Читать книгу The Amalfi Bride - Ann Major - Страница 8

Nico had a key, but he knocked before letting himself in. “Cara?”

His deep voice echoed in the tall-ceilinged bedroom. Then she ran in from the belvedere.

“Sorry about the call,” he said, smiling because she was so lovely.

Cara hung back in the doorway. She was holding a rectangular frame, a painting, it appeared, which she set down on a chest. Flushing, she lashed the tie around her waist so that the robe fit more snugly.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I had a couple of calls to make, too.” She pushed a long strand of brown hair behind her ear.

Oh, how adorable she was.

“I was out sightseeing all day and couldn’t call my family earlier. I missed a christening.”

When he saw the painting, his grandmother’s painting, his painting, his brows shot together. Not for the first time, his grandmother had gone too far. With great effort he kept his face neutral.

“Christening?”

“My sister’s twin boys.”

He forced his attention from the painting. “So, how is Italy as a tourist destination?”

“Perfect.” She swallowed. “I took an entire smart card full of pictures.”

“Perfect. And soon to get better,” he murmured, sliding a finger against the light switch, dimming the lights. “Good thing you can’t take any more pictures.”

“Oh, I have another smart card.”

When she lingered by the French doors for a few more seconds, he regretted dimming the lights.

She was losing her nerve. He stepped soundlessly across the tile floor to her.

Her hesitation appealed to him. Aggressive women often annoyed him.

With the lights low, the room with its painted ceiling and gilt furniture was full of shadows. The last of the sunlight came from behind her, so he couldn’t see her face clearly.

He didn’t touch her at first, and neither of them spoke. But her dark eyes burned him and made him aware of the tension in his own body. He needed to take her to bed and make love to her as soon as possible.

Her eyes widened, and she scanned the room, as if seeking an avenue of escape. Afraid she might run, he gathered her into his arms.

“Mistake,” she whispered, struggling to pull away. “This could be a huge mistake.”

She was right. Especially for him.

What if she threatened to sell her story tomorrow about her night with the prince? He’d been blackmailed before. Not that the family hadn’t hired people to deal with such matters.

“There’s always a risk to everything, isn’t there?” he asked, holding her tightly.

“I suppose. I’m not usually one for risks…with men.”

“You miss a lot of good things, if you never take chances,” he said, lowering his mouth to her cheek. When his lips nuzzled her hairline, she jumped as if his kiss shocked her.

“That’s easy for you to say. The risk is mostly mine though. You do this all the time. With all kinds of women probably. It’s what you do.”

He tensed, not liking the reminder that she knew who he was and had had designs on him.

“You can’t believe everything you read,” he said, assuming she was referring to the tabloids. “My reputation has been wildly exaggerated.”

She went still against him, and he was very aware of how her hips fit his, how the tips of her breasts touched his chest.

“Then you advertise…like an ordinary businessman?”

“Advertise?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and her hands were shaking. “I’m babbling. I do that when I’m nervous.”

Clearly she was starstruck. He’d dealt with that before.

He needed to put her at ease. “I’m not really so different from you,” he said. That wasn’t entirely true, of course. A centuries-old lineage of privilege had a dulling effect on the human spirit. He was not allowed to surrender to his feelings all that often.

“But…”

He didn’t want to argue. “I’m just man, and you’re a woman. We find each other attractive.” He feathered a kiss that was meant to reassure against her brow.

She jumped again.

“What could be more basic or more elemental or honest than a man and a woman and a night like this?” He kissed the tip of her nose, and she gasped.

“You know it’s more complicated than that,” she whispered.

He really didn’t want to argue. Not when she was skittish and rigid in his arms.

He wanted to make love to her badly. She’d chased him and flirted with him for two evenings in a row. He’d thought about her last night for hours. He had to do something, so he kissed her full on the mouth.

She let out a sigh and then a harsh, uneven breath. Funny, how one taste of her was such a shock to his system.

When he deepened the kiss, she began to tremble, as if she were needy and ready, too. Good, she wasn’t immune.

Still, after a kiss or two, she put her fists against his shoulders, and for a moment, he was afraid she intended to push him away. His mouth nibbled hers persuasively and she finally melted against him.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she relaxed her fingers and raised her arms around his neck. He felt wild with relief, and desire filled him when her mouth opened wider.

His tongue explored inside, teasing the tip of hers with his. When she let out another little sigh, sounding like a purr, he shuddered.

His heart sped up. She tasted sweet, and her skin was hot and soft, so hot he was mad, mad to have her. Had he ever been this mad for a woman? Still, remembering how nervous she was, he forced himself to hold her gently and to kiss her softly, lingeringly.

