The Good, the Bad and the Wild (15 page)

Scared? Was she nuts?

Nick pushed a laugh out past the ball of tension that had lodged in his solar plexus. ‘You may be a distraction, but you sure as hell aren’t convenient,’ he said.

And she’d just become even less convenient.

Why had he kissed her? He hadn’t meant to. The plan had been to take things slow and easy, to tease her and tempt her and wait for her to give into her passionate nature again and come to him.

But then she’d stood there in front of him, insisting
that he couldn’t possibly want her, and all the frustration that he’d been keeping a lid on smashed through the barrier of his will power, and he’d been the one to crack. Not her.

And now he had an erection the size of the Eiffel Tower pressing against the button fly of his jeans to go with his foul mood.

‘Stop changing the subject,’ she said.

‘The only subject I’m interested in is you and me getting naked.’ If he’d expected the surly tone to send her packing, he’d been sadly mistaken.

She tilted her head, regarded him with those clear blue eyes that saw much more than he wanted them to. ‘Why can’t you admit that meeting your grandfather is a big deal?’

He heaved a sigh. Why couldn’t she give this a rest? ‘Because it’s not,’ he said, deciding not to correct her once again about the spurious nature of his relationship to the man. Vincenzo De Rossi wasn’t his grandfather, any more than Leonardo De Rossi had been his father.

Sure that look of recognition, of stunned affection and hope on the old guy’s face in the library had unnerved him. But only because he hadn’t been expecting it. And because it had brought with it an unpleasant revelation about his relationship with his mother.

Until Eva had mentioned it, it had never even occurred to him that he might bear a physical resemblance to the De Rossis. The thought had
made him uncomfortable. But what had been worse was the jolt of memory, when the look in De Rossi’s eyes had reminded him of what he’d often seen in his mother’s eyes. It had been the same damn look of recognition, but with one crucial difference—instead of the hope, the excitement, the stunned pleasure he’d seen in De Rossi’s eyes, what he’d always glimpsed in his mother’s eyes had been despair and regret. He’d refused to acknowledge it as a boy, had always just strived harder to please her, in the hope that one day she would look at him the same way she looked at his sister Ruby.

His mother had never been cruel to him, never been deliberately unkind, if anything she’d let him get away with a great deal more than his sister, but there had always been this distance between them. Her affection for him had always felt guarded, dutiful, and so unlike the full, rich, boundless love she’d lavished on her husband and her daughter. And he’d never understood why. Until now.

Today, in the Alegria Palazzo’s library, while Vincenzo De Rossi had stared at him with tears in his eyes, he’d finally understood why his mother had always found it so hard to love him. Because as he’d grown older, and begun to resemble Leonardo more and more, she would have become painfully aware that he was Leonardo’s son. When she’d looked at him, all she had ever seen was the evidence of her sin.

His mother had died years ago, an excruciatingly painful death. She’d told Carmine the truth about his parentage on her deathbed. Two years later he’d run away from home. Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to run far enough and the destructive anger—much of it aimed at his mother—had followed him around for years. But he’d eventually come to terms with it and moved on. He’d forgiven his mother—so none of this was a big deal, not any more.

Unfortunately, from the sympathy he could see shining in Eva’s eyes, she was obviously on a mission to share and discuss. Not something he had any intention of doing.

Seeing her mussed hair, and the rash on her chin where his stubble had burned, it occurred to him that there was a much more effective way of changing the subject.

Gripping the hem of his T-shirt, he lifted it over his head and flung it on the bed.

Heat soared in her cheeks, making the tiny sprinkle of freckles across her nose stand out. A spontaneous smile edged his lips. Her eyes had glazed over with stunned arousal, exactly as they had when he’d taken his sweater off in the garage of his apartment two weeks ago.

She might have lived her life like a nun up to now, but the bad girl was well and truly out of the bag, if that look and the kiss they had just shared were anything to go by. All he had to do now was get a stranglehold on his emotions and
not crack first again—if he wanted to keep the upper hand in this seduction. And he damn well did.

‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘We’re having a conversation.’

‘You may be. I’m not.’ He rubbed his palm over his chest. She followed the movement with rapt attention, her tongue peeping out to moisten her bottom lip. The jolt of arousal felt good this time. He was in charge again, in control.

He eased open the first button of his jeans, watched her eyes dart down. ‘I’m shattered and I’m taking a shower.’ He popped another button.

‘You can’t,’ she said, a little too breathlessly.

His erection swelled back to life under her attentive gaze. ‘And after my shower, I’m going to bed.’

‘But we haven’t finished talking about…’ Her voice dried up as the third button went.

‘If you want to join me—you’re more than welcome.’ He ran his hand across his belly, eased his fingers down, under the waistband of his boxers.

Her gaze shot to his face, the colour in her cheeks now radioactive, and the flare of arousal unmistakeable.

‘But I should warn you, there’s not going to be a lot of talking,’ he added.

‘I…’ She swallowed convulsively. ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ she murmured and shot off towards
the connecting door as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels.

The first genuine laugh he’d had all day echoed after her.

Eva Redmond might not be a convenient distraction, but she was a really entertaining one.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E
VA’S
body was still humming four hours later as she headed through the palazzo’s labyrinthine corridors to the terrazzo, where Lorenzo the footman had informed her the duca would be hosting pre-dinner aperitifs for her and Nick.

She wanted to believe it was indignation that had made her throat go dry and other more sensitive parts of her anatomy feel moist and swollen as she’d lain awake on the satin covers of her four-poster, listening to the muffled splash of running water from the bathroom—and imagined Nick Delisantro’s naked chest gilded with soap suds—but she wasn’t sure indignation quite covered it.

