The Italian's Perfect Lover (6 page)

“How so?”

“I have a deep interest in this estate, for
one thing.”

“And for another?” Her soft words almost
drowned in the heavy, ancient atmosphere of the huge room.

“And for another, I have no choice but to be
here.”

“Believe me. You do. If it’s my security
you’re worried about, don’t be. I’m a big girl and can look after
myself.” She walked to the door. “Go. Go now.”

He didn’t even bother to reply. She heard the
chair scrape against the terracotta tiles of the kitchen floor and
then she started under his touch.

Frustration was driving her crazy and she
could feel tears pressing against her closed lids.

“Please.”

“Emily, I cannot. I, like you, will also be
staying in the villa.”

Emily slapped his hand away, fierce anger
taking over from despair.

“You most certainly will not. You’ve made me
stay here against my will. And now, you say, what? That you’re also
going to be staying here? There is no-one else here after 5pm. We
will be alone.”

“And why does that scare you? You think you
are so desirable that I cannot control myself. I apologize for the
kiss in the garden and assure you there will be no repetition.”

“I wonder if you realize what an insulting
bastard you are.”

She watched as he pushed his hands through
his hair as if in confusion.

“I do not mean to be, Emily.” His voice was
softer now. “I cannot explain. I can only apologize. It is nothing
to do with you. But me. It is me who cannot do this. But I am stuck
here. As you say, I would prefer to be in Naples—or preferably New
York or London—but I am here for the next three months.”

“What?”

“It is my father’s will. For me to inherit
the estate I must also stay here.”

He stood close: so close that she could see
the flicker of tension in his cheek, could see the agitation in his
eyes, and could, above all, feel her attraction drawing her to him.
Did she move? She couldn’t have said, but she felt his hand reach
out as if to stop her. Or him.

“We have no choice.”

He dropped his hand, shook his head and
walked away. The door, caught by a draught of cool night air,
slammed shut behind him.

Emily felt its vibration throughout her body.
But she hardly knew whether it came from within or without.

It echoed around the empty villa.

And it closed something deep inside.

“Come on Em. Something’s up, so tell me.”

Emily scowled at her assistant, Sue, and
looked back down at the laptop.

“How do you feel?” Sue persisted.

Numb.

That was the only word Emily could use to
describe how she felt—or rather how she felt nothing whatsoever.
Even working on the mosaic failed to give her the buzz of
excitement that it always had. And her team had obviously
noticed.

“I’m working,” she growled, and stabbed her
finger on to the delete key to remove the offending email.

“So what’s this count like?”

Her heart thudded painfully, reminding Emily
of the reason that she’d battened down her feelings.

“Fantastic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he got the generator and the internet
connection set up, didn’t he?”

“So what’s up with you, then?”

“Don’t you ever stop?”

Sue grinned. “Nope. That’s what you taught
me. When you’re on the scent of something, keep going.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one on the
scent of something.”

“What do you mean?”

“The word’s out about this dig. We’ll have
every man and his dog sniffing around now.” Emily leant back
against the tree, sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. She
was tired. She hadn’t slept well all week.

She snapped the laptop shut and stood up.

“Look, get the team moving, we’ve less time
than we thought now. I need to see to something.”

Sue’s mouth opened as if to reply but she
obviously thought better of it and returned to work.

The sun was high as Emily drove down the
narrow, winding road to the bottom of the valley. Steep sides swept
down treed ravines to the valley far below. Emily opened the
windows, and the air was soon filled with the dry, clogging smell
of the hot, white dust that settled in a fine film on in the inside
of the car. She preferred the heat, the smells, the dust of the
road even, to the dry, pristine chill of air conditioning. The
gravel road was difficult to negotiate, with its rutted surface and
frequent rock falls on the near side of the hill. But its very
inaccessibility had preserved the estate’s privacy, and its
treasures, for thousands of years.

Until now.

Damn. So they all knew. She’d done her best
to keep the dig a secret.

