Читать книгу Secret Heirs Collection - Кейт Хьюит, Коллектив авторов - Страница 64

RENZO LOOKED AT his watch and gave a click of impatience. Where the hell was she? She knew he detested lateness, just as she knew he ran his diary like clockwork. In the exclusive lounge at Florence airport he crossed one long leg over the other, aware that the movement had caused the heads of several women instinctively to turn, but he paid them no attention for there was only one woman currently on his mind—and not in a good way.

The flight he had instructed Darcy to catch—in fact, to purchase a first-class ticket for—had discharged its passengers twenty minutes earlier and she had not been among their number. His eyes had narrowed as he’d stared at the hordes of people streaming through the arrivals section, fully expecting to see her eagerly pushing her way through to see him, her pale face alight with excitement and her curvy body resplendent in fine new clothes—but there had been no sight of her. A member of staff had dealt with his irritation and was currently checking the flight list while he was forced to consider the unbelievable…that she might have changed her mind about joining him in Italy.

He frowned. Had her reluctance to take the cash he had insisted she accept gone deeper than he’d imagined? He’d thought she was simply making a gesture—hiding the natural greed which ran through the veins of pretty much every woman—but perhaps he had misjudged her. Perhaps she really was deeply offended by his suggestion that she buy herself some decent clothes.

Or maybe she’d just taken the money and done a runner, not intending to come here and meet him at all.

Renzo’s mouth hardened, because wasn’t there a rogue thought flickering inside his head which almost wished that to be the case? Wouldn’t he have welcomed a sound reason to despise her, instead of this simmering resentment that she was preparing to take her leave of him? That she had been the one to make a decision which was usually his province. He glanced again at his wristwatch. And how ironic that the woman to call time on a relationship should be a busty little red-headed waitress he’d picked up in a cocktail bar rather than one of the many more eligible women he’d dated.

He hadn’t even been intending to go out the night he’d met her. He’d just planned to have a quick drink with a group of bankers he’d known from way back who had been visiting from Argentina and wanted to see some London nightlife. Renzo didn’t particularly like nightclubs and remembered the stir the six men had made as they’d walked into the crowded Starlight Room at the Granchester Hotel, where they’d ordered champagne and decided which of the women sipping cocktails they should ask to dance. But Renzo hadn’t been interested in the svelte women who had been smiling invitingly in his direction. His attention had been caught by the curviest little firecracker he’d ever seen. She’d looked as if she had been poured into the black satin dress which had skimmed her rounded hips, but it had been her breasts which had caused the breath to dry in his throat. Madonna, che bella! What breasts! Luscious and quivering, they had a deep cleavage he wanted to run his tongue over and that first sight of them was something he would remember for as long as he lived.

He had ended up dancing with no one, mainly because he’d been too busy watching her and his erection had been too painful for him to move without embarrassment. He’d ordered drinks only from her, and wondered afterwards if she noticed he left them all. Each time he’d summoned her over to his table he could sense the almost palpable electricity which sizzled in the air—he’d certainly never felt such a powerful attraction towards a total stranger before. He’d expected her to make some acknowledgement of the silent chemistry which pulsed between them, but she hadn’t. In fact the way her eyelids had half shielded her huge green eyes and the cautious looks she’d been directing at him had made him think she must either be the world’s greatest innocent, or its most consummate actress. If he had known it was the former, would he still have pursued her?

Of course he would. Deep down he recognised he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself because hadn’t he been gripped by a powerful hunger which insisted he would never know peace until he had possessed her?

He’d been waiting outside when eventually she had emerged from the club and had thanked the heavens for the heavy downpour of rain which had been showering down on her. She hadn’t looked a bit surprised to see him as she’d opened up her umbrella and for a moment it had crossed his mind that she might take a different man home with her every night, though even that had not been enough to make him order his driver to move on. But when he’d offered her a lift she’d refused, in an emphatic manner which had startled him.

‘No, thanks.’

‘No?’

‘I know what you want,’ she’d said, in a low voice. ‘And you won’t get it from me.’

And with that she’d disappeared into the rain-wet night and Renzo had sat in the back seat of the limousine, watching her retreating form beneath her little black umbrella, his mouth open and his body aching with frustration and unwilling admiration.