Her fingertips brushed the hair at his neck. “I’ve never done anything like this. I really don’t know what’s come over me. You see, I’m a planner.”

“Me, too.”

“And quite traditional.”

“We have that in common, too,” he whispered.

She smiled. “Are…are most of your women…regulars?”

“Regulars?” He didn’t want to talk about other women.

“Women who are used to doing this sort of thing? Or are they like me? First-timers?”

“Why do you want to talk about other women?”

“Because I’m afraid,” she admitted.

Suddenly, she seemed almost as shy and uncertain as Simonetta.

“Don’t be.”

“Let me go,” she said suddenly.

He stroked her cheek, her throat, coaxing her with his lips and touch to stay in his arms. “As if I could—now. Cara…Cara…. Tesorina. Ciccina.”

Then he kissed her again, long and slowly, until she moaned.

Reluctantly, she pulled away. “So, do I get to be in charge? Do I get to tell you exactly what I want…if I decide to really do this?”

“What?”

What was going on here? One moment, she was as shy as a young doe. The next, she was the aggressor.

American women. They were taught to be so damned independent. Celebrity hound or not, he decided to humor her.

“I’m yours,” he said in a light, teasing tone. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“For how long?”

“All night,” he said.

“What if I want you tomorrow, too?”

He thought about his mother and Viola. He could always say no to Cara tomorrow.

“That could be arranged.”

“And the next day, too?”

He nodded even though he felt a strange, new tension building between them that he didn’t understand.

“And the next? Both nights, too, of course?”

He was too hot for her to argue.

“I can pretty much clear my calendar. I might have to make a few phone calls though,” he said, thinking of his mother. “Business obligations.”

She blushed and grew thoughtful as her gaze raked him almost possessively. “I understand. Okay.” The word came out like a small sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath. “It’s a deal. And we’ll stay in here for the most part, so people won’t see us. I could see in the bar that you’re well-known locally.”

Not just locally, as surely she knew. “Whatever you want,” he agreed.

“Then I’ll do it. I can’t believe I’m saying this!” Her coffee-colored gaze was intense. “Three nights. And two days. Then I fly home. So, we’re settled on that?”

Again, he nodded, although he felt impatient with all this talk and ridiculous negotiating, not to mention a little concerned about how he would deal with his mother.

“And you’ll really move in here, with me?”

“As I said—whatever you want.”

“You’re being most agreeable. I appreciate that.”

“I try to please.”

“I’m sure you do. I’m beginning to think I should have done something like this for myself a long time ago. I mean, most men are thinking about how a woman can please them…instead of the other way around.”

Some painful emotion flickered in the depths of her dark eyes. She waited, as if she expected something more from him.

“How much?” she finally whispered.

He stared at her.

“I really would think you’d want to get that settled up front.”

“How much what?” he asked, puzzled.

“Don’t get me wrong. You are so sweet, so understanding about how difficult this is for me. And…and I like that. I like it a lot that you’re so discreet and polite and you aren’t pushy about the money. I mean, it’s really sweet of you, especially since I’m a first-timer, and it makes me feel special or like we’re almost friends or this is a real date or something sort of normal…instead of…what it really is. I mean, this is just one more thing about you that makes me feel so…so hot. In fact, I’ve never felt—” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I talk too much sometimes…when I’m nervous.”

He’d never been so drawn to a woman, either. Why else was he being so patient with this endless, ridiculous, unfathomable conversation?

His lips barely moved. “Can’t we talk later? If you feel hot and I feel hot, shouldn’t we begin—”

“No. I really do have to know what you charge.”

“Charge?”

For a moment longer he remained baffled, completely so, and then before she said anything else, the true meaning of her words slammed into him.

His grip on her waist tightened. “You think I’m a gigolo,” he said softly.

“And, naturally, I want to know how much you charge for the sex?” Her whisper was raw, her face purple before she lowered her eyes.

She bit her lip savagely. “Do you charge by the hour?” She was fiddling with the sash of her thick robe like someone who was afraid she was in some sort of trouble. “Or do you charge for services? Do you take VISA or cash? I don’t have all that much cash, so maybe we could go to an ATM later.”

She was so embarrassed she couldn’t meet his eyes, but when he couldn’t think of any way to answer her, she continued fiddling with the sash. “I’m a lawyer, and I like to know what I’m getting into…I mean, when it comes to business.”

An ATM!

“So the hell do I.”

He let her go and then jerked away as if she’d slapped him. He strode to the minibar where he opened a little bottle and poured himself a Scotch and water. Studying the golden liquor in the lambent light, he opened a second bottle and splashed more Scotch into his glass. He didn’t bother with ice.

