‘To me, Christmas always felt as if I’d walked onto a stage set,’ he said. ‘As if all the props were in place, but nobody knew which lines to say.’
And Alannah realised that she’d done exactly the same. She had tried to create the perfect Christmas. She’d bought the tree and hung the holly and the mistletoe—but what she had created had been no more real than the empty Christmases of his past.
‘Oh, Niccolò—I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’
He looked at her and some of the harshness left his face. ‘How would you have done? I’ve never talked about it. Not to anyone.’
‘Maybe some time, it might be good to sit down and discuss it with Michela?’ she ventured.
‘And destroy her memories?’
‘False memories are dangerous. And so are secrets. My mother waited until she was dying to tell me that her drink had been spiked and she didn’t even know my father’s name. I wish she’d shared it with me sooner. I would have liked to have let her know how much I admired her for keeping me.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘She sounds an amazing woman.’
‘She was.’ His words pleased her but she felt vulnerable with his black eyes looking at her in that curiously assessing way. In an effort to distract herself, she got up and went to look out of the window. ‘I’m afraid the snow shows no sign of melting?’
‘No.’
She turned round. ‘I suppose on a practical level we could take down all the decorations if that would make you feel better—and then we could watch that programme on TV which has been generating so much publicity. Have you heard about it? It’s called “Stuff Christmas”.’
Without warning, he rose from the chair and walked over to her, his shadow enveloping her and suddenly making her feel very small. His ebony gaze flickered over her and she saw that the bitterness in his eyes had been replaced by the much more familiar flicker of desire.
‘Or we could do something else, mia fata,’ he said softly. ‘Something much more appealing. Something which I have been aching to do since I walked back in here. I could take you upstairs to bed and make love to you.’
His features were soft with lust and Alannah thought she’d never seen him looking quite so gorgeous. She wanted him just as she always wanted him, but this time her desire was underpinned with something else—something powerful and inexplicable. A need to hold him and comfort him, after everything he’d told her. A need to want to reach out and protect him.
But he’d only told her because of the situation in which they found themselves and she needed to face the truth. He wanted her for sex—that was all—and she needed to protect her own vulnerable heart. Maybe it was time to distance herself from him for a while. Give them both a little space.
But by then he was kissing her and it was too late to say anything. Because when he kissed her like that, she was lost.
CHAPTER NINE
SLOWLY, NICCOLÒ LICKED at the delicious rosy flesh of Alannah’s nipple until eventually she began to stir. Raising her arms above her head, she stretched languorously as the silky tumble of her hair rippled over the pillow like a black banner.
‘Niccolò,’ she murmured, dark lashes fluttering open to reveal the sleepy denim eyes beneath.
He gave a smile of satisfaction as she somehow turned his name into a breathy little sigh—a variation of the different ways she’d said it throughout the night. She had gasped it. Moaned it. At one point she had even screamed it—her fingernails clawing frantically at his sweat-sheened body as she’d bucked beneath him. He remembered her flopping back onto the pillow afterwards and asking if was it always like this. But he hadn’t answered her. He hadn’t dared. For once there had been no words in his vocabulary to describe a night which had surpassed any other in his experience. He had come over and over again…in her and on her. And this time he’d remembered to use protection. Hell. Even doing that had felt as if it should be included in the pages of the Kama Sutra. He swallowed as he felt the renewed jerk of desire just from thinking about it. No orgasm had ever felt more powerful; no kisses that deep.
He was still trying to work out why. Because he had allowed her to glimpse the bleak landscape of his past—or because he had waited what seemed like a whole lifetime to possess her? He gave another lick. Maybe it was simply that he was discovering she was nothing like the woman he’d thought her to be.
‘Niccolò?’ she said again.
‘Mmm?’
‘Is it morning?’
‘I think so.’ His tongue traced a sinuous path over the creamy flesh and he felt her shiver. ‘Though right now I don’t really care. Do you?’
‘I don’t…’ He could hear the note of dreamy submission in her voice. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Good.’ He moved his tongue down over her body, feeling himself harden as it trailed a moist path to her belly. But the anatomical significance of that particular spot suddenly began to stab at his conscience and the thought he’d been trying to block now came rushing into his mind. Was she pregnant? He felt the painful contraction of his heart until he reminded himself that was a possibility, not a fact—and he only ever dealt with facts. There was nothing he could do about it right now—so why not continue tracking his tongue down over her salty skin and obliterating the nagging darkness of his thoughts with the brief amnesia of pleasure?
He wriggled down the bed and knelt over her, his legs straddling her as he parted her thighs and put his head between them. The dark triangle of hair at their apex was soft and for a moment he just teased at the curly strands with his teeth. She began to writhe as he flickered his tongue with featherlight accuracy against her clitoris, and the fingernails which had begun to claw restlessly at the sheet now moved to grip his shoulders.
She tasted warm and wet against his mouth and her urgent little cries only increased when he captured her circling hips and pinned them firmly against the mattress, so that he could increase the unremitting pressure of his tongue. He could hear her calling his name out. He could feel her spiralling out of control. And suddenly he felt her begin to spasm helplessly against his mouth.
