The Passionate Italian

by Diana Fraser

  Her hair, for once, was untouched by the straightening iron. It fell around her shoulders, framing her face in abandon of wild curls, tickling her bare back and skimming her breasts, keeping them in a state of acute awareness.

  The vintage grey sheath of a dress fell in drapes over her body—sheer, leaving nothing to the imagination. It was amongst the wardrobe of clothes he’d bought for her all those years ago. It was a blatantly sexual dress and that’s what she wanted now.

  She wore no underwear to spoil the line. The deep V at the front, the shoestring straps, the plunging back, combined with the skim of satin over her skin to send a clear message.

  She would never have worn such a dress before Giovanni—or even during their marriage. She’d always dressed very properly, from instinct and from concern that she’d arouse his jealousy. But that was before she’d lost him. And now she’d found him again and she wanted him to see what she’d become: what he’d made her.

  She wanted him as she’d never wanted a man before. She was no virgin besotted with her man as she had been three years before. She was a grown woman who’d experienced the joy of giving and receiving love and the pain of denying love—both to herself and her lover. She was not the same girl Giovanni had married. And she intended to show him the difference tonight.

  Giovanni stepped into the waiting limo after her and leaned over to whisper in her ear.

  “Why are you wearing that dress?”

  Rose looked down at the dress that revealed so much.

  “This dress?” She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle over her thighs.

  “That dress.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I think I might not like the reason you’re wearing it.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You didn’t answer mine. Why are you wearing that dress?”

  She shrugged. “It just felt, appropriate, somehow.”

  “Appropriate?” his eyes narrowed under dark brows. “It’s a wonder you can breathe in it.”

  She sat upright and pushed her chest out lightly as she took a deep breath. “Difficult, but not impossible.”

  She noticed his eyes drop and fix on her breasts, their curves exposed by the plunging neckline.

  It was not going to be so hard—to seduce her husband.

  He raised his eyes to meet hers, narrowed and assessing.

  “And your hair. You have it loose, like a schoolgirl. Like in bed. Why?”

  She shivered the hair around her shoulders, enjoying the tickle of it on her bare back.

  “Haven’t I been working hard?”

  He nodded.

  “Am I not allowed to let my hair down sometimes? And my dress,” she smoothed her hand across the silk that clung to her body like a second skin, taking a deep feminine satisfaction in the way his eyes followed her hand. “After all you did buy it for me.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It was a long time ago.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “There is little to it. I can’t believe the price they charged me for it.”

  “Ha! So you do remember it.”

  “Vaguely. You needed some evening wear and I thought—”

  A blaze of lights illuminated the inside of the limo and Rose could see his gaze fixed upon her eyes.

  “Thought?”

  “That the color would suit you.”

  “Like the grey northern skies?”

  “No.” He twisted a strand of her hair between his fingers. Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest. “Like the warm grey of violet as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, just before night falls.”

  “Seductive talk.” She took a deep breath.

  “That is what you are wanting, no?”

  “And why would I want that? You made it plain you weren’t interested.”

  “Perhaps you wish to show me your strength, take revenge on me at some level, for bringing you to Italy.” He took her hand, weaving his fingers between hers, holding it between their bodies. “But you are not like that. You are strong with no need to prove anything. You were never competitive.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So insightful. There is only room for one competitor in a relationship. And you have enough of those genes for both of us.”

  “And what relationship is that, Rose? Because I do not believe we have one any more.”

  His words hit hard but she tried to suppress the flicker of panic. He knew she wanted him but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much.

  “You are so right, Giovanni. A marriage does not a relationship make. What constitutes a relationship in your book?”

  “To begin with, an attraction: a lust, a physical wanting.”

  She felt a frisson of that same lust stir in her gut. “Umm.”

  The limo pulled up outside the venue.

  He jumped out and opened her door for her.

  She lifted her dress away from her stilettos and stepped out carefully beside him, into the marble entrance.

  She could feel the soft fabric of the dress rub lightly against her body, teasing her as much as him.

  “The kind of attraction that kicks in when the other is close,” he continued. “When the other person is not even touching.”

  “What kind is that?” She wanted him to elaborate. “So much attraction takes place in the imagination.” And she needed to know what was in his imagination right now.

  He laughed. “If one’s love affairs only took place in one’s imagination then life would be a lot easier. Come.” He took her arm in his.

  “So that’s lust dealt with. But that can’t be all that constitutes a relationship. Anything else?”

  He tracked his finger up her arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps. “Respect.”

  She leant into his neck and breathed. “Ahh! Such a good old-fashioned virtue.”

  The porter ushered them inside the grand hotel.

  “I’d forgotten what a beautiful building this is. Milan has so many hidden treasures I’ve heard about and not seen.”

  “Then we must remedy that. But not tonight.”

  Instead of going directly into the ballroom, Giovanni pulled her to one side and into small ante room.

  “A detour?”