She could do without the publicity.

Next she’d have the press, the universities,
the authorities, even people wanting to steal the treasures, down
on her and she wouldn’t have a moment’s peace to do her work—the
only thing that was important.

She could do without the distractions.

When she reached the car park on the
outskirts of the city she pulled over, turned off the engine and
gently rested her head on the steering wheel, suddenly
exhausted.

But it wasn’t any of those reasons that gave
her the flutter of fear in her gut and the tension headache that
threatened to mount. It wasn’t any of those reasons that had made
her leave England in the first place and take the extended
sabbatical.

She sat back and pushed her fingertips under
her shirt around her shoulders, massaging the raised and puckered
skin that was a result of her ex-boyfriend’s attack ten years
ago.

A vision of his smoothly handsome face, a
baby face topped with ice-blue eyes, filled her mind.

A shudder of fear and revulsion swept through
her body.

He would be free of the hospital where he’d
spent his jail term by now and she knew, just knew, that he’d come
for her. For years he’d written to her but she’d never opened his
letters, had put them straight in the bin. A few years ago his
letters had stopped arriving. She didn’t query it; she was just
thankful. Although she’d had no contact with him, or the
authorities, about his release she knew the date and he’d have been
free now for a month. He’d come for her all right.

And now he knew where she was.

Who had told? Who else knew?

Her professor? He had no reason to tell.

Her staff? Also no reason. It was in all of
their best interests to keep the dig quiet.

That left Conte di Montecorvio Rovella. The
elusive count. And wasn’t she glad he was elusive? She hadn’t seen
him for the past week. Gone before she’d risen—and she rose
early—and arriving back after she’d gone to bed. Only the smell of
fresh coffee and aftershave lingered in the morning.

Yes, she was relieved he wasn’t there. It was
only the pungent smell of coffee that made her breathe deeply in
the mornings, several large intakes of breath. Only coffee.

She sighed.

So why would Aless— the count, the only other
person who knew, tell the media?

Her gaze rose above the traffic, shooting
into Naples on the motorway, to where the high-rise buildings—among
which was the Rovella Tower—soared into the hot sky, dwarfed by the
mass of Vesuvius that slumbered behind them.

She didn’t know why, but she was damn well
going to find out.

Within minutes she’d joined the throng of
people on the side-walk: people shouting, motor-scooters rushing
by, life everywhere.

She smiled to herself, despite the dull ache
of her suppressed emotions, because she loved this city full of
life and energy: its confusion of sounds, sights and smells. Not
least its mouth-watering smells, Emily considered, stopping
suddenly. The siren fragrance of freshly-baked pizzas and pastries
made her mouth water.

Yep, she’d find out why the count had told
the world about the dig—she inhaled the exquisite aroma once
more—right after she’d bought lunch.

“Do you have an appointment?” The
receptionist raised a thinly-plucked eyebrow, but managed to retain
her mouth in a tight straight line.

“No.”

“Then you can’t see him.” The girl pressed a
button and resumed her phone call.

Emily wondered if it was company policy to
reserve smiles for the rich and influential.

“You can’t help me?”

“Assolutamente no.”

“Then, I’ll call him.” She fished the phone
out of her hessian bag, waved it briefly in front of the other
woman’s face, and plucked the business card she’d found at the
estate and dialed his number.

“Where did you get that card?” demanded the
receptionist.

“Oh, this? Picked it up from home. It must
have fallen out of his pocket when he left in a hurry this
morning.”

Without waiting to enjoy the receptionist’s
face—she wasn’t one for gloating, well not much—she turned to the
floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the city and beyond to a
sliver of blue sea.

“Si?” The voice was gruff. “Who is this?”

“It’s the woman you’re living with.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the
receptionist to check out the effect of her words. She turned back
to the view with a smile on her face.

“What’s the problem? Can’t it wait until
tonight?”

“No. I need to see you now. Something’s come
up.”