Maybe sexual obsession would be more appropriate. Or complete insanity.

But one thing was certain. She’d always been more comfortable studying the lives and loves of people she didn’t know—people in parchment documents, in ledgers of births and marriages and deaths, people who were either long dead or
lived lives completely removed from her own. Her life had been exceptionally dull, but also sensible and secure, because she’d never had the guts, or the inclination to take what she wanted and damn the consequences.

Nick Delisantro, on the other hand, didn’t have the same reservations. He’d lived his life on the edge and forged a successful career out of taking risks. Which made him extremely dangerous.

Huge French doors lined the airy corridor and opened out onto the estate’s vast ornamental gardens. The scent of jasmine and lavender perfumed the air while the dying sun added a redolent glow to the riot of colours.

Eva stared at the lavish gardens and felt the flicker of panic and confusion that had been dogging her all afternoon. Unfortunately, Nick Delisantro’s wild, uncivilised behaviour and his reckless approach to life had somehow rubbed off on her.

All he had to do was look at her in that surly, sexy, I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive way he had, and her hormones shot into hyperdrive. She touched her fingers to her chin, felt the slight sting of the mark he had left on sensitive skin.

The low heels of her sandals clicked on the polished stone flooring as she continued down the corridor, frowning into the mirrors that lined the walls. She’d made the stupid mistake of losing her virginity to a man she found it impossible
to resist. Even though their one night hadn’t exactly been the most comfortable experience, her body seemed to have forgotten the pain.

The sheen of sweat dampened her breasts in the simple summer dress she’d been forced to change into for the evening—because the tailored suit had felt unbearably restrictive. She walked briskly to the open door at the end of the corridor.

She was in serious trouble. Her one wild night with Nick Delisantro had not been a roaring success. The man was taciturn, moody, demanding and unpredictable. And had a temper that she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of again. Plus, she’d almost lost her job.

But even knowing all that, everything she knew about herself as a person—her caution, her common sense, her obedience—was on the verge of collapsing around her ears, and she seemed powerless to stop it happening. In fact if the kiss she’d given Nick was anything to go by, all he had to do was take off his shirt and she’d happily fling herself into the inferno again without a second thought.

The only possible solution was to stay away from him… But how could she do that when she was now sleeping right next door to him? For two whole weeks. And he seemed more than happy to exploit her lack of control. She needed a plan, and she had to come up with one fast.
Because her will power was non-existent and the rational, sensible behaviour she’d always relied on in the past seemed to go up in flames whenever he was within ten feet of her.

She let out a small sigh of relief when she stepped onto the wide, flagstone terrace situated at the end of the house, and found the duca sitting alone at a wrought-iron table laid with drinks and canapés. She needed to gauge her situation with Don Vincenzo and see if he would be happy for her to fly back to London once she had given him her PowerPoint presentation. She’d considered all the possible permutations, and it seemed like the only option. There was no reason for her to stay longer than a day or two. Don Vincenzo was her company’s client, not Nick, so how could he insist she stayed if her job was done?

‘Signorina Redmond, you look beautiful,’ the duca said in his flawless English as he greeted her with a glass of Prosecco. ‘And well rested I hope.’

‘Very much so, Your Excellency,’ she said, accepting the flute of sparkling wine and the compliment, although she doubted its veracity. She’d had the quickest shower in human history, worried that Nick might walk into the bathroom and press his advantage, and she hadn’t managed to get a wink of sleep during her so-called nap. Because she’d been far too busy having inappropriate
thoughts about the man in the room next door. ‘But, please, call me Eva.’

‘Then you must call me, Vincenzo,’ he replied, directing her to a bench rimmed with climbing vines that bloomed with purple wisteria. ‘My title is little more than an old man’s vanity, after all, as we have been a republic in Italy for many years now and rightly so.’

‘You’re not a monarchist?’ Eva said, surprised by the statement. The laws of Italian nobility were notoriously complex and confusing, and fake titles had abounded since the dissolution of the monarchy after the Second World War, but she knew that the Duca d’Alegria’s family was one of the few who could claim a direct lineage to the throne—and as such she had expected him to be a strong supporter of pomp and circumstance.

‘I am a pragmatist,’ he said, the lines of his face more pronounced in the dusky early-evening light. ‘My noble title has given me a very comfortable life, several beautiful homes and a pretty crest to put on the bottles of olive oil we produce at the Savargo Estate. And for that I am grateful.’ He took the seat opposite her. ‘But it did not make me a noble father, nor help me to raise a son I could be proud of.’

‘You mean Conte Leonardo?’ she murmured, taken aback by the intimate nature of the confidence—as well as the weight of disillusionment in his voice.

‘Let us call him Leo,’ he said. ‘My son always insisted on being addressed by his full title when he was alive. However, he did not deserve it, nor did he honour it, so I refuse to address him by it in death.’

The duca didn’t sound bitter or angry, just weary, his voice heavy with regret.

‘I didn’t realise you had such a low opinion of your son,’ she said, feeling desperately sorry for the old man.

‘You have read Leo’s journal,’ he stated. ‘So you know my low opinion was well earned.’

She nodded, not sure what to say. How could she argue with the truth? Leonardo’s journal had revealed a man who had been given everything he could ever want but who had always wanted more. Reading the translations, she had tried to remain impartial, not to judge, to maintain a scholarly distance while analysing every word and phrase for clues that would help her to identify the young farmer’s daughter Leonardo had been introduced to on her wedding day, and then ruthlessly pursued until he got her pregnant. But it had been next to impossible not to despise the author for his arrogance, his reckless pursuit of his own pleasure and his selfish disregard for everyone’s feelings but his own. She could understand why a man of principle would find it hard to be proud of such a son.