“I doubt the groom will complain about the lack of formality,” he said, and neither would he.
“Just what I thought as well,” she said. “There are two photographers of note in Montiforte and both of their works are good. But I’d prefer gathering samples to show Bella since each one has a far different style.”
“My sister is quick to speak her opinion,” he said.
She laughed. “That is obviously a family trait.”
He laughed, enjoying this banter. Enjoying her.
“True. I want you, cara. How is that for expressing my opinion?”
He heard her breathing, quick and hurried. “To the point. Honest, and I appreciate honesty.”
“As do I,” he said, serious again.
“Good, because I want this as well,” she said in a whisper that hummed through his blood.
A new tension surged between them in waves. Hot and intense. A tension that had nothing to do with his sister’s wedding and everything to do with their affair.
“I regret this postponement,” he said.
“There is always tomorrow.”
Every nerve in his body screamed for release tonight. Now. His biological father would have let the workers deal with the mess at the mill and gone off to meet the lady.
Which is exactly what he would not do, he vowed as he neared the olive press. This was his company. His problem to solve.
Ah, but if he just had a few more minutes to at least talk with Delanie …
“Have a good evening, cara,” he said as he killed the engine.
“Yes, you as well.”
“Delanie,” he said, rolling her name over his tongue, savoring it as he had hoped to do to her tonight.
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow will be our time,” he said. “We’ll start with dinner.”
And end up in bed.
She didn’t reply, but then no words were necessary. Tomorrow he would have her in his arms where she belonged.
* * *
As busy as she’d been all day, she should have fallen into an exhausted sleep. But here it was near two in the morning and she was still wide awake.
Delanie hugged her arms to her bosom and strolled back to the glass doors that opened onto the terrace. A bloated moon bathed the hills in a wash of silver, the effect almost magical.
It was a vista one wouldn’t easily tire of, she thought.
The hum of an engine broke the stillness a heartbeat before headlamps cut through the night. Marco’s Bugatti, winding back up the hill. She recognized the deep purr of the powerful engine.
Even if she hadn’t, some sense told her that Marco was returning home. The velvety hush of the night drifted around her, as darkly sensual as the man behind the wheel.
She chafed her bare arms, trembling like a leaf caught in the wind, burning inside with an emotion she hadn’t felt in years. An emotion she never wished to feel again for Marco Vincienta.
Yet it was there. Intense. Demanding.
A true mistress would greet him at the door with open arms. She would be wearing one of the sexy outfits he’d had delivered today, clothes she had no intention of wearing.
His mistress would lead him to the bedroom and satisfy the ache throbbing between them. But that wasn’t her.
The car rounded the curve, the headlights sweeping across the front of the villa. She bit her lip and stepped back into the shadows, shaking, knowing she couldn’t do it.
It took but a moment to return to her room. Another to close the door silently as the metallic click of his car door echoed in the night.
She crawled into bed and lay stiff as a board, waiting. Trying to listen to his footsteps over the pounding of her heart.
Come to me, she silently willed him.
The front door opened and closed. Steady steps made their way across the living room. Another door opened and closed. Close, but not hers.
She bit her lip again, restless. It wasn’t too late. She could go to him still.
Who was she kidding?
He’d rebuffed her the first time she’d flirted with him ten years ago, choosing his own moment to catch her alone with her defenses down. He’d rejected her the night he’d left her and England.
No, she simply couldn’t make the first move again. Not tonight. Maybe never.
Marco stepped onto the terrace the following morning, muscles snapping taut as he watched Delanie stroll along the perimeter of an olive grove, her mobile pressed to her ear. A light breeze sent her long hair rippling down her back in a golden waterfall of silk. The full sun kissed her bare arms and legs with a honey-gold light.
Tonight she would be his. Tonight he would know if that curtain of hair felt as silken draping his arms, his chest, his groin. He would know if her smooth skin tasted as sweet as pomegranates on his tongue.
Dammit, he’d spent a miserable night staring at the ceiling, fighting the urge to go to her. As badly as he wanted her, he knew a coupling then would be less than satisfying.
His fingers tightened around the cup of coffee he held, his chest pillowing out as he inhaled heavily. Nothing had changed. She was the only woman he had ever burned this intensely for, still ached to kiss, hold, drive into her with all the passion simmering in his soul.
She was the one he’d come to care about. The one who’d roused a fury in him he hadn’t known he possessed.
His gut pinched. A jolt scraped over his nerves and lifted the hair at his nape.
The anger resulting from Delanie’s lies was a fool’s emotion yet he couldn’t deny its existence any more than he could deny his desire for her. The fact it plagued him now confirmed he’d yet to trust her fully.
Trust. Such a simple word. Such a difficult thing to achieve with another person. Impossible with Delanie.
He sipped his coffee. Huffed another terse sigh and welcomed the flood of sanity that washed to sea those darker, selfish thoughts.