“I’m busy.”

“I’ll wait.”

She heard him exhale angrily down the phone
and turn and speak in rapid Italian to someone. “Come up.”

The receptionist’s phone buzzed and, with a
glare, she opened the private elevator for Emily.

This time there was no barrage of staff to
confront her, only an angry looking Alessandro, his eyes dark under
a frown and his mouth, a firm line.

“This had better be good.”

“If it were good, then I wouldn’t need to
speak to you.”

He held the door open for her and she was
once more struck by how incongruous he looked—no tie, shirt open,
sleeves rolled up—in the sterile atmosphere of the building and
apartment.

Silently he offered her a chair and sat down
opposite. She looked at him quickly and then looked down at the
paper bag in her hands, unable to meet his gaze. She cleared her
throat and willed herself to look up at him. This time, his eyes
had warmed and his lips quirked in a smile, obviously finding her
discomfort amusing. He sat back in the seat with a resigned
sigh.

“Would you like a coffee, Emily? I see you
brought pastries.”

She glanced down at the tell-tale paper bag.
“My lunch.”

“Not your lunch now. You interrupt my
meeting; you can share your food.”

“Shame millionaires can’t afford to organize
their own snacks.”

“I’m not a millionaire.”

“Oh!” Genuinely surprised, she met his eyes
for the first time. “I just thought with all this,” she swept her
hand around, “and the estate,” she shrugged.

He narrowed his eyes in mock annoyance.
“Emily. I’m far wealthier than a millionaire but probably less
wealthy than people imagine—people other than yourself,
obviously.”

“Obviously. Here,” she pushed the bag onto
the table between them “I wouldn’t want to make a billionaire go
hungry.”

He selected a lemony sfogliatelle and sat
back.

“So how’s the dig going?”

“Very well. You should drop by some
time.”

“There’s no need. It’s obviously in capable
hands. So, if the dig’s OK, what’s the problem?”

“
You
are actually. Why have you told
the media all about it? Do you know what this means?”

“Of course. It means interest. And interest,
publicity, is always good for business.”

“Yours, perhaps, not mine. What about the
academics, amateurs, the media who will come flocking in,
interfering with my work.”

“It’s private land. They can’t.”

“You don’t know these people. They may be
professional people—most of them—but they’re driven. They’ll be
scaling that wall like it’s nothing. It’s not hard to climb.”

She turned and looked suddenly at Alessandro,
guilt causing her face to redden.

He looked at her from above his coffee cup
and sat back, consideringly. “So that’s how you first discovered
the mosaic.”

“Might have done.” She crossed her arms
defensively and turned back to view the bay—a brilliant blue foil
to the soft yellow buildings of Naples. “Whatever. Your father was
quite cool about it.”

“Come on, Emily. You can cope with interest.
I’d like to see anyone try to get involved. You’d send them away,
no problem. So, what’s this all about?”

“What about the fortune hunters, the
unscrupulous, the people out to steal things, smuggle them out of
Italy? They’re not going to bowl along in daylight and be
polite.”

“I’ve got it covered. I’ve ordered security
patrols, day and night.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’s great. I’m
now living in a prison.”

“Come on. That’s what you say you want.”

“What I want, Alessandro,” she leant across
the table towards him, her eyes blazing, “is to be allowed to
complete the dig in peace. What I want is to—”

“You want the dig to yourself.” He leant
across until their faces were almost touching. “You want it for
personal reasons. Because your response, Miss M,” he pushed a thick
strand of sun-bleached hair that had escaped her ponytail, back
behind her ear, “is not the response of a professional. There’s
more to it than that, isn’t there?”

She sunk back onto the black leather couch.
“Quit the psychoanalysis. It’s my work. That’s all.”

“So, why have you come here? The news is
public. There’s nothing I can do about that except to double
security, which I’ve done. What else do you want?”

Her mouth was dry as he made her realize the
real reason why she was there.