‘I think that there is only one thing we can do,’ he said. ‘We wait.’
‘I…guess so.’
He frowned as he noticed that her teeth had started to chatter. ‘You’re shivering. You need to get into bed.’
‘I don’t—’
‘I’m not listening to any objections,’ he said emphatically. ‘I’m going to undress you and put you to bed and then I’m going to make you tea.’
She wriggled. ‘Why don’t you go and make the tea and I’ll undress myself?’
He frowned, and there was a heartbeat of a pause. ‘Alannah, are you shy?’
She attempted a light little laugh, which didn’t quite come off. ‘Me? Shy? Don’t be ridiculous. How could I possibly be shy when I’ve exposed my body to the harsh glare of the camera?’
Placing his palms on either side of her face, he stared down into her wide blue eyes. ‘But stripping for a camera is a very anonymous thing to do,’ he said slowly. ‘While stripping for a man is intensely personal.’
She pulled a face. ‘Stick with the day job, Niccolò—I don’t think analysis is really your thing.’
Niccolò frowned. No, it wasn’t his thing at all. Normally he ran a million miles from trying to work out what was going on in a woman’s head. But most women weren’t perplexing enigmas, were they? They didn’t answer one question and immediately make you want to ask them a hundred more.
‘You’re shy,’ he repeated. ‘Are you going to tell me why?’
Alannah stifled a sigh as she looked at him, because telling Niccolò anything was the last thing she wanted. His lovemaking had left her feeling soft and vulnerable enough to have her defences weakened. And she wasn’t stupid. She might despise the men who persisted in thinking of her as nothing but a body—yet surely that was the main attraction for Niccolò, no matter how much he might try to deny it. Wouldn’t he be disappointed to discover the mundane truth about her?
Because iconic glamour models were supposed to typify sexuality, not belong to a band of women who had always found sex rather overrated until now.
‘Yes, I’m shy,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘I don’t really like men looking at my body. I’m hung up about it. I hate being thought of as nothing but a pair of gravity-defying breasts. That’s probably why I’m not usually able to relax very much. Why my sex life has been…’
Her words tailed off as she became aware that she’d said too much and she braced herself as she waited for him to distance himself, like a man who thought he’d bought a racy sports-car—only to find that he’d landed himself with a second-hand model which kept breaking down.
‘Why your sex life has been, what?’ he prompted softly.
She pulled a face. ‘You really want me to spell it out for you? Isn’t your ego healthy enough already without the added boost of me telling you how good you are in bed?’
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, unable to hide his slow, curving smile of satisfaction. ‘Am I?’
‘You know you are.’ She pulled her hand away. ‘I’m sure I’m not the first woman to tell you that.’
‘No, but you’re the first woman who is such a mass of contradictions that you have my head spinning. You have a wildness…’
‘Niccolò—’
He silenced her with a long kiss and when he finally raised his head, it was to subject her to a look of narrow-eyed thoughtfulness. ‘I think we’ve done the subject to death for tonight,’ he said. ‘You’re tired and so am I, and you’re right—it is a school night. Bedtime,’ he added firmly.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Well, I am. Relax, mia tentatrice.’
He was unbuttoning her dress again and suddenly Alannah had no desire to stop him. She lay there as he slid the silky garment from her body until she was left in just her hold-ups and her bra and, automatically, her palms moved towards her breasts—to protect them from his seeking gaze. But to her surprise he wasn’t even looking at her breasts. He was sliding down her hold-ups as impersonally as if he’d been undressing a child who had been caught in a storm. Even her bra was removed with nothing but deft efficiency, so that she was naked and snuggled beneath the warm duvet almost before she’d realised it.
She blinked as he captured her in that searing ebony gaze.
‘Now…was that so traumatic?’ he questioned silkily.
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t expecting…’ Her words tailed off.
‘You thought I would be unable to resist drooling as I ogled your breasts? That you find yourself surprised by my sensitivity?’
‘Something like that,’ she mumbled.
He smiled, the pad of his thumb trailing a path over her bottom lip and causing it to tremble. ‘You and me both,’ he said drily, before getting up to let himself quietly out of the room.
While he was gone, Alannah took the opportunity to look around what was one of the most impersonal bedrooms she’d ever seen. There were no photos on display. No real hints as to what kind of man Niccolò really was. She knew his parents were dead—but there was no misty-eyed memorial of their wedding day. She remembered Michela clamming up whenever anyone had asked her about her folks—and hadn’t she been a bit like that herself if people wanted to know about her father? It had seemed too crass to tell them the truth. Oh, my mother was fresh out of Ireland and she had her drink spiked…
She hadn’t found out the whole story until three days before her mother had died. That Bridget Collins had woken up in her dingy hostel room with a splitting headache and vague, shifting memories of what had happened the night before—as well as a terrible soreness between her legs. She’d never seen the man again and the shame of it was that she didn’t even know his surname. Nine months later Alannah had been born and her mother’s over-protectiveness had kicked in.
Alannah stared at the photograph opposite the bed—a smoky, atmospheric monochrome study of a brooding Mount Vesuvius. If she’d known all that stuff before…if she’d been able to make sense of why her mother had been so unbelievably strict with her—would it have changed anything?
