by Lucy Ellis
For a moment neither spoke, and then his half-lidded golden gaze flared out of the darkness at her.
‘Can you run in those shoes?’
‘S-sorry?’ That wasn’t what she had expected to hear.
‘Those men over there are paparazzo. If they recognise me your photograph will be in all kinds of places you don’t want it to be. Can you run in those shoes?’
He didn’t wait for her response. He pulled her in against him, one hand on the small of her back, and began walking her fast across the square, back the way they’d come.
Ava knew she should be protesting, or at least asking more questions, but she felt oddly buoyant—furious with him one moment, swept up in excitement the next. And, really, what was she supposed to do when he was just whisking her along with him?
She thought fleetingly of the nearby Trevi Fountain and how in another life she should be there with Bernard right now, pretending to be in an old Hollywood film as he slid the ring she had chosen onto her finger. The thought of how wrong that scenario was on every level floored her. What had she been thinking?
Ava glanced up at this man’s profile, at the hard lines speaking of an aggressive masculinity that took what it wanted.
Something fierce ripped through her in response and she quickened her pace.
He turned that hard gaze on her. ‘You came.’
Ava pushed aside the shiver of premonition, the suspicion he was not just talking about this evening, because all of a sudden he had her hand and they were running.
Too soon they turned a corner and a shiny black limousine glided across the road towards them.
‘This is my ride,’ he said. ‘I prefer to walk on a fine night, but it looks as if we’re not in luck, signorina.’
He let go of her hand to get the door.
She hung back, hugging herself in the cool spring evening.
‘Let me take you where you want to go,’ he offered, with an expressive turn of a well-shaped hand, holding the door for her.
And Ava felt herself tumbling through time until she was once more that unhappy girl in a frothy pale blue dress, standing on the steps of a grand palazzo, looking in vain for a taxi cab. And he was the beautiful boy with the super-charged ego and five hundred pounds of Ducati growling between his legs, offering her a ride with an attitude of complete confidence.
The confidence had clearly solidified with the years as the dark drawl barely held an enquiry at the end of it. She was a woman. Of course she would dive into his car—no questions asked. Given she had chased after him across the square, joined in when he kissed her, and would still be holding on to his hand like a teenage girl with her first crush if he hadn’t released her...he probably had a point.
She had been in limousines before, ferried to and from corporate events that required her to walk the walk. But as she slid across the dark leather seating she recognised this was pure luxury—beyond the expense account of even the multi-million-dollar turnover of her business.
In the street he had been magnetic. Up close in the intimate, quiet confines of the car Ava felt a little overwhelmed by his physicality.
She wished once more she had her coat, aware that her body was on display in this dress, the hem pulling up over her knees. She tugged at it without making much difference.
‘I apologise for all the subterfuge.’ He sounded so Italian, so formal—as if he hadn’t kissed her and swept her into his car.
He had pushed back his coat, revealing the hard contours of a supremely fit body. Everything about his clothes screamed money and good taste, and they fitted him with a fidelity that made it impossible for her not to look at him.
Those golden eyes flickered lightly for just a moment over her body, as intimate as any touch, and Ava felt her nipples tightening as heat curled responsively in her pelvis.
It was a shock, wanting him like this. She hadn’t expected the pull between them to be this strong. But perhaps it explained one or two things...
‘If you give me the name of your hotel I will take you there.’
All of her fears of being exposed, of being disappointed, of losing the specialness of her memory of this man coalesced into one defining moment: he was going to get rid of her.
‘Or,’ he said in a quiet undertone, filling the tense silence, ‘we could go on to a quiet place I know first, have a drink, and you can tell me what brings you to Rome.’
He’d said first. What came second? Ava tried to ignore the tingling behind her knees, the way it seemed to creep into her thighs. Was he propositioning her? Did he want them to go to her hotel, take their clothes off and...?
Up until this moment she’d agreed with Bernard when he’d told her she just wasn’t a passionate woman, and yet here she was, starting up some kind of a sexual fantasy activated by nothing more than a single word: first.
‘I don’t—’ she began. I don’t know, she finished silently. I don’t know how to do this.
‘A drink in a public place. Two civilised people.’
Had he put a faint emphasis on civilised?
‘Isn’t that why you are here...?’
Ava wondered with a sort of horrified fascination if he’d just read her mind...
‘To have a drink with me?’
To her continued amazement she felt desire like honey slide through her body. This didn’t happen to her. It never happened to her. Sexual desire was something she had to work on. It never ambushed her like this.
It was a timely reminder that he was a man used to being pursued by women, and she was a woman who had never inspired pursuit in a man.
Most memorably in this man.
The heat in her blood suddenly knifed her.
‘I won’t be sleeping with you tonight.’
He gave her an amused look. ‘I wasn’t aware I had asked.’
Real embarrassment crawled through her. She was the one thinking about sex.
‘I wanted to be clear,’ she said uncomfortably.
‘What if we just have that drink?’ He’d leaned forward, clearly to instruct his driver, when something occurred to him. ‘Are you hungry?’