‘N-Niccolò!’ she breathed. ‘Oh, Niccolò.’
His mind and his body were at such a fever-pitch of hunger that he couldn’t speak and, urgently, he reached for a condom and eased himself into her slick warmth.
He groaned. She felt so tight. Or maybe it was because he felt so big—as if he wanted to explode from the moment he thrust inside her. As if he wanted to come, over and over again. And yet surely she had drained every seed from his body, so that there was nothing left to give?
It seemed she had not. He drove into her until he didn’t know where he ended and she began. Until her back began to arch and her eyes to close—each exquisite spasm racking through his body as time seemed to suspend itself, leaving him dazed and breathless.
The silence of the room was broken only by the sound of his own muffled heartbeat.
‘I don’t know how much more pleasure I can take,’ she said eventually and he felt her face pressing against his shoulder.
He turned his head and blew a soft breath onto her cheek. ‘Don’t you know that you can never have too much pleasure, mia tentatrice?’
But Alannah wrinkled her nose as she stared up at the ceiling because she didn’t agree. You could. You definitely could. There was always a snake in the garden of Eden—everyone knew that. She thought about all the things he’d confided in her last night. Her heart had softened when she’d heard his story. She’d felt so close to him—and flattered that he had trusted her enough to tell her all that stuff about his past. But that was dangerous, too. If she wasn’t careful she could start weaving hopeless fantasies about something which was never intended to last.
She looked over at the window where bright light was shining against the closed curtains. And she realised that it was Christmas morning and last night he’d wanted to leave. She watched as he got out of bed and walked over to the window to pull back the curtains and
she blinked as she gazed outside. Thick snow lay everywhere. Branches and bushes were blanketed with the stuff. Against a dove-grey sky the world looked blindingly white and not a sound could be heard and Alannah knew she mustn’t let the fairy-tale perfection of the scene in front of her blind her to the reality of their situation.
She put her hands beneath the duvet, her warm belly instinctively recoiling from the icy touch of her fingers.
‘We haven’t really discussed what’s going to happen if I’m pregnant.’
The words hung and shimmered in the air, like the baubles on the unwanted Christmas tree downstairs.
He seemed to choose his words carefully, as if he was walking through a minefield of possibilities.
‘Obviously, if such a situation arises—then I will be forced to consider marrying you.’
Alannah did her best not to recoil because he made it sound like someone being forced to drink a bitter draught of poison. She didn’t say anything for a moment and when she did, she chose her words as carefully as he had done.
‘Before you do, I think there’s something you should take into account,’ she said quietly. ‘Gone are the days when women could be forced to marry against their will—because there’s a baby on the way. If I am pregnant, then I want my baby to have love—real love. I would want my baby to put contentment before wealth—and satisfaction before ambition. I would want my baby to grow up to be a warm and grounded individual—and, obviously, none of those things would be possible with you as a cynical role model. So don’t worry, Niccolò—I won’t be dragging you up the aisle any time soon.’
She had expected anger, or a righteous indignation—but she got neither. Instead, his expression remained cool and non-committal. She almost thought she saw a flicker of amusement in those ebony eyes.
‘Have you finished?’ he said.
She shrugged, wishing she didn’t want him so much. ‘I guess.’
‘Then I’ll make coffee.’
He didn’t just make coffee. After a bath which seemed to take for ever to fill, Alannah dressed and went downstairs to find him deftly cracking eggs into a bowl with one hand.
He glanced up. ‘Breakfast?’
She grimaced. ‘I don’t know if I can face eggs.’
‘You really should eat something.’
‘I suppose so.’ She sat down and took the cup of coffee he poured for her and, after a couple of minutes, a plate of scrambled eggs was pushed across the table. She must have been hungrier than she’d thought because she ate it all, before putting her fork down and watching while he finished his own. She thought how he could even make eating look sexy. Keep your mind fixed on practicalities, she told herself. ‘We ought to investigate the roads,’ she said. ‘Maybe we can dig ourselves out.’
‘Not yet.’ His eyes were thoughtful as they surveyed her over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘I think we should go for a walk. You look as if you could do with some colour in your cheeks.’
‘That’s what blusher is supposed to be for.’
He smiled. ‘There’s a cupboard below the stairs packed with boots and waterproof jackets—why don’t we go and investigate?’
They found coats and wrapped up warm and as Niccolò buttoned up her coat Alannah kept reinforcing the same mantra which had been playing in her head all morning. That none of this meant anything. They were just two people who happened to be alone at Christmas, who happened to enjoy having sex with each other.
But the moment they stepped out into the snow, it was impossible to keep things in perspective. It felt as if nature were conspiring against her. How could she not be affected when it felt as if she’d been transplanted into a magical world, with a man who made her feel so alive?
They walked along, their footsteps sinking into the virgin tracks, and she was surprised when he took her hand as they walked along. Funny how something so insignificant could feel so meaningful—especially when she thought about the many greater intimacies they’d shared. Because holding hands could easily masquerade as tenderness and tenderness was shot with its own special kind of danger…
As occasional stray flakes drifted down on their bare heads they talked about their lives. About the reasons he’d come to live in London and her summer holidays in Ireland. She asked how he’d met Alekto Sarantos, and he told her about their mutual friend Murat, the Sultan of Qurhah, and a long-ago skiing trip, when four very alpha men had challenged each other on the slopes.
