Italian Romance Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 2

  Dare she? If he’d moved she would have retreated, but he didn’t. He said nothing but she could see his eyes narrow and darken as she reached out to his arm, pausing only briefly before touching the sleeve of his black tux. The tentative touch turned into an appreciative slide of her finger tips—more used to dirt and rough rocks—across the dense silk.

  She knew she should stop but felt compelled to continue. “Such as,” she leaned into his neck, “smell”.

  His breathing quickened against her face. She couldn’t see now because she’d closed her eyes, all the better to register the different notes of his aftershave, the spring air against his skin and a deeper note, that her mind couldn’t identify, but to which her body reacted.

  Reluctantly she sat back. “What else?”

  “You tell me.” He didn’t move, simply looked at her lips as if anticipating something delicious, something he wasn’t going to take unless it was offered. The predator might be hungry, but he was patient.

  All thought of who she was, of where she was, of her past, disappeared. There was nothing except this man.

  “Taste.”

  She didn’t move. She was sure she didn’t move. But somehow their faces were so close that their mouths were a mere whisper apart.

  She wanted him to kiss her but no kiss came. Instead she felt his hand touch her cheek, gently, so gently that she couldn’t have said whether it was him or the soft breeze. It was a tender, lingering exploration: stimulating, rather than controlling. This wasn’t a man who needed to prove anything; this was a man who wanted to experience everything.

  He pulled away slightly as if to question her, his hand still barely touching her cheek, his fingertips tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Whatever expression she had in her eyes seemed to have given him an answer because he dipped his head and held it close to hers for one long moment—lips not touching, his cheek brushing hers.

  She’d never known the exquisite tensions that now flowed through her body; never felt the gentle touch of a lover’s hand; had never felt so in tune with another that her mind became suspended and her body took over.

  For one delicious moment she surrendered to his touch that stimulated every nerve ending in her body; for one intense second, the world forgot to breathe and she held herself in that moment, only with him, feeling through him; for one instant she felt perfect.

  But she wasn’t perfect, was she?

  “No.” She pulled away from him, overwhelmed by the grief-filled knowledge that she could never be this man’s lover.

  The blind darkness of his lust-filled eyes lightened with confusion. “I am sorry. Forgive me.” He blinked, as if awaking from a daze, and rose abruptly.

  Like her attraction, she felt his withdrawal as a physical sensation, a pain that made her flex her hands for relief. “It’s me who should apologize. I practically forced myself on you.”

  He smiled. “Believe me, our attraction proved mutually strong.” His smiled faded into a frown as if he couldn’t understand the reason why.

  She turned away from him then. No, of course he wouldn’t know why. Why would he, a devastatingly handsome man be attracted to her, Emily Carlyle from East London: an academic, a spinster and most definitely not the most beautiful woman at the party?

  He reached out to her tentatively, as if to reassure—either her or himself—before he thrust both hands back into his pockets.

  “Come, I will take you back.”

  Of course he would.

  He had no interest in her. Why would he? There was a room full of beautiful women awaiting his pleasure. His responses to her were automatic—the result of a lust-filled woman, wearing very little, throwing herself at him.

  She’d just made a fool of herself. And now he was trying to get rid of her.

  They walked in silence until they came to the villa.

  She stepped away, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. “I must go now.” She shook her head at her own stupidity and confusion.

  “Come inside. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve troubled you enough. I’ll find my own way home.”

  “The same way you found your own way here. Tell me, why did you come?”

  “I came to find someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Conte di Montecorvio Rovella.”

  It was as if a shadow fell across his face. He looked toward the room, almost angry.

  “You were looking for the conte. You know him?”

  “Sure. I’ve met him a number of times. Do you know him?”

  He ignored her question.

  “And what do you want with the conte?”

  “It’s business.”

  “Personal business, no doubt. The conte is a lucky man. It is a shame he’s proved elusive.”

  “Yep. Misinformed, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry you wasted your time on me. Presumably you had your sights set higher.”

  “You think I’m a gold digger?” She shook her head in sudden defeat. “You’re probably right. I need his money. But it’s business, not personal.”

  Without his funds she’d never complete the ancient Roman mosaic at her dig, never piece together the fragments of the past into one unified, beautiful, perfect whole. She chewed her lip in an effort to stem the tears that threatened. She turned away and looked up into the night sky for the same reason.

  A stray gust of wind caught her shawl and it slipped, drifting down past her bare shoulders and back.

  Alessandro looked at the beautiful woman, as the wrap descended in a cloud of silk, and his breath suddenly halted, his heart ached.

  He had never seen such scars—luminescent white under the moonlight, pearly slivers of pain criss-crossed around her shoulders, and back. No doubt she barely felt the downward slide of the silk against the desensitized skin.

  He reached his hand to touch one of the scarred shoulders, but stopped short.

  “I’m sorry.” He swallowed back the impulse to place a kiss where his hand had nearly touched. “Perhaps I can help. I know the conte and will arrange for you to meet with him.”