Ava shook her head. She didn’t think she could stomach a bite.
As he gave instructions to his driver Ava wondered what exactly she thought she was going to accomplish here tonight. She eyed him uncertainly. This entire situation felt illicit and fraught with danger. This was not what a sensible woman did, and beneath the glamorous dress and styled hair she was still at heart a conventional girl in her relationships with men, standoffish at the best of times. In the hare and the tortoise race she was the tortoise, steadily persevering with a man—specifically with Bernard—until inevitably it all fell apart.
She imagined Gianluca Benedetti’s private life moved at supersonic speed, and if anyone ended anything it would be him.
‘I apologise,’ he said, sitting back, that deep voice made far too seductive by the upper-class Italian accent. ‘It wasn’t my intention to ignore you tonight.’
No?
‘My mind was somewhat preoccupied.’
Snap! ‘Yes,’ she said, also sitting back, unable to keep some of the derision out of her voice. ‘I saw what was occupying it.’
A frown touched his brow.
‘The blonde woman who forgot her clothes?’ she reminded him.
His expression eased. ‘Ah, Donatella, si.’
She noticed he made no effort to deny she’d been the source of his preoccupation. Ava tried not to grit her teeth. They weren’t on a date. He owed her nothing. She still wanted to hit him.
She didn’t really know what she’d been expecting. She suspected it went along the lines of I remember you. I’ve never forgotten you. I never got your message...
‘There’s something I should tell you.’
‘Si?’
‘This isn’t the first time we’ve met.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I don’t seem...familiar to you?’
He shrugged.
‘I meet many people. Forgive me if I don’t recall your face.’
His tone was reasonable, his words polite—too polite. But the sentiments...they stung...
I don’t recall your face. I don’t remember lying in the grass on Palatine Hill, cradling you in my arms. I don’t remember a single one of the personal confessions you made because, really, it meant nothing to me.
‘You really don’t remember?’ she persevered.
A look of irritation flashed across those hooded eyes.
‘No doubt you will tell me.’
Ava knew it was irrational. She knew she had no right to expect something so fleeting, so long ago, to have stayed with him as it had with her. She hadn’t realised until that moment how deep she’d been into this fantasy. She really had to stop it now—unless she was keen on full shake-down humiliation.
She stared blindly at the dark window, wishing she hadn’t locked herself in such a confined space with him.
‘I’m waiting,’ he said coldly.
Her gaze was dragged back to his. Why was he looking at her like that? Was she about to break some sort of rule against mentioning illicit encounters in Roman parks? It wasn’t as if she’d been stalking him for seven years. She hadn’t made a pest of herself. Good grief, she’d done everything possible to avoid thinking about him!
‘It’s not important,’ she said, sounding stiff when what she felt was awkward. ‘Let’s just forget it.’
He spread those big hands expressively, as if he was actually encouraging her to put him straight. But she wasn’t fooled. She had negotiated with sharks before in her professional life.
‘Have I read this wrong? You stalk me, pursue me across a public square, and now you hit me with this little confession. What’s the angle here, signorina?’
The angle? For a moment she struggled to make the connection. She understood the tone. But why was he speaking to her like this?
Ava could feel perspiration prickling along the nape of her neck. She hadn’t expected him to be this...intimidating. Where was the sensitive, caring boy she’d found under the swaggering, oh-so-sure-of-himself exterior she’d initially been drawn to? She might have only spent a night with him, but they had talked—really talked. She’d said things to him she’d never told another living soul, and at the time it had felt mutual. How had he evolved into this hardened, suspicious man, ready to believe the worst of her at the drop of a hat?
What had happened to him?
‘I did not stalk you,’ she said woodenly, determined not to show how truly dismayed she was. ‘I did not pursue you. Those are not the facts.’
‘Come on.’ He sat back, looking her over. ‘You come to Rico’s, dressed like this—’
He gestured at her beautiful frock as if her clothing was an incitement, instead of a fraught choice she had made that afternoon in front of a mirror in a boutique. If the lady assisting hadn’t been so genuinely helpful she’d probably be sitting here in a trouser suit.
She was tempted to tell him that far from being a femme fatale she was so inept at rolling on stockings she’d ruined two pairs before she’d finished getting ready tonight, and those stockings weren’t cheap...
‘—on the strength of a flimsy invitation a woman with any common sense and self-esteem would ignore.’
Ava was so busy thinking about the four pieces of cobweb silk she’d left strewn on the bed and the wastage they entailed that she almost missed the impact of the rest of his statement.
The sentiment found its home.
She didn’t know where to look. She’d been spot-on back in the bar, when it had occurred to her that he hadn’t been serious at all...but she’d taken him very seriously—too seriously—and now it was too late to avoid disaster. She’d mistaken the kiss as proof of something. Oh, what was wrong with her? She always got social interaction between men and women wrong. Every time.
