by Lucy Ellis
‘Let me go!’ she squeaked, unable to look up because they were so close. She didn’t trust him or herself. She’d been forced to address the base of his throat, where the skin was golden and dark hairs curled invitingly, and she fought the urge to touch him there too.
To her surprise he did as she asked and let her go. Ava grabbed at the sheet, hauling it into place and sitting down heavily on the bed, feeling very much at a disadvantage. She couldn’t fight her corner like this. Where was her dignity?
She pulled clumsily at the bedsheet toga, making sure everything was securely in place.
‘I’m not a member of your family,’ she reiterated. ‘You can’t force me to go anywhere.’
She glanced warily at him and discovered he was watching her broodingly. For a moment she thought he was actually considering that she might be right. Instead of feeling triumphant, Ava experienced a trickle of uneasiness as she realised after this morning she would probably never see him again.
‘Besides,’ she said, trying to ignore that feeling, ‘how will you explain kissing a member of your sainted family, Mr Spin Doctor?’
‘It was a friendly peck, blown up as something else by the nature of photography,’ he said with amazing cool, his golden eyes screened by dense black lashes. ‘We had both dined with friends and I was escorting you back to the palazzo.’
Her mouth fell open slightly. Damn, he was good. It must be practice. Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s.
‘You are, naturally, staying with me, and today we travel south and join the rest of the family for my mother’s birthday celebration at the weekend.’
Ava swallowed. Another Benedetti clan gathering. Another opportunity for her to feel like a spare wheel. She really, really didn’t want to go.
‘Is your fiancée going to be there?’
He actually looked discomfited. ‘There is no fiancée,’ he said, with the air of a man being made to suffer.
To Ava’s amazement colour scored those ridiculously high cheekbones.
‘There will be a lot of people at Ragusa next weekend. Those photographs will be discussed. Nobody who knows me is going to believe the story. We will be the object of some speculation.’
‘That bothers you, does it?’ she said stiffly, thinking of the blonde with almost no clothes on last night. He might as well have said, I don’t want my friends and family to meet you and think we’re a couple.
He pushed his fingers restlessly through his thick hair. ‘Dio, it is the custom in my family for the eldest son to marry and produce the next generation. It is the reason I never—never—bring a woman with me to Ragusa. This—’ he indicated her and the rumpled bed ‘—and me arriving with you in tow is going to cause trouble.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said stonily, staring past him, her heart pounding, because she’d thought she was long past being the girl who didn’t make the grade, ‘your mother hates me. She’ll probably put strychnine in my water and then all the speculation will stop.’
There was a loaded silence.
‘Besides, I’m not coming. If I don’t turn up there won’t be a problem, will there?’
Ava told herself the petulance in her voice was merely the end effect of a week in which she’d been on the wrong end of the stick with not one man but two. Two men who were clearly happy to put their own comfort before her own. As if her feelings weren’t worth even a little consideration. As if she didn’t have feelings at all.
Was that why Bernard had thought it fine to break up with her over the phone?
As for Italy’s Natural Wonder here—she’d seen him in action last night and was under no illusions as to the kind of women he dated or how he treated them. She should be glad she knew how he saw her—a mistake from the past, one he’d been lumbered with and was now doing the best he could to limit damage to his reputation, to his comfort. She knew all about that. Her father had given her early lessons in just how disposable she could be, always putting his needs first, constantly cancelling access visits, until eventually he didn’t bother to show up at all.
She needed to keep that in mind. That way she wouldn’t be doing anything silly—as she had last night, when she’d kissed him, or this morning, when she’d kissed him again... Really, she had to stop the kissing!
But none of it explained why this man putting himself first should actually hurt her, when Bernard’s actions had done nothing more than upset her travel plans. It was baffling.
He was nothing to her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GIANLUCA STOOD AT THE open window, watching as Ava climbed into a taxi. She was sneaking out again—after he’d given her specific instructions to get herself dressed and join him downstairs.
Very few people defied him, and despite the trouble she had caused he couldn’t help admiring her determination.
She’d pinched his coat, which was far too big for her, and with her hair standing up on end and without her shoes she looked like a woman fleeing a morning-after gone awry. It briefly crossed his mind that this was how it must have been all those years ago, when he’d been oblivious upstairs in his bed. His smile deserted him.
He remembered waking and reaching for something—someone—who was no longer there. When he’d realised she was gone, leaving nothing—no note, no contact, no name, just shoes—instead of the relief which had been his usual reaction at that age, when a girl from the night before vanished back into the ether from which she came, possessive instincts he hadn’t known he harboured had ramped up and he’d been out of that bed, pulling on his clothes, determined to track her down.
Then the phone call had come...
His father’s body had been discovered and taken to the hospital. He had driven there instead, and by the time he’d got around to looking there had been no trace of Cinderella...
Just the shoes she’d left behind.
Those shoes.
Red, with complicated straps.
