The Italian Next Door...

by Anna Cleary

  ‘You’re very confident.’

  ‘I am. Well, I’ve always had a special interest in pyrotechnics.’

  His eyes were mocking, sensual, and so damnably attractive. Her insides were melting and churning at the same time. She wanted to, but should she give him another chance so easily? How far did he intend to go this afternoon? How far did she?

  The coffees arrived, and she closed her eyes the better to smell the chocolatey aroma, then sipped, savouring the brew.

  Valentino downed his espresso in a couple of swigs. He sat relaxed, keeping a leisurely eye on the constant parade of passers-by in the street while at the same time feeling intensely aware of his companion. The temptation to reach out and touch her was extreme. Her cheek and throat were so smooth his mouth watered. His fingers itched to untie the bow at her cleavage and release the strings. Every so often when she moved he caught a glimpse of the valley between her breasts and his blood coursed to dangerous places.

  The tension he sensed in her pulled at him with an ache that was hard to distinguish from pleasure. During the long hot night, over and over he’d examined and re-examined his need to resist her, and now here he was again, lusting, allowing the beast inside him to dictate.

  He needed to stop looking and imagining, visualising all he’d explored in the vibrant dark. If only his hands didn’t remember so well the size and shape of her breasts. So soft and resilient, so responsive…

  Once more his conscience pricked him. There he went, slip-sliding again. He needed to tighten his grip on himself. From the first sight of her walking in the alley, her graceful limbs outlined by the soft fabric of her skirt, he’d wondered if he would have the strength to resist her if he uncovered something negative.

  Last night’s trawl through the databases had unearthed nothing especially suspicious about the cousin, apart from her frequent need to travel, and his instincts told him Pia was just exactly as she seemed. A young woman taking advantage of her cousin’s invitation to enjoy a holiday on the other side of the world.

  But how dependable were his instincts?

  He needed to discipline himself, cut the sexy talk and use this time with her fruitfully, instead of as an opportunity to lure her a step closer to his bed.

  He cooled his tone, though not so much it would alarm her. ‘How long since you saw your cousin?’

  As though sensing the change in temperature, she glanced at him quickly. ‘Not that long. She came to Dad’s funeral.’

  ‘Ah. How recently has your father…?’

  ‘Last year… He—he—had a heart attack.’

  Picking up something in her voice, he allowed a beat to go by before he said casually, ‘Were you close?’

  ‘We were, yes.’ Pia turned her face to the street but her eyes were suddenly so misty she couldn’t see the view. Funny how she could feel so excited and attracted and want to cry all at the same time. But this was hardly the time for tears. Hell, if she opened those floodgates the flow would never stop. She fought them back.

  For a surprised instant Valentino caught the shimmer in her eyes and something tugged in his chest. Her loss was recent, he realised, and she wasn’t over it. His perceptions of her made a shift.

  She was smiling again, but the glimpse of her fragility pierced him in some way.

  Instantly he tried to shut down the response. Too much information.

  ‘Nothing ever prepares you for the shock,’ she continued. ‘You think you would adapt, you’ve been subconsciously expecting it all your life, and then, when it finally happens you realise a major chunk of who you are, your very foundations, has gone, and you were never…’ She raised her blue eyes to his, their rueful appeal touching him in places that were off limits. ‘Sorry to rattle on. Anyway, you must know what it’s like. You’ve lost both your parents, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Sure.’ He tried avoiding her gaze. Overly conscious of his blood’s rapid beating, he curled his fingers into his palms. Sacramento, what was he doing? All he’d wanted to know were a few facts.

  He really needed to cool it. He wasn’t handling this at all well. Next thing he knew… Mio Dio, next thing he’d be letting himself get attached to her.

  Pia sensed his withdrawal and bit her lip. Had she said too much? She supposed she was still quite rocky over her father. With the bank incident happening so soon after the funeral, she guessed she hadn’t really had time to properly process all that losing him meant before she’d taken the plunge to rock bottom.