He’d gone to the club the next night and the weekend when he’d returned from a work trip to New York. Some nights she’d been there and some she hadn’t. He’d discovered she only worked there at weekends and it had only been later he’d found out she had a daytime job as a waitress somewhere else. Extracting information from her had been like trying to get blood from a stone. She was the most private woman he’d ever met as well as the most resistant and perhaps it was those things which made Renzo persist in a way he’d never had to persist before. And just when he’d been wondering if he was wasting his time, she had agreed to let him drive her home.

His voice had been wry as he’d looked at her. ‘Madonna mia! You mean you’ve decided you trust me enough to accept the lift?’

Her narrow shoulders had shrugged, causing her large breasts to jiggle beneath the shiny black satin of her dress and sending a shaft of lust arrowing straight to his groin. ‘I guess so. All the other staff have seen you by now and you’ve been captured on CCTV for all eternity, so if you’re a murderer then you’ll be apprehended soon enough.’

‘Do I look like a murderer?’

She had smiled then, and it had been like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

‘No. Although you look just a little bit dangerous.’

‘Women always tell me that’s a plus.’

‘I’m sure they do, though I’m not sure I agree. Anyway, it’s a filthy night, so I might as well get a lift with you. But I haven’t changed my mind,’ she’d added fiercely. ‘And if you think I’m going to sleep with you, then you’re wrong.’

As it happened, she was the one who’d been wrong. They’d driven through the dark wet streets of London and he’d asked her to come in for coffee, not thinking for a moment she’d accept. But maybe the chemistry had been just as powerful for her. Maybe her throat had also been tight with tension and longing and she’d been finding it as difficult to speak as he had, as she’d sat beside him in the leather-scented car. He’d driven her to his apartment and she’d told him primly that she didn’t really like coffee. So he’d made her tea flavoured with peppermint and rose petals, and for the first time in his life he’d realised he might lose her if he rushed it. He’d wondered afterwards if it was his unfamiliar restraint which had made her relax and sink into one of his huge sofas—so that when at last he’d leaned over to kiss her she’d been all quivering acquiescence. He’d done it to her right there—pulling her panties down and plunging right into her—terrified she might change her mind during the long walk from the sitting room to the bedroom.

And that had been when he’d discovered she was a virgin—and in that moment something had changed. The world had tipped on its axis because he’d never had sex with a virgin before and had been unprepared for the rush of primitive satisfaction which had flooded through him. As they’d lain there afterwards, gasping for breath among all the cushions, he’d pushed a damp curl away from her dewy cheek, demanding to know why she hadn’t told him.

‘Why would I? Would you have stopped?’

‘No, but I could have laid you at the centre of my big bed instead of the sofa if I’d known this was your first sexual adventure.’

‘What, you mean like some sort of medieval sacrifice?’ she’d murmured and that had confused him, too, because he would have expected high emotion at such a moment, not such a cool response.

Had it been her coolness which had made him desire her even more? Possibly. He’d thought it would be one night, but he’d been mistaken. He’d never dated a waitress before and he acknowledged the cold streak of snobbery in his nature which told him it would be unwise to buck that trend. But Darcy had confounded him. She read just as many books as an academic he’d once dated—although admittedly, she preferred novels to molecular biology. And she didn’t follow the predictable path of most women in a sexual relationship. She didn’t bore him with stories of her past, nor weigh him down with questions about his own. Their infrequent yet highly satisfying meetings, which involved a series of mind-blowing orgasms, seemed to meet both their needs. She seemed instinctively to understand that he wasn’t seeking a close or lasting connection with a woman. Not now and not ever.

But sometimes an uncomfortable question strayed into his mind to ask why such a beauty would have so willingly submitted her virginity to a total stranger. And didn’t he keep coming up with the troublesome answer that maybe she had been holding out for the highest bidder—in this case, an Italian billionaire…?

‘Renzo?’

