His hand was warm against her cold skin. On the surface everything was deceptively still but inside, like a volcano on the point of blowing, she was liquid heat.
She fought the urge to swallow. ‘I am?’
She was used to people staring at her. From the age of nine she had been the focus of raised eyebrows and she’d revelled in it.
This man’s look was different. It sizzled through her and, afraid that the puddle of snow melting at her feet was about to turn to steam, she turned to the map.
It didn’t help. Not one bit. His hand was still covering hers, long ringless fingers darkly masculine against her own pale skin, and she found herself wondering how they would look against her breast. How they would feel...
Under the layers of black—coat, dress, the lace of her bra—her nipples hardened in response to her imagination, sending touch-me messages to all parts south and she bit on her lower lip to stop herself from whimpering.
Breathe, breathe...
She cleared the cobwebs from her throat and, hoping she sounded a lot more in control than she was, said, ‘One piazza looks very much like another on a map. Unfortunately, neither of them is where I was going.’
‘And yet here you are.’
And yet here she was, falling into eyes as dark as the espresso in his cup.
The café retreated. The bright labels on bottles behind the bar, the clatter of cutlery, the low thrum of a double bass became no more than a blur of colour, sound. All her senses were focused on the touch of his fingers curling about her hand, his molten eyes reflecting back her own image. For a moment nothing moved until, abruptly, he turned away and used the hand that had been covering hers to pick up his espresso and drain it in one swallow.
He’d looked away first and she waited for the rush of power that always gave her but it didn’t come. For the first time in her life it didn’t feel like a victory.
Toast...
‘Where are you going, signora?’ He carefully replaced the tiny cup on its saucer.
‘Here...’ She looked down but the ink had run, leaving a dirty splodge where the name of the street had been.
‘Tell him the address and Dante will point you in the right direction,’ the barista said, putting an espresso in front of her. ‘He knows every inch of Isola.’
‘Dante?’ Geli repeated. ‘As in the Inferno?’ No wonder he was so hot... Catching the barista’s knowing grin, she quickly added, ‘Or perhaps your mother is an admirer of the Pre-Raphaelites?’
‘Are you visiting someone?’ he asked, ignoring the question.
‘No.’ Mentally kicking herself for speaking before her brain was in gear—he must have heard that one a thousand times—she shook her head. ‘I’m here to work. I’ve leased an apartment for a year. Geli Amery,’ she added, offering him her hand without a thought for the consequences.
He wrapped his hand around hers and held it.
‘Dante Vettori.’ Rolled out in that sexy Italian accent, his name was a symphony of seduction. ‘Your name is Jelly?’ He lifted an eyebrow, but not like the disapproving old biddies in the village shop. Not at all. ‘Like the wobbly stuff the British inflict on small children at birthday parties?’
Okay, so she’d probably asked for that with her stupid ‘Inferno’ remark, but he wasn’t the only one to have heard it all before.
‘Or add to peanut butter in a sandwich if you’re American?’ She lifted an eyebrow right back at him, which was asking for trouble but who knew if he’d ever lift his eyebrow at her like that again? This was definitely one of those ‘live for the day’ moments she had vowed to grab with both hands and she was going for it.
‘É possįbile,’ he said, the lines bracketing his mouth deepening into a smile. ‘But I suspect not.’
He could call her what he liked as long as he kept smiling like that...
‘You suspect right. Geli is short for Angelica—as in angelica archangelica, which I’m told is a very handsome plant.’ And she smiled back. ‘You may be more familiar with its crystallised stem. The British use it to decorate the cakes and trifles that they inflict on small children at birthday parties.’
His laugh was rich and warm, creating a fan of creases around his eyes, emphasising those amazing cheekbones, widening his mouth and drawing attention to a lower lip that she wanted to lick...
Make that burnt toast...
In an attempt to regain control of her vital organs, Geli picked up her espresso and downed it in a single swallow, Italian style. It was hotter than she expected, shocking her out of the lusty mist.
‘I had intended to take a taxi—’ Her vocal cords were still screaming from the hot coffee and the words came out as little more than a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Unfortunately, there were none at the Porta Garibaldi and on the apartment details it said that Via Pepone was only a ten-minute walk.’
‘Taxis are always in short supply when the weather’s bad,’ the barista said, as Dante, frowning now, turned the details over to look at the picture of the pretty pink house where she’d be living for the next year. ‘Welcome to Isola, Geli. Lisa Vettori—I’m from the Australian branch of the family. Dante’s my cousin and, although you wouldn’t know it from the way he’s lounging around on the wrong side of the counter, Café Rosa is his bar.’
‘I pay you handsomely so that I can stay on this side of the bar,’ he reminded her, without looking up.
‘Make the most of it, mate. I have a fitting for a bridesmaid dress in Melbourne on Tuesday. Unless you get your backside in gear and find a temp to take my place, come Sunday you’ll be the one getting up close and personal with the Gaggia.’ She took a swipe at the marble counter top with a cloth to remove an invisible mark. ‘Have you got a job lined up, Geli?’ she asked.
‘A job?’
‘You said you were here to work. Have you ever worked in a bar? Only there’s a temporary—’
‘If you’ve been travelling all day you must be hungry,’ Dante said, cutting his cousin off in mid-sentence. ‘We’ll have the risotto, Lisa.’ And, holding onto the details of her apartment and, more importantly, the map, he headed for a table for two that was tucked away in a quiet corner.
Copyright © 2015 by Liz Fielding
ISBN-13: 9781460384534
The Earl’s Convenient Wife
Copyright © 2015 by Marion Lennox
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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The Earl's Convenient Wife (Harlequin Romance) Page 19
