by Diana Duncan
Admiration winged through him. Beneath her soft, sweet exterior lurked a backbone of tungsten. A wellspring of loyalty.
He slipped into the bedroom while she washed dishes. The bureau was empty, as was the closet. Nothing beneath the mattress. He knelt and lifted the rug on one side of the bed, then the other. His clever signorina hadn’t stashed her things anywhere inside that he could find. Time to widen the hunt.
He jumped when Ariana suddenly spoke behind him. “Dante, I—What are you doing?”
Simultaneously speared by guilt and anger, he stiffened and muttered a curse. Caught in the act for the second time in two hours. If he didn’t shape up, he’d be in the morgue. “I saw a spider.”
She squeaked and leaped backward. “Don’t let it get away!”
He smacked his palm on the flagstones, feeling like a jerk for scaring her. “It won’t.”
She cringed. “Are you sure it’s dead?”
“Proprio morto.” Just as he would be if his libido continued to short-circuit his brain. He surged to his feet. “You need something, yes?”
“Um…” Her glance traveled over his bare chest in that disconcerting way that made his body tighten. “I thought I saw movement in the courtyard and heard odd noises.”
Adrenaline rocketed through his veins. “Why didn’t you say so?” He sprinted for the rear entrance, snagging the ax from beside the fireplace on the way.
Ariana followed. “Probably just the wind.”
He pushed her against the wall next to the back door. “Stay inside, away from the windows.”
Her eyes widened. “What if you need help?”
He scowled. “Help me by keeping out of the line of fire.” He eased the door open. “Bar the door behind me.”
Dante spun out low and to the right. He crouched behind the huge clay flowerpots beside the back door until he heard the bar drop into place. Ax ready, he scanned the courtyard, then the trees beyond.
Air rushed out of his lungs and he lowered the ax. “Ariana, come out.”
The door creaked open. “What is it?”
“Galline.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Chickens?”
“They are roosting in the trees.” He waved. “And there is a goat, also.”
The goat lifted his head from where it was munching on scrub bushes and bleated, and Ariana smiled. “Great! Eggs! And we can milk the goat.”
“You may try.” He grinned. “But I think that will only annoy him.”
“Him?” She did a double take. “How—never mind.”
He cast another look around. “It is rapidly growing dark.”
She shuddered. “And colder.”
“Fully exploring the grounds will have to wait for tomorrow, when our clothes are dry.” He followed her inside and engaged the bar.
“It feels like there’s a storm brewing.” Shivering, she made a beeline for the fireplace.
His senses warned him that something was brewing. “I am sure of it.”
He lingered in the kitchen as he watched her embrace the shimmering heat. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in glossy chestnut waves, and firelight bloomed like roses on her skin. She stretched out her palms to the flames, her profile serene.
Dante sighed. It was going to be a long night.
She glanced up, caught him staring. Their gazes collided, and awareness arced between them. Then she shifted her attention to the ax. “Did you wash your hands?” At his puzzled frown, she inclined her head toward the bedroom. “Spider entrails.”
“Va bene.” He strode to the sink and washed his hands. Ariana had experienced a rough couple of days. She’d been scared and hurt, and he’d upset her over dinner. For this evening, he would forgo his attempt to extract information.
Foolish? Perhaps. He returned to her side at the fireplace and pitched in more logs. It didn’t mean he was going soft. He frowned. No chance of that with the lovely Signorina Bennett in the vicinity.
His instincts had never failed him. And they screamed that if he pushed too hard, alienated her, she would never confide in him. If necessary, he could, and would, lean on her for answers.
Dante stalked to the bookshelves next to the gramophone.
Now he was even lying to himself.
He reached for a leather case. “Do you play backgammon?”
“Yes, is there a board?” He turned, brandished the case, and she smiled. “This will be fun.”
Not nearly as enjoyable as sweeping her off her feet, carrying her to the bed and loving her until dawn.
They sat at either end of the wooden settee in front of the fire and placed the board in the middle. The cushions Ariana had piled onto the furniture made the seat surprisingly comfortable.
She handed him his ass on game one, mostly because he was bewitched by the smoothness of her skin, the sensual curve of her lips, her sweet fragrance.
He concentrated during game two, but she still won.
She shot him a dubious glance as she moved her last checker off the board. “You’re not mad?”
“Over a game?” He snorted.
“I get the feeling you’re a man who doesn’t like to lose.”
“True, in most cases. But backgammon is a game of both skill and luck.” He shrugged. “If the dice favor you and your strategy is stronger, you deserve to win.”
With a wicked smile that blazed to his bone marrow, she buffed her fingernails on her shoulder. “So you won’t mind when I beat the pants off you again.”
He smiled in return. “I am not wearing pants.”
Her glance drifted over his bare torso. “Like you have to remind me.”
“Apparently not.” When she flushed, he grinned. “And we will see who loses this time.”
They battled back and forth through the evening, stopping the play only long enough for a makeshift supper of bread, cured smoked pork and applesauce.
Ariana triumphed again, one game ahead. She pumped her fists in the air. “Ha! Got you!”
