‘I asked him what he was looking at.’ He paused as he steadied his breath. ‘And I told him I would wrench out his eyes and his heart.’
Alannah gulped. ‘You don’t think that was a little…over the top?’
‘I think he’s lucky he didn’t end up in hospital,’ he ground out and his jaw tightened as he stared at her. ‘How often does that happen?’
‘Not much. Not these days.’ She shrugged as she began to walk back into the main reception room, aware that he was following her. Aware that her heart was pounding. This wasn’t a conversation she usually had—not with anyone—but maybe Niccolò was someone who needed to hear it. She turned to look at him. ‘It used to be a lot worse. People only ever seemed able to have a conversation with my breasts—or think that I would instantly want to fall into bed with them.’
Guilt whispered over his skin and Niccolò swallowed down the sudden dryness in his throat. Because hadn’t he done something very similar? Hadn’t he judged her without really knowing the facts and assumed a promiscuity which simply wasn’t true?
‘And I did the same,’ he said slowly.
Her gaze was fearless. ‘Yes, you did.’
‘That was why you suddenly froze in the hallway of my house when I was making love to you, wasn’t it?’ he questioned suddenly.
His perception was nearly as alarming as the realisation that the conversation had taken an even more intimate twist. Despite her determination to stay strong, Alannah couldn’t prevent the rush of heat to her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
She started to turn her head away, but suddenly he was right there in front of her and his fingers were on her arm. They felt good on her arm, she thought inconsequentially.
‘Tell me,’ he urged.
It was hard to get the words out. Baring her soul wasn’t something she normally did—and she had never imagined herself confiding in Niccolò da Conti like this. But for once his gaze was understanding and his voice was soft and Alannah found herself wanting to analyse the way she’d reacted—not just because he’d asked, but because she needed to make sense of it herself. ‘I just remember you saying something about my body being even better in the flesh and I started to feel like an object. Like I wasn’t a real person—just a two-dimensional image in a magazine, with a staple in her navel. Like I was invisible.’
‘That was not my intention,’ he said slowly. ‘I think I found myself overwhelmed by the realisation that I was finally making love to you after so many years of thinking about it.’ There was a pause as he looked at her. ‘Do you think you can forgive me for that, mia tentatrice?’
She studied him, and the flicker of a smile nudged at her lips because it was strange seeing him in this conciliatory mood. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Niccolò pulled her into his arms and she didn’t object. She didn’t object when he bent his head to kiss her either. Her breath was warm and flavoured with coffee and he wanted to groan with pleasure. She tasted as good as he remembered—in fact, she tasted even better—and there seemed something awfully decadent about kissing her in the near-empty apartment. This wasn’t the kind of thing he usually did between meetings, was it? His heart skipped a beat as his fingertips skated over her breast, feeling it swell as he cupped it, and he heard her breath quicken as he began to unbutton her shirt.
It pleased him that she let him. That she really did seem to have forgiven him for his out-of-control behaviour of the other night. That she was relaxed enough not to freeze again.
He deepened the kiss, rubbing at her taut nipple with his thumb, and she gave a little sigh of pleasure. He kissed her for a long time until she was squirming impatiently and kissing him back. Until he forced himself to pull away from her, his voice unsteady as he looked into the darkening of her denim eyes and he felt a rush of triumph fuse with the headiness of sexual hunger.
‘I would like to lay you down on the bare floor and make love to you, but I am short of time and must go straight from here to a meeting. And I don’t feel it would do my reputation much good if I walked in so dishevelled.’ He grimaced as he remembered that time in the hallway of his apartment, when he had shown all the finesse of a teenage boy. ‘And I am aware that perhaps you like your lovemaking to be a little more slow and considered.’
‘I…thought I did.’
He heard the reluctance in her voice but noticed she was still gripping tightly onto his arms. Her lips were trembling, even though she was biting down on them in an effort to stop it—and he realised just how turned on she was.