  She turned quickly back to face him and he dropped his hand. The beauty of her eyes, dark and passionate in the dim light took his breath away once more. What was it about this woman?

  “Really? I’d appreciate it. A lot.”

  She looked up at him, completely unaware that the tracery of scars was on display. He focused on her beautiful eyes: eyes that could create magic, could create love, could create a future.

  He turned away suddenly. He’d vowed never to live for the future or the past—always to stay in the present.

  When he turned back she was standing, her wrap back in place, seemingly unaware of it having fallen. She looked at home in the luscious garden: sensual and arousing, demanding more than a physical response. But surely that was something he couldn’t give?

  She looked up at him, a complex blend of hope, embarrassment and pride combining in that one glance. Then she turned and began walking away.

  She was different to anyone he’d ever met. Even simply in this one act. Because no woman had ever walked away from him since his wife had done so.

  The thought of the resemblance cut through the heat of his passion like a blade. He’d help her if he could. But that was it. No-one, but no-one must be allowed to touch him. He had enough guilt and hurt to last him a life-time. But the sight of the scars on this beautiful woman had already cut through his defenses.

  “M,” he called. She stopped without turning. “Where can the conte reach you?”

  “He knows.”

  “He may have forgotten.”

  “Unlikely. I’m living on his estate.”

  Emily didn’t hear him reply. It was obvious she’d never hear from him again. And she began walking back, back to the road, back to the past. It was the only thing that mattered after all.

  Chapter Two

  The midday sun glinted on the naked bodies; the chip
s of white marble were artfully set to give depth to the mosaic and to highlight its sensuality.

  Emily’s eyes followed the line of the man’s thighs until they met the curve of the woman’s bottom. She sat astride him, she was taking pleasure from him—her face glowed with sensual arousal, her mouth was partly open as if a moan had just escaped—but her heavy-lidded eyes were staring directly at the person observing her: the artist, Emily assumed.

  It wasn’t just the focus on the camera that Emily had to check. Her own perspective seemed to have altered since last night. She could see only the woman’s ecstasy and the intimate connections between the couples, rather than the mosaic’s artistry and antiquity. She swallowed hard, refocused the camera onto the wider scene and took the shot.

  She had to have something to show the count. This undiscovered, mini-Pompeii, had lain undisturbed by the outside world for centuries, until the old count had sought her services. He’d been frail then and she’d rarely seen him. And now months had passed without word and the money had run out.

  But it seemed the man from the party, Alex, had been as good as his word and she’d received a message that she had an appointment with the elderly aristocrat.

  With her camera clamped firmly to her eye, Emily ducked her head as she shuffled backwards under the overgrown canopy of grape vines and tangle of what was once a beautiful, lush garden, edging away from the subject of the camera until it was all in focus. She needed to show its extent; she needed to be persuasive.

  There, she had it—the Aphrodite Mosaic—in all its incomplete glory. The mosaic was unique in terms of the scale and artistry. It was unique to Emily. She felt a deep need to see the shattered and fragile mosaic complete once more: to be as perfect as it could be, to be beautiful once more.

  The artists responsible for the Aphrodite Mosaic had been trained in Athens before sailing to the Greek colonies in Italy hundreds of years before Christ—that was obvious from their technical skill—but their heart, their soul, their vision of Aphrodite could be traced directly to the local vernacular of art. It was rich, earthy and sensual.

  And Emily was going to make it whole again if it was the last thing she did.

  She clicked the shutter once more and let the camera fall, looking at the mosaic—only half complete, only half as beautiful as it would be.

  All she needed was the money.

  The moment the elevator doors swept open noiselessly Emily knew she was in trouble.

  This wasn’t the place for antiquity-loving people. Austere, modern and expensive, the building screamed corporate finance. The old count didn’t look the corporate type and yet it was to the Rovella Tower that she’d been told to go.

  She gave her name to the receptionist and was taken directly to the top floor—the Penthouse Suite.

  She smiled to herself. If the old count wanted to meet her somewhere private, as opposed to an office—a place where rational decisions were made based on economic sense—then that was OK with her.

  There would be no economic return on completing the mosaic. Her mind flashed to her vision of the courtyard impressive once more: its fountains carefully repaired, its gardens restored and the mosaic—the masterpiece—painstakingly put back together using the detailed nineteenth century drawings she’d discovered buried in the archives of the Museo Archeologico Nazionale. The pieces were all there: buried and scattered within the grounds. It would be a place of peace and beauty, a place where the past could be experienced and understood.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the elevator arriving in a huge vestibule. She stepped out and hesitated, frowning. Still no personal touches, no pieces of antiquity that betrayed the count’s interests. Not even in his own home?

  She pushed her old-fashioned glasses back into place, smoothed the worn summer dress that was all she had in her wardrobe that was the least bit smart and walked carefully, trying to minimize the flop of her roman sandals against the marble floor. As she approached, a large oak door swung open noiselessly.

  “Signorina M?” An immaculately-clad woman, with a phone clamped to her ear, didn’t wait for a reply but impatiently clicked her fingers and beckoned Emily to enter the room.

