he sat up and hurled it across the room. The pillow sailed through the air, hit the far wall with a dull, satisfying thud, and slumped to the bedroom floor.
Juvenile behaviour, but it felt good.
He swung his legs off the bed, glanced at the digital clock telling him it was five minutes past six a.m.—ten minutes since he’d last glared at it—and pulled on some sweats. He needed to expend some energy, and since bed-wrecking sex with his house guest wasn’t an option—not a wise one, at any rate�
��he’d have to settle for exercise.
Hard, punishing, sweat-drenching exercise.
Damn the minx.
He slung a towel over his shoulder, padded down his hallway to the small, well-equipped gym at the far end and set himself a gruelling pace on the treadmill.
Forty minutes later every muscle from his groin to his Achilles tendons strained and burned. Without slowing he swigged from his water bottle, yanked his tee shirt over his head and threw the sweat-soaked garment to the floor.
Perhaps if he’d made time for a mistress in recent months he wouldn’t be struggling now to harness his libido. But his work in the lead-up to the takeover had consumed him day and night, leaving scant time for distractions of the female variety no matter how tempting or willing. A blonde, career-driven attorney in New York had been his one indulgence—a brief bedroom-only affair that ended by mutual agreement after his last visit eight, maybe nine weeks ago.
Nine weeks.
He cranked up the speed on the treadmill. No wonder he was fit to explode after Helena’s little sexpot performance in the kitchen last night. His memories of their lovemaking had remained vivid over the years—more so than he cared to admit—but he couldn’t recall her ever having kissed him so senseless. Even now he could feel the imprint of her mouth, her tongue driving him wild, firing his body into a state of near-painful arousal.
With a grunt he stopped the treadmill, grabbed his towel and tee shirt and headed back to his room for a cold shower.
Helena was a paradox...a hotbed of unpredictability. Cool and flighty one minute, scorching the next. Estranged from her father yet willing to do almost anything, it seemed, to delay his day of reckoning. What game was she playing? So far nothing about her actions made sense. Nothing sat quite straight in his mind. And wasn’t that the reason he’d brought her here? To keep her close until her true motives were revealed?
He snapped off the water, towelled himself dry and dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. Feeling rejuvenated, he glanced at the clock. Still early, but he had emails to sift through, a mountain of paperwork to sort. He’d allow her another hour of beauty sleep. Two at the most.
And then, cara mia, it’s game on.
* * *
‘Morning, cara.’
Helena opened her eyes. Scowled. Shut them. She was dreaming again. Except this time Leo wasn’t hot and naked and tangled in her sheets. He was sitting on the bed, fully clothed.
She threw her arm over her eyes.
Get lost, Mr Sandman.
‘Your coffee is going cold.’
She snatched her arm down, blinked three times, then bolted upright so fast a galaxy of tiny stars danced in front of her eyes. ‘Oh, my God!’ Not dreaming. ‘Wh...what are you doing here?’
‘Breakfast.’ He inclined his head towards a tray on the nightstand. ‘Orange juice, cornetti and coffee. Unless you prefer tea in the morning?’
‘I prefer privacy in the morning,’ she snapped, to which he simply responded with a bone-melting smile.
Her heart tripped and fell and she swallowed a groan. Why must he look so crisp and gorgeous? She yanked the sheet to her chin, pushed a hand through her jungle of curls. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Oh...’ She frowned, dismayed. ‘I don’t normally sleep so late.’
The tantalising smells of strong coffee and warm pastry wafted from the nightstand. She eyed the cornetti, all fresh and fluffy and tempting. Had he gone out especially for them?
She tried for a conciliatory smile. ‘If you give me a few minutes I’ll get up and dressed.’ In other words, get out. I can’t breathe with you here.
‘Take your time.’ He stood, and her shoulders sloped with relief—only to inch up again when he sauntered to the wardrobe. He flung open the doors. ‘What are you wearing tonight?’
She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He started riffling through her clothes and she leapt forward, one foot hitting the floor before she remembered her skimpy pyjama shorts. She sank back, frowning when he pulled out the long black dress.
He held it up. ‘This?’
Her hands fisted in the sheet gathered against her chest. ‘Yes. Does that meet with your approval?’
‘It is black.’
‘You’re very observant.’
‘And boring.’
She gritted her teeth. Okay, the high neckline and long sleeves were a little conservative. But it was elegant and practical. ‘I think the term you’re looking for is classic.’
He tossed the dress onto the bed, flicked an imperious hand at the rest of her clothing. ‘Where is the colour?’
She shrugged, but the tension in her shoulders made the gesture jerky. Where was he taking this? ‘I’m a working girl now. Neutrals are more practical.’
