by Diana Fraser
“Would you like to know what I missed?”
She shook her head slightly and licked her lips, suddenly dry with anticipation.
“No thank you.”
He cupped his hand around her cheek.
She closed her eyes, trying to keep her thoughts straight. “Giovanni. Please. You take the bed, let me get on with some work.”
“Work can wait. Besides I need little sleep.”
She could tell he was thinking the same thoughts as she was, by the blaze of desire in his eyes. For someone who’d needed so little sleep, they’d spent a lot of time in the bedroom.
She couldn’t move. She desperately needed him to move away from her.
“So you don’t want me to work. How exactly do you propose we spend the next twenty hours or so?”
He dropped his hand and she released her breath, not realizing that she’d been holding it.
“I need to know you again.”
His voice sent chills down her spine. There was an uncertainty evident in the rougher tone that she’d never heard before.
Her pulse raced at the implications of his words, their ambiguity, their potential.
“Why?”
He shook his head. “No more questions.”
“It can’t all be on your terms. Tell me. What do you need to know about me, that you don’t already?”
His brow dipped into a brief frown, his dark eyes darkening even further as if a shadow had passed over them.
“Consider it an interview—a prolonged interview. There are things I wish to know and which I will discover. We’ll begin now but it won’t end tonight.”
“When then?”
“When I discover what I need to know.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It is my question I wish answered. Now get back into bed again.”
She shivered, confused and doubtful.
“Ask me whatever it is. Let’s get this over with.”
“There is no rush.” He moved to the phone and ordered some drinks. “We have all the time in the world.”
She sat down before her legs gave way beneath her.
“That time is gone, Giovanni, don’t you understand? The time for talking, for listening, for understanding—it’s gone.”
“You refused to do talk to me before, you gave us no time. Now, here is your chance.”
“A chance I don’t wish to take.”
“You have no choice.”
A discrete knock at the door was followed by the steward bringing in drinks and snacks. He laid them out on the coffee table and left without raising his eyes or talking. He was too well trained and well paid—too used to attending to his boss in a bedroom with sundry women—to make small talk, Rose supposed. Besides, the tension in the air was palpable.
“Drink?”
She shook her head. “One question then. Just one for tonight.”
He laughed, “You’ve misunderstood. There will be no questions. I can get my answers without questions.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I wouldn’t what? Touch you?” He pushed the cover back off her. “Yes, Rose, I would.”
“What can you hope to gain by violence?”
“Have I ever been violent with you?”
“No. Of course not—”
“Then I suggest it’s unlikely I ever will be.”
“Then what question are you trying to answer? Tell me that.”
“A question that only your body can answer. Not your mind, not your voice, nothing else.”
Heat simmered deep inside. She gasped at the intimation, the suggestion of what he was about to do to her.
“You would not take me by force.”
“You are not listening to me. I am interested only in your body’s responses to me, not in satisfying any physical needs of my own. No matter how pressing.” He didn’t smile, didn’t move, simply held her gaze, watching, assessing, alert.
He put down the cup of untouched espresso and brushed her hand briefly, with the palm of his hand. The gesture had an simplicity that took her breath away. Then he withdrew his hand, leaving her own hand sensitive, aware of the lingering sense of warmth of his touch. He stood over her, watching, his gaze travelled the length of her, from her chest that, she knew, betrayed her increased heart rate and rapid breathing, to her jean-clad legs.
He walked away and flicked off the light, leaving on only the reading light beside the bed. Its light pooled on and around only her, leaving darkness and all its unknowable potential beyond her.
There was only this moment in time, with him and her. That sense of timelessness caught and held her, stemming the questions, the things she knew she should say, the things she knew she couldn’t say. He was right. Her body held her in control now. And he was, had always been, master of that.
He sat on the bed next to her. He touched her hesitantly on her hand once more. Then circled the back of her hand before increasing his grip and turning it over. He pressed his thumb into her palm briefly, but strongly, showing his strength against her softness.
She bit her lip in an effort at restraint. A shiver ran the full length of her body and she closed her eyes tight as if to contain it.
Then his hand moved to her wrist, gripping first one and then the other in one hand. Their gaze met momentarily before he pulled both her hands to his lips. He seemed to inhale them, turning and kissing her palms, before catching one in each hand and sweeping them wide, pushing her arms open, leaving her exposed.
She closed her eyes as the feel of his mouth upon her neck swept away any lingering reserve. She arched back her head and turned, the silk of his hair shifting against her lips, arousing her further.
She moved her body to be closer to him and he lay down beside her, their bodies facing but not touching. When they kissed it was as if time had melted away and their passion was as fresh and strong as the day they’d met. Except that he touched no other part of her. Chastely apart, all the focus of their needs was held in that kiss—intense and demanding.
Her body’s memory responded instantly to the increasingly relentless pressure of his mouth by pooling heat deep within. She reached out for him, drawing her body closer to his, and wriggled against him: her breasts to his chest, no thoughts, only needing to be close, to feel the heat of his body against hers.