The sound of her voice dragged him away back into the present and Renzo looked up to see a woman walking through the airport lounge towards him, pulling behind her a battered suitcase on wheels. His eyes narrowed. It was Darcy, yes—but not Darcy as he knew her, in her drab waitress uniform or pale and naked against his pristine white sheets. Renzo blinked. This was Darcy in a dress the colour of sunshine, dotted with tiny blue flowers. It was a simple cotton dress but the way she wore it was remarkable. It wasn’t the cut or the label which was making every man in the place stare at her—it was her youthful body and natural beauty. Fresh and glowing, her bare arms and legs were honed by honest hard work rather than mindless sessions in the gym. She looked radiant and the natural bounce of her breasts meant that no man could look at her without thinking about procreation. Renzo’s mouth dried. Procreation had never been on his agenda, but sex most definitely was. He wanted to pull her hungrily into his arms and to kiss her hard on the mouth and feel those soft breasts crushing against him. But Renzo Sabatini would never be seen in any airport—let alone one in his homeland—making such a public demonstration of affection.

And wasn’t it time he reinforced the fact that nobody—nobody—ever kept him waiting?

‘You’re late,’ he said repressively, throwing aside his newspaper and rising to his feet.

Darcy nodded. She could sense his irritation but that didn’t affect her enjoyment of the way he was looking at her—if only to reassure her she hadn’t made a terrible mistake in choosing a cheap cotton dress instead of the clothes he must have been expecting her to wear. Still, since this was going to be the holiday of a lifetime it was important she got it off to a good start and the truth of it was that she was late. In fact, she’d started to worry if she would get here at all because that horrible vomiting bug she’d had at the beginning of the week had really laid her low.

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that.’

He commandeered her wheeled case and winced slightly as he took her hand luggage. ‘What have you got in here? Bricks?’

‘I put in a few books,’ she said as they set off towards the exit. ‘Though I wasn’t sure how much time I’d have for reading.’

Usually he would have made a provocative comment in response to such a remark but he didn’t and the unyielding expression on his face told her he wasn’t ready to forgive her for making him wait. But he didn’t say anything as they emerged into the bright sunshine and Darcy was too overcome by the bluest sky she’d ever seen to care.

‘Oh, Renzo—I can’t believe I’m in Italy. It’s so beautiful,’ she enthused as she looked around, but still he didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t speak until his shiny black car had pulled out of the airport and was heading towards a signpost marked Chiusi.

‘I’ve been waiting at the damned airport for over an hour,’ he snapped. ‘Why weren’t you on the flight I told you to get?’

Darcy hesitated. She supposed she could come up with some vague story to placate him but hadn’t she already shrouded so much of her life with evasion and secrets, terrified that someone would examine it in the harsh light of day and judge her? Why add yet another to the long list of things she needed to conceal? And this was different. This wasn’t something she was ashamed of—so why not be upfront about the decision she’d made when he had stuffed that enormous wad of cash into her hand and made her feel deeply uncomfortable?

‘Because it was too expensive.’

‘Darcy, I gave you the money to get that flight.’

‘I know you did and it was very generous of you.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘But when I saw how much it cost to fly to Florence first class, I just couldn’t do it.’

‘What do you mean, you couldn’t do it?’

‘It seemed a ludicrous amount of money to spend on a two-hour flight so I bought a seat on a budget airline instead.’

‘You did what?’

‘You should try it sometime. It’s true they ran out of sandwiches and the tea was stone-cold, but I saved absolutely loads of money because the price difference was massive. Just like I did with the clothes.’

‘The clothes,’ he repeated uncomprehendingly.

‘Yes. I went to that department store you recommended on Bond Street but the clothes were stupidly overpriced. I couldn’t believe how much they were asking for a simple T-shirt so I went to the high street and found some cheaper versions, like this dress.’ She smoothed the crisp yellow cotton down over her thighs and her voice wavered a little uncertainly. ‘Which I think looks okay, doesn’t it?’

He flashed a glance to where her hand was resting. ‘Sure,’ he said, his voice sounding thick. ‘It looks okay.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

He slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. ‘The problem is that I don’t like being disobeyed.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, Renzo. You sound like a headmaster. You’re not my teacher, you know—and I’m not your pupil.’

‘Oh, really?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought I’d been responsible for teaching you rather a lot.’