He studied her intently. ‘You used to like colour.’
His observation was hardly profound, yet all the same her insides twisted. ‘Well, now I don’t.’ She reached for the orange juice, her throat suddenly parched, but her hand trembled and she put the glass down again.
She’d rather die of thirst than admit it, but he was right. Colour had been her passion. Her talent. Her joy. And her textile design degree, had she graduated, would have turned that passion into a career. But the day she buried her son—their son—the colour vanished from her world, and though she looked for it, tried desperately to reconnect with her passion, all she saw for the longest time were lifeless shades of grey. Bright colours had felt wrong. Artificial. Like painting the outside of a house to make it pretty while the inside remained neglected and rotten.
‘I want to see you in something eye-catching tonight,’ he said. ‘Something more befitting my mistress.’
She stiffened. ‘I don’t measure up to your standards now?’ An old familiar ache sparked in her chest. How many childhood years had she wasted, trying to live up to her father’s impossible standards, knowing that no matter what she did it would never be good enough?
Leo’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m talking about the dress. Not you.’
‘Well.’ She hiked her chin, tamped down her old insecurities. ‘It will just have to do. It’s the only gown I’ve brought.’
‘Then we will shop today and buy you another.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t afford anything new.’
‘We agreed I would take care of expenses, si?’
‘Travel costs. Not clothes. I don’t need your charity.’ Or to be told what to wear.
His eyebrows plunged into a dark V. ‘Do not mistake my intent for charity, Helena. Outside of these walls you are my mistress, and tonight many eyes will be upon us. I will not have you fade into the background like an insipid wallflower.’ He walked to the door, paused and glanced back. ‘Enjoy your breakfast. We will leave as soon as you are ready.’
Helena sucked in her breath to hurl a refusal, but he was gone before the words could form on her tongue.
Insipid?
She glared at the closed door, seething for long minutes until a loud, insistent grumble from her stomach dragged her attention back to the pastries. Huffing out a resigned sigh, she picked up a fat cornetto and studied its golden crust. If she couldn’t avoid the excursion, she could at least take her time getting ready.
Slightly mollified by the thought, she slouched against the pillows, bit off a chunk of pastry and chewed very, very slowly.
* * *
‘Not this one.’
Helena dug her heels into the cobbled stones outside yet another exclusive boutique. She eyed the name etched in discreet letters above the door. If the prices in the last three stores had been outrageous—and they had—here they would surely qualify as scandalous.
Leo’s grip on her hand firmed. ‘It is not to your liking, cara?’
For what seemed like the hundredth time that day she let his endearment slide over her, forced a blithe smile and suppressed the inevitable shiver that single, huskily spoken word evoked. Like everything
else, it was all part of their ruse—a ruse he had evidently decided to embrace today with unrestrained relish. Indeed, from the time they’d left his apartment scarcely a moment had passed without him touching her in some way: a hand at her waist, his thigh brushing hers, a random kiss on her mouth or temple.
And when, sitting at a quaint sidewalk café for lunch, he’d wiped a dash of cream from the corner of her mouth and sucked it off his thumb, her body had damn near dissolved into a puddle of liquid heat.
Worse—he knew. Knew that every touch, every lazy, lingering look from his hooded eyes, was making her quiver and burn.
She kept her voice low. ‘It looks too expensive.’
His lips curved into the same tolerant smile he’d worn for much of the day, fuelling her suspicion that this exercise was less about buying a gown and more about some underlying battle of wills.
‘I will decide what is too expensive.’ He tugged her forward. ‘Come.’
Inside, the routine was much the same as it had been at the other boutiques, only here the saleswoman was twice as elegant, the gowns four times more exquisite, and the proffered beverage not espresso or latte or tea, but sparkling wine served in tall, silver-rimmed flutes.
Helena pasted on a smile, as determined now as when they’d started out to find nothing she liked.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the tireless saleswoman four gowns later. ‘It’s just not my style.’
‘Ah, pity...’ The woman smiled, too professional to exhibit more than a glimmer of disappointment. ‘The blue is perfect with your eyes.’
Helena carefully peeled away the layers of beaded chiffon and offered up an apologetic smile. ‘It’s beautiful, really, but the detailing is too fussy for me. I’d prefer something...plainer.’
A male cough, loud and lacking any kind of subtlety, came from beyond the mirrored screen.
Helena ground her teeth, then raised her voice. ‘But nothing in black, please.’
Undeterred, the saleswoman tapped a red fingernail to her lips, then set off with a look of renewed focus.
As soon as she’d gone Helena pulled a silk robe over her bra and knickers, yanked the sash into a knot and stepped out from behind the screen. ‘This is ridiculous.’
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian Page 9