by Lucy Ellis
‘Well, let’s get this over with,’ she said.
Gianluca simply stared.
In receipt of his loaded silence, Ava lifted a hand uneasily to her hair, neatly pulled back into what she’d thought was a fetching ponytail.
‘What are you staring at?’
‘Why are you dressed as a man?’
Convinced she hadn’t heard him right, Ava repeated, ‘Dressed as—?’
A man?
He was frowning at her. She’d heard him right. Her skin began to feel tight all over and then to prickle.
He thought she looked like a man?
Gianluca Benedetti’s expression was a study in masculine perplexity even as Ava wished the ground would swallow her up.
Not looked like a man, she reminded herself. Dressed as a man. It’s not the same thing.
‘It cannot be that you are now a lesbian?’
In any other situation Ava would have reminded herself that she celebrated human sexuality in all its richness and diversity. Right now, under the scrutiny of the most aggressively heterosexual man she had ever known—moreover a man who had kissed her last night and this morning with such a devastating effect on her senses she was still under its influence—she felt as if he’d slapped her.
With a handful of words he’d scraped off the layers of confidence she’d painted on over the years and exposed the sensitive young girl who’d never known her place in the world until she’d toughened up and gone out and made a place for herself. This man had been born gorgeous, entitled and rich. A man who never doubted his place in the world.
‘Yes,’ she said, tilting up her chin, ‘that’s exactly what I am. A card-carrying, definitely-no-men-on-board lesbian. Can we go now? The sooner we start out the quicker this will be over.’
He opened her door.
‘I can do that myself, you know,’ she snapped, and slid inside.
He shut the door with a click.
‘I can do that too,’ she muttered, stuffing her bag down at her feet and adjusting the seatbelt.
He was beside her but made no move to start the car.
‘I thought we were in a hurry,’ she said stiffly. She hated that she now felt self-conscious in her tailored black pants and high-necked white silk blouse. There was nothing wrong with her clothes. They were practical.
She eyed his bespoke jacket, the crisp pale green shirt that somehow clung to his broad chest and muscle-packed waist and abdomen as if it had been ironed on, the faithful fit of those dark jeans to his long, powerful legs. He looked as if he’d stepped off the catwalk at Milan, and she had a flash of the sort of woman who would stride off that catwalk with him. Elegant, racehorse-thin, not afraid of colour.
Ava plucked at her sleeve. At least her silk blouse wouldn’t crease, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with the black trousers. They gave the illusion of a flat tummy and reduced the impact of her round derrière. She had twelve pairs hanging up in her closet at home. A woman who wasn’t reed-thin needed to downplay her lumps and bumps.
He had the body of a Roman athlete, fresh from killing something in the arena. Whatever he wore was going to look good.
Not that she was paying particular attention to how good he looked. No, she was just settling accounts in her head. There were all sorts of reasons she preferred black and white to... Why weren’t they going anywhere?
‘Why aren’t we going anywhere?’ she demanded, refusing to look at him.
‘I have offended you,’ he said unexpectedly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she muttered.
‘I am not accustomed to women wearing trousers.’ He spoke carefully, as if choosing his words. ‘I shouldn’t have implied you lack femininity because of your wardrobe choices.’
Ava felt her stomach hollow out.
‘You presuppose I care what you think.’
But she did care. She suddenly wished she’d put on a skirt. But she didn’t own a skirt.
She turned her head and immediately wished she hadn’t, because he was so close. Too close. She could see where he’d shaved this morning, see the indent of his upper lip, and had a sudden, shocking longing to press her mouth to it.
‘I know you were trying to insult me, but it’s water off a duck’s back,’ she informed him, wrenching her attention off his ridiculously sensuous lips. ‘What I am about to say will come as a shock to you, as I suspect no woman has ever told you the truth.’
‘You could be right.’
‘But I’m not afraid of the truth. I like to face things head-on.’
‘Go on,’ he encouraged, almost gently.
A little thrown, Ava gathered herself together. He wasn’t being nice to her. He was just lying low to get her to attack him and then he’d swing in with something insulting that made her feel...made her feel...
‘The truth is you’re just a handsome face with a lot of money and a habit of control, so women let you get away with murder. I haven’t and you don’t like that.’
‘Is that so?’ He was smiling at her as if he saw right through her.
Ava looked away, folding her arms. ‘That’s so,’ she said, and wondered why she didn’t sound sure.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GIANLUCA SLOTTED THE Jota in at the circular entrance and leapt out with an energy and purpose that mocked her indecision.
Ava trembled, frustrated by her own complicated desires as she climbed out of the car.
‘Why have you brought me back here?’
‘It is my home.’
‘I understand that,’ she said with exaggerated patience, but he was already taking the steps, leaving her standing by the car.
He wasn’t giving her any time to think. Ava said something rude under her breath and took off after him.
In the vast entrance hall she was vaguely conscious of the black and white parquet underfoot, the grand shallow staircase ahead. But only because Gianluca was on his way up it.
‘Benedetti!’