Then he released her, too soon. And she gasped, lifting her face to meet his once more, searching for his lips. But he smiled and pulled away, still holding her hands firmly so that she was unable to move far.
He grasped her arms above her head and fixed them with one hand while his eyes hungrily swept her body. It was as if he saw her naked, despite the fact she was still dressed in jeans and t-shirt.
He pushed the t-shirt up over her breasts, revealing her sheer bra.
Then he dropped his head down as if to kiss her but, instead, his tongue circled her nipples. She gasped and tried to reach for his head, to draw him closer, to feel him more intensely, but his grip remained firm. He paused, as if to gauge her—or perhaps his—reaction before he descended once more, this time flicking the bra open with one swift movement and sucking her nipples, first one then the other, with slow deliberation. Her whole body reeled with shocked pleasure as his mouth made direct connection with the spiraling need deep inside. Her hips jerked up to meet his with each fierce suck.
Then he stopped.
She opened her eyes briefly and wished she hadn’t. She’d expected to see the self satisfaction of a man who’d got what he wanted, who knew that he could take whatever he liked. But it wasn’t there. All she could see was raw need, masked with a hard expression: his mouth tight, his eyes black.
Then his face dipped once more and she was pushed beyond thought, reveling in the tensions that clenched her stomach with raw lust. She opened her mouth, wanting him on her more completely.
“Please…”
He looked up then and shook his head, before moving down to kiss her stomach, as his hands
unzipped her jeans. She lifted her hips and he pushed the jeans down, taking her panties with them, the white lace caught inside the rough fabric. He sat back and pulled them completely off before dropping them on to the floor. His hands swept slowly—too slowly—up her legs, his pressure increasing along with her need until she wanted to scream.
She reached down and clutched the crisp folds of his shirt, urging him upwards. As guarded as before, he moved his head slightly to one side, as if questioning. But what? What did he want of her?
She knew what she wanted of him.
Her heart was racing. She should stop but she couldn’t. He was the man who’d filled her dreams, night after night, holding her, touching her, soaking her with her arousal as he rode her into oblivion. She had no choice about her dreams and she had no choice now.
“Giovanni,” she said softly, calling to him, as she had so many times in the past.
She felt, rather than heard, his groan as his hands curved around her bottom before pulling her to his mouth.
Her legs jerked as his lips connected with the point where the need that clawed within, surfaced.
The tenderness had gone from his lips now. There was an urgency about his touch which her body needed. A moan escaped her lips as the tension built within her. With each flick of his tongue, each suck of his mouth, she wriggled against him, desperate for release. Her breathing was coming quicker and she pushed her fingers into his hair, holding him there. But still wanting more.
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes, dark with desire. Her hands stretched down to his body, wanting him where he should be, inside her. He grabbed her hands in one of his and shook his head. His gaze continued to hold hers as he flicked his fingers through her wetness, teasing, watching, until she could hold it in no longer.
As she cried out, his fingers plunged inside her, deepening her orgasm, sending her into an exquisite darkness and suspending her there, but only momentarily. For after the darkness came the light, and consciousness once more.
She stretched her head to one side, away from him, trying to hide from him the emotions that were playing out savagely inside. But he cupped her face with his hand and pulled her towards him until they were only a breath away from each other.
Her body trembled involuntarily as he withdrew first his fingers, then his hand and then his body. He hesitated briefly, lying close to her, as if waiting, watching.
“Giovanni,” she whispered. “Come to me?” It should have been a statement but her drift back into reality had turned it into a question.
She touched his arm lightly, willing him to lose that deadly, unaccustomed control and take her fully, make them both whole again.
She could feel their breaths mingle, could see the drum beat pulse in his neck under the dark shadow of stubble. There was so little space between them, but even that was unbearable.
He shook his head. “No, cara. I will not.”
“But, why?” She searched his face. “You don’t want me?”
He smiled wryly. “Because I do not wish to.”
Rose retreated as if struck. He didn’t want her.
It was as if a chill wind swept over her, leaving her feeling clammy and sick.
“So that’s it then?”
“I gave you pleasure is that not enough?”
He turned away from her and she shook her head in disbelief as he rose from the bed, all control once more. Receiving pleasure was never enough. How could he think it was? Did he really believe that she was a heartless woman for whom her own pleasure was paramount? If he did, he didn’t know her at all.
She watched as he pulled the knot out of his tie and flung it onto the couch.
“So you’re not coming to bed?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ll leave you to sleep.”
Realization hit her then, followed by a wave of desolation. She lay back, suddenly exhausted.
“You’ve done what you set out to do, tonight, haven’t you?”
“Si.”
“I’ve answered your question?”
He shook his head and smiled grimly.
“I was never asking you the question. I was asking myself. I have my answer.”