Who knew his librarian had such a competitive streak? Amused and aroused by her merciless rivalry, he stretched and checked his watch. “It is growing late.”
“Beautiful watch. I’m glad rolling around in the sea didn’t ruin it.”
“It is waterproof. A gift from Zia Ines on my last birthday before she died. It is the only thing I have left of her. My only family. She had it engraved on the back.” The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Why had he spilled his guts?
Her voice was gentle. “May I see?”
He unfastened the watch and handed it to her.
“Time and tide wait for no man.” She rubbed her thumb over the inscription as she translated the Italian phrase. “Was she trying to tell you something?”
His mouth twisted wryly. “She thought I was frittering away my life. She was tired of waiting for ‘grandchildren.’”
“It’s not too late for you to settle down and have a family.”
“Women who are seeking husbands do not desire a man such as me.” At the curious glint in her eyes, he hastily added, “Not that I desire commitment.”
“Do you like children? Don’t you want any of your own?”
He hesitated before answering honestly. “If it were possible, I would like tanti bambini.”
Speculation creased her face. “Isn’t it?”
“It is possible.” He shrugged. “Given my line of work, not probable. Or safe.”
“You could quit.”
“I cannot,” he said tightly.
“Why not?”
“Too much is at stake.”
Her discomfiting stare bored into him. “Money doesn’t solve everything.”
“No, but it is one hell of a motivator.” Money. Power. Passion. The three top motives for murder.
“Earlier tonight, you asked me a question.” Holding his gaze, she offered him back the watch. “I’ll ask you the same question. What do you want, Dante?”
He’d reached his limit. His hand closed
possessively over hers. “I want you to come to bed with me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
PLEASURE SPARKLED through Ariana’s veins like heady wine as the weight of Dante’s muscular body pressed her into the mattress.
Even as her arms embraced his broad shoulders, she tensed in confusion. Wait. How had the situation so quickly escalated? Hadn’t she made it clear she didn’t want to go this far?
Or had she only thought it?
She wasn’t sure of anything where the charismatic Napoletano was concerned.
“Do not fear me, mia cara.” He cradled her face in his hands. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I’m not scared of you.” She gazed into glittering espresso eyes fringed with thick black lashes. His beautiful, eloquent eyes glowed with intelligence, compassion and desire…for her.
“Then why do you hesitate?”
Before she’d met him, her emotions had been as pale and smooth as the white candles perched stiffly in the candelier over the table where they’d eaten. Nothing inherently wrong with them. But they remained pristine, unaware of their true purpose, unsuspecting of their capacity for transformation…until someone touched a match to the wick and they flared to light.
Dante’s kisses set her aflame. His heat melted her reserve. Their shared passion burned brightly, illuminating the emptiness inside her. She threaded her fingers through his silky hair. “I’m afraid of what you do to me,” she whispered.
She thought she had experienced love, passion, pain…but those were shadows compared to her newly intense feelings. Her world had been muted until Dante. The difference between watching Madame Butterfly on a small black and white screen and then from the front row of an opera house. Suddenly her life had burst into a soaring aria, dazzling colors. And she had no control. No way to tone down the volume or brilliance.
No way to prevent being lost and alone when the performance was over and the stage went dark.
The emptiness would echo colder and lonelier when Dante left her. She would return to existing, not living. A mere observer in the drama of life.
Yet she trembled in fear at taking the next step.
Dante’s mouth brushed hers with enticingly sweet kisses. “What have I done to you?”
No matter how much her brain protested, her heart insisted she was safe in his embrace. Protected. The tender expression on his face when he had declared her valuable to him had diluted her doubt, wrapped her in awe. “Nothing is black or white anymore. I see everything differently now. Feel different.”
He playfully nipped her lower lip. “And that is bad?”
“Yes. No.” She sighed in delight as his finely bristled cheek grazed her jaw. “I don’t know.”
He nuzzled her neck, and his warm whisper tingled into her ear. “I love the way you smell. The way you taste.”
She shivered and her nipples pebbled. “I can’t think when you do that.”
“Do not think.” The husky cadence of his voice rumbled in an intimate caress as his hand drifted down to gently cup her breast. “Listen to your heart, Ariana. Simply feel.”
“Mmm.” She arched against him. “Feels nice.”
His mouth roamed her collarbone, his hot breath teased her taut nipple. “Tell me what you want, tesoro.”
“Dante.” Her eyelids fluttered shut on a moan as she surrendered. “Touch me. Kiss me. Make love to me.”
He went absolutely still above her. His heartbeat pounded furiously against hers. “Ariana.” Her name was a ragged exhalation.
She opened her eyes and saw his stunned brown gaze inches from hers. “I’ve shocked you.”
“Ariana,” Dante repeated. “You were speaking in your sleep.”
“What?” She blinked and the room swam into focus. The lamp he’d left burning at her request imbued the plaster walls with a soft orange glow. Her bewildered gaze darted back to Dante. He was beside her in bed, not on top of her.
Horror assailed her and she gulped. Oh, my God. What had she done? What had she said?
Dark with passion and deeper, scarier emotions, his glance ensnared hers. “You dreamed of me.” The arousal hardening the chiseled planes of his face told her she’d revealed way too much.