‘Of course…’ He moved his hand down to the ridge of hard denim between her legs. ‘I probably do have enough time for other things. Things which you might enjoy.’
‘Niccolò,’ she said breathlessly.
‘What do you think?’ he said as he edged his middle finger forward and began to stroke her. ‘Yes, or no?’
‘Y-yes,’ she gasped.
‘Keep still,’ he urged—but to his delight she didn’t obey him. Or maybe she just couldn’t. Her head was tipping back and suddenly she didn’t look remotely shy…she looked wild. Beautiful. He felt her thighs part and heard her moaning softly as he increased the relentless pressure of his finger.
She came very quickly, tightening her arms around his neck and making that shuddering little crescendo of sighs with which he’d become so familiar on Tuesday night. As he kissed her again her fingers began to claw at his shirt, as if she wanted to tear it from his chest, and for a moment he thought about changing his mind and taking her in the most fundamental way possible.
Temptation rushed over him in a dark wave. Impatiently, his hand strayed to the belt of his trousers, until some remaining shred of reason forced him to play out the ensuring scene. What did he have in mind? Rushing into his meeting with his shirt creased and a telltale flush darkening his skin? Using Alekto’s apartment to have sex with a woman—wouldn’t that be kind of cheap? On every single level, it wouldn’t work—but that didn’t make it any easier to pull away from her.
She started buttoning her shirt back up with trembling fingers and he walked over to the window to compose himself, willing his frustration to subside.
Outside, a light flurry of snowflakes was whirling down and he felt a sudden sense of restlessness. He thought about the impending holiday and what he would be forced to endure, because one thing he’d learned was that unless you were prepared to live in a cave—it was impossible to ignore Christmas. Already there was a glittering tree which he’d been unable to ban from the main reception of his offices. He thought about the horrendous staff party he’d been forced to attend last night, with those stodgy mince pies they were so fond of eating and several drunken secretaries tottering over to him with glassy smiles and bunches of mistletoe.
He turned round. Alannah had finished buttoning up her shirt, though he noticed her hands were shaking and her cheeks still flushed.
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ he questioned suddenly.
‘Oh, I’m wavering between an invitation to eat nut roast with some committed vegans, or having an alternative celebration all of my own.’ She glanced over his shoulder at the snowflakes. ‘Like pretending that nothing’s happening and eating beans on toast, followed by an overdose of chocolate and trash TV. What about you?’
He shrugged. ‘I have an invitation to ski with some friends in Klosters, but unfortunately my schedule doesn’t allow it. I hate Christmas. What I would really like is to fast-forward the calendar and wake up to find it was the new year.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said softly.
His eyes met hers and another wave of desire washed over him. ‘But since we are both at a loose end, it seems a pity not to capitalise on that. We could ignore the seasonal madness and just please ourselves.’
She opened her eyes very wide. ‘Are you asking me to spend Christmas with you, Niccolò?’
There was a pause. ‘It seems I am.’ He gave a cool smile. ‘So why don’t you speak to Kirsty and have her give you o
ne of my credit cards? You can book us into the best suite in the best hotel in the city—somewhere you’ve always wanted to stay. Forget the nut roast and the beans on toast—you can have as much caviar and champagne as you like.’ He gave a slow smile as he touched his fingertips to her raven hair. ‘Maybe I can make some of your Christmas wishes come true.’
* * *
Alannah felt like taking her sharpest pair of scissors and snipping the small square of plastic into tiny pieces. She thought about what Niccolò had said to her. Make her wishes come true. Really? Did he honestly think that staying in a fancy hotel suite was the sum total of her life’s ambition, when right now her biggest wish would be to tell him that she didn’t need his fancy platinum credit card and she’d rather spend Christmas day alone than spend it with him?
Except that it wouldn’t be true, would it? She might want it to be true, but it wasn’t. Why else would she be sitting hunched in front of her computer, about to book a two-night break in a London hotel? She wondered what had happened to her determination to forget the night she’d spent with him and maintain a professional relationship.
