Reckless Nights in Rome (11 page)

Nico tugged off
his jacket, tossing it on a chair and grabbed her. Hot and
demanding his mouth plundered, ravished hers. God, it was
terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

His body
slammed hers against the door. Bronte couldn’t breathe, couldn’t
think. Panic, desire and excitement whirled in her mind. His tongue
forced its way into her mouth replicating the thrust of mating and
she moaned as her mind was wiped clean.

Ruthlessly his
knee spread her legs, his thigh pressing against her centre. Rough
hands pulled down the straps of her dress as he burned a trail of
hot hard kisses down her throat.

Nico groaned,
exposing her breasts as she gasped in excited shock. That mouth
suckled and teeth tugged a too sensitive nipple, sending waves of
liquid heat between her thighs. She trembled uncontrollably as he
lifted her dress above her waist. Big strong hands cupped the
cheeks of her bare bottom, kneading the soft flesh.

And Bronte
froze. “No!”

Her frantic cry
reverberated around the hall like a gunshot.

Chest heaving
Nico immediately released her and stepped back. Her face was
deathly pale. Eyes blinking, Bronte’s slim fingers trembled on
swollen lips and he recognised shock when he saw it.

Self disgust
roiled in his stomach. Christ, what was he doing? But she wanted
him. He could taste her arousal, her desire.

“I thought you
were... I thought you wanted...” He couldn’t breathe.

Hands not quite
steady, he pulled up the bodice of her dress, smoothed down her
skirt.

Able to move at last,
Bronte slapped a hand on his chest.

Fury surged,
thundered in her head and she could only stare into eyes that were
darker than night.

“You thought
what? That I’m easy, a slut?”

“No. I never
thought such a thing.”

“Liar.” Her
breath sobbed in her throat and it infuriated her. “I know I said I
had an itch. But I didn’t for a moment mean ...” She heaved in an
unsteady breath. “You had no right to kiss me, touch me like
that.”

Those eyes
terrified her. They were too dark now, too intense.

“We are
attracted to each other. Look at you, your body desires mine,” he
said in a harsh voice.

“That doesn’t
mean I ... that I’m ready to ...”

She folded her
arms across throbbing nipples and realised with dismay that she was
near to tears.

Nico took a
steady breath and stepped into her.

“
Cara
, I
am sorry.” Voice soothing, his fingers stroked up and down her
arms. “But why do you not wear panties? It was obvious this
evening.”

Mortification
scorched her face.

Bronte’s
fingers clenched as she closed her eyes.

“How did you
...?”

“The lights on
the dance floor,” he told her.

The room spun
and a roaring sounded filled her ears as Nico put a strong arm
around her waist.

“Come,
cara
, sit down,” he said.

Nico led her into the
sitting room and Bronte sank onto the sofa.

With a low moan
she held her head in her hands.

There must have
been over two hundred people there this evening.

Nausea seized
her stomach as a wave of nervous exhaustion overwhelmed her.

Crouching in
front of her with his eyes keen on her face Nico rubbed her
hands.

“Don’t worry.
You could only tell from the front.”

Bronte rolled
her eyes to heaven. So that was why he held her so close to him
when they were dancing?

“Oh well,
that’s all right then.”

Furious with
him, but mostly with herself for being a fool, she glared.

“But why?” He
repeated the question.

She moaned into
her hands.

“Because of
panty line and Rosie said ...” For the love of God too much
information Bronte, too much information. She waved her hands in
front of her. “Forget it. It’s my own fault.”

A hasty cough
whipped her head up. Amusement quickly faded from his eyes.

He found her
funny?

Pride and
dignity rode to Bronte’s rescue.

“This whole
fiasco is a bad idea. I apologise for giving you the wrong
impression.” She kept her voice low and her eyes on his.

Those dark eyes
filled to the brim with arousal and desire held hers with an
intensity that made her shiver.

