The Italian Next Door...

by Anna Cleary

  If he thought about it, he realised she hadn’t told him much about herself. But then, who did when they met someone for the first time? Sacramento, this time it suited his purpose. He didn’t want to know too much, did he?

  This was his way. Keep things light. Only talk about the present. Don’t let the past intrude.

  The temptation to let his misgivings slide and take her to his bed regardless overwhelmed him for several moments, but with a grim wrench he reminded himself of who and what he was.

  Better to settle any queries now before he got in any deeper.

  The irony of his position didn’t escape him. The risk of knowing more about her was equal to the risk of knowing nothing at all. On the one hand he had a burning desire to know everything, on the other a desperate need not to. What, perdio, was wrong with him? He must have been too long without a woman.

  While there was even the slightest doubt he mustn’t get too close to her. If she was dishonest, integrity demanded he should have no compunction about alerting the carabinieri and seeing her behind bars. Surely.

  Like an old refrain the words conflict of interest began to rumble in the back of his brain. Never again must he risk allowing history to repeat itself, though maybe he’d wait, at least until he had a photo of her.

  He moved to the window and parted the blinds. The upper terrace’s end apartment was in darkness. She’d gone to her bed.

  He imagined her slim body prone on the sheet, her breasts pushing against the material of that gauzy nightdress he’d seen, and sighed. He could still feel their softness in his hands. He hadn’t seen her naked nipples, but through her clothes he’d tasted their tautness and his imagination had been aroused more potently than if he’d enjoyed an actual sighting. The vision rose in his mind now with overwhelming immediacy. Raspberries, sweet, taut and edible.

  His loins stirred and he tried to force his mind to other things. It was clear he needed to establish some objective distance. She’d looked and tasted so…sweet.

  If Pia Renfern was the innocent she seemed someone should protect her. A tender woman in a foreign land could so easily be taken advantage of if some responsible person wasn’t alert to the possibilities.

  Lucky for her, he was alert.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PIA woke from a long deep slumber with a foggy feeling of misgiving. When her brain cleared and the previous evening flooded back, she only succeeded in feeling more and more mystified.

  What had really happened? One minute she’d been believing in the magic, well on the way to a night of pure passion, the next everything had ground to a halt and there had been an abrupt goodnight.

  Was she so out of practice at reading the signals? Or maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t communicated her own signals very well herself. She scrolled back through the events leading up to the kiss, and then the kiss itself. Until that point Valentino’s enthusiasm had been clearly apparent. Then there’d been the kettle interruption.

  That had been the point when everything changed. It was as if, with her having left the room, Valentino had had time to rethink. Perhaps, following her outburst at the lookout, he’d decided not to risk going any further. Or maybe he was just being a fantastic gentleman, waiting until they knew each other better.

  She screwed up her face. With what she knew of the male animal, how likely was that? No, in some way she’d slipped up. She must have taken too long in the kitchen, and he’d made the assumption she was scared.

  Oh, God, no. How humiliating.

  The shame of it rocked her. No wonder he’d changed the subject and started taking such a forensic interest in Lauren’s wall. He was trying to spare her embarrassment by easing out of the situation. As if any man would really be diverted by a picture of some acquaintances.

  She closed her eyes and breathed hard. Every exchange with Valentino Silvestri had ended badly. Somehow she would have to nip this notion he had in the bud. In fact, why even bother? The best thing she could do would be to forget him, stop reliving that kiss, not think about dancing, moonlight, or fireworks, and focus on her real reason for being here.

  Determined to hold to that positive thought, she managed the transition from the bed to the bathroom. Warbling in the shower, she had the strongest inkling in ages that she was on the verge of painting, perhaps some lush landscape in rich sensuous oils. Maybe even a series.

  She could feel the work building up inside her in the way things always used to. Her fingertips were practically itching to take up a brush. She sensed the moment was close. Maybe she could even start a portrait. Something insightful involving a lean, hard man with elegant, bronzed hands and bristling eyebrows.