Delanie Tate was here on business. And he had every right to stand here and watch her, to drink in her beauty and poise until he was sated.
And so he did.
Her stride was sure yet unhurried. But there was something about her posture that screamed tension. The slight bowing of her shoulders. The lowered head. The free hand that splayed and fisted before the call obviously ended and she just stood there, staring at her mobile.
His brow furrowed. Something was wrong. Personally? The wedding?
It was the last that prompted him to make a quick call to his PA to clear his schedule for the day and night. He had no idea of her plans, but whatever they were he had no intention of letting Delanie do it alone.
If there was a problem brewing he would do all he could to help her. He would go with her as silent support. To smooth the way for stubborn merchants. To be with her, watching her at work in her world.
When her day was finished, they would celebrate with a bit of vino and a lot of amore.
He smiled. That couldn’t come soon enough.
This driving desire would ease the more they were together. When she left him this time, he would be ready to see her go.
And if he was wrong …
He set his empty cup down and stormed down the steps, refusing to consider that this plan could backfire on him, that he could end up burned again by the same woman.
She stopped on the edge of the flagstones, her gaze widening on his across the expanse, looking a bit windblown and sexy as hell. Looking flustered as well.
A silky blue blouse draped over full breasts and peaked over nipples that he longed to caress, kiss, draw deeply into his mouth. Her simple tan skirt hugged her hips to a point just above her knees, exposing a good length of strong creamy legs.
New clothes. Items he wouldn’t have chosen, yet on her they were alluring.
“At work already?” he asked.
“Yes, your sister rang moments after I stepped out here,” she said, a telling frown marring her smooth brow. “Bella refuses to consider either local photographer, insisti
ng I hire someone who can capture what she feels.”
He swore, certain his sister was being temperamental just for the pleasure of it. Just because she could.
“She is being unreasonably difficult,” he said. “She is beautiful. In love. With child. That won’t change no matter who takes the pictures.”
“No, it does matter. If she’s uncomfortable it will show in her pictures,” she said. “She wants me to visit a photographer in Florence. A childhood friend that she’s hesitant to contact herself.”
“Why?”
“I gathered their last parting was painful and not mutual and she fears he will refuse her,” she said. “But Bella wants him to take the shots for her wedding, reception and some honeymoon pictures.”
“What was he to her?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I thought I could find that out when I phoned him, but he demands to talk face to face with the bride and groom or the wedding planner before accepting the job. Bella wants me to appeal to him, so I need to travel there today. Depending on how well things go I may not return until quite late tonight or early tomorrow.”
He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, believing her. This is what she was reputed to do best—ensure that the bride was pleased. But to let her visit this photographer alone? Spend a night in Florence? Unacceptable!
“Fine. We leave whenever you are ready.”
Her lips parted and the pulse point in her throat thrummed wildly. “We?”
His smile widened, tempted to lave and kiss that warbling pulse until she moaned. “I assure you I won’t be in your way.”
Her gaze narrowed and he braced himself, expecting her to argue. But it would do her no good. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight for long.
As if reading his mind, she squared her slumping shoulders. “I am equally sure you will be, but given the circumstances I have little choice. Give me a moment to gather my things.”
He smiled, ready to give her all the time she needed.
Delanie hurried into her room and hoped her haste gave the impression of diligence instead of escape. Mercy, how would she get through a day and possibly a night in sunny, sensual Florence with Marco at her elbow?
Her senses were too raw around him, her desire for him growing stronger by the day. Why had she agreed to be his mistress for the duration? Where was her backbone?
She pinched her eyes shut, hating the hollow ache in her heart that confirmed she was vulnerable to him. A future with Marco was out of the question.
Though he refused to acknowledge any similarity to her father, she saw the parallels. Marco dominated everything in his life, his world. Those tendencies could take an ugly turn and she could end up tied to a man like her father.
She wouldn’t repeat her mother’s mistakes and suffer in silence, chained by love.
Now more than ever she needed to prove to herself they were only good together for the short term, that she hadn’t made a horrid mistake ten years ago. That she wasn’t making one now.
When she left him and Italy, it would be with the assurance that she’d been right. They made great lovers. That was all.
She would return to England and tuck her memories of Marco into a secret place in her heart. Move on with her life.
Closure, at last, would be hers.
And if she was wrong?
An hour later she was in Florence, having worked on lastminute plans on her electronic notepad while Marco drove and spoke with his PA via his mobile. But it was still a struggle for her to keep her mind on her work with him sitting beside her, effortlessly commanding the Bugatti as they whizzed up the winding autostrada with the Apennines rising to her right while lush vineyards and olive groves and a meandering river stretched as far as the eye could see.
The fertile landscape and fresh air were a feast. The man beside her remained the decadent dessert she hungered to savor.
When she’d first met him so long ago, she’d fallen as much in lust with him as love. Perhaps more so.
Now she was seeing the man he’d become. Powerful. Ruthless. More fascinating than any man she’d ever met.