Si. His expression grew taut and some of the volatility he worked hard to contain tightened his hands on the window frame. It was the shoes he had recognised yesterday on some subliminal level. Not the girl. She had been hidden under layers no self-respecting Roman woman would venture outside in. So completely without style, without manners, and with her femininity clearly of no interest to her. No man would have looked twice at her.
Yet he had.
Which made him suspect something else was at work here.
The cold, rational diagnostics he’d relied on to build one of the most successful trading firms in the world were clearly not standing up to the bone-deep traditions he’d been raised with.
Benedettis didn’t show emotion. They put duty above personal desire, gave service to the state. But the customs and currency of his mother’s volatile Sicilian family—peasants from the mountains, bandits and priests—meant that when you took a woman’s virginity it meant something. Deep down at some primal male level where it was probably best to keep it buried, it had created a bond. In former days he would probably have married her.
Gianluca cleared his throat. Fortunately they were not living in former days. Besides, he was Rome’s pre-eminent bachelor. He’d once made the throwaway comment that he’d marry when George Clooney cashed in his single days and it had appeared in print a few days later, out of context, cementing his desirability for a certain ambitious class of woman.
Although Ava seemed not to realise he was a catch. She seemed to find it imperative to run away from him whenever the opportunity afforded itself. He found a growl had risen in the back of his throat as he watched her taxi drive away.
There was no other woman who had left his bed so fast or so anonymously.
Run from him.
Even now something almost primitive drummed inside his skull. She would leave when he told her she could leave. It was a feudal notion, but he wasn’t going to step away from his very strong masculine instinct to hold what was his.
* * *
In the back of the taxi cab Ava stopped f
uming and began rummaging in her bag for her phone.
It was just a bit of harmless research, she told herself, as she tapped his name into a search engine. She wasn’t exactly being nosy—just protecting her interests.
She scanned his many entries, wondering where the football-playing career had gone. It seemed to have been swallowed up by venture capital projects, leveraged buyouts, takeovers, private equity deals. All of it involving the kind of financial acumen and strategic planning she hadn’t factored in to her admittedly somewhat dated picture of this man.
The family business, she told herself sternly. That was all. He was a Benedetti. Finance was in his blood. The family had always owned banks. Benedetti International, however, was a relatively new entity, and it already dominated the markets. Which meant he must be doing something right.
A little thrown by her discoveries, she pressed on images and the small screen flickered to life with pictures. Her thumb only trembling slightly, she clicked her way through Gianluca Benedetti at film premieres, parties, the FIFA World Cup, a polo match in Bahrain, as a guest at a royal wedding. In nearly every single photo a beautiful girl in a slinky dress was glued to his side.
He certainly didn’t seem to have a type. Tall, short, reed-slim, curvy... Her mouth tightened. True to form, female seemed to cover it for him. And in numbers.
True, he didn’t seem to be serious about any of them—not that it mattered. She would guess that when he finally got around to it, Gianluca Benedetti would do the whole romantic proposal/engagement thing properly—if only because he liked to be the best at everything.
The woman would get the full package. He wouldn’t need pointers. He’d probably fly one of those leggy heiresses to the Bahamas, whip out a diamond the size of a rock and serenade her with a string orchestra.
Whatever...
Ava snapped her phone shut. What a woman wouldn’t get from him was an assurance that he wouldn’t follow the next fast-moving skirt in the other direction...
Although dullness hadn’t stopped Bernard from doing exactly that!
Nice, safe Bernard. Her go-to boyfriend. When people asked How is your life going? they didn’t mean your business being listed on the stock market—well done. Your employees have reported high enjoyment stats from their job—good on you. You own a place with a harbourside view outright, on your own—fabulous! What people really meant when they talked about ‘your life’ were your relationships. Everyone wanted you to be in a couple of sorts. To have what they had. Otherwise you stood out too much, you attracted attention, you were different. Ava had had enough of being different growing up to last her a lifetime.
Socially, a partner was important, too. You couldn’t just turn up to functions on your own.
Meeting Bernard at twenty-nine had been a huge release from those demands. Instead of turning up with a different man on her arm every time—or, worse, alone—she’d had Bernard. People had begun to remember his name. They’d been invited to more intimate functions. People had referred to them as a couple, and gradually they’d become one.
It had suited them both—professionally and personally. If the initial spark between them had never been anything more than a fizzle, they still had a working friendship to fall back on.
But deep down she’d always known that if he left her—unlike when her father had walked out—she wouldn’t be heartbroken.
Perhaps the proposal in Rome had been her get-out-of-jail-free card. Perhaps deep down she had known it would push Bernard to make the decision they both knew had been on the cards. It wasn’t as if their intimate life had even existed for the last six months. Now she knew why. He’d been going elsewhere, to another woman for passion. But she’d hardly noticed—and what on earth did that say about her?
The same thing Bernard had said. She just wasn’t a passionate woman.
But she did want a little romance. In her longing for that she’d forgotten what her relationship with Bernard had been all about. Practicalities. Practicalities she had put in place.
