by Annie West
‘They’re too busy worrying about their suntans to pay attention to us.’
Lily stifled a snort of disbelief. No one could help but notice Raffaele. He hooked a chair close and sank into it, the fluid grace of his athletic body mesmerising.
Yet he wasn’t at ease. The smile edging his lips wasn’t his usual confident one. It looked lopsided, almost self-conscious.
The idea confused her. She snatched at it greedily, anything to distract herself from her surroundings.
Raffaele was utterly sure of himself. He was powerful, able to get what he wanted with the click of his fingers. Nor did a crisis faze him. She’d seen him work through unexpected and potentially calamitous developments in the office. He’d been unflappable, thriving on challenge.
‘Espresso.’ He nodded to the waiter who’d materialised beside them. ‘And...?’ He looked questioningly at her empty glass.
‘Another fruit juice, thank you, Charles.’ She lifted her head to meet the waiter’s eyes, feeling the sun warm her bare cheeks. In a fit of defiant energy she’d coiled her hair up, using every pin she possessed to secure it. No more covering her cheeks. No more concealment. It had sounded simple back in her bungalow, but here, where everyone passing could see her, she felt exposed.
‘You’re on first-name terms with the waiter?’
‘You disapprove?’ She closed her eyes, telling herself she enjoyed the feel of the sun on her face.
‘Not at all. But a lot of people don’t bother to discover the names of people who serve them.’
‘I’m a researcher, remember. You’d be amazed how much I’ve found out from talking with the locals. But the fact is they’re so friendly I enjoy getting to know them.’ They’d made her feel welcome despite her nerves in a new place, meeting new people.
‘Lily?’
She opened her eyes to find Raffaele leaning close. The blaze of those ocean-bright eyes did odd things to her breathing.
‘Yes?’
He paused and she frowned, wondering at his unaccustomed hesitation.
‘I apologise.’
Lily stared, watching his lips form the words but not believing the evidence of her eyes or her ears.
‘Apologise?’ Raffaele Petri? He might not be the ogre who’d once threatened to destroy her business. He might even be kind. But she’d never heard him admit regret.
The line of his mouth kinked in a brittle smile. ‘Last night. What I said to you—’
‘Don’t.’ She shook her head, again hyper-aware of the warmth of the sun on her cheeks instead of the swish of her hair.
‘You were right.’ The words were thick in her throat, an admission of her own blindness. She should have seen the truth sooner. ‘I was hiding.’ It was the hardest admission she’d ever made.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. A tremor ran through her, her fingers twitching with the almost unstoppable urge to wrench her hair down and conceal herself.
‘I know. I wasn’t apologising for that. But for the way I spoke to you. I’m sorry. I was angry, arrogant. I should have been more tactful.’
Lily’s mouth sagged. No apology for what he’d done, just the way he’d done it. What must it be like to be so utterly sure of yourself?
But he wasn’t. She read his wariness and regret. She’d swear that was doubt in his set features. The realisation tipped the world out of balance for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
‘What are you smiling about?’ His brow furrowed.
‘Nothing. Really.’ She paused and dragged in a fortifying breath, watching the waiter place their drinks on the table then leave. ‘I... Thank you. I think if you’d been kind I wouldn’t have listened. You made me listen because you didn’t mince your words.’
She owed him so much. Without pausing for second thoughts she reached out and touched him lightly on the back of the hand.
Instantly energy fizzed and crackled up her arm, prickling her skin and drawing the hairs on her nape upright.
Dismay wrenched at her insides. She had an immediate, overwhelming certainty that she’d gone too far. Not because he looked disapproving, but because of the dart and fizz of pleasure making her body come alive in a whole new way. She looked down, willing her fingers not to close around his. It took far too long for her hand to obey her brain, yanking back as if scalded.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she sucked in a horrified breath. How could such a little thing be so devastating?
‘Lily?’ That low voice hummed through every erogenous zone in her body. She had to get a grip. She was twenty-eight, not some teenager.
Except when it came to dealing with attractive men that was exactly how she felt: fourteen and flustered, gauche and totally inexperienced.
Lily snapped open her eyes, forcing herself to meet that stunning blue stare. ‘I accept your apology. I hated the way you said it but I’m glad you did.’ Her pent-up breath expelled in a whoosh. ‘I can’t believe I never saw it before.’
