She was lucky to be immune from that kind of consideration in her line of work. “I’ve always admired people who are good with numbers,” she said, instead. “I’ve never had much of a head for them.”
“Everyone has a head for numbers.”
She pulled a face. “I beg to differ.”
“Maths is everywhere,” he pointed out, finishing his coffee and placing it in the sink.
“And I use it as little as possible.”
“It’s hard to avoid.”
“I’ve made it an art form,” she winked, and wished she hadn’t when he formed a slow, sensual grin in response.
“What do you do then? When you’re not avoiding numbers like the plague.”
She sipped her tea. “I’m a writer.”
For the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression, so he was stern and alert. “As in a journalist?”
She shook her head. “No. As in a fiction writer. A novelist.”
“Seriously?”
She nodded.
“Would I have read anything you’ve written?”
She bit down on her lip. “I doubt it. I sell okay in the UK and Australia, but not anywhere else yet.” She lifted her shoulders. “It’s a labour of love, but at least the hours are flexible and I can do it from anywhere in the world.”
“So you’re here for research?” He prompted after a moment.
A smile lifted the corner of her lips. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. It’s kind of a writer’s retreat,” she substituted. “I needed a break. From home.” She sipped her tea quickly, choking on it a little.
“Where’s home?”
“England.” It was a vague answer that told him nothing he didn’t presumably already know, given her accent. She couldn’t help it. In the six months since leaving London, she’d received several text messages from Michael each week. It was impossible to feel safe and as though she was out of the woods when he was still reaching out to her. Every time she saw his name on her phone, she panicked. It was like being dragged back into their home, back into his life, the sensation suffocating and cloying.
“London?”
She stood up a little jerkily and moved towards the large windows. “You were right about the storm. It’s not showing any sign of letting up.”
He was quiet for a few moments and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to let her conversation change go. But after a few moments, his voice came from right behind her. “Our summer storms tend to be like that. There aren’t many, but when they come, they’re violent as all hell.” She lifted her gaze to his face, marvelling at the strength there, a bone structure that reminded her a little of the cliff face she’d scaled earlier that day. “When I was a boy, I was here with my grandfather and Yaya when a storm came through. It destroyed half the town, including this place.”
She looked around, taking in the grandness of the house with fresh eyes. As if reading her thoughts, he murmured, “Oh, it didn’t used to look like this.”
“No?”
“It was far more rustic.” He lifted a hand, running it over the smooth, white wall. “My grandfather grew up here. His parents didn’t have much money and the house was basic. But beautiful. Big open rooms coming off a central hallway, terracotta roof, lime-washed walls, and the smell of salt and sand and fish everywhere. The walls were the strangest colour – like sand, I suppose – yellow brown, but I can’t see that colour without feeling a yearning for this place.”
Her smile was instinctive. “It sounds a lot like La Villetta.”
“I’ve never been inside,” he murmured, his voice like melted chocolate. “But certamente, the exteriors would indicate they were constructed around the same time.”
“The first time I saw La Villetta, I felt like I’d stepped into a postcard of Italy. It was everything I’d imagined.”
“You hadn’t been here before?”
“To Ondechiara? Never.”
“To Italy, though?”
“To Rome and Venice.”
His lips showed a hint of derision. “The tourist hotspots.”
“Guilty as charged,” she responded in kind, earning a grin from him that seared something in the pit of her stomach. “I was blown away by the beauty of this place. The village is lovely, of course, and the people friendly, but it’s the countryside I’m besotted with. Rolling hills in a dozen different shades of green, roads that carve their way across the hills’ undulations, flowers that seem to burst with life, fruit that fills the air with the most divine fragrance.” She shook her head a little. “And there, in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of a little tributary, is La Villetta di Pietra, all stone-washed walls and tiled floors, a garden with geraniums and lavender, and goats just across the field.” She wasn’t aware of the way his eyes dropped to her smile, studying her in a way that would have made her heart flip and flop if she’d noticed it.
“It’s like something out of a fairy tale. I feel so safe here.”
“Safe?” He prompted and inwardly, she admonished herself for employing such a telling word.
“You know, calm. It’s nice.” The response was awkward. She lifted her face to his and finally saw the way he was looking at her, so her breath snagged in her throat and she felt an odd rush of feeling. Of many feelings, all tangled together so she couldn’t understand how she was feeling, nor why. There was guilt, certainly, because her body was warm all over, her pulse throbbing, her heart racing, her fingertips aching with a need to reach out and touch this man. Why should she feel guilty, though? Because of Michael? The very idea sparked defiance in her chest. He’d already taken enough from her. He’d hurt her enough. He didn’t get to have any place in this – he was a completely separate part of her life.
That was why she was here, in Italy. Because here she could start fresh. No one knew what she’d been through. His eyes dropped to her lips and her heart lurched because she wanted, more than anything, to feel his lips on hers. A tiny sound escaped her lips – something between a groan and a plea – but it was enough to startle her. She took a small step back, smiled tightly and returned her attention to the view.