So for five minutes she’d imagined herself into a relationship that didn’t exist. A proposal by the Trevi Fountain. A driving tour of Tuscany. Perhaps they’d find an old villa, come back to Italy every summer and restore it... She might even wear a button-front cotton dress and forget to put on her shoes, stomp grapes between her toes... All clichés she’d gathered from films and books about finding oneself in bella Italia.
With Bernard?
He had never liked her in a skirt—said a woman with her hips was better off in trousers. She’d been forever buttoning up her shirts for him when he’d said her cleavage made her look like a barmaid. Moreover, he wouldn’t have been able to restore anything—not with his dust allergy—and as for stomping grapes with his bare feet...well, she couldn’t actually remember a time when she had seen him without shoes and socks outside of bed. No, he did wear his socks to bed...
The thought depressed her so much Ava sat up a little straighter. Unexpectedly she thought of Gianluca Benedetti’s long, well-shaped feet, their smooth olive skin, the way her smaller feet had tangled with his in the white silk sheets.
No, no, no.
Grappling with the window, she wound it down and cool air hit her hot face.
She looked out into the busy morning traffic and told herself to do what her deadbeat dad, on the scant occasions she had spent with him as a small girl, had always told her to do when she asked why he didn’t live with them anymore and whether it was her fault: toughen up, not ask stupid questions and then she wouldn’t get a stupid answer.
Ava closed her eyes. No. No more stupid questions. The sooner she put mileage between herself and His Highness the better.
* * *
Safe in her hotel suite, Ava showered and, still slightly damp in her robe, began transferring her clothes into her suitcase, aware she had a scarce half hour before she was expected to be out of there. She was convinced she was doing the right thing. So why was her conscience niggling? Josh didn’t really want to see her. He didn’t need her. He’d made that plain enough seven years ago and followed it up with such limited contact she no longer phoned him even on his birthday, only sent cards.
Seven years ago in this very city she’d told him she thought he was making a mistake, marrying so young when he had his whole life before him. He in turn had told her the reason he’d fled Australia at the age of eighteen was to get out from under her thumb, and that he had no intention of taking her advice. Furthermore, she knew nothing about love, because the only thing she cared about was her bank balance. If she ever found a man who stuck around it would probably be for her money. She was going to end up rich, disappointed and alone.
Ava noisily zipped up her suitcase. There was a sharp rap on her door. Room Service with her late breakfast.
‘It’s open!’ she called out, her voice a little shaky as she pushed aside the painful memory.
‘You should be more careful, bella. This is not a safe city for a woman on her own.’
Gianluca strolled in before she could so much as move to slam the door in his face.
‘Good to see you’ve packed—but you need to put some clothes on.’
Ava squeaked her dismay.
‘How much luggage do you have? There’s not much room in the Jota.’
‘I am not going anywhere with you,’ she protested, even as she drank in the scent of him so close to her, absorbed the strength of those shoulders clad simply in an open-necked shirt and a sports jacket. How did he manage to look so stylish and at the same time supremely masculine? What was wrong with her that everything female in her leapt at the sight of him? She folded her arms across her traitorous breasts, well aware, given how sensitive they were to him, that everything would be on display.
‘Come now.’ He smiled down at her, pinched her chin. ‘No more games, Ava. We go now.’
She wrenched her chin free, shocked by the intimacy the gesture implied. It made her shriller than she needed to be. ‘This isn’t a
game, Benedetti. I have a car booked. I intend to see Tuscany.’
‘Monday.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I will fly you there myself. Next Monday. But first you must do the right thing, si? Join the family.’
‘Your family. Not mine.’ Something lurched in her chest, because she’d met the Benedettis and they had looked down their noses at her.
‘It depends,’ he said, brushing the tangle of damp hair out of her eyes as if he had every right to touch her.
Ava tried to avoid his hand but he hooked an unruly lock over her ear.
‘Your brother is in some financial difficulty with the vineyard.’
Ava stopped dodging his hand. Now he had her attention.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Perhaps his marriage is not in good shape because of this?’
Ava frowned, trying not to enjoy his fingers tangling in her hair, trying to focus on what he was saying about Josh.
She really ought to make him stop.
‘Your presence might be—what is it called?—the elixir they need.’
‘His marriage is in trouble?’
His hand dropped away from her hair and he picked up her suitcase.
Ava digested this startling news and told herself she wasn’t thinking I told him so. I warned him. I was right. Josh needed her.
She touched her hair where Gianluca’s fingers had played so intrusively.
Suddenly Tuscany didn’t seem at all important.
‘Why should I believe you?’
He merely hefted her suitcase off the bed.
‘Go and put some clothes on, cara. We leave in ten minutes.’
* * *
He was waiting outside, leaning against the same low-slung machine she’d seen him in the other day.
He looked as if he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ—six and a half feet of Italian cool.
Swinging her handbag over her shoulder, she told herself to get moving and to stop ogling him. He was a gorgeous man, but if he knew the power he had over her he was sure to use it against her.