His words made her face grow hot as they zoomed past blue-green mountains, but suddenly Darcy was finding the sight of Renzo’s profile far more appealing than the Tuscan countryside. He was so unbelievably gorgeous. Just the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Would she ever feel this way about anyone again, she wondered—with a chest which became so tight when she looked at him that sometimes it felt as if she could hardly breathe? Probably not. It had never happened before, so what were the chances of it happening again? How had Renzo himself described what had happened when they first met? Colpo di fulmine—that was it. A lightning strike—which everyone knew was extremely rare. It was about the only bit of Italian she knew.

She sneaked another glance at him. His black hair was ruffled and his shirt was open at the neck—olive skin glowing gold and stunningly illuminated by the rich Tuscan light. His thighs looked taut beneath his charcoal trousers and Darcy could feel the sudden increase of her pulse as her gaze travelled along their muscular length. She’d rarely been in a car with him since the night he had seduced her—or rather, when she had fallen greedily into his arms. She’d hardly been anywhere with him other than the bedroom and suddenly she was glad about something which might have bothered other women.

Because with the amazing landscape sliding past like a TV commercial, she thought how easy it would be to get used to this kind of treatment. Not just the obvious luxury of being driven through such beautiful countryside, but the chance to be a bona fide couple like this. And she mustn’t get used to it, because it was a one-off. One last sweet taste of Renzo Sabatini before she began her new life in Norfolk and started to forget him—the man with the cold heart who had taught her the definition of pleasure. The precise and brilliant architect who turned into a tiger in the bedroom.

‘So what exactly are we going to be doing when we get to this place of yours?’ she said.

‘You mean apart from making love?’

‘Apart from that,’ she agreed, almost wishing he hadn’t said it despite the instant spring of her breasts in response. Did he need to keep drumming in her sole purpose in his life? She remembered the hiking shoes she’d packed and wondered if she’d completely misjudged the situation. Was he planning to show her anything of Tuscany, or would they simply be doing the bed thing, only in a more glamorous location? She wondered if he had sensed her sudden discomfiture and if that was the reason for his swift glance as they left the motorway for a quieter road.

‘The man who is buying the estate is coming for dinner,’ he said, by way of explanation.

‘Oh? Is that usual?’

‘Not really, but he’s actually my lawyer and I want to persuade him to keep on the staff who have worked at Vallombrosa for so long. He’s bringing his girlfriend with him, so it’ll be good to have you there to balance the numbers.’

Darcy nodded. To balance the numbers. Of course. She was there to fill an empty chair and warm the tycoon’s bed—there was nothing more to it than that. Stupidly, his remark hurt but she didn’t show it—something in which she’d learned to excel. A childhood of deprivation and fear had taught her to hide her feelings behind a mask and present the best version of herself to the world. The version that prospective foster parents might like if they were looking for a child to fit into their lovely home. And if sometimes she wondered what she might reveal if that mask ever slipped, she didn’t worry about it for too long because she was never going to let that happen.

‘So when were you last abroad?’ he questioned, as they passed a pretty little hilltop village.

‘Oh, not for ages,’ she answered vaguely.

‘How come?’

It was a long time since she’d thought about it and Darcy stared straight ahead as she remembered the charity coach trip to Spain when she’d been fifteen. When the blazing summer sun had burned her fair skin and the mobile home on the campsite had felt like sleeping in a hot tin can. They were supposed to be grateful that the church near the children’s home had raised enough money to send them on the supposed trip of a lifetime and she had really tried to be grateful. Until somebody had drilled a peephole into the wall of the female showers and there had been a huge fuss about it. And someone had definitely stolen two pairs of her knickers when she’d been out swimming in the overcrowded pool. Somehow she didn’t think Renzo Sabatini’s Tuscan villa was going to be anything like that. ‘I went on a school trip when I was a teenager,’ she said. ‘That was the only time I’ve been abroad.’

He frowned. ‘You’re not much of a traveller, then?’

‘You could say that.’

And suddenly Darcy scented danger. On the journey over she’d been worried she might do something stupid. Not something obvious, like using the wrong knife and fork at a fancy dinner, because her waitressing career had taught her everything there was to know about cutlery.