She bit her lip. It had been shattered by Niccolò’s resolve—that was what had happened. She had been lost the moment he’d kissed her. A single touch had been enough to make all her good intentions crumble. All her silent vows had been a complete waste of time—because she’d gone up in flames the moment he’d taken her in his arms.
She remembered the way his fingertip had whispered over the crotch of her jeans and her face grew hot. She hadn’t been so shy then, had she? He’d soon had her bucking beneath him, and he hadn’t even had to remove a single item of clothing. And still in that dreamy, post-orgasmic state she had agreed to spend Christmas with him.
That was something it was hard to get her head round. There must be millions of things he could be doing for the holiday—but he wanted to spend it with her. Her. Didn’t that mean something? Her mouth grew dry. Surely it had to.
She stared at the credit card, which Kirsty had crisply informed her had no upper limit. Imagine that. Imagine having enough money to buy whatever you wanted. The best suite in the best hotel. How fancy would a hotel have to be for Niccolò not to have seen it all before, and be jaded by it? She ran through a list of possibilities. The Savoy. The Ritz. The Granchester. London had heaps of gorgeous hotels and she’d bet that he’d stayed in all of them. Had constant exposure to high-end affluence helped contribute to his inbuilt cynicism?
She was just about to click onto the Granchester when something made her hesitate. Perhaps it was a desire to shift him out of his comfort zone—away from the usual protective barriers which surrounded him. He had knocked down some of her defences, so why shouldn’t she do the same with him? Why shouldn’t she try to find out more about the real Niccolò da Conti?
She thought of a fancy hotel dining room and all the other people who would be congregated there. People who had no real place to go, who just wanted the holiday to be over. Or even worse—the wink-wink attitude of Room Service if they started asking for turkey sandwiches and champagne to be brought to their room.
An idea popped into her mind and it started to grow more attractive by the minute. She stared at the long number on the credit card. She might not have much money of her own, but she did have her imagination. Surely she was capable of surprising him with something unexpected. Something simple yet meaningful, which would incorporate the true meaning of Christmas.
His power and privilege always gave him an edge of superiority and that couldn’t be good for him. An expensive tab in a smart hotel would only reinforce the differences between them. Wouldn’t it be great to feel more like his equal for a change?
Because what if she was pregnant? She was going to have to get to know him better, no matter what the outcome. Her heart gave a painful lurch as she waited for that intrusive yet strangely compelling image of Niccolò da Conti’s baby to subside.
She waited a minute before typing cute Christmas cottage into her browser. Because cute was exactly what she needed right now, she told herself. Cute stood a chance of making a cynical man melt so you might be able to work out what made him tick. Scrolling down, she stared at the clutch of country cottages which appeared on the screen.
Perfect.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE FLURRIES WERE getting stronger and Niccolò cursed as he headed along the narrow country lane.
Why could nothing ever be straightforward? Glancing in his rear-view mirror at the swirl of snowflakes which was obscuring his view, he scowled. He’d given Alannah a credit card and told her to book a hotel in town and she’d done the exact opposite—directing him to some godforsaken spot deep in the countryside, while she went on ahead earlier.
Well, in terms of distance he wasn’t actually that far from London but he might as well be in middle of his friend Murat’s Qurhahian desert for all the sense he could make of his bearings. The sudden onset of heavy snow had made the world look like an alien place and it was difficult to get his bearings. Familiar landmarks had disappeared. The main roads were little more than white wastelands and the narrow lanes had begun to resemble twisting snakes of snow.
Glancing at his satnav, he could see he was only four minutes away, but he was damned if he could see any hotel. He’d passed the last chocolate-boxy village some way back and now an arrow was indicating he take the left fork in the road, through an impenetrable-looking line of trees.