  In her impatience to start she skipped breakfast. She put on her old spattered painting shirt, took her sketchbook out to the balcony with her fingers crossed and a prayer in her heart, and faced the morning.

  The world was so breathtakingly beautiful.

  Overnight a large yacht had dropped anchor in the harbour. It was a long way out, but she could easily distinguish a helicopter pad at both bow and stern. Wow. Someone was rich.

  She leaned over the balustrade. On the terrace below, an old man was working in the garden. Valentino’s grandfather, she guessed. He was digging, though every so often he stooped to drag something from the earth.

  With such a scene of contradictions begging, how could she not be inspired?

  She filled a blue ceramic bowl with lemons and placed it on the balcony table. Holding her brush poised, she breathed deeply until she felt her senses fill with the essences of her surroundings. The cascading villas, the sunlit sea, the rough tiles under her feet, the heady scents of citrus, the fat vine leaves twining round the arches…

  Willing the inspiration to flow, she paused to wipe a trickle of perspiration from her neck. A white flash caught the corner of her eye.

  Damn. Valentino was standing on his terrace.

  Her pulse jumped into a higher gear and she leaned forward for a better view through the holes in the balustrade. Oh, glory, he was wearing shorts and a singlet top, showcasing those fabulous shoulders and long bronzed thighs.

  She watched him take the steps down to the terraced garden. The old man paused to greet him with a nod, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Valentino patted him on the shoulder, and the old guy planted his shovel upright in the ground and turned away towards the house.

  Pia was intrigued then to see Valentino take the shovel in hand. After a few minutes of easy, rhythmic, almost lazy digging—poetry in motion from a purely artistic point of view—she was even more intrigued to see him take off his vest and toss it over the bough of a small peach tree, then

  really swing into his task.

  Like a dreamer Pia stared, hypnotised. A sensual warmth flooded her and she felt her hands and armpits moisten. For a few hazy seconds she was aware of her heightened pulse drumming in her ears. The undeniable beauty of his powerful shoulders, strong sinewy arms and long muscled back rippling in the sun, glistening with sweat, rushed through her blood like an intoxicant.

  She slid off her chair and knelt down on the tiles for a better view, breathing hard. Call it desire, call it madness, but Valentino Silvestri was a sight worth seeing. Why hadn’t he wanted to stay? Had she unconsciously radiated the sort of neediness that had so repelled Euan?

  After a while the old man came out and beckoned, and Valentino planted the shovel and went back inside. The show was over.

  Tottering to her feet, she cleared away her palette and brushes. There was no way she could concentrate now.

  She changed into her peasant blouse with the puffed sleeves and front lacing, a skirt and sandals, and, taking her camera, locked the apartment behind her.

  Photography had often been a fruitful way to kick-start her creativity, and here in paradise there were subjects in every direction. She discovered she wasn’t the only one enthralled by the beauty. Down at the beach a street artist had set up his easel and was dashing off masterpieces for the touri
sts. How she envied him his confident reliance on his abilities.

  She watched him for a few wistful minutes. She’d love to be doing just that. Lining up the perspective with her eye, dabbling her brush or her knife, choosing the magic starting spot, slapping on the colour with sensuous abandon.

  She raised her camera to the artist and digitally immortalised him, then snapped a few other great shots. Heading up from the beach she was tempted from the main road by a narrow alley, half lane, half staircase, barely wide enough for two people to pass.

  Pausing to photograph some verdigris-encrusted scrollwork on an old street sign, she noticed a figure rounding the corner into the lane. Almost before her eyes registered Valentino her heart did, racketing into a fast tattoo. He advanced up the steep path towards her, his dark brows lowered in brooding contemplation.

  He looked up and instantly his expression alerted, his eyes raking over her in her skirt and pretty top with a piercing masculine interest.

  ‘Oh. Valentino,’ she said, as breathless as if she’d been running. ‘Hello.’ He looked crisp and freshly showered, his lean frame now clad in jeans and a white open-necked shirt that enhanced his olive tan.