He didn’t respond.
‘I demand you answer me!’ she shouted, and her voice echoed around them. She jumped, startled.
He lifted his hands in a gesture of male impatience.
‘Must we have theatrics every time you fail to notice the obvious?’
Ava was on the verge of informing him that she’d never indulged in theatrics in her life. She was a calm, measured woman and she never shouted... She was only shouting now because he was—which was when she realised he was on the move again. She hurried upstairs after him. Why were they going upstairs? His bedroom was upstairs. Lots of bedrooms were upstairs.
‘What is obvious?’ she demanded, her voice only quavering slightly. ‘This is not the airport.’
‘No, it is my home.’
Ava narrowed her eyes on him. ‘At the risk of pointing out more of the obvious, your home is not an airport! How do we get from here to Ragusa?’
He stopped so suddenly she ran right into the back of him. Hot, hard and sturdy.
His hand shot out to steady her and excitement flowered inside her as he smiled wolfishly down at her. She wrenched her arm away, glaring at him.
She held her breath.
‘Helicopter,’ he said simply.
* * *
Helicopter? Once they reached the roof Ava was unable to take her eyes off the rotating blades.
She couldn’t go up in that.
Moreover, what sort of man had a helipad on the roof of his house?
If you could call this palace a home.
She’d only glimpsed it this morning, in her run for safety, but in the broad light of day, following Gianluca’s confident stride up the stairs, along a brightly lit hall, passing an enfilade of windows, she realised it was indeed close to being a palace—in the centre of Rome. No wonder he behaved as if he’d invented the word entitlement.
And here on the roof, with the wind stirring up from the rotorblades roping her hair around her neck, Ava was struck by the view of the city.
Somehow seein
g the palazzo in broad daylight made it all too real.
But it was the rotating blades that held her in thrall.
‘I’m not climbing into that!’ she shouted as Gianluca gestured for her to follow.
‘Too late, dolcezza.’ His resonant voice was easily heard above the whup-whup of the rotors. ‘We have an appointment in Ragusa and this is the quickest way to get us there.’
Ragusa. Yes. Of course that was what she wanted too. But he didn’t have to make it sound as if he wanted this to be over.
The noise of the rotors put paid to her thoughts as he secured her harness belt. She told herself for the nth time that thousands of people went up in helicopters every year and nobody fell out, and then she had the unexpected thought that he might not be coming with her.
He leaned in. ‘Ava, you don’t have a problem with heights, do you?’
She shook her head vigorously, finding she didn’t have a voice for the words Don’t leave me, which were sticking in her throat.
‘Motion sickness?’
‘No,’ she choked.
He gave her a long, measured look and then surprisingly lifted one of his hands and stroked her hair.
‘Bene.’
She couldn’t bear him to be kind to her or she wouldn’t be able to do this. Didn’t he understand all of this was difficult for her? Being with him after seven years, knowing at the other end of this flight was his family and social scrutiny—something she’d never been able to bear?
Didn’t he understand her anger was the only thing holding her together? A welling of hot, harsh fury spouted through her as if in answer to her need, and as he moved to bring the helmet down over her head she thrust her hands up to take it from him.
‘I’m not incapable, you know. I do ride a bike.’
The pilot beside her let rip a laugh and said something to Gianluca in Italian, too fast and distorted by the noise for her to follow. She imagined it wasn’t complimentary.
What she did understand was that he was giving up the controls to Gianluca.
‘You’re flying this thing?’
‘A man should try everything once, cara.’
She tried not to enjoy the moment. She really did. But the moment they were in the air her heart almost lifted out of her chest.
Down below lay Rome in all its glory, and beside her, his hands steady on the controls, the scion of one of Rome’s most storied families. Beside her, ordinary Ava Lord, to whom nothing remarkable ever happened that she hadn’t planned, organised and executed herself.
‘It’s good, yes?’
He was looking at her with those mesmerising eyes, his wide, sensual mouth warm with amusement.
She didn’t know what to say without sounding stupid, over-awed, thrilled beyond measure. She felt like a little girl at the top of a rollercoaster.
He gave a husky, appreciative laugh at her baffled expression.
She had to say something. ‘When did you learn to fly one of these?’
‘In the Marina Militare.’
She hadn’t seen that coming. ‘You were in the Navy?’
‘Si.’
‘But—’ she began, and then stopped. What? He can’t have a life beyond what you allow him, Ava?
Had she really spent the last seven years with Gianluca Benedetti sitting in a little box marked ‘mine’?
‘Before or after you were everyone’s favourite soccer star?’
‘I played football for five minutes professionally, cara. It’s hardly been my life.’
‘I imagined—’ She broke off again, because telling him what had been going on in her head for seven years would be far too personal and revealing.
‘Ah, si, that imagination of yours.’
He reached out unexpectedly and took her hand. His thumb rubbed over her palm, sending sparks shooting up her arm.
‘What have you been imagining, Ava?’