Still cursing, he turned off the road, his powerful headlights illuminating the swirling snowflakes and turning them golden. Some people might have considered the scene pretty, but he wasn’t in the mood for pretty scenery. He wanted a drink, a shower and sex in exactly that order and he wanted them now.
Following the moving red arrow, he drove slowly until at last he could see a lighted building in the distance, but it looked too small to be a hotel. His mouth hardened. Something that small could only ever be described as a cottage.
He could see a thatched roof covered with a thick dusting of snow and an old-fashioned lamp lit outside a front door, on which hung a festive wreath of holly and ivy. Through latticed windows a woman was moving around—her fall of raven hair visible, even from this distance. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as he brought the car to a halt and got out—his shoes sinking noiselessly into the soft, virgin carpet.
He rang the bell—one of those old-fashioned bells you only ever saw on ships, or in movies. He could hear the sudden scurrying of movement and footsteps approaching and then the door opened and Alannah stood there, bathed in muted rainbow light.
His body tensing, he stepped inside and the door swung violently shut behind him. His senses were immediately bombarded by the scene in front of him but, even so, the first thing he noticed was her dress. Who could fail to notice a dress like that?
It wasn’t so much the golden silk, which skimmed her curves and made her look like a living treasure, it was the scooped neck showing unfamiliar inches of creamy skin and the soft swell of her breasts. She had even positioned the glittery grasshopper brooch so that it looked poised to hop straight onto her nipple. Had she started to relax enough to stop covering her body up in that old puritanical way? he wondered.
But even this wasn’t enough to hold his attention for long. His gaze moved behind her, where a fire was blazing—with two wing chairs on either side. Sprigs of holly had been placed above the paintings and, yes, there was the inevitable sprig of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling. On a low table a bowl was filled with clementines and in the air he could scent something cooking, rich with the scent of cinnamon and spice. But it was the Christmas tree which jarred most. A fresh fir tree with coloured lights looped all over the fragrant branches from which hung matching baubles of gold.
He flinched, but she didn’t seem to notice as she wound her arms around his neck and positioned her lips over his. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she whispered.
Like a drowning man he fought against her feminine softness
and the faint drift of pomegranate which clung to her skin. Disentangling her arms, he took a step back as he felt the clutch of ice around his heart.
‘What’s going on?’ he questioned.
She blinked, as if something in his voice had alerted her to the fact that all was not well. ‘It’s a surprise.’
‘I don’t like surprises.’
Her eyes now held a faint sense of panic. Was she realising just how wrong she’d got it? he wondered grimly. He could see her licking her lips and the anger inside him seemed to bubble and grow.
‘I thought about booking a hotel in London,’ she said quickly. ‘But I thought you’d probably stayed in all those places before, or somewhere like them. And then I thought about creating a real Christmas, right here in the countryside.’
‘A real Christmas,’ he repeated slowly.
‘That’s right.’ She gestured towards a box of truffles on the table, as if the sight of chocolate were going to make him have a sudden change of heart. ‘I went online at Selfridges and ordered a mass of stuff from their food hall. It was still much cheaper than a hotel. That’s a ham you can smell cooking and I’ve bought fish too, because I know in Europe you like to eat fish at Christmas. Oh, and mince pies, of course.’
‘I hate mince pies.’
‘You don’t…’ Her voice faltered, as if she could no longer ignore the harsh note of censure in his voice. ‘You don’t have to eat them.’
‘I hate Christmas, full stop,’ he said viciously. ‘I already told you that, Alannah—so which part of the sentence did you fail to understand?’
Her fingers flew over her lips and, with the silky dress clinging to her curves, she looked so like a medieval damsel in distress that he was momentarily tempted to pull her into his arms and blot out everything with sex.
But only momentarily. Because then he looked up and saw the Christmas angel on top of the tree and something about those gossamer-fine wings made his heart clench with pain. He felt the walls of the tiny cottage closing in on him as a dark tide of unwanted emotion washed over him.
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