Reckless Nights in Rome (16 page)

“I am, yes. We
will be working together.”

Her brows rose.
“We will? I usually have meetings with Julie.”

He shook his
head. “You will be meeting twice a week with me.”

“Very well, if
you don’t trust me.” Her chin tilted and he tapped it with a gentle
finger.

“So quick to
take offense. Pull in your horns. Has it not occurred to you I
might want your company?”

He did? She
told herself to keep calm. Her vivid imagination was working
overtime as usual. What could happen in a few weeks?

“If that’s what
you want. But I’m certain you will be bored to death with icing
designs, fillings and flavours, colour schemes and flowers. Not to
mention hysterical brides.”

Nico merely
shrugged. “You are incredibly creative. It will be a joy to watch
you.”

It would? She
had to ask, “Then what?”

He gave her a
long, slow smile.

“Then Alexander
takes over and things return to normal.”

Well, she’d
asked and received an answer. And wondered why she didn’t feel
relief. One minute she was worried he might actually care for her
and the next she was worried he might not. She didn’t want him to
care and she didn’t want him to leave. Maybe she needed to visit a
psychologist after all, because she was certainly losing her
frigging mind.

“Nico?”

“Bronte?”

“What is it you
do? I know you own hotels and other interests. But you don’t appear
the type to get your hands dirty. Even if you do make too much
money.”

He shook his
head.

“I look forward
to the day I understand why you have a complete disdain of
money.”

Nico took a sip
of coffee before he answered,

“I acquire
things. I suppose the best way to explain it is that I invest in
people and match them with opportunities. Years ago I discovered I
had a talent for recognising people and technology in their
embryonic state. I invested and the rewards were great, fortunately
for me. The hotels belonged to my late grandfather. I kept the
flagship and sold off the rest. Then I met Alexander, we became
partners, he runs the hotel side.” He shrugged. “That is it.”

If he had a
wealthy grandfather then what was he doing on the streets?

None of it made
sense and none of it was any of her business she reminded
herself.

“Bronte?”

Her attention
snapped back to Nico who was watching her with a quizzical look in
his eye.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me about
your nightmare.”

Not a chance.
“It’s nothing, honestly.”

Nico leaned
forward.

His hand
reached for and found hers.

“Sometimes,
cara
, it is good to talk about such things.”

She opened her
mouth to tell him she was fine and then he rubbed slow circles on
the back of her hand with his thumb.

“I drove right
into the middle of the emergency services when they were removing
the remains of my parents from their car ...”

With an
expletive Nico grabbed her and Bronte found herself on his lap as
strong arms held her close. He murmured words in Italian into her
hair and Bronte snuggled right in as her eyes stung and her voice
went too husky. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

Big hands held
her face as he stared into her eyes and she read shock along with
steady support.

“I am so sorry,
cara
.” Those dark eyes stayed on hers. “Can I stay
tonight?”

Logic yelled
‘no way’ and her heart cried ‘yes.’

Bronte did what
came naturally. “I would like that.”

Nico’s
brilliant smile would have cracked glass.

He moved in for
a long, lingering kiss that had her pulse skipping and her tummy
tugging with arousal.

The tip of his
nose touched hers. “Do you have wine?”

She smiled,
inhaling the now familiar scent of him. “I do indeed, red or
white?”

He rubbed his
nose against hers. “I am Italian, red.”

The buzz of her alarm
had Bronte reaching out in the dark, groping for her Smart phone as
she switched on a low lamplight.

“Oof,” she
gasped, struggling to free herself from the heavy weight of Nico’s
arm.

“
Dio,
cara
. What time is it?” His deep voice growled in her ear
making her quiver in response even as he ran a hand over her hip
and down her thigh.

Squinting
bleary eyed at her phone she groaned. “Five-thirty.”

“It is the
middle of the night. Go back to sleep.”

She rubbed her
body against his, skin to warm skin and stretched like a cat,
arching her back.