‘Nothing,’ she said immediately. Everything. All those women! ‘I don’t have an imagination.’ What did he know about her imagination anyway? That had been a long time ago, when she was a little girl who didn’t know life was never going to live up to what was in her head.
So she’d faced reality—had to, really—until one day people had begun labelling her as humourless and dull. Always the new girl at school who never got the joke, never made friends, who wore the same unfashionable clothes day after day. It hadn’t mattered. She’d been too busy with part-time work, chasing up Josh over his homework and keeping a roof over their heads to worry much about her popularity as a teenager.
She snatched her hand back and he let her go.
‘How long were you in the Navy?’ she demanded.
‘Two years. I flew an Apache on three tours of Afghanistan.’
‘You flew in a war zone?’
‘Si, in a rescue squadron.’
Ava forgot all about her own discomfort. How had she not known this about him?
‘Why did you—?’
‘Join up? I like to fly,’ he said, with a shrug of those wide shoulders. ‘I like to challenge myself. The Navy has the best equipment in the world. I wanted to try it out.’
‘That’s the worst reason I’ve ever heard for joining the armed forces.’
‘There are worse reasons.’ He looked grim for a moment. ‘Besides, what would I know? I was just a dumb footballer.’
‘I doubt you were ever a dumb anything,’ she replied acerbically, ‘given what you’ve achieved. And you’re not yet thirty-one!’
‘I didn’t say I wasn’t a lucky dumb footballer.’
Ava tried not to stare at him. ‘So you joined your father’s business after all?’
He shot another look at her. ‘You do remember a great deal, for a woman who wants to forget, cara.’
She could feel herself colouring—and she never blushed.
‘I didn’t join anything,’ he continued blandly. ‘By the time I got out of the Navy the Benedetti private banking firm was defunct.’
‘But you had connections?’ she persevered.
He laughed, but it sounded flat, and Ava felt obscurely guilty for bringing up the subject.
‘I came out with nothing but a Maserati, which I sold. I invested in a friend’s boat-building business...moved on up from there. Venture capital is high-risk, and most people don’t have the stomach for it.’
She knew that. She was one of those people.
‘I take it you do?’ Ava’s mouth was dry as paper.
‘What do you think?’
Her eyes were glued to his hard-jawed profile. Suddenly so much made sense about him—the big, physically tough body that didn’t fit a man who wheeled and dealed on the money markets, the flintiness she sensed at his core.
He had been to war, and it seemed things hadn’t quite worked out the way she had imagined. He wasn’t just some spoiled boy who had been handed his life on a platter.
Ava didn’t quite know what to say. She settled on a very weak, ‘You have been busy.’
He chuckled.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Your expression. It’s getting hard, isn’t it, cara?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Finding reasons to dislike me.’
‘I haven’t said I dislike you.’ It was supposed to come out as a statement, but it sounded far too uncertain for her liking.
‘We should look at doing something together.’
Still sorting through her feelings, she found a highly intimate recollection of the things they had done together flash unexpectedly to mind. Ava felt her face heating.
‘Do something?’ she repeated airlessly.
He gave her a smile, as if he knew where her thoughts had gone.
‘Si. You’re clearly very talented.’
‘I am?’ Oh, good grief, he’s not talking about sex, Ava!
‘The Lord Trust Company—a full-service brokerage firm, founded four years ago.’ He grinned and her stomach flip-flopped. ‘You’ve got some loyal clients.’
‘I’m always looking for new companies to add to my portfolio. If you want to expand.’
She had almost forgotten this was a man who prowled the stock markets of the world like a ravening beast.
For the first time in many years she couldn’t have given a damn about her business. Her gaze dropped to his hands, so capable on the controls, and she flashed to an image of those hands so dark against her milk-pale flesh. Of herself arching into them, so utterly uninhibited she couldn’t quite believe she had ever been that girl.
‘Ava?’
She blinked at him, bemused, and his answering slow smile had her heart doing a pah-pound, pah-pound rhythm.
‘When did you research me?’ she uttered, with a suddenly dry mouth.
The slow smile increased. ‘This morning over coffee.’
‘Funny—I did the same with you.’ Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth.
‘What did you discover?’
‘Enough. But somehow not everything...’
His smile faded.
‘Benedetti International is a far-flung enterprise, cara, even I have trouble keeping track of our interests.’
She highly doubted that—Gianluca Benedetti struck her as a man who knew what he was about at all times and she would be a fool to forget it. But it was a shock to realise she hadn’t been thinking about business at all. Her thoughts had been entirely taken up with his private life, which really was none of her affair. She gave him an anxious look, thrown by her own response to him.
The mountainous terrain below was giving way to the coast, and Ava risked craning her neck to see it rather than confront where her thoughts were leading her.
The cliffs were stupendous, falling away into the water. Towns clung to the sides. She had seen picture postcards of the Amalfi Coast, but hadn’t quite believed it was this pretty.
‘It’s beautiful, si?’ he said softly.
‘Yes, beautiful. I wish—’ She stopped and his eyes captured hers.
‘What do you wish, cara?’ he asked, like the devil after her soul.