But she realised she’d completely overlooked the fact that proximity might make her careless. Might make her tongue slip and give something away—something which would naturally repulse him. Renzo had told her that one of the things he liked about her was that she didn’t besiege him with questions, or try to dig deep to try to understand him better. But that had been a two-way street and the fact he didn’t ask about her past had suited her just fine. More than fine. She didn’t want to tell any lies but she knew she could never tell him the truth. Because there was no point. There was no future in this liaison of theirs, so why tell him about the junkie mother who had given birth to her? Why endure the pain of seeing his lips curve with shock and contempt as had happened so often in the past? In a world where everyone was striving for perfection and judging you, it hadn’t taken her long to realise that the best way to get on in life was to bury all the darkness just as deep as she could.

But thoughts of her mother stabbed at her conscience, prompting her to address something which had been bothering her on the flight over.

‘You know the money I saved on my airfare and clothes?’ she began.

‘Yes, Darcy. I know. You were making a point.’ He shot her a glance, his lips curving into a sardonic smile. ‘Rich man with too much money shown by poor girl just how much he could save if he bothered to shop around. I get the picture.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Renzo,’ she said stiffly. ‘I want you to have it back. I’ve put most of it in an envelope in my handbag.’

‘But I don’t want it back. When are you going to get the message? I have more than enough money. And if it makes you feel better, I admire your resourcefulness and refusal to be seduced by my wealth. It’s rare.’

For a moment there was silence. ‘I think we both know it wasn’t your wealth which seduced me, Renzo.’

She hadn’t meant to say it but her quiet words reverberated around the car in an honest explanation of what had first drawn her to him. Not his money, nor his power—but him. The most charismatic and compelling man she’d ever met. She heard him suck in an unsteady breath.

‘Madonna mia,’ he said softly. ‘Are you trying to tempt me into taking the next turning and finding the nearest layby so that I can do what I have been longing to do to you since last I saw you?’

‘Renzo—’

‘I don’t want the damned money you saved! I want you to put your hand in my lap and feel how hard I am for you.’

‘Not while you’re driving,’ said Darcy and although she was disappointed he had turned the emotional into the sexual, she didn’t show it. Because that was the kind of man he was, she reminded herself. He was never emotional and always sexual. She didn’t need to touch him to know he was aroused—a quick glance and she could see for herself the hard ridge outlined beneath the dark trousers. Suddenly her lips grew dry in response and she licked them, wishing they could have sex right then. Because sex stopped you longing for things you were never going to have. Things other women took for granted—like a man promising to love and protect you. Things which seemed as distant as those faraway mountains. With an effort she dragged her attention back to the present. ‘Tell me about this place we’re going to instead.’

‘You think talking about property is a suitable substitute for discovering what you’re wearing underneath that pretty little dress?’

‘I think it’s absolutely vital if you intend keeping your mind on the road, which is probably the most sensible option if you happen to be driving a car.’

‘Oh, Darcy.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Did I ever tell you that one of the things I admire about you is your ability to always come up with a smart answer?’

‘The house, Renzo. I want to talk about the house.’

‘Okay. The house. It’s old,’ he said as he overtook a lorry laden with a towering pile of watermelons. ‘And it stands against a backdrop that Leonardo should have painted, instead of that village south of Piacenza which is not nearly as beautiful. It has orchards and vineyards and olive groves—in fact, we produce superb wines from the Sangiovese grape and enough olive oil to sell to some of the more upmarket stores in London and Paris.’

The few facts he’d recited could have been lifted straight from the pages of an estate agent’s website and Darcy felt oddly disappointed. ‘It sounds gorgeous,’ she said dutifully.

‘It is.’

‘So…why are you selling it?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s time.’

‘Because?’

Too late, she realised she had asked one question too many. His face grew dark, as if the sun had just dipped behind a cloud and his shadowed jaw set itself into a hard and obdurate line.

‘Isn’t one of the reasons for our unique chemistry that you don’t plague me with questions?’

She heard the sudden darkness underpinning his question. ‘I was only—’

‘Well, don’t. Don’t pry. Why change what up until now has been a winning formula?’ His voice had harshened as he cut through her words, his hands tensing as a discreet sign appeared among the tangle of greenery which feathered the roadside. ‘And anyway. We’re here. This is Vallombrosa.’

But his face was still dark as the car began to ascend a tree-lined track towards an imposing pair of dark wrought-iron gates which looked like the gates of heaven.

Or the gates of hell, Darcy thought with a sudden flash of foreboding.