‘I didn’t realise you knew Luis Martinez,’ she said. ‘That is Luis Martinez the world-champion racing driver?’
‘Ex world champion,’ he said, a little testily—and Alannah realised how competitive the four friends must have been.
He told her he hated litter and cars which hogged the middle lane of the motorway and she confided her dislike of drugs and people who ignored shop assistants by talking on their mobile phones. It was as if they had made an unspoken decision to keep the conversation strictly neutral and, unexpectedly, Alannah found herself relaxing. To anyone observing them, they probably looked like an ordinary couple who’d chosen to escape the mad rush of the city to create a dream holiday for themselves. And that was all it was, she reminded herself fiercely. A dream.
‘Are you finding this…impossible?’ she said. ‘Being stuck here with this manufactured Christmas everywhere, when last night you were desperate to leave?’
He kicked at some snow, so that it created a powdery white explosion before falling to the ground. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s easier than I imagined. You’re actually very good company. In fact, I think I enjoy talking to you almost as much as I enjoy kissing you.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Although, on second thoughts…’
She turned away, blinking her eyes furiously because kindness was nearly as dangerous as tenderness in helping you to distort reality. But he was getting to her—even though she didn’t want him to. Wasn’t it funny how a few kind words had the power to make everything seem different? The world suddenly looked bright and vivid, even though it had been bleached of colour. The snow made the berries on the holly bushes stand out like drops of blood and Alannah reached up to bend back a tree branch, watching as it sent a shower of snow arcing through the air, and something bubbled up inside her and made her giggle.
She turned around to find Niccolò watching her, his eyes narrowed against the bright light, and her mouth grew dry as she saw an instantly recognisable hunger in their black depths.
‘What…what are we going to do if it doesn’t melt?’ she said, suddenly breathless.
He leaned forward to touch a gloved finger to her lips. ‘Guess,’ he said, and his voice was rough.
CHAPTER TEN
HE MADE LOVE to her as soon as they got back—while her cheeks were still cold from the snowy air and her eager fingers icy against his chest as she burrowed beneath his sweater. Alannah lay on the rug in front of the fire, with her arms stretched above her head, wearing nothing but a pair of knickers. And all her shyness and hang-ups seemed like a distant memory as he trailed his lips over every inch of her body.
His fingertips explored her skin with a curiously rapt attention and she found herself reaching for him with a sudden urgency, drawing in a shuddering breath as he eased into her and letting the breath out again like a slow surrender as he lowered his mouth to hers. She loved the contrast of their bodies—his so olive-skinned and dark against her own milky pallor. She liked watching the flicker of flames gilding his flesh and the way his limbs interlocked so perfectly with her own. She loved the way he tipped his head back when he came—and made that low and shuddered moan of delight.
Much later, he pulled his sweater over her head and set about cooking lunch, while she curled up on the sofa and watched him, and suddenly she felt relaxed. Really and properly relaxed. The cushion behind her back was soft and feathery and her bare toes were warm in the fire’s glow.
‘It seems weird,’ she said as he tipped a pile of clean vegetables from the chopping board into a saucepan, ‘to
see you in the kitchen, looking like you know exactly what you’re doing.’
‘That’s because I do. It isn’t exactly rocket science,’ he answered drily. ‘Unless you think cooking is too complicated for a mere man and that women are naturally superior in the kitchen?’
‘Women are naturally superior at many things,’ she said airily. ‘Though not necessarily at cooking. And you know what I mean. You’re a billionaire businessman who runs an international empire. It’s strange to see you scraping carrots.’
Niccolò gave a soft laugh as he grabbed a handful of fresh herbs, though he recognised that she’d touched a nerve. Just because he could cook, didn’t mean he did—and it was a long time since he’d done anything like this. Yet wasn’t there something uniquely comforting about creating a meal from scratch? He’d cooked for his sister in those early days of loss but as she’d got older his responsibilities towards her had lessened. When he had sent her away to school, only the vacations had required his hands-on guardianship. But he had enjoyed his role as quasi-parent and he’d made sure that he carried it out to the best of his ability—the way he tackled everything in his life.
He remembered the trips to the famous Campagna Amica market, near the Circus Maximus. He had taken Michela with him and shown the sulky teenager how to select the freshest vegetables and the finest pieces of fruit. And all the stall-owners had made a fuss of her—slipping her a ripe pear or a small bunch of perfect grapes.
When Michela had finally left home, he had filled every available hour with work—building up his property portfolio with a determination to underpin his life with the kind of security he’d never had. And as his wealth had grown, so had his ability to delegate. These days he always ate out, unless a woman was trying to impress him with her culinary repertoire. His Mayfair fridge was bare, save for coffee and champagne. His apartment was nothing but a base with a bed. It wasn’t a home because he didn’t do home. But as he squeezed lemon juice over the grilled fish he realised how much he had missed the simple routine of the kitchen.
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