“It might be
for you. But some of us start early. I like to get a jump on the
day.”

Nico rolled on
top of her, burying his face against her neck.

She smelled so
good, all warm and sweet and tempting.

“Good
idea.”

The only thing
he was going to jump this morning was her. Slim arms circled his
neck. Her body pressed tightly against his, soft and pliant as she
willingly offered herself to him. He took a long, slow taste of her
soft, moist mouth. His tongue was stroking hers as he fit his body
into the perfect cradle of her hips. With a sigh he slid into her,
one slow inch at a time. She was so hot and so wet and so tight.
Fevered pleasure had him shudder. Then he caught her hips and
pulled her to him to surge deeper as far as he could go. And he was
home. He’d never felt anything like the way her body gripped his,
joining them in a way that felt so right. He ached for her, for
them and what they’d found together.

But it
terrified him too. Bronte had a gentle soul and he wasn’t an easy
man to live with. He didn’t do love. He didn’t do commitment. Did
he?

He tried to
take a deep calming breath as his heart thundered in his ears and
Bronte’s high gasps of boundless pleasure fed his desire, his
hunger for her. The wild side of him, the hard side of him wanted
to pound into her but despite his starving need, he forced himself
to kiss her with exquisite care, almost with reverence. He took her
slowly up and over the edge and they fell together. As if he’d
waited his whole life for this one moment, everything inside him
shifted, settled and calmed.

He was
home.

Bronte gave him kiss
for kiss.

She adored the
feeling of his thick body buried deep within her.

“Nico, I’ve
never felt like this in my life, never.”

He nuzzled his
favourite spot under her ear as his body shuddered again.

“I think we
have found something very special,
cara mio
.”

Through
half-closed eyes, she watched him as his tongue took long slow
licks of her nipple. His mouth closed around the hard bud. His
tongue tip flicking, danced and then he was sucking the nipple
until she cried out. Still inside her, his low growl vibrated
through her body as he used the flat of his tongue to take big long
licks like a big lazy cat over her throbbing nipple and her womb
clenched tight. Unbelievably he hardened again, grinding his hips
in a circular movement against hers.

Then his mouth
was hot, hard and demanding. He took her by surprise and she gasped
meeting his hard thrusting tongue and sucked it into her mouth as
he groaned as if in agony.

Fire blazed over his
skin and his control snapped.

Nico couldn’t
breathe as he pounded into her and God help him she was with him
every step of the way. The walls of her sheath pulsed hot and wet
and so tight. He was losing it. He knew it and couldn’t help it.
Her high cries, almost sobs, only added fuel to his already roaring
fire.

The smell of
her, the feel of her and the sound of her had him piston harder.
Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as her body arched, her
scream of his name. Then her body clamped down hard on his,
milking, dragging hot life giving fluid out of him as she pulsed
around him.

Utterly spent
Bronte dropped her arms and legs on the bed as he flopped on top of
her. Her heart and his were thundering as one.

“Nico.” Her
voice was high and breathy.

Immediately he rose on
his elbow.

Shame burned
Nico’s cheeks as he ran an unsteady hand over her skin. What was he
doing rutting her like an animal? Where had the legendary Ferranti
control and finesse gone?

“Did I hurt
you?”

Bronte stared up into
his face.

His hard
features were so masculine and too serious.

She gave him
big eyes.

“Is that how
all Italian men make love? Because if it is, I must find one for
Rosie.”

She caught the
flash of relief before he buried his head in her neck.

“I can never
get enough of you, Bronte.” He raised his head and stared deep into
her eyes. “Are you sure you are all right?”

She gazed at
his mouth before running gentle fingers through his hair. All
right? Her body felt truly alive and was vibrating like a tuning
fork. She’d made Nico tremble with desire, for her. How totally
unbelievable was that? Her eyes sparkled into his.

“Now that’s
what I call a jump start to the day.”