  “Si. A little practical work around respect.” He pulled her close and ran his hands down her sides, caressing her thighs over the satiny fabric. “I cherish traditional values. My respect for your legs and your breasts,” he ran a finger over the top of her nipple that was visible from beneath the sheer fabric, “knows no bounds.”

  She tipped her neck back, reveling in the sensuous rill of pleasure of her long hair tumbling around her shoulders, and the feel of his breath against her breasts. “Then I shall kiss you chastely, as a symbol of my respect for your respect.”

  She pressed her hands to his chest and raised her closed lips to his, aware of the pounding of his heart beneath her hand and the brief opening of his mouth as her lips left his. He wanted more. She smiled. Who was in control now?

  It was all she could do not press her lips back to his and take what he so obviously wanted. But it was important that she keep the upper hand. She wanted to move Giovanni, make him forget his cool, remind him of what they once had. And she could only do that if she was in control.

  She nipped lightly at his ear lobe before breathing into his neck and kissing his glorious olive skin. Her heart thudded in her chest as his scent infiltrated her senses and, deep within, her body readied itself for him. Like it or not, her body recognized her mate from his scent alone. She drew back. She’d always had a thing for his skin. She drew in a ragged breath and ran her fingers up into his hair until her hands enclosed his face. She tried to stop them shaking as she looked into his eyes, deep and dark and dangerous as the night. Waiting to see if her prey would bite.

  “You’re playing with fire, cara.”

  “Perhaps I feel cold?”

  She moved slightly against his hip
s, until she felt him firm against her. She watched his mouth tighten further, still intent on restraint, whatever his body might desire.

  She pulled away again, enjoying the feeling of control as he instinctively moved to pull her back to him. “Is that it? Desire and respect. Is that all you need in a relationship?”

  He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her to him, their foreheads pressed one against the other. “It must be a meeting of minds also.”

  She closed her eyes as their lips met briefly. “Umm, minds can be so under-estimated,” she muttered before pulling back in mock innocence, dredging up her last remaining shred of self control. “You’d be surprised what mine is thinking right now.”

  His mouth was firm, only his eyes revealed his desire. “Nothing surprises me about you. You are the sort of woman who can do anything she sets her mind to. Intelligent, strong-minded, uncompromising. And mercurial. Here one minute and gone the next.”

  “I’m here now.” All pretense forgotten she pressed her lips to his and urged them to open, to allow her tongue entrance. She wanted everything he could give. She wanted to lose the control she’d been enjoying only moments earlier.

  He responded with a savagery that she met pace for pace. His mouth devoured hers, seeking the release that echoed her own needs. His tongue twisted around hers, probing, exploring her heat. Her breathing quickened and her mind numbed as passion overtook her.

  He cupped her bottom under his hands and lifted her to him, pressing her intimately as he turned around and pushed her back onto a table, pressing her legs open with his leg, her hips held tight between his hips and his hands. She could feel her dress wrinkle up her thighs as her legs were pushed open. Her hands came around his back and pushed under his shirt, desperate for the feel of his skin against her hands. But instead of satisfying her needs, it enflamed them further.

  She pulled his head down to hers, as she lay down on the table. She closed her eyes as his tongue explored firstly her mouth, then her neck, and then her breasts. She moaned as his touch roused every fiber of her body to a state of desire she couldn’t remember ever having felt.

  “Tell me,” he ordered quietly. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “I want you.”

  He licked her lazily again. “How much?”

  “You can feel how much.”

  “And I can see.” He stood back, holding her firmly. “You are beautiful.” His voice was thick with desire. He drew close to her once more and picked her up, pressing her to him with his hands around her bottom. He kissed her again. It was a kiss of ownership but she had no grounds for objection.

  Suddenly, there was a sharp rap at the door.

  “Signore Visconti? It’s nearly time.” It was Simon, obviously keeping a closer eye on Giovanni than he’d anticipated.

  “Cazzarola!”

  “Ignore him.”

  “I can’t. I’m giving the introduction. I’ll have to go.”

  He let her dress fall before dropping a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Remember this moment. We will continue later.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t forget.”

  They slipped in amongst the glittering crowds of moneyed elite.

  Milan was the capital of Italian business, media and fashion and it was fully evident tonight. The wealthy socialites and business leaders were out in their finery. The old castle, now converted to a hotel was glorious with its gothic architecture that had miraculously survived centuries of war. The large reception room was filled with the sound of chamber music, laughter, clinking glasses and the buzz of casual chatter. The Milanese had perfected the art of the cocktail hour until it had become the cocktail evening. The drinks flowed and so did the Lombard delicacies.

  Giovanni was immediately beckoned over to the group of organizers.

  Rose slipped into a seat at a table unannounced, introducing herself by habit by her maiden name. She was used to people looking her up and down and assessing her. Without a known name she was accepted on her looks but basically ignored, which was fine with her.