“And you like calm?”
His own voice was gravelled and it sparked a tsunami of need in her belly. She tamped down on it with effort.
“Who doesn’t?”
He was quiet and despite her best intentions, she found her eyes lifting to his.
“Why do you come here?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes. “The same reasons as you, I suspect.”
Maddie doubted that, but she didn’t say as much. To deny his assertion was to invite questions she wasn’t willing to answer. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about Michael. She couldn’t, and it was so hard to explain why. She hated that she felt a degree of shame for what had happened to her, because she understood it was completely out of her control, but it was hard to admit to what had happened – no, it was hard to admit why she’d stayed after the first time he’d hit her. She’d truly believed though that he’d made a mistake. It had seemed so out of character at the time, except it wasn’t, obviously.
She’d left London, telling her parents she had a deadline and needed to write away from distraction, telling her friends only that she and Michael had broken up without fleshing out any further details. And she told no one where she was going. She didn’t dare risk it. Michael was charming and clever and could undoubtedly persuade someone to open up to him about her location.
It had been instinctive to keep her secrets close to her chest but now, in the presence of a man she’d known for less than an hour, she felt a compelling desire to speak truthfully. Perhaps it was the anonymity that came of spending time with someone you didn’t know, and likely wouldn’t see again?
Or perhaps it was more complicated than that, she admitted grudgingly, as she flicked her gaze to his face once more. He was a stranger to her and yet she felt an instinctive tug towards him, a trust she wanted to be guided by even when she knew better tha
n to rely on her instincts. Instincts that had, after all, guided her to Michael.
“I don’t even know your name,” she said with a small shake of her head, the intensity of this overwhelming.
“It’s Nico,” he provided, his eyes scanning her features, as if looking for something – she couldn’t say what.
“Nico.” She repeated it, smiling, because it was perfect for him. “Is it short for anything?”
“Niccolo,” he nodded. “Conqueror of the people,” his voice assumed a deeper tone and he posed his features into a mask of strength so she laughed.
“Perfect.”
“Si?”
The question surprised her, because it forced her to admit that yes, she’d been speaking honestly. There was something about him that spoke of victory and conquering, of being conquered.
How she wished she had a tighter grip on her body’s responses! But she didn’t – a force was at work that was so much bigger than her. Desire was flaring in the pit of her stomach and even when she could think of a dozen reasons to ignore it, she knew she absolutely didn’t want to.
“Yeah.” She angled her body to face his, her pulse racing, her tempo firing. Was she really going to do this? Do what? Her brain screamed. He might not be interested in her. She might be misreading everything. Before Michael, it had been a really long time before she’d dated anyone. She wasn’t good at this stuff.
And he was really gorgeous. Undoubtedly he could have his pick of anyone. Lightning flashed just beyond the window and she startled. It wasn’t much. Just an involuntary shiver – barely enough to register. But his hand shot out, as if to steady her, his strong fingers curving around her arm. The lightest touch, so gentle and reassuring, but it shot little arrows of awareness through her bloodstream and made her cheeks burn with heat.
“You’re okay?” He murmured. Had he moved closer? Or had she? They stood toe to toe, so she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes now. She could feel his chest moving with each breath he drew.
She nodded, sucking in a gulp of air that was peppered with his intoxicatingly masculine fragrance.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re jumpy.”
She was. She had been since Michael. Her lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
“You don’t need to be.” A divot formed between his brows. “You’re safe here.”
Had he intentionally chosen the word she’d let slip earlier? She bit down on her lower lip, chewing it distractedly. “Am I?”
A growling noise of agreement. She lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest, surprising them both. “I don’t know if I want to feel safe right now.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, his face unreadable. “No?”
Her blood was rushing so fast she could hear it in her ears. She shook her head slowly, her eyes holding his in a courageous display of need. “Nope.”
“Maddie,” her name on his lips was a sensual incantation, but he stayed where he was. “I didn’t invite you here for this.”
Insecurities cut through her desire. She dropped her hand and spun away from him. “Oh, God. I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She shook her head, unable to look at him, staring across the room. “You’ve been really kind and I shouldn’t…”
His fingers curved around her wrist, pulling at her gently. “The same thing that came over you has come over me too,” he promised and her heart skipped a beat. “But I invited you to shelter here with no agenda. I need to know you believe that, that you won’t think I’m taking advantage of the situation.”
Pleasure flooded her heart. So considerate. So kind. But Michael had seemed like that at the start, too. He’d seemed so perfect. She bit down on her lip, swallowing the bitterness that cloyed at her throat.
Nico wasn’t Michael, and nor was she the same woman she’d been then. And she wasn’t looking for a relationship – she’d learned her lesson there. God knew if she’d ever feel secure enough to want to pursue anything long term. But in this moment, with this man, she wanted enough to cloud her doubts and questions. The future felt a long way away, tomorrow in another universe.