This was why she’d stuck with Bernard for so long, terrified of what would happen to her out there on the singles scene. She’d been out there once before...when she came back from Rome seven years ago, looking for something approaching what she’d found that night with this man. What she’d got was a guy called Patrick whose sports car and good looks had been her fledgling attempt to put herself out there, to run in the fast lane, and his dating her had been an attempt to slow himself down. She’d discovered a few months into the relationship that he hadn’t slowed down at all.
Right now she just wanted out of this car. She needed to run and hide and make sense of this—and then kick herself for being such a fool.
‘I didn’t issue that invitation. If it was flimsy that’s down to you,’ she mumbled. ‘And you don’t need to question my common sense. Right now I’m doing enough of that for the both of us!’
She saw his eyes narrow on her, as if something about this wasn’t playing out as he’d expected it to.
When he did speak again it was in a low, silky tone. ‘So, where have I gone wrong, signorina?’
Just about everywhere! She should be able to laugh about this, but the joke fell flat because it was on her. Right now she knew she was in serious danger of losing it in a major way if she didn’t stick to the facts. Cold, hard logic had always been her anchor, her guiding light, and she grasped it now.
‘Flimsy invitation or not—’ she kept her voice steady ‘—you invited me!’ When he didn’t react she repeated stubbornly, ‘You invited me.’
He took out his phone and she watched his thumb move idly over the keypad. He looked so relaxed, as if this entire argument were nothing, and yet his words had been wielded with scalpel-like precision as he took her apart.
‘Did you set up the paparazzo?’ He didn’t even look up.
Ava snorted—she couldn’t help it—and his eyes lifted from his phone as if no woman should make such a sound in his vicinity.
Good. She didn’t want to be his kind of woman anyhow. ‘Do you know what you are? A bully, and a—a playboy, and none of this is fair.’
‘Is that so?’ His attention had returned to the phone.
‘Right now all I’m thinking about is the hours I spent getting ready for tonight,’ she admitted, wondering why she was even bothering to tell him this—he was much more interested in his phone. ‘And I don’t have a clue why I did it.’
‘To impress me,’ he said, as if it were obvious.
Ava’s jaw dropped. ‘Your ego is astounding!’ A blast of anger that demanded she call in a little justice fired up her temper. ‘Just you put down that phone and listen to me.’
He lifted his eyes slowly and Ava wished he hadn’t. She swallowed—hard—but she’d come a long way in life and she didn’t let anyone intimidate her any more.
‘I’m not one of those floozies climbing all over you at that bar. Let me give you some facts. Last month I was listed in the top fifty women in business in Australia. It may not mean much to you, Prince Benedetti, but it does mean I don’t bar-crawl, I don’t milk men for profit, and I certainly have no idea how you contact a paparazzo.’
‘And you are giving me this fascinating glimpse into your life...why?’
With that a great deal of the fight went out of her.
What was she doing? She had a single memory of something wonderful and it was falling apart in front of her eyes. She couldn’t even really blame him, because although this man had ripped her blinders off seven years ago the truth was she had sent herself off to live a life devoid of colour, of passion, of sex.
It was a startling realisation, and as if reality had decided to tear down all her supports, tension combined with one glass of white wine and three glasses of red on an empty stomach began to swirl and shift in her belly. Everything else was wiped out by the very real knowledge she was probably going to be sick.
‘Time to wind this up,’ he said, shooting the slee
ve on his left arm.
He wanted her to get out. This wasn’t his problem. He was just a man to whom everything came easily, and she was a woman for whom nothing had come without hard work. She gathered up her handbag.
‘Come,’ he said brusquely. ‘Give me the address of your hotel and I will see you home.’
Ava ignored him and grappled with the door. The flash of impatience she’d heard in his voice had her retaliating as she struggled out, ‘Why bother? You didn’t last time.’
It was an unfair thing to say, but she was past being fair, and it would have made for a great exit line—but she ruined it by toppling straight onto her hands and knees in the gutter.
Could it possibly get worse? Swearing under her breath, she clambered to her feet, hopping about as she whisked off her heels. She’d walk in her stockinged feet. She might as well—she’d just laddered her last pair anyway.
She was plodding down the street, not sure where she was going, when she heard him call out in that deep, resonant voice.
‘Evie!’
She didn’t even turn around, wondering who the hell Evie was. Right now she just wanted to put as many blocks as she could between them.
Oh, why was everything so hard for her? Other women went on dates, were romanced, kissed, cuddled and adored. Other women came to Rome and had adventures. She felt pretty sure all of those women didn’t end the night walking the streets in their stockinged feet.
Blearily she rummaged in her bag for the hotel’s card she’d picked up on her way out this morning. All she needed to do was find someone and present it, and get some directions. How hard could it be?
She gave an oomph as she almost toppled over a stone bench that had somehow leapt into her path, but an unyielding male hand closed around her elbow and fluidly turned her into his arms.
‘Stop it—let me go!’ she huffed, pushing against his chest, aware mostly of the heat of his body, the delicious scent of him, and her own giddy reaction as she tried to free herself. She turned this way and that until she realised he wasn’t holding on to her, just trying to steady her. Why did she need steadying?
She heard him say, ‘Dio, you’re drunk.’