  She listened idly to the chatter of the ladies about the fashion industry as her own mind wandered, inevitably, to Giovanni. She watched him as he talked with a group of men at the side of the stage. Everyone paled into insignificance beside him. Not just because of his stunning looks or his confident use of his power, but because of his complete lack of self consciousness. His clothes were of the best but, once dressed, he was oblivious to them. His eyes didn’t scan the room restlessly; he had a depth of intelligence and perception that didn’t allow that. The whole package made him compelling. She fingered her recently kissed lips, remembering and imagining the night ahead.

  She hoped Giovannni’s part in the evening would be over soon and they could escape, back to the Palazzo, back to the ante room. Wherever they could be alone.

  She sighed and sat back.

  “You seem to be in a world of your own.”

  She smiled at her neighbor. “Yes, a little. It’s a while since I’ve been in Milan. A few years and I feel like a stranger.”

  “Well you’ve chosen a good party for a debut. Everyone is here. Giovanni has made it the charity of the moment. But really, who’d have thought it? Scholarships for the poor. It’s hardly a sexy charity to support is it?”

  Sexy it might not be, but it was Rose’s own charity; a charity that, when they had been together, Giovanni had scarcely seemed to notice.

  She smiled.

  “I’m sure the recipients find it pretty sexy.”

  Her neighbor leaned forwarded confidentially. “If you’ve been out of circulation for a while then you need an urgent gossip session.”

  “No, really,” Rose laughed, watching Giovanni approach the microphone.

  Her neighbor followed her gaze.

  “We can start with his family if you like.”

  “What?” distracted Rose could hardly think what the woman was talking about.

  “You’d think the Viscontis had everything: money, power, looks. The scandal around Giovanni’s wife leaving him for Alberto was quite something but Alberto’s gone and topped it now.”

  “What?” Rose whispered, feeing the blood drain from her face. She shifted to face the woman. “What?” she practically shouted.

  “His wife left him—had enough of his jealous ways—rumor has it that he was violent towards her.”

  Rose shook with anger.

  “That’s nonsense. Rumor-mongering rubbish.”

  “Pretty spot on I should say. My sources were close to the family.”

  But before Rose could retort she was hushed by the people around her as Giovanni began his speech, commanding the audience, engaging everyone by his presence and words. Words she assumed that were as convincing as usual. She heard not a thing. All Rose could do was watch and imagine Giovanni suffering as he heard the rumors and tried not to believe them.

  Everyone believed that she’d left Giovanni for Alberto? Why would she? Why would anyone in their right mind prefer the dilettante Alberto to Giovanni?

  Alberto’s attack had killed her unborn child and killed a part of herself. He’d damn nearly raped her—would have if she hadn’t used all she’d learnt from the self defense classes she’d taken as a young woman. She’d taken any kind of free classes to get herself out of the life her mother led. At least that class had proved useful.

  Alberto must have circulated the rumor. But it wasn’t what the world believed that hurt her to the quick. Giovanni must have believed it. After all she hadn’t been there to deny it.

  As soon as the applause faded Rose leant over once more to her informant.

  “Giovanni Visconti, violent? Never. Surely you mean Alberto?”

  “Well,” the woman raised her eyebrows in delight at a receptive audience. “Alberto is another story. The new scandal about his rape—oops, sorry—his alleged rape of a young woman will be hard for the family to live down. He’s not allowed to leave Switzerland until the trial is over.”
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br />   Jesus.

  Rose slumped in her chair. The rush of talk and applause conflated into one loud roar, filling her ears and her body with panic and sickness.

  Alberto on trial for rape.

  She’d persuaded herself that his attack on her was a one off: a culmination of the enmity that existed between the brothers. If she’d supposed for one minute that he would attack another woman, let alone rape a woman, she would have spoken up. But she’d let her own private fears dominate her world and she’d fled, saying nothing.

  And a woman had suffered because of it.

  She felt devastated, remembering the pain—both physical and mental—that she’d suffered. And she’d allowed another woman to suffer the same fate.

  But it was too late now. It was his word against hers and it was two years ago. All the evidence had vanished. There was nothing she could for the woman. Nothing she could do for Giovanni.

  She shivered and pulled her wrap around her shoulders.

  “My dear. I hardly believe you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying. Tired of gossip already?”

  “Pardon? I’m sorry,” she looked around, suddenly claustrophobic. “I have to go.”

  “But the party has only just begun.”

  “It’s over for me.”

  She scraped the chair back on the marble floor and stumbled out, barely aware that Giovanni had disappeared from the stage.

  The night had turned cool, but still humidity hung heavy in the air. Storm weather she thought absently and walked out across the square, in the general direction of the palazzo.

  The Duomo, floodlit and majestic reared up before her, a symbol of the might of the great Milanese families—Visconti, Sforzo. There were exceptions to greatness in every family. Pity was that Giovanni should be tainted by the same brush as his brother. The thought of his innocence beside the blood on Alberto’s hands sickened her further.

  What had she done by running away? Given Alberto free rein to indulge his sick fantasies, that’s what.

  Her head gripped with the pain of unshed tears; it rent her body and found no release. She stumbled in her stilettos on the uneven paving and clung briefly to a railing to recover herself.