Reckless Nights in Rome (12 page)

Bronte bit into
another cake, topped up her coffee, still staring at the drawing.
Surely a fling or an affair would hurt no-one? An affair sounded
more sophisticated, less sleazy. After all, her heart wasn’t
involved. With a man like Nico, who knew the score, she could have
fun. He’d spelt it out clearly last night and so had she. Therefore
there was no risk to her or to him. She could experience things
other women took for granted without a second thought. He wanted
her and she wanted him. They were single, unattached and free to do
as they wished.

Feeling more
settled Bronte rose and boogied her hips; there was another way to
relieve stress.

She plugged her
iPod into her surround sound system, selected Rihanna and flicked
it up to full volume.

Life, she told
herself, was too damned short not to have fun.

Nico lay on his back,
his heart bucking.

Remnants of an
erotic dream featuring Bronte in the starring role tortured his
mind and his body.

In a fluid
movement he jack-knifed off the bed, slapped on the bathroom light,
blinking at the man in the mirror. And he took a shaky breath. He
was so hard he could barely breathe. His pupils were dilated, full
of arousal as well as a dazed bewilderment. Perspiration beaded on
his forehead and his skin felt clammy and damp. He was an
experienced man of the world, not seventeen and unable to control
himself.

Under a
freezing shower, he fought to come to terms with the last
forty-eight hours. If he believed in magic he would swear she had
bewitched him. His bones ached for her. She made him weak and that
was simply not acceptable.

Never had a
woman affected him like this.

Fury pulsed
through his blood as he shivered under the onslaught of icy needles
beating his physical response to the dream into submission.

With a towel
slung around his hips, he stalked into the bedroom.

How the hell
was he supposed to work, concentrate on running his business if he
couldn’t get a decent nights sleep? When was the last time he’d
spent the night tossing and turning with dreams of wild sex with a
gorgeous blonde? Never.

He snapped on
briefs. Digging out jeans from his closet, he hauled them on and
tugged a cream sweater over dripping hair. She’d been sending him
mixed signals since he met her. He rammed his feet into Tod’s
loafers. He couldn’t believe it when she was dancing with that
young man and he realised she wore absolutely nothing under her
dress.

Grabbing his
car keys, Nico opened the door and strode down the hotel hallway to
the first floor. He took the steps two at a time. Then he stopped
dead when the memory of those huge eyes full of spitting fury and
aroused confusion tortured him again.

It made him
feel physically ill each time he thought of her trembling against
the door.

He’d been too
rough with her.

And whose fault
was that?

Itch? He
continued down the stairs. He would give her an itch all right. She
was attracted to him was she? And he could give it a little scratch
could he? And she would have men whenever she liked would she?

What was she
thinking talking about herself like that?

Which was an
unfortunate thought he realised when lust burned in his groin.

He closed the
car door with a thud and jabbed the key in the ignition.

Once they made
love, he assured himself, this anomaly would pass and he would
return to normal. The Bentley screeched down the driveway. Little
witch.

The car purred to the
rear of The Dower house.

He checked the
time. Too early? Too bad.

Stepping out of
the car, the scent of warm apples, sugar and cinnamon poured across
his senses.

Pure annoyance
fired his blood pressure again.

She made cakes
while he suffered the agonies of hell.

The building
throbbed and boomed with the bass of a pop song.

Nico lifted his
hand to knock the door and then shrugged; she’d never hear him over
the noise. Ignoring the little voice that told him he was invading
her privacy he tried the handle and opened the door.

Strolling into
the house he cocked his head.

She was
singing.

No, that could
never be called singing, more like howling or screeching.

And he winced
as her shriek didn’t make a long top note.

Nico stepped
into the kitchen and every particle of angry frustration drained
away.

Oblivious she had an
audience to her hips bumping and grinding, Bronte stripped off her
top, swung it around her head and tossed it.

The sweater
sailed through the air to land at his feet.