  She drew a deep breath. This was neither the time nor the place. She needed to stay away from the minefields. Keep the lid firmly on.

  ‘Hey, Valentino.’

  ‘Oh, look,’ she said, directing Valentino’s gaze to the street, relieved to be rescued from the awkward moment. ‘I think he’s waving to you.’

  An elderly gent dressed in a white suit and cap, colourful shirt, wide silk tie and white leather shoes stood outside the railing, waving his cane. Valentino sprang up, and the old man hobbled up into the café to embrace him.

  After a warm exchange of greetings Valentino introduced him as Luigi, a great friend of his grandfather, and invited the old boy to join them. Luigi greeted Pia with courtesy in very halting English, then embarked on a rapid-fire conversation with Valentino in his own language.

  Pia listened for a while, straining her ears for the words and phrases she knew. This was a valuable moment, she

  realised. Though she couldn’t understand most of the words, she felt in some way included in a tiny piece of Positano life from the inside. Absently she reached into her shoulder bag and felt for a pencil and the notebook that lived there.

  With Valentino’s attention focused intently on his friend, she had leisure to study their faces. The older face and the younger. She drew a few swift down-strokes to grab the outlines of each, then started first on Valentino’s. From hairline to cheekbone to jaw, the strong column of his neck, the bronzed triangle of his collar opening. Then she turned her attention to his brows, feathering in their richness in quick little strokes.

  Her hand flew over the paper of its own accord while her hungry eyes devoured Valentino, every strong, beautiful line and hollow, every flicker of his long lashes, the line that curled up at the corner of his mouth, storing it all up for later. Storing him up.

  Then she started on the old man, lines and hollows, cracks and crevices. Not a bad likeness, she judged, though necessarily crude.

  The conversation came to an end and Luigi stood and took a warm leave of them both, sending a sly nod in her direction as he departed with some comment that brought a smile to Valentino’s eyes, though they quickly veiled. His frown returned.

  His gaze fell on her notebook. ‘What’s that you’re doing?’

  ‘Oh, just scribbling.’ She flipped the notebook shut and slipped it into her bag. ‘Luigi seemed very pleased to see you. Your grandfather must be thrilled to have you visit.’

  He looked rueful. ‘I’ve been away too long. Nonno’s always been strong, as if he should go on for ever, now suddenly, when I’m not looking…’ He pulled himself up, and at her querying glance his eyes veiled again. ‘Forget it. It’s nothing. Let’s talk of what we both want to talk about.’

  She lifted her brows, though her heart beat pleasantly faster. ‘What might that be?’

  Smiling, his gaze purposeful, he moved his chair a little closer so his hands were almost touching hers on the table. ‘You and me.’

  ‘Is there a you and me?’

  Amused, he dropped his glance, then looked up, his eyes searching her face. ‘Do you have an amore?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  His eyes were warm, though at the same time acute. He said softly, ‘Allow me to guess. Someone has hurt you.’

  She made a mocking tilt of her head to deflect the shrewd scrutiny of those dark eyes. ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘Why else would you be alone?’

  ‘Why else would you?’ she retorted, smiling to hide the hot flus
h flaring in her nape.

  She leaned back in her chair and twirled her teaspoon, playing at being cool while her pulse was in training for the hurdles. One thing she wasn’t about to confess was anything that had happened to her in the past year.

  She added evenly, ‘I’m not sure why you even want to know.’

  He lifted his wide shoulders. ‘I’m not sure either.’ There was something in his tone, a wryness that caught at her. She looked quickly at him, but he’d lowered his black lashes, while a crease appeared between his sensational brows.

  ‘But I want to,’ he added, glancing up to look levelly at her. ‘I find I must.’

  She read the signs of seriousness with an alarmed lurch. Feeling the pressure, she looked away, then flashed a careful glance at him through her lashes. ‘Everyone has disappointments in their life. Are you planning to tell me all of yours?’

  ‘No. I am a gentleman.’ Smiling, he scrutinised her face, then his sensuous mouth grew grave. His lean, bronzed hand clasped hers. ‘So…Pia?’