She still desired him, not with that wild hungry craving of youth. But with a woman’s appreciation of his strong, honed body and keen mind.
It would be so easy to fall back into an intimate relationship with him. So tempting to lose herself just once more in his arms. So easy to convince herself that an affair could develop into something lasting.
It was an illusion she must definitely guard against.
He already held her business in his grip. She dared not let him claim her heart again as well.
But how could she stop the inevitable?
She cast his beautifully sculpted profile a surreptitious look. Desire ribboned around her but it was the warmth stealing around her heart that confirmed she was already doomed.
“You’ve been terribly quiet,” Marco said, feeling her gaze stroking over him yet again.
His blood raced, sending a surge of heat to his already uncomfortable groin. This woman was torturing him just by being near. And he had the entire day to spend with her in Florence!
“The photographer has samples on his website and I took the opportunity to study them and make a few notes,” she said, slipping her slim notepad back into her oversize bag.
“I trust you’re impressed with his work.”
“He’s very talented.”
What she hadn’t said raised his curiosity. “He is someone you would hire then.”
Her brow creased, fueling his misgivings. “I’ll know more once I’ve met with him.”
“If you feel he’s not right, we can turn around now.”
“And disappoint Bella? No way.” She inhaled sharply, her chin coming up in that bulldog determined way of hers that he admired and disliked in equal measure. “I intend to make this appointment and judge his talents for myself.”
He smiled, his fingers stroking the steering wheel as he crossed the River Arno, the deep blue water reminding him of Delanie’s eyes when she climaxed. And wasn’t that a hell of a thing to remember when he was already tight with lust for her?
“We should arrive at the photographer’s studio shortly,” he said, trying to think of anything but the woman beside him.
She stiffened, the sudden chill in the car making his skin bead. “I don’t want you interfering in my business.”
He held a palm toward her. “I am there as nothing more than your assistant.”
“Are you crazy?” she asked. “Everyone in Italy must know who you are from the press.”
He scowled, his teasing mood and desire freezing over instantly. “I have avoided the press since my rise and I intend it to stay that way. Trust me when I say I won’t be telling a photographer who I am.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARCO’S promise needled Delanie as he traversed the congested narrow streets of Florence with the skill of a Formula 1 driver. The gray stone mass of the ancient city with the occasional building painted yellow or green failed to draw her interest away from the colorful man behind the wheel.
It seemed inconceivable that someone who’d risen to such power and who’d inherited a millionaire’s business could escape notoriety. But he’d done that, choosing to hide his identity behind a ghost corporation.
She could understand the need for anonymity in his business dealings. But why did he feel the same need to stand in the shadows in sunny Italy?
Moments later, he smoothly parked near the Signoria Square with its impressive Neptune’s fountain that she’d read about in school. Though fabulous to see, the statue’s generous physique paled beside Marco’s.
She surrendered to a delicious shiver as the object of her delight and turmoil escorted her up a narrow passageway on rugged stone stairs that had climbed the sides of gray stone buildings for centuries. Though serviceable, they hadn’t been made for dainty heels that seemed to find every little glitch and imperfection in the stone.
She stepped wron
gly a heartbeat later and swayed, but Marco caught her up with a strong arm around her waist. Her breath caught and every nerve in her body zinged as if shocked.
“These steps are wicked,” she said, trying to extract herself from his steely hold.
“Perhaps I should carry you the rest of the way,” he said, his breath warm and welcome on her face.
Too welcome.
She got her balance and eased from him. “Perhaps I should take off my shoes.”
His lips pulled into a smile that sent her insides tumbling. “Isn’t that how we met?”
“I—I don’t remember.” She slipped off her slings and hurried up the steps, leaving him and that memory behind her.
But not for long.
Marco was beside her an instant later and so was the sweet erotic memory of the first time they’d met. Holland Park, on what must have been the hottest day London had seen in decades.
That’s where Marco found her. He’d followed her from her father’s office and found her barefoot at the edge of the water that moved calmly around her ankles.
“I’m fairly certain going into the water is forbidden by the park officials,” he’d drawled, his Italian accent lending his voice a very seductive tone that whispered over her bare arms and legs and left her tingling.
She’d whirled to confront him and was temporary struck dumb as she realized her intruder wasn’t a park attendant or a constable but a very handsome, very virile stranger. “Most likely you’re right.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Nobody had ever asked her if she needed a shoulder to lean on or cry on. Her father issued orders. Her mother begged her for support.
But nobody ever asked Delanie Tate if she wanted to talk about what bothered her.
It was so unheard of, such a phenomenal event that she left the water’s edge and crossed to the handsome stranger with a breathy, “Yes.”
That day she’d fallen into Marco Vincienta’s arms and his bed—another first for her. She shirked off her fears of trusting a man, turning to putty in Marco’s capable hands as he whisked her away into passion she’d not known existed.
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