Nico picked it
up without taking his eyes from her.

Absently, he
rubbed the wool between his fingers. Absorbing the warmth from her
body and inhaling her scent.

She wore black
fitness pants slung low, low on her hips, a short skinny vest with
no bra and bare feet.

Still
blissfully unaware of his presence, she shook her bottom.

Blonde hair,
piled in an incredibly sexy knot on top of head, accentuated that
long delicate neck. Her ears, small and perfect, hugged her
scalp.

Nico grinned as
he spotted a black sock over the kettle and another in the middle
of the fruit bowl. Rihanna blasted through the speakers telling
everyone to please don’t stop the music.

Please don’t he
begged leaning his shoulder against the door frame to enjoy the
show. Guilt that he was witnessing something terribly private
elbowed him in the ribs, but Nico ignored it. He wouldn’t have
missed this for the world. God knew she couldn’t sing but the girl
had moves.

Skipping to a
fridge, her tight little bottom wiggled in perfect time to the beat
and Nico bit down hard on a knuckle.

With a bottle
of water as a microphone the fabulous Ms Ludlow step-touched with a
sexy swing of her hips, shook her booty and strutted her stuff.

Spinning round
he saw her stunning face was flushed with exertion.

She opened her
eyes and saw him.

Those fabulous
eyes bugged out of her head.

Jogging
frantically on the spot Bronte screamed her lungs out.

Pure reflex had
him catch the bottle that almost beaned him between the eyes.

“You bastard!”
She was on him like a wildcat.

A flying fist
caught him on the chin as she clung to his back.

An arm locked
him in a strangle hold.

Endless legs
wound around his waist like a vice.

“Christ,
Bronte, stop.”

Roaring with
laughter, Nico couldn’t catch his breath.

His eyes
watered as she did her best to rip his hair out of his scalp.

When her teeth
sank into his shoulder, he yelled, “Okay, that’s it!”

“How dare you
come into my home?” Through clenched teeth her voice growled in his
ear, “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

She made a
determined effort to twist his earlobe off and he’d had enough.

Nico landed
back against a wall. Her breath whooshed from her lungs.

He spun, pinned
her arms above her head and pressed his body against hers.

Her knee thrust
missed unmanning him by a whisker.

Panting now,
her eyes spat green fire into his.

The feel of her
struggling under him sent blood racing to his loins.

Those eyes grew
wary now.

She trembled
and not just from fury.

“Let me go. I
mean it.”

Her voice was
high as her breath heaved in short bursts and he couldn’t take his
eyes from her mouth. Her heart bucked against his and the scent of
her shampoo and pure Bronte made his mouth water. A pink tongue
licked her top lip and he wanted, needed, to taste, to take.

A soft whimper
made him look into her eyes and what he saw there, arousal battling
with alarm, made him stop.

He’d already
taken a misstep with her last night and he wasn’t going to take
another.

Chest heaving
Nico released her and moved back, palms up in a gesture of
peace.

She needed to
take a minute.

Her heart was
threatening to implode in her chest and Bronte thought she
was
going to have a heart attack. For a second she’d thought
he wasn’t going to let her go then when he had she’d been
disappointed. Her emotions were all over the place.

What the hell
was wrong with her?

And how much of
that little exhibition had he seen?

She spun and
switched off the music. The silence was deafening. Their heavy
breathing sounded too loud as she stared at him.

“What is the
matter with you? Have you never heard of knocking a damn door?”

Rubbing the
side of his chin, Nico wiggled his jaw.

“I ... ah ...
realised you would not hear me above the noise of the music. You
really should lock your door.”

“There’s been
an invention, perhaps you’ve heard of it? It’s called a telephone.
It’s a very handy device. Before you visit someone, you give them a
ring and see if it’s convenient for them before you descend
unannounced. You can leave messages and everything on it.” Her eyes
went into icy slits and she took a long, deep breath. “How much of
that did you see?”