  Their palms coincided and she felt the electricity of his strong masculine persona surge through her and spark some primitive, inevitable trigger. The thrilling skin to skin contact intensified, but she wasn’t sure which of them increased the pressure. Only that it accelerated the excitement pulsing in her veins. She didn’t draw her hand away. Couldn’t.

  She lifted a careless shoulder. ‘It doesn’t have to be a blood sport, does it? Isn’t it possible people can come together for the time they find pleasure in each other, then say their goodbyes with a smile and a shrug?’

  He examined her face with an intent gaze. ‘No promises, no pasts?’

  ‘Why complicate things? What does the past have to do with it?’

  He gazed quizzically at her. ‘That sounds like a beautiful philosophy, though I would have thought…’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you always been such a free spirit? Truly?’

  She hesitated. Every instinct told her this would be a mistake. A big, deadly mistake. The last thing a woman should do was to spill her guts to the most hopeful prospect of gorgeous Neapolitano machismo she was ever likely to encounter.

  On the other hand, a guy was inviting her to open up. A guy with dazzling, dark eyes that could be warm and friendly, sizzling hot or impenetrable steel.

  In the end, she chose her words carefully, restricting herself to saying, ‘What’s it all about, after all? People are attracted, then learn things about each other and—change their minds. Isn’t that what you’ve found?’

  He smiled, and this time there was ruefulness in the dark depths. ‘You could say so.’

  Valentino straightened a little and stretched his legs under the table. Idly he turned her hand over and studied it. While graceful it offered an impression of capability, with warm, slim fingers and nails short-trimmed, unpainted.

  He signalled Tony for the bill, made small talk, discussed the passing parade of tourists, all with a sense of shock.

  Here was a woman who had arrived at exactly the same conclusions he had himself. Love was best as a temporary arrangement. No past, no future, no chains.

  Pia Renfern was perfect. Perfect. So why did he feel so shocked?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PIA shied away from thinking it. Once she actually allowed in such a dangerous, world-shattering thought it would transform an excited, terrified, fantastic, cliffhanging feeling into an insane reality. A reality she couldn’t afford.

  People who’d recently suffered a stress disorder needed to stay on an even keel. They needed order and routine. Discipline. Steadiness. They had enough trouble managing their intense emotions without falling in…

  Oh, God, no. She’d nearly let it in.

  She gave herself a bracing pep talk. Falling in murk, that was what she’d call it. Falling in murk was for dewy-eyed

  ingénues with dreams of wedding rings, not for artists with a goddess-granted gift they were destined to spend their lives paying homage to.

  Passion was what Pia Renfern could permit herself. So long as she was lusting for Valentino Silvestri and the hairs on his forearms and his solid calves and powerful thighs she was on the most direct superhighway to perfect inner health and contentment.

  Murk, on the other hand, was anti-artist. It tied a woman up in knots, soaked her in tears and wrung her to a rag. This was why, when strolling down to the pasticceria with Valentino, she concentrated on his right ear lobe and contemplated biting it. Anything to quell that magic, excited, enchanted, goofy, beaming, breathless sensation that kept seizing up her heart every time he turned to glance enquiringly at her, or their arms brushed.

  Outside the shop they paused to taste the pastries she’d bought.

  Valentino wolfed the last of his, then cast Pia a teasing look. ‘What if a free spirit should decide she is missing the good things in life?’

  ‘Things like…?’

  ‘Status… Possessions…’ He shot her a sidelong glance. His mouth edged up at the corners. ‘Bambini.’

  Pia nearly choked. ‘You’re kidding, right? Bambini?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Sì. You met my aunt. She is like ninety-five per cent of the women in this village. They go mad for bambini. They catch the virus then there’s no escape. They won’t rest until they have one of their own. Why should Pia Renfern be any different?’

  She rose to the challenge. ‘All right, then, but first things first. By status I assume you mean husband, correct?’