“And if I want to take advantage of the situation?” She murmured, lifting up onto the tips of her toes so their lips were just an inch apart.
“Dio aiutami,” he groaned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means God help me,” he muttered, but the last words were smothered by his lips as he crushed them to hers. It was a kiss of complete and total possession. Her knees felt weak and his arm clamped behind her back as though he knew without his support she might slide right to the ground.
Stars exploded through her mind, celestial dust blowing through all her dark spaces, filling her with light and heat and warmth. His other hand cradled her head, his fingers pushing through her damp hair so she moaned, opening her mouth wider. Their tongues duelled but it wasn’t a fight; no, it was a capitulation in every sense of the world. Only she didn’t feel as though she was surrendering; she felt victorious, as though she was reclaiming an important part of herself. As though this simple act of passion could stitch something of Madeleine Gray back into place, just as she’d been before Michael.
Her hands, pressed to his chest, sought his shirt, pushing it so her fingertips could connect with the naked expanse of his muscular abdomen. He was so warm. He said something in his native tongue, the word firing through her body, landing in the pit of her abdomen. Need grew. The storm raged wild outside their window but neither heard it – their own storm was so much more intense, so much more demanding. He lifted her easily, holding her body pressed to his own as he carried her through the house, shouldering a door to a darkened room.
“Presumptuous?” He asked with a sexy grin as he flicked a light switch on. She looked around for just long enough to ascertain that they were in a bedroom.
“Nope.” Her hands found his shirt again and now she pushed it up his body. “Perfect.”
“The bedroom or my body?” He teased.
“Both.” But she was kissing him again, her hands working the button of his pants, unfastening them so she could shove them down his legs without breaking their kiss. He stepped out of them with the same degree of urgency and she laughed – for no reason except that she was deliriously happy.
He wore only his boxers. And at that point, she slowed, uncertainty rocking her. Doubts plagued her. It had been a long time since she’d done this. And he was so different. So different to anyone she’d ever known.
“You are so beautiful,” he muttered darkly and the words brought her right back to the present, dragging her into the room, filling her with sensual awareness. There was no room for doubt. This was right. It was perfect, just like she’d said.
She lifted her hands into the air, her eyes holding an unspoken invitation. Everything about him was remarkable. She saw the way his throat shifted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, and then he was lifting the jumper he’d given her, pulling it softly over her head and dropping it to the floor.
She should have felt more self-conscious but she didn’t. Even when his eyes dropped, so he was staring at her, taking in every detail, and her nipples pulled taut and began to feel tingly.
“So beautiful.” The words were deep, but his smile was sexy and sweet all at once. He shook his head, almost as though he couldn’t believe it, and she wanted to tell him such extravagant praise wasn’t necessary – she didn’t need it and it was hard to believe it was true. She hated that too though – Michael had made it so easy to discredit any compliment anyone paid her. He’s just saying it because he wants to get into your pants, Michael would have pointed out – quite rightly.
Just like he had when her editor had praised her latest book. It’s a true work of art, Madeleine. Michael had naturally laughed. Well, they’ve already bought it, right? A bit late to tell you it’s meaningless crap given your copy editing deadline.
“No words,” she said, lifting a f
inger and pressing it to his lips. “It’s easier.”
He pulled a face. “Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“As easy as this?” He grabbed her by the hips and lifted her, dropping her unceremoniously onto the bed so she laughed as she scrambled onto her elbows.
“As easy as what?”
“This.” He wrapped his mouth around one of her nipples, his tongue circling the sensitive flesh, teasing it, rolling it, pulling it so she whimpered and arched her back, desire driving her utterly wild. Heat pooled between her legs.
“God,” she cried and felt him smile against her breast. His finger and thumb pressed to her other nipple, clamping down on it with just enough pressure to make stars shoot against her eyelids. “This is…God.”
“I thought we weren’t talking?” He mocked, bringing the full weight of his body down over her, his arousal between her legs a stark reminder of what was about to happen. A kaleidoscope of butterflies rampaged her belly.
“I meant…compliments…” she groaned as he rolled his hips, pressing his arousal to her sex so despite the barrier of his boxers and the shorts he’d given her, she was incandescent with pleasure.
“I can’t tell you you’re beautiful?”
“You don’t need to tell me,” she corrected, pushing at his boxers, needing more, needing to feel him, needing to be possessed by him. “Please,” she whimpered into the room.
He pulled up, shifting his mouth to her other nipple but this time, instead of closing his mouth over it, he simply flicked it with his tongue. It was already so sensitive from the way his finger and thumb had been toying with it seconds ago, so the sheer hint of contact from his mouth sent her senses into overdrive. His hands roamed her body, running down her sides with a lightness of touch that was infuriating because it was simply not enough. She needed everything he could give her and she needed it immediately.
At her waist, his hands found the elastic of her shorts and pushed them down, easing them from her body. She lifted her bottom off the mattress to make it easier.
Regret Me Not Page 19