He rubbed the
back of his neck, his scalp and winced.

“Ah ... I
caught it from the part where you took off your sweater. Nice
moves, shame about the voice.” He grinned.

Adrenalin still
pumping through her system, Bronte’s eyes narrowed on the knife
block.

She moved fast,
but he moved faster to put himself between it and her.

“You find this
funny, big boy?” With a growl in her throat, she rolled onto her
toes and ran her tongue around her teeth. She’d had plenty of
fights with her brother. And knew exactly how to inflict pain on a
man. She’d give anything to wipe that stupid grin from his
face.

Her blood
cooled as she took a deep, cleansing breath.

Then her lips
twitched as she got a good look at him, that hair wasn’t all slick
and sleek now. Nope. It stood on end, all tousled and tangled. Was
that a rip in the shoulder of his sweater? His grey eyes were full
of fun and barely suppressed laughter as dimples flashed in his
cheeks.

An emotion
Bronte didn’t recognise caught in her chest.

Turning her
back to him, she filled the kettle with water and plugged it in.
Pulling on a sock, she searched for the other one, found it in the
fruit bowl and tugged it on, defiantly ignoring his rumbling laugh.
The urge to take another bite out of him, to throw herself into his
arms almost overwhelmed her. She needed to recover her balance, put
a little distance between them and get a grip.

“Coffee?” Her
eyes slid to him as he settled himself in a chair at the table. He
grabbed a cake and bit into it.

“Please. Hmm,
these are excellent. What are they?” He swiped another one.

“Help
yourself.” He ignored the dripping sarcasm in her tone. “Apple
turnovers. Miss breakfast?”

She placed a
mug on the table with milk and sugar.

Those dark eyes
sparkled into hers and he sent her a wicked smile.

For a moment
she saw the little boy in the man and her heart simply melted.

“I did,
yes.”

“Was there
something you wanted from me?”

“Oh yeah.”

Bronte frowned
and scooped ground coffee into a pot, filled it with hot water.

She was missing
something here but couldn’t work out what it was.

“Something
important?”

Glancing at him
she saw those grey eyes were gentle on her now, the smile
sweeter.

For some reason
it worried her although she couldn’t say why.

“I thought it
was but it can wait.”

His attention
was diverted by her drawing and notes of Justine’s wedding cake.
When he turned over the page Bronte nearly fumbled the coffee
pot.

Those dark
brows drew together.

“Did you draw
this?” He didn’t take his eyes from it.

“I’m afraid I
did.” She poured coffee into his mug.

When deep grey
eyes met hers she read humour mixed with appreciation and realised
she’d been holding her breath.

“Is this how
you see me?”

“Mmm hmm.” She
sipped her coffee.

“May I keep
it?”

Surprised,
embarrassed and secretly thrilled Bronte shrugged.

“Sure.”

Nico tore the
page from the pad and carefully rolled it up.

Feeling the
chill now, Bronte rose found her sweater and pulled it on.

“What are you
doing here, Nico?”

Good question he
thought eyeing her over the rim of his cup.

What was he
doing?

“I wanted to
apologise again for last night.” Those luminous eyes held his for
an eternal moment. “And to make sure you were all right.”

Bronte gave him
a cheeky grin that he couldn’t help but return.

“Apology
accepted. As you can see I’m fighting fit.”

Little witch.
He desperately wanted to kiss her.

“Okay, I am not
going to apologise for that.”

“You should
quit while you’re ahead.”

“Will you come
to the Ball with me?”

“I’d like to,
yes.”

They smiled at
each other companionably.

Sipping her
coffee thoughtfully, Bronte frowned for a long drawn out moment
then flicked him a wicked little look.

Nico realised
he could sit there all day just watching the expressions cross her
mobile face.

“Nico?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you any
good at giving a woman a screaming orgasm?”

He inhaled
coffee and choked.

Laughing,
Bronte handed him kitchen roll, rose and energetically thumped his
back.