  He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Certamente. This is how the world works.’

  She lifted a brow at that. It might indeed have been true, but to her mind it was nothing any woman, artist or no, should give the nod to.

  ‘Well,’ she said airily. ‘The answer is easy. I’ll achieve my own status, and be satisfied with whatever I can make of it. In the case of the bambini…’ She dusted the icing sugar from her fingers and waggled them in the breeze. ‘If I should catch the dreaded virus, I s’pose I’ll be just like the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘The ninety-five per cent who won’t rest until they have one.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Aha. But then you’ll be forced to have the husband.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ A grin escaped her when she saw his bemused expression. ‘Not necessarily. It’s amazing what women can achieve these days.’

  ‘Per carita.’

  He looked so thoroughly scandalised she gave way to irrepressible laughter.

  ‘Do you think you might be a tiny bit strait-laced, Valentino?’

  ‘In the case of children, I am in the straitjacket,’ he said firmly, his eyes twinkling. ‘But in the case of women…’ he smiled ‘…I can be a little more accommodating.’

  ‘That’s magnanimous indeed. I know what Lauren would say about that.’

  ‘Lauren.’ Valentino turned on her. His eyes hardened, narrowing on her face. ‘How did she come to be involved with those people, do you know?’

  She stared at him in surprise, jolted by his tone. ‘You mean…? Well, I wouldn’t say she was involved with them, exactly. They’re just friends. Lola has a gallery, I believe, and Lauren’s an artist, of course. I’m not sure, but I think it might have been through Giancarlo that she got her television contract. Lola does a lot of entertaining, and—’

  His lip curled in a sardonic grimace and she broke off.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Just how much do you trust your cousin?’

  ‘Valentino.’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘What sort of a question’s that? What are you saying?’ She grew conscious of people in the street turning their heads to look at them.

  He stood quite still and the lines of his face grew stern. His dark eyes were grim and impenetrable, and though he spoke very softly his accent was strongly pronounced. ‘I am informing you of this for your own well-being, Pia. Those people are not friends. Not for your cousin, and not for you.’

  Stunned, she repeated, ‘Why? What’s wron
g with them?’

  His eyes snapped. ‘Can you not accept my word for it? You should avoid them.’

  To her absolute shock he turned abruptly and strode away, clambering up the steps with all the lithe agility of a Positanoan born and bred.

  She stood paralysed for seconds, watching him out of sight, her heart thumping. What had just happened?

  * * *

  She walked back to the apartment slowly, trying to unravel what had gone wrong, a raw spot in her chest.

  Everything had changed. Earlier, with the half-promise of passion in the afternoon, she’d been feeling so buoyant and excited. On the edge of a delicious turning point. A new romance, a new lover. The start of a vibrant new chapter in her life. She’d adored being with him in the café, tingling to the vibrations between them. Being introduced to his acquaintances like a friend.

  Then mention Lauren and her friends and it all exploded in her face.

  Maybe she was beginning to see a pattern here. Take last night. One minute he was mad for her, hot with desire, the next racing in the opposite direction.

  What was wrong with the guy? She just didn’t get Valentino Silvestri.

  Back at the apartment, she took out her notebook and

  examined her hasty scrawl, her mind whirring with the conversation.

  What were his suspicions about? As far as Lauren was concerned she’d stake her cousin against anyone for integrity, courage, professionalism… And as for the Fiorellos. He’d made them sound quite sinister. She couldn’t imagine Lauren having anything to do with people who were seedy. Was there was some ancient vendetta between the Silvestris and the Fiorellos?

  She opened her sketchbook to a blank page and started to transfer the image with a soft pencil. Strong here, shade there, not forgetting those subtle lines that crinkled in the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

  Wishing she had a good clear photo she could work from to boost her memory, she continued to draw through the afternoon. The manner in which the impulse had stolen over her felt quite like old times. It was so uplifting to know she still had her powers. At last she could feel quietly certain the bountiful well of creativity she’d drawn on all her life was again brimful and revitalised.