Things had moved fast,
Bronte realised as she dressed carefully for her appointment. But
then Nico was that kind of man. The most important thing was not to
kid herself. Her heart and his were safe and sound. Remarks, little
things, may ring a bell or two of alarm. But she told herself she’d
imagined the glimpse of vulnerability when he’d held her tight. It
was so typical of her to worry over nothing these days. A habit
that she fully intended to break.

Bronte parked her mini
in the car park of the Gherkin building in the middle of the
financial district of the City.

She wore a
black business suit by Armani, teamed with four inch heels in ivory
patent with a black patent toe by Chanel. She carried a matching
clutch bag. Simple diamond studs glittered in her ears. And she
wore a single diamond on a chain at her throat.

What did a
woman wear when she was meeting her father for the first time?

Jerky nerves
caught in her throat as she was taken through various offices and
gatekeepers who eyed her with polite interest.

Carl Terlezki’s
office was a low-key lesson in exquisite good taste.

Long couches in
soft suede the colour of bitter chocolate hugged a long narrow
glass coffee table. A glass wall framed the city. His PA, Tamara,
was an immaculate middle-aged women dressed in black with a helmet
of blonde hair. Her blue eyes scanned Bronte from head to toe, not
in an aggressive way but she was obviously intrigued.

“Mr Terlezki is
on a call. I’ll take you in as soon as he’s finished. Can I get you
a coffee?” Her tone was friendly but polite.

A coffee was
the last thing she needed and Bronte wondered what the hell she was
doing? And desperately wished Alexander was with her because she
felt physically ill with stress and nerves. She was going to change
a complete stranger’s life for ever. Perhaps this was a huge
mistake?

She stood to
leave.

A door
opened.

A gravelly
voice spoke, “Tamara, when Bronte comes show her ...”

He was taller
than she’d expected and leaner. And terribly good looking with his
clear tanned skin, sharp intelligent eyes and thick grey hair.

Their eyes met
and the way he caught his breath stopped her heart.

Carl Terlezki
walked forward.

His eyes were
the colour of the sea, the blue hazed by dark grey.

And his hand
reached for hers.

“My God, you
are the living image of your mother.”

Emotions long
held in check threatened to spill over and Bronte waged a bitter
war of attrition to remain calm.

“How do you
do?” she whispered.

He grasped her
hand like a man handed a lifeline, emotions whirled in his eyes and
she realised he was as thrown as she was.

Neither of them
noticed his PA leave the room or heard her quietly close the
door.

He blinked. “I
am so sorry for your loss.” He cleared his throat and looked around
the room as if seeing it for the first time. “I’m sorry. My PA
seems to have disappeared. Would you like a coffee or tea?”

He appeared to
have forgotten he still held her hand.

Bronte felt him
tremble, saw the distress in his eyes and realised this was a man
who had loved deeply and suffered for it. Strangely enough, it gave
her strength.

With a breath
she squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

“I don’t know
how to tell you this and I’ve worried about it for months, Mr
Terlezki. But you’re my father.”

Carl Terlezki read the
letter again and again.

He stared at
the fabulous creature who sat before him. Her nerves and stress
were self evident. He couldn’t believe it. Cynthia Ludlow was dead.
Intellectually he knew it was true and he’d grieved for her and for
what might have been when he’d heard of the accident. But this,
this brought it home to him in a way that shook him to his very
core. Emotions whirled now in his mind. Anger, regret, hurt and
outrage that the woman he loved never told him he was a father.

They’d kept her
from him for over twenty-six years.

His hand, he
saw with dismay, shook as he returned the letter to Bronte.

“Can I take a
copy of it?”

What a stupid
question to ask of his only child.

But he had
absolutely no idea what to say to her.

Bronte stood.

The poor man
looked as if he’d been hit by a train. She knew precisely how he
felt. He needed time to come to terms with the shock and betrayal.
Well, she knew what that felt like too.

“I understand
the shock of this news. Believe me I’ve had no idea what to do or
how to react in this situation.”