  Their interrupted embrace of the evening before resonated vibrantly in the air. If only there were some safe, non-revealing way to ask for an explanation.

  ‘Pia,’ he acknowledged, his thick lashes sweeping down.

  ‘How…how are you? Is everything—all right with you?’ She looked carefully at him.

  ‘Everything is fine.’

  ‘Both mentally and physically?’

  A gleam crept into his eyes. ‘All is in exceptionally good working order, you will be pleased to hear. And you? Did you sleep well? Your pillow is soft, your bed?’ His thick black lashes couldn’t quite conceal the sensual admiration in his eyes. If he’d found her so unattractive that he needed to bolt the evening before, he wasn’t showing it now.

  ‘Oh, yes, the pillow…and the—the bed. They’re very comfortable. Soft, and at the same time quite springy. Bouncy, even, if you can imagine that,’ she added with a small gurgle of a laugh.

  His hot eyes darkened and she could feel the tension in him like a tangible thing. His gaze flickered to her throat, her legs. When he spoke his voice was deeper. Husky, even. ‘I am imagining it.’ His glance lighted on her camera. ‘Are you a photographer like your cousin?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not me. I’m afraid I’m just an amateur.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Here, I’ll take your picture.’

  Her immediate instinct was to refuse, she rarely liked herself in photos, but she didn’t like to be churlish.

  ‘Oh.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, all right. That’s—very kind.’ She handed the camera over, careful not to touch his fingers as she showed him the trigger, then glanced about her for a backdrop. ‘Er—here will do. This pink wall.’

  She stood back against the wall like a firing squad victim while he raised the camera. She felt so self-conscious with his dark gaze focused directly on her, she could feel a hot flush rising. At the same time, warring with her embarrassment was another sensation creeping down her arteries. It was almost a thrill. Almost—like being aroused.

  She noticed the corners of his mouth tilting up, then after a fraught second he lowered the camera. ‘You need to relax a little.’ His voice sounded deeper and richer somehow, almost a caress.

  ‘I am relaxed.’ She tried to lighten her expression with a phoney smile.

  He tried again and snapped her this time, then inspected the result. ‘Bella,’ he said softly, then moved close to show her.

  She caught a flash of her silly, smiling face, but she could barely take the picture in. His bare forearm had lightly brushed hers, sending her skin cells into a frenzy while her senses went tripping in recognition of his now familiar scent.

  Gravely he gave her back the camera. ‘And another.’

  Before she understood what he meant, he whipped out his mobile and clicked another couple of shots. He examined them with satisfaction, clicked something, then tucked his mobile away. ‘Si arrosse al pensiero, Pia, non ti preoccupare. Non ho nessun intenzione di baciarti questo momento.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t…’ Her lashes fluttered uncontrollably. ‘What was that in English?’

  ‘Ah.’ He made an apologetic gesture. ‘I was forgetting. I was saying that you are blushing like a rose.

  She grew warmer, if possible. ‘What else did you say? There was more, wasn’t there?’

  His thick lashes drifted heavily down. ‘Only that you have no need to be worried, tesoro. I am not thinking of kissing you here. When I taste your sweet lips we must be alone together, in a private place. There are too many gossips in this village.’

  Her sweet lips turned as dry as old crackers. She resisted licking them and drew in a long, trembling breath. ‘You’re mistaken, Valentino. I wasn’t worried. But I’m surprised. I’m not sure why you sound so confident, as if you expect there to be more of…this.’ She made a wordless gesture.

  ‘This…?’

  ‘You know. The kissing, et cetera.’

  He looked amused. ‘Aren’t you anticipating more of the kissing? Et cetera?’ His eyes were teasing, sensual.

  She flushed, but said steadily, ‘I advise you not to rely on it. It will depend on how I feel, don’t you think?’

  ‘It might also depend on how I feel,’ he said, smiling. ‘But let me assure you, as far as I could ascertain, you do feel simply—fantastico.’ He softened his voice, lacing the double entendre with such lascivious meaning she nearly gasped.

  Rallying, she lifted her brows. ‘And yet you ran away.’