She was watching him, shaken, her dark eyes wide and frightened.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” she whispered. “I thought you’d want to talk about this.”

“How exactly did you figure out…er…what I do for a living?”

“By watching you with those two older women. The ones who dropped you off. The way they kissed you.”

His mother? His grandmother? His glance flew to the painting his grandmother had done of him when he’d been a child, visiting her for the first time. It was on the tip of his tongue to explain who the women actually were and who he was, when she went on.

“The Ferrari. The Maserati. Really, they gave it away. Not to mention the blonde’s diamonds. I mean, her ring, it must be nine carats.”

Ten. It had been in the family three hundred years.

He swirled the Scotch in his glass.

“The way they kissed you…like they adored you.”

Did she know nothing about the Italian maternal instinct? He had always been his mother’s favorite. His older sister had been pretty sweet about accepting that, most of the time. After all, he was her favorite, too.

“Your ragged clothes compared to hers.”

He loved old, soft, worn clothes. They made him feel free, almost ordinary, not so burdened with who and what he was and all that was expected of him. Naturally, his mother wanted him in Armani.

“I see,” he said. The Scotch burned his throat and set his stomach on fire. “And do you do this often—travel alone and hire gigolos?”

His gaze must have hardened, because she looked away. “No. I told you. Never. Never before! And probably never again! That’s why I don’t really know how to do this.”

“Have you slept with other men in Italy? Men you met in your hotel or at restaurants?”

“No! I told you—you’re the first.”

The Scotch worked swiftly. He felt the beginnings of a much needed buzz. “So, you haven’t read about me? You don’t know who I…”

She studied him, her pretty face charmingly quizzical. “Maybe you do look a little familiar. Maybe I did see one of your ads or something, but magazines and papers are full of ads. I just look at the pictures in Italian magazines. Are you a really famous gigolo or something?”

He nearly choked on his Scotch. “You might be surprised at just how famous.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “A gigolo to the stars.”

God help him for what he was about to do, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Then we definitely stay in my hotel.”

“I could wear a disguise. I’m quite good at them, you know.”

“I’m sure you have to be…in your line of work.” She laughed nervously.

He smiled. He didn’t want to play games, but this was obviously her fantasy and he wanted her more than ever. Maybe it was the Scotch, but her fantasy was beginning to turn him on, too. A gigolo? A professional who indulged a woman’s secret desires?

“How much?” she said.

His lips tightened. Sober, he wouldn’t have been able to endure this money talk or the fact that she thought he was a gigolo. But the liquor had mellowed him. Not to mention, he was hotter for her than ever.

“How much?”

“You are nothing if not persistent.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

He had a law degree and a business degree. “I know a thing or two about lawyers.” They were pushy and bossy, traits he had not desired in his women—until her.

“Since it’s so important to you, you decide,” he said.

“I keep forgetting. You’re the professional.”

“Right.” He eyed another little Scotch bottle and considered a third shot.

“Since you have all the experience, how could I possibly know what you’re worth?”

“For you,” he began, his voice deliberately husky as he stared into her eyes, “I’ll make a special, one-time deal. Just for you. Pay whatever you feel like. The amount doesn’t matter.”

“Now? Or later?”

“Later. How will you know what I’m worth before you’ve sampled the merchandise?”

“You really are the sweetest gigolo ever.”

“We are trained to please.”

“You went to gigolo school?”

“Stop!” He really did have to have another drink to continue this idiotic conversation.

This time he threw ice cubes into his glass. Then he opened a third little bottle, poured the shot and downed it in a single gulp.

“One more thing—”

Hell. “What now?”

“I’m sort of a health nut…”

“You want me to use a condom? No problem.”

“No…I…don’t know how to say this.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“I…I was wondering about Italy’s health guidelines. I mean, for gigolos.”

Oh, God.

Afraid he’d give himself away, he glanced out the window. “You may be assured…er…that I am extremely discerning about my women…er…I mean, my clients. Extremely discerning. I always use a condom. The very best grade, naturally. Then I go to the doctor every sixty days for a thorough examination. Blood tests. The works. I would go more often, if I thought it was necessary. My client list is extremely exclusive.”

He set his glass down, determined to end this ridiculous conversation. “Do you need documents, or are you satisfied?”

“Not quite yet.” She lowered her lashes and tried not to look at the bed. “But I’m sure I will be soon, now that we have all these obnoxious little business details out of the way.”

“I’ve never had a complaint,” he murmured drily.

Finally. He set down his glass and pulled her into his arms again.

She closed her eyes.

Finally.