Probably not. And even if it had—it was all irrelevant now. Because you could never go back. You could never wipe out the things you’d done. Everyone knew that.
She was almost asleep by the time Niccolò returned, carrying a tray of camomile tea. Her eyelashes fluttered open as he sat down and the bed sank beneath his weight.
‘This will help you sleep,’ he said.
She didn’t think she needed any help, but she drank the flower-filled brew anyway and then settled back down against the bank of pillows while Niccolò gently stroked her hair.
She wriggled her bare toes and stretched out her body and at that precise moment she didn’t think she’d ever felt quite so blissfully content. Until a dark memory flickered into her mind like an evil imp—reinforcing the disturbing thought that they hadn’t remembered to use protection….
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘ANYONE WOULD THINK,’ said Niccolò slowly, ‘that you were trying to avoid me.’
Alannah looked up to find herself caught in the spotlight of a pair of ebony eyes, which cut into her like dark twin lasers. Winter light was flooding into the main reception room of the still bare Sarantos apartment, emphasising its vast and elegant dimensions. She had been there all morning, sitting on the newly upholstered window seat and sewing tassels onto a cushion, but the sight of the Sicilian standing in the doorway made her suspend her needle in mid-air.
She tried to compose herself and to say the right thing. Just as she’d been trying to do the right thing, ever since she’d crazily decided to have sex with him. She needed to treat what had happened as a one-off, and keeping their relationship on a purely professional footing was the only sane solution.
For both of them.
She put the needle down and pushed her empty coffee mug along the floor with the tip of her sneaker. ‘Of course I’m not trying to avoid you,’ she said lightly. ‘You’re my boss—I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Is that so?’ He walked towards her. ‘So why wouldn’t you have dinner with me last night?’
‘I explained that,’ she protested. ‘I had to travel to Somerset to buy some paintings and the man who owned the shop was just about to close up for the holidays, so it was the only day I could go. And then on the way back, there were loads of leaves on the line so the train was delayed. Didn’t you get my voicemail message?’
‘Oh, yes, I got your voicemail message,’ he said impatiently. He stood looking down at her, feeling perplexed and more than a little frustrated. This had never happened to him before. Usually he had to barricade his bedroom once a woman had been granted access to it—he couldn’t remember a lover ever being so reluctant to return. His mouth tightened. ‘But the fact remains that on Tuesday we had sex and I’ve barely seen you since.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s just the way it’s worked out. You’re employing me to get this apartment done in a hurry and that’s what I’m trying to do. That’s my primary role, isn’t it? You’re not paying me to keep appearing at your office door and haunting you.’
Niccolò felt his mouth dry. He wouldn’t mind her appearing at his office door. She was making him think of a few very creative uses for his desk… He swallowed. ‘Am I going to see you later?’
Alannah sucked in a breath, trying not to be flattered at his persistence, but it wasn’t easy. Because she had been dreading this meeting. Dreading and yet longing for it, all at the same time. Ever since she’d slipped out of his Mayfair apartment on Tuesday she’d told herself that it would be safer to stay away from Niccolò and not pursue the affair any further. She liked him. She liked him way more than was sensible for what she was sure he’d only ever intended to be a casual hook-up. And she didn’t do casual. Just as she didn’t do the kind of affair which would end up with her getting her heart smashed into a hundred little pieces.
‘You’re my boss, Niccolò,’ she said.
‘I haven’t lost sight of that fact, mia tentatrice. But what does that have to do with anything?’
‘You know very well. It’s…unprofessional.’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘You don’t think we might already have crossed that boundary when you lay gasping underneath me for most of the night?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘And on top of me at one point, if my memory serves me well.’
‘Stop it,’ she whispered, feeling colour flooding into her cheeks. ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about. It blurs the lines and confuses things. I’m trying to concentrate on my work and I can’t when you—’
‘Can’t stop wanting a rerun?’
‘A rerun is what you do with movies. And it’s a bad idea.’
‘Why?’
She sighed. ‘What happened last week was…’ Her words tailed off. How best to describe it? The most amazing sex she’d ever had? Well, yes. She had certainly never realised it could be so intense, or so powerful. But there had been another blissful side to that night which was far more worrying. She’d realised that she could get used to waking up with Niccolò lying asleep beside her, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Just as she could get used to thinking about him at odd moments of the day and wishing he were there to kiss her. And those kind of daydreams would get her nowhere.
Because where would that leave her when the whole thing imploded? She’d just be another heartbroken woman crying into her gin and tonic, trying to resist the urge to send him a ‘casual’ late-night text. She would run the risk of making herself vulnerable and she wasn’t going to let that happen. She felt a new resolve steal over her. ‘A mistake,’ she said.
‘A mistake,’ he repeated.
‘Maybe that’s a bad way to put it. It was obviously very enjoyable.’ She pushed the cushion away and forced herself to face the truth, no matter how unpalatable it was. ‘But the fact remains that you don’t really like me. You told me that.’
He smiled. ‘I like you a lot more now.’