What had she
been thinking to get involved with this man? No way did she have
the skills required to deal with him. She wasn’t sexually
experienced enough for him. She didn’t understand the nuances or
the sophistication of the game. And it was a game to him, she was
sure of it.

Her eyes
narrowed as he sent her a slow, sexy smile.

“It has been a
long day,
cara mia
. You need rest.”

After a sleepless night Bronte decided she
wasn’t going to let a mere man get under her skin.

Padding into
the kitchen the message light on her answer machine beckoned.
Pressing play she listened to three messages consisting of a long
silence and the receiver being hung up. She frowned, a wrong
number?

She shrugged
and how embarrassing had last night been? Nico had morphed into Mr
Polite and ‘please do not worry.’ Don’t worry? The whole county now
knew that Bronte Ludlow was shameless, never wore panties and was
happy to prove it to hundreds of guests at a society wedding.

Here she was at
eight o’clock on Sunday morning and wide awake thanks to a cold
shower and a certain Italian who’d been the central figure in
several hot and steamy dreams.

She tied her
hair up in an untidy knot on the top of her head. In black yoga
pants, cashmere socks and matching thick sweater, she did the only
thing that relieved stress, she baked. A stainless steel mixing
bowl clanged onto the work surface and she got to work. In no time
the smell of cinnamon, apples and brown sugar filled the
kitchen.

And she felt
marginally better after a coffee.

Sunday mornings
were usually spent lounging around in her cosiest pyjamas, catching
up with the latest cake designs. Talking of which, she pulled a
large sketch pad out of a drawer and grabbed a pencil. Janine
Brooke-Stockton wanted a dramatic black and white theme for her
cake? Then that’s exactly what she would get. Fifteen minutes later
the sketch took shape, but Bronte’s weary mind refused to
focus.

Flipping over
to a new page, she drew her tormentor’s face with quick, precise
strokes. Absently, she spent time getting the mouth just right,
highlighting the high cheekbones and working to get the super
confident expression in those dark, dark eyes just right.

So what if her
intuition told her something else was going on under that wonderful
face. He had a tortured dark angel look and she had absolutely no
intention of getting involved with him on an emotional level.

Annoyed with
herself and her fixation with a fabulous looking man she drew horns
sprouting from the top of his head, gave him a pitch fork and made
his eyes diabolical.

The oven pinged
and she slid out her apple upside down cakes onto a wire rack.

With lust
curling in her belly, her eyes were drawn like a magnet to her
sketch. When she’d danced with him it had been magical. Had she
ever been touched or kissed like that? Never. Okay, he’d been a
pain when he wanted to know all about her life and yet kept schtum
about his own. He’d been hurt at some point, she’d felt it as she’d
recognised his pain.

The scene in
the hallway gave her goose bumps goose bumps. Yes, he’d been rough
with her and that was totally unacceptable behaviour. But he’d
pulled back immediately. Part of her had actually enjoyed it and
what did that say about her? It said she was a pathetic excuse for
a female. But God, his hands knew exactly where to go, what to
do.

Son-of-a-bitch,
she nearly snarled at the drawing. He probably had a woman in every
city. Alexander had mentioned Nico was popular with the ladies. No
surprises there, some of the women at the wedding had been
virtually panting after him. Pathetic. She firmly pushed aside her
own panting response last night to his undoubted sexual prowess
with a grimace of shame. And what would her brother think about his
sister practically having sex up against her front door with his
friend and business partner? She closed her eyes. Poor Alexander,
he’d looked so stressed last night, if he got wind of her behaviour
with Nico, he would be frantic. Hadn’t she put him through enough?
Her tired brain segued into another issue. He’d been her rock,
along with Rosie, when her whole life had been turned upside
down.

Don’t think
about it – not today.

But her mind
refused to let it go.

Her dreams were
still haunted by the scene.

She’d been in a
hurry singing along to a song on the radio and drove her car round
a bend and into a scene from the bowels of Hell. Straight into
teams of Police, Ambulance and Fire crews desperately fighting to
release the shattered remains of her parents from their car. She’d
never forget, couldn’t forget, the smell of petrol, the roar of
power tools and men shouting. And the smell of death.