He closed the door to the cabin and stood before the window, watching the first soft blush of dawn fill the cloudless sky, illuminating the cabin, bringing him back to this point in time. Back to the point in his life where he’d needed to know whether she was like all the others he’d had since she’d left.
He remembered waking up with his last lover, only weeks previously, and feeling nothing. His physical needs were only ever temporarily satisfied. The hunger always yawned deep inside afterwards. It was always present. He’d wanted to see if he could fill that hunger, even without satisfying himself physically. He’d wanted to be with Rose again to see if he really had experienced that with her, or whether he’d somehow imagined it.
He’d wanted to feel her, to experience her without distractions. Wanted to see if he could forget himself in her.
And he had.
There could be no-one else for him now.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Palazzo Visconti—home to the Visconti family for centuries and herself for a year—was buried in a leafy street in the historic centre of Milan. It had also been the place where she’d experienced her last, nightmarish, encounter with Alberto Visconti, Giovanni’s younger brother. A nightmare whose consequences both she and Giovanni had had to live with ever since; he, without even knowing its cause. And she could do nothing about it.
A shiver of revulsion shook her body as she entered the marble-floored foyer: as cold and as lifeless as a museum, despite its treasures. Once the door was closed the life of the city—the shouts of the street hawkers, thud of distant music and roar of the traffic—was extinguished. Even the soft light of a misty Milan morning failed to inject its usual magic into the room. Instead the glow from the polished silver was muted and the light that managed to filter between the heavy swags of curtains was gloomy.
“Home sweet home,” Rose muttered, noticing that nothing had changed, from the highly polished antiques to the massive medieval tapestry that hung along the rear wall, whose rich colors echoed the priceless carpets. It was beautiful but she’d never been comfortable here. Especially now.
“Bentornata, mia cara. Welcome back to where you belong.”
She felt irritation prickle at his sense of ownership.
“It’s your home, Giovanni, not mine any more. I’ll find an apartment as soon as I can.”
“No you won’t. I’ve bought your time, 24-7. However many hours I require, you will be available to me.”
“Is that right? So when you bought my company—and my time—I somehow lost all my human rights.”
“Si. If you wish to look at it like that.”
“I can’t see how else you can interpret it. But, for your information, my days and evenings you can have—my nights are my own, on my own.”
She turned away. She didn’t want a response. Truth was, she was frustrated to find herself voicing the exact opposite of what she wanted.
The clanking and mechanical whirring of the ancient lift began as the rickety contraption made its way up from the basement.
“I’ve arranged for you to use the attic suite. You’ll be more comfortable there.”
She crossed her arms defensively as she waited for the lift. Was she really so easy to read? The attic suite was the only place she’d been able to re-decorate, the only place where she felt truly at home.
“In the old servants’ quarters. Yes, I should think I’ll feel quite at home. I guess it’s been redecorated by now.”
“No.”
“You probably haven’t even been up there since I left. Your mother’s no doubt re-styled it.”
“It is still as you left it.”
“How do you know? You go up there sometimes?”
“Rarely now.”
It had been their escape. Nominally a guest suite, but more
often used as her study and their private hideaway. Tucked up in the eaves—all light and simplicity—it was a place where they could talk, love and simply be, in private. It was a place of peace: a peace, it seemed, which Giovanni no longer sought.
Once inside the ancient lift he slammed the grille door shut and pressed the button. It didn’t move.
“Hey, let’s walk. This thing gives me the creeps.”
He pressed the lift again. “We can’t. It’s the only access at present. The stairs to the attic are dangerous—I’m having them rebuilt. He pressed it again and at last something registered in the depths of the basement and the lift stuttered into life.
“You really need to overhaul this old place.”
“The family likes it as it is.”
Rose had forgotten the snobbery of Giovanni’s family about new things. They considered anything new to be, by definition, vulgar. The only way Giovanni had been able to drag his family and its cash kicking and screaming into the world of commerce was by keeping control solely in the hands of the family. A measure he’d come to regret. But it had resulted in a billion-dollar business that kept everyone happy.
The Palazzo had been divided into separate wings for individual family members. But, since the death of his father, Giovanni, as eldest son, occupied the main part with its ornate reception rooms, soaring ceilings and irreplaceable artworks. His mother and brother occupied the other wings, while having access to the main house also.
The attic guest suite was untouched. It was the only room that she’d had carte blanche on decorating. She’d had the old-fashioned trappings stripped from the room, leaving it simple, both in terms of texture and color, making the most of the huge attic windows and revealing its glorious soaring wooden beams. The rest of the family had no interest in an attic room where servants had once quartered. And that had been fine with Rose who’d used to retreat there when Giovanni had been away on business.
By habit, Rose walked directly across to the windows that she’d had enlarged. She stepped out on to the small balcony and looked over to where the turrets of an old palace—now a museum—rose. The small bronze clock on the principal turret chimed the hour. It was ten in the morning. And for the first time Rose felt a sense of inevitability: as though she were in the right place at the right time.