  Amusement played on his sexy mouth. ‘So I did. Did that matter?’

  That she was left dangling in a state of arousal? She felt a spurt of indignation, but achieved a sweet smile. ‘Not in the slightest. I was grateful for your consideration. Thank you for understanding how desperately tired I was. I appreciated the early night.’

  ‘Prego.’ Valentino curled his lips into the requisite answering smile. In spite of his comprehension of her pique he felt the heat of challenge surge through him.

  He’d make her admit it mattered whether he stayed or went. He’d make her burn for him and beg.

  ‘I’m glad you are well rested.’ He moved close to her, took her arms and drew her into him, his blood stirring to the feel of her soft breasts and thighs, the fragrance of her hair. How things had changed in a few short hours. In spite of her defiant words she didn’t demur at his touch and once again he was back on the verge of the most delicious victory.

  Surely her mouth was the most enticing he’d ever laid eyes on. He bent to kiss her, intending only a light brushing of lips, but unable to draw back until his blood was racing, she was trembling and melting in his arms, her sweet breath mingling with his, her sweet nipples taut against his chest.

  The sound of voices alerted Pia to people advancing towards them in the lane, and the kiss broke. At once he dropped his hands and they were separate, although in her giddy aroused state Pia felt the desire bonding them like an invisible cord.

  ‘This afternoon,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ll bring you some raspberries to match your—your tongue.’

  Her tongue? Then she blinked. This afternoon?

  ‘Come,’ he said, catching her hand. ‘Walk up to the

  piazza with me.’

  Why was real life never the way it was rehearsed? Hadn’t she resolved to pull the plug on him? She’d just been the easiest pushover. And what was more, judging by the gleam in Valentino’s eyes, he was perfectly aware of it, and her reluctance to make the cut.

  Oh, admit it, she was reluctant. It was so pleasant having a hot-blooded man saying passionate things to her no other man would have thought of in his wildest dreams. When had Euan ever thought of matching her tongue with raspberries? She was starting to wonder how she’d ever lived without the Italian style. From now on she would insist on it as her benchmark
.

  They reached the square at the top of the town. Valentino took her elbow and ushered her up a step into the open-air café. A waiter greeted him by name and showed them to a table, swiftly providing them with a carafe of water, then stood at the ready, his dark eyes flicking from one to the other of them.

  ‘Capuccino, per favore,’ she said. Valentino made an amused sound and she lifted her brows at him. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Only barbarians drink cappucino so late in the day.’ His eyes were warm and caressing, as if he found barbarians quite appealing.

  ‘Do they?’ She smiled at the waiter. ‘Forgive me, I’m a barbarian.’

  The waiter grinned and assured her it was okay. He was used to turisti. Valentino intervened then to introduce them. ‘Pia, meet Tony. Tony, Signorina Renfern.’

  ‘Buongiorno,’ she said, offering Tony her hand. ‘Didn’t I see you last night in the square?’

  ‘Sure, I was there,’ Tony exclaimed. ‘And I saw you. Dancing, dancing.’ He wiggled his narrow hips. ‘The music was not bad, hey? Good for exercising. Did you like the fireworks?’

  ‘Oh, the—fireworks.’ She felt warmth creep up her neck. ‘Yes, they were…’ She risked the briefest glance at Valentino. He was watching her face, his mouth grave, his acute dark gaze amused while at the same time veiled.

  ‘Fantastic,’ he said softly.

  She looked at his hands, and the glow seeped further, up into her cheeks and ears. ‘Yes. They were.’ She breathed the words.

  The young man whisked away and she took up the menu and fanned her face.

  Valentino lounged idly back in his chair. ‘There’ll be more tonight.’ His lean face was non-committal.

  ‘More…?’ She held the fan still.

  ‘Fireworks.’

  A bolt of pure excitement shot through her, though she managed to conceal it. ‘Do you know that for certain, or is it just wishful thinking?’

  ‘You could say both.’ The corners of his mouth edged into a smile that brought an extra surge of warmth to swell her breasts.