The trauma of
the loss of her parents had been nightmare enough, but then had
come the discovery of a letter.

She knew it by
heart.

Bronte, my
darling,

You have been
a joy to us since the day you were born. Even now when we look at
you, we can’t believe we’ve been so lucky to have you as our
daughter.

Every marriage
has its tough times and ours has been no different. Twelve months
before you were born, we separated for a time. Hindsight is a great
thing and we now realise we were too young to handle the
responsibilities of running the estate. Duty came to us too early
after the death of your grandfather.

Both of us
were to blame for what happened. Your mother found solace and badly
needed affection in the arms of another for a time. We came to our
senses and realised we still desperately loved and cared for each
other. But your mother was already pregnant. We want to make it
clear that we never, ever thought of terminating the pregnancy. You
have always been much wanted and much loved.

If you are
reading this it means we’ve left this earth too soon, before we
found the courage to tell you to your face.

Your
biological father has no idea of your existence. That is a decision
we have come to regret, but we made it when we were young and once
done it could not be undone.

Your
biological father is Carl Terlezki. He is a wonderful man who cared
very deeply for your mother at a vulnerable time in her life.

We hurt too
many people all those years ago. And now we have to hurt you too.
We are so sorry, my darling.

What you do
with this information is entirely up to you, Bronte, but we hope
you contact Carl and show him this letter. Perhaps finding each
other will bring joy to you both. Please find it in your hearts to
forgive us for keeping you apart.

Your loving
parents.

They’d been so close,
had shared so much.

Why hadn’t they
told her?

She had so many
questions and too many words were left unsaid.

Then the
problem with the will had arisen and the inheritance because she
wasn’t a Ludlow. Her parent’s had left her The Dower House, but
Ludlow Hall would need to be sold. And then she’d had to deal with
her fiancé’s decision that they were too young to settle down. He
hadn’t attended the funeral, saying it was a ‘private, family
matter.’ What kind of person did something like that to someone
they were supposed to care about?

The room swam
as tears gathered behind her eyes. Her throat tightened. Furious
with herself she blinked them away.

She’d researched Carl
Terlezki. Google wasn’t just Rosie’s friend.

The man who
stared at her from her laptop was in his mid-sixties, slim, tanned
and still handsome. He had a thick shock of white hair and
apparently was a wealthy financier and a man who raised millions
for good causes. Although he appeared to have had relationships,
he’d never married nor had children. At least none he acknowledged
publicly.

She’d put his
face on her screensaver just to torture herself. What if he didn’t
want to know her? What if he thought she was after his money? What
did she want from him? In spite of her parent’s lying to her she’d
had an idyllic childhood. She still felt angry with them, the sense
of betrayal a weeping sore in her heart.

So she’d sent a
tentative letter keeping it vague, telling him about her parent’s
death and the discovery of a letter. Might she meet him to discuss
it? The reply had taken weeks since the letter had got caught up in
other correspondence. Carl had asked her to phone him and she had
done, less than forty eight hours ago. She was due to meet him on
tomorrow morning at his office in the City. By his tone he sounded
intrigued; he assumed she wanted him to donate funds to a worthy
cause. He’d be delighted, he said, to meet the daughter of such a
wonderful woman.

Bronte had no
idea what she was going to say to him and Alexander was not happy
about the situation. Her brother didn’t want to stir up a scandal,
old news from the past that would certainly hit the headlines and
smear the family name. She could understand it, but for too many
months she’d struggled with what was the right thing to do. Doing
nothing was not an option. So she’d taken the decision to play it
by ear. Give Carl Terlezki the letter and gauge his reaction to the
news. What was the worse that could happen?

No more tears,
she told herself ruthlessly as she stared now at the drawing of
Nico Ferranti.

She wanted him
desperately, but was honest enough with herself to realise that if
she took, she may lose something too - a fundamental part of who
she was. Nico would never understand her.