‘You described what you felt for me as, and I quote—“a wildness”. You made me sound like a mild version of the bubonic plague.’
‘I don’t think any plague feels quite like this—except maybe for the fever in my blood when I close my eyes at night and find it impossible to sleep because I can’t get you out of my mind.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘And you look incredibly beautiful when you’re being defiant. Do you do it because you know how much it turns me on?’
‘It’s not defiance for the sake of it,’ she said. ‘It’s defiance for a reason. I’m not doing it to try to entice you.’ She forced herself to say it. To put the words out there instead of having them nagging away inside her. ‘This relationship isn’t going anywhere. We both know that.’
‘So you’re not pregnant?’
His words completely shattered her fragile façade and she stared at him, her heart pounding. During the day, when she was busy working, it was easy to push that thought to the back of her mind. It was at night-time when it became impossible. That was when the fear flooded through her body as she tried to imagine just how she would cope with having Niccolò da Conti’s baby. That was when she had to fight to stop herself imagining a downy little black head, glugging away contentedly at her breast.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s too early to do a test.’
‘Which means we may be about to be parents together, sì? I think that constitutes some sort of relationship, don’t you?’
‘Not the best kind,’ she said.
‘Maybe not. But I need to know that if you are pregnant—if you are—whether I am the only man in the frame who could be the father.’ His black eyes burned into her, but he must have seen her flinch because his voice softened by a fraction. ‘Is that such an unreasonable request?’
She met his gaze, telling herself that in the circumstances he had every right to ask. But that didn’t make it hurt any less and some of that hurt came spilling out.
‘Yes. You are the only man in the frame. Did you think that because of my previous line of work that there would be a whole load of contenders?’ She shook her head in despair. ‘You really are fond of stereotypes, aren’t you, Niccolò? Well, for your information, there isn’t. If you really must know, I could count my previous lovers on one hand and still have some fingers free—and there’s been no one in my life for the last three years.’
Niccolò let out the breath he’d been holding, unprepared for the powerful hit of pleasure which flooded through his body in response to her words. He was the only man in the frame. There had been no one else in her life for the past three years.
He stared at her, his eyes taking in the way she was illuminated in the harsh winter light. Her thick hair looked blue-black, like the feathers of a raven. He swallowed. Dai capelli corvini.
In her jeans and loose shirt she shouldn’t have looked anything special, but somehow she looked unbelievably beautiful. Against her hair, her skin was creamy and her pallor emphasised the dramatic blue of her eyes. A little brooch in the shape of a dragon-fly glittered on her lapel and suddenly he found himself envying the proximity of that worthless piece of jewellery to her body.
What if there were a baby?
His mouth hardened.
He would cross that bridge when he came to it.
The shrill sound of the doorbell shattered the silence.
‘That’ll be one of the painters,’ she said. ‘He rang up to say he’d left his keys behind.’ Rising to her feet, she walked over and picked up a shoal of silver keys from where they lay on another window seat. ‘I won’t be long.’
Alannah was aware of his eyes burning into her as she left the room. Her shoes were squeaking as she went to open the front door where one of the painters stood. There were four of them in total and they’d been working around the clock—and although she’d stopped short of making cups of tea for them, she’d been friendly enough. This one had plaster dust in his hair and he was grinning.
She forced a smile as she held out the clump of keys. ‘Here you go
, Gary.’
But after he’d taken them and shoved them into his dust-covered jeans, he caught hold of her wrist. His big, calloused fingers curled around her skin and his face had suddenly gone very pink. ‘I didn’t realise you were the Alannah Collins,’ he said suddenly.
Her heart sank as she snatched her hand away because she knew what was coming next. She wondered if it would be better to call his bluff or to slam the door in his face. But there were only a few days of the project left and it was nearly Christmas…why alienate one of the workforce unless it was absolutely necessary?
‘Will there be anything else?’ she questioned pointedly. ‘Because I have work to do.’
‘The schoolgirl,’ he said thickly. ‘With the big—’
A figure seemed to propel itself out of nowhere and it took a moment for Alannah to realise it was Niccolò and he was launching himself at Gary with a look of undiluted rage on his face.
Grabbing hold of the workman’s shirt collar, he half lifted him from the ground and shoved his face very close.
‘Che talii bastardu?’ he spat out. ‘Ti scippo locchi e o core!’
‘Niccolò!’ protested Alannah faintly, but he didn’t seem to be listening.
‘How dare you speak to a woman like that?’ he demanded. ‘What’s your name?’
The man blanched. ‘G-Gary.’
‘Gary what?’
‘G-Gary Harkness.’
‘Well, take it from me that you won’t ever work in this city again, Gary Harkness—I shall make sure of that.’ Releasing the shirt collar, Niccolò pushed him away and the man staggered a little. ‘Now get out of here—get out before I beat your worthless body to a piece of pulp.’
Alannah didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone look so petrified as the workman turned and ran down the corridor towards the elevator.
She lifted her gaze to Niccolò and met the furious blaze firing from his eyes as he clicked the door shut.
‘What was that you said to him in Sicilian?’
Christmas in Da Conti's Bed Page 9