  Emily followed the woman’s pointed finger and sat down where she was told, as the woman promptly ignored her and continued to berate some poor minion with a barrage of shrill Italian. She looked around, bemused. If this was a home, it wasn’t like one she’d ever seen. Sleek, minimalist and scarily officious—and that was just the woman—Emily wondered what on earth the count was doing here.

  She didn’t have time to form a conclusion because a man—as stressed-looking as the woman—swung open an inner door suddenly and impatiently clicked his fingers and beckoned to her.

  “Now. Come!”

  She jumped up and followed him into a large reception room and, again, sat down where indicated. The man promptly disappeared.

  Then she heard a door open behind her and she closed her eyes in irritation.

  “If anyone’s about to click their fingers at me again, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what, Miss M?”

  She jumped up.

  Standing before her—taller than she remembered but just as mesmerizing—was the stranger from last night.

  She dropped her gaze quickly, shocked. Although he’d arranged the meeting, she hadn’t expected to see him again. In fact she’d spent her day trying to forget him.

  She chanced another look, only to see a flash of amusement further warm his eyes that glowed like dark amber in the rich light of a Naples evening. Their heat seemed to leap the narrow gap between them and send a flare deep inside. She took a steadying breath.

  “I’m here to see the count.”

  She lowered her eyes and focused directly ahead—on his chest.

  Unfortunately, he had on no tie and his shirt was unbuttoned. A few hairs pushed up and rested on dark, tanned skin. A vivid memory of his scent, of the feel of his skin against hers, filled her mind and her body.

  “So I understand.”

  “I thought you’d made an appointment for me to see the count.”

  “I have, for Signorina M.” The warmth of his eyes suddenly grew warmer, as he worked to contain a smile. “Is that really you behind those glasses?”

  She could feel her skin flush. “Of course it is. I always wear them. Except—”

  “Except last night when you needed to impress.”

  “I wish I had worn them, perhaps I wouldn’t have been such an easy target.”

  She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say that.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. You appear to believe I targeted you. I tend to think it was the other way around.”

  Don’t respond. Don’t say anything. He’d be gone in a minute—presumably he was here only to introduce her to the count—and then she’d regain her sanity.

  “Drink?”

  She shook her head.

  As he poured himself a whisky Emily looked around, trying to stifle the potentially debilitating mixture of attraction and nerves. The room had 180 degree views of the city and of the Bay of Naples, with Mount Vesuvius sitting ominously beyond. She looked away. She had her very own brand of simmering eruption.

  The room was like the others except for a huge table in front of the window upon which sat scale models of a building development. She narrowed her eyes. What on earth was the count doing with these? Then she did a second-take. And why did they look vaguely familiar?

  “Take a seat.”

  She looked directly into his eyes for the first time and struggled to retain her sense of purpose under the flicker of interest and humor she saw there. Unconsciously she pressed the palm of her hand to her stomach, where the heat lay, desperately trying to keep her body in check.

  “Look, I won’t waste your time and I don’t want to keep the count waiting.”

  “You won’t.”

  “And that would be because
?”

  “He’s here. Waiting for you to take a seat so that he can also sit and have a drink.”

  “What,” she said in her iciest tone, “are you talking about?”

  “I am Conte di Montecorvio Rovella. I am surprised you don’t recognize me as you said that you’d met him. After all, you have your glasses on today.”

  “You are the count.” Her voice was quiet. The heat of attraction twisted to anger in a heartbeat. What the hell was going on? Who did he think he was fooling?

  “That is correct. Now, all I need to know is why you would lie to try to see me.”

  She dropped into the chair and tapped her finger on its side, attempting to gain control of the confusion that ran rampant through her mind and her body. She took a deep breath.

  “You’re calling me a liar? And yet you had your staff contact me at the estate. You must know who I am, know that I’m not a liar.” Her voice was so quiet that she could hear the soft thud of her heart.

  He shrugged. “You are a worker on my estate. I haven’t been there for years. You don’t know me. Why did you say you did?”

  “A liar,” she repeated. “And yet you agreed to set up this meeting with the count. Why would you do that for a liar?”

  His eyes contracted slightly but still held her gaze steadily. “Curious. Interested, maybe.”

  “Your life must be very dull if a meeting with a liar interests you. Or perhaps you wanted to seduce me more thoroughly this time?”

  She winced as soon as the words slipped out. She didn’t know what made her say it. It was stupid. But it had been the thought that she’d been trying to suppress all day: why did he pay attention to her when he could have had any woman in the room?

  He smiled, a slow lazy smile that sent her heart rate up yet another notch.

  “Yes, I suppose a midnight flirtation could be seen as only a partial seduction: a trial perhaps, to see if one wants to go further—or not. It seems that you would.”

  “I most certainly would not. But you’re a man and—”

  “Men always want more? Is that how you see the opposite sex? All or nothing, black or white? It seems that you have experienced little to do with seduction in your life.” He leaned forward, his eyes alight with humor. “Perhaps I should show you after all. Perhaps—”