She tugged the covers up to her neck. “I am so sorry.” With him naked beside her in the double bed, she had intimate knowledge his face wasn’t all that was hard. He had matter-of-factly shunned the discomfort of sleeping wrapped in a towel, but she couldn’t. After their backgammon game, he’d pointed out that sharing the bed was simply another matter of survival. The floor was rough and cold, and they had two blankets. Sleeping together was practical for comfort and warmth.
She had made him promise the arrangement would be platonic. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”
“I’m not angry.” He rolled to his back, presenting a finely sculpted masculine profile seen gracing statues in the museums of Florence. She’d thought he was gorgeous before he shaved. The impact of unveiling his defined cheekbones and the lush curves of his sensual mouth was shattering. How was a woman supposed to resist a flesh-and-blood Roman god?
He sighed. “However, I am only human. There is a limit to my restraint.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t help what I dream.” He had primed her imagination by kissing her before dinner. Hot. Consuming. Devouring. Dante’s clever mouth had revved her engine from zero to eighty in seconds.
If the soup hadn’t burned, she would have ended up giving him a lot more than her friendship.
“Go back to sleep, Ariana.”
As if that would happen. It had been tough enough the first time. She’d squinched her eyes shut when he’d undressed and climbed into bed beside her. She’d lain rigid for hours, afraid to move in fear she’d accidentally touch him, tormented by imagining how magnificent he would look naked. She’d heard every gust creaking the branches, each pop and crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Dante’s every breath. “Go ahead. I’m going to get up.”
“Don’t be foolish.” The blankets rustled, and his warm thigh grazed hers before he pulled his leg back. “It is three-thirty. The fire has gone out, and it’s dark and cold. I gave my word I wouldn’t touch you, and I’ll keep it. You need to rest, or you will be ill.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.” She scooted to the edge of the mattress. “I’m not normally like this. Not sensual.”
“That makes no sense.” His low voice was husky with sleep.
“It seems contradictory after what happened between us, but I don’t take intimacy lightly. There has to be a heart connection. And trust.” It had happened only twice in her life. And neither experience had been as powerful as just kissing Dante.
She’d never experienced anything like the bond she felt with him. Maybe the forbidden danger gilded the attraction. She wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for a bad boy.
“‘There can be no love without trust.’” He sounded as confused as she felt. “I thought you didn’t believe real life can be like the fairy tales.”
“I don’t. Not often, anyway. But sex isn’t merely physical for me. There has to be emotional closeness, sharing. It’s like giving a part of myself away, forever. If it were just for fun, it wouldn’t really be worth the bother.”
In the thick silence, she felt the intensity of his gaze. “You do not find lovemaking pleasurable?”
“Oh, it’s fine.” She didn’t dare look at him. Didn’t want to be tempted to disprove her theory by discovering that making love to him was an all-consuming experience. “But honestly, a warm hunk of double-fudge cake is every bit as enjoyable as a warm hunk.”
“Hmm. I am thinking perhaps you need a better baker.”
She thought of his kiss. “I think we’d better end this conversation.”
“You trusted me enough to get into this bed with me. And I will not betray that particular trust.” He sighed again. “Sleep in peace, Ariana.”
That particular trust? What an odd turn of phrase. Sometimes she go
t the distinct impression Dante spoke in secret code. And not due to the language differences.
She stared at lamplight trembling on the ceiling. Lying quietly by Dante’s side was torture. Yet the heat of his body, the sound of his even breathing was comforting. She had thought easygoing, educated professor Geoffrey Turner was the perfect man. She couldn’t imagine him coping with the current circumstances.
Somehow, she had to endure sleeping beside Dante until they were rescued. What would happen if she dreamed about him again? Her resistance to him was weakening by the moment.
What would happen if he lost control?
Her worries chased themselves around like monkeys on crack. Finally, exhaustion hazed into a reluctant, fitful doze.
ARIANA DRIFTED AWAKE in an empty bed. It was early and overcast. The fire’s lively snap lured her to awareness, and a familiar, rich aroma teased her nostrils. She drowsily sniffed. “Do I smell coffee?”
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Dante called. “I found coffee beans in the pantry.”
Practically drooling, she clambered out of bed and hitched up her awry towel before staggering into the kitchen.
Clumsy with grogginess and haste, she tripped over Dante, who was leaning against the counter. His left hand was wrapped around a white stoneware mug, and he held the cup out as he caught her with his right hand. His arm slid around her waist to keep her from falling and he hauled her against his bare torso without spilling a drop.
“Buon giorno, Ariana. Where’s the fire?” Laughter rumbled in his chest, right above where her nose was pressed to the expanse of bronzed muscle dusted with dark hair.
You’re the fire and unfortunately, I’m the moth. “Good morning,” she croaked. He smelled more mouthwatering than the coffee, like soap and warm, vital man. He must have bathed already, and again had a towel riding his lean hips. She jerked her gaze away from the danger zone. Thick, inky waves spilled over his forehead, and dark stubble defined the stubborn line of his jaw and framed his full lips. Wherever she looked, she got an eyeful of irresistible, primal male.