‘Hey, don’t beat yourself up. You’re a remarkable woman. You’ve achieved so much. And, no, I don’t just mean your work for me.’ He gestured to her cheek. ‘Coping with that would tax anyone. You’ve done superbly.’
‘Why are you being so kind?’
‘Kind?’ His eyes rounded. ‘I’m realistic. What you’ve built for yourself, the woman you are—that took guts and determination.’
He meant it. This wasn’t like the well-meaning bonhomie of her family, whose exuberant praise for even the smallest achievements made her feel...not patronised...but as if perhaps those small achievements were the best she could ever do.
Guilt smote her. It wasn’t like that, really. Her family had been on her side through the darkest days. She wouldn’t have got through what she had without them. Of course they’d wanted to celebrate each small step forward. But eventually she’d become claustrophobic, encircled by their protectiveness.
Yet Raffaele’s no-nonsense approach, his confrontational attitude, challenging her to rise above her fear, had made all the difference.
She cleared her throat. ‘I could say the same about you. You’ve come a long way.’
Was it imagination or did the shutters come down on his expression? Strange. She’d never considered he had no-go territory. Raffaele seemed so confident and at ease.
A moment later the impression was gone. He lifted his coffee cup for a leisurely sip, leaning into his chair, one arm looped over the back. The pose stretched the gap of his half-open shirt, revealing a sprinkling of hair across his tightly muscled chest.
Lily blinked, cursing her inability to concentrate. This was the closest she’d ever been to a virile, attractive man in his prime and it tied her brain in knots.
A woman on the far side of the pool stumbled to a stop, staring, before recovering her poise and her dropped beach towel. The fact Lily wasn’t the only one responding to Raffaele’s stunning looks didn’t make her feel better.
It made her feel...possessive. He was here with her, even if it was just their business connection and his concern for her welfare that linked them.
‘That was another life.’ His smile was brief but dazzling, yet Lily couldn’t help feeling he used it to distract her.
He didn’t want to talk about his past? She could relate to that. She opened her mouth to ask about his plans for this resort, if and when he acquired it from Robert Bradshaw, but he got in first.
‘You’ll need to be careful of the sun.’ He gestured to the filmy caftan of bronze and golden brown she wore over her swimsuit. ‘Delightful as that outfit is, there’s no sun protection and your skin is like cream.’
Was that a compliment or an accusation? A reminder that she’d lived the last few years immured at home, using work as an excuse not to go out?
To Lily’s amazement she felt heat creep under her skin. A heat that had nothing to do with the sunshine and everything to do with Raffaele Petri’s heavy-lidded gaze on her body. It had been more than a decade since she’d blushed
but that stare was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Men didn’t look at her that way. Ever.
‘Where’s the hat I ordered for you? You should at least be wearing that.’
It was a sign of her stress that she’d actually forgotten the clothes she wore had been bought by him.
Suddenly the slinky bronze swimsuit felt too clingy. And as for the gossamer-thin cover-up—its light-as-air delicacy against her arms and bare thighs now made her imagine another touch...the touch of trailing masculine fingers.
‘I don’t need a nanny, Raffaele.’ She might have problems going out among people but she was twenty-eight, able to watch out for sunburn.
‘Just as well.’ His drawl rang alarm bells in some never-before-accessed part of her brain. ‘Because I don’t feel at all like a nanny.’
His expression jammed the breath in her lungs. Worse, it drew the heat that skimmed her body down into a spiralling vortex.
Lily clamped her hands on the arms of her chair, willing herself not to shift restlessly. But his look was making her feel...aroused. Aware. Awash with longing.
Her nipples tightened into buds and she crossed her arms, hoping she looked annoyed, anything but needy.
It would be excruciatingly awful if he realised how attracted she was. Enough to imagine she read sexual interest in his glance.
‘That’s another thing. I owe you for the clothes. I know you only sent them as a challenge, to dare me out of my comfort zone, but I have to pay you back.’
Once more his gaze skimmed over her, with the swift precision of a connoisseur. What did he see, apart from her blemished face? A too-pale body that held no allure when compared with the women he knew? Of course that was it. He’d even bought this outfit in shades of brown, surely a sign he saw her as a drab sparrow.
‘And for the pleasure of seeing you in them.’
‘Sorry?’ The screech of her chair scraping back on the flagstones almost obliterated the sound of her shock-diminished voice. Her heart thrummed so hard against her ribs she felt light-headed.
‘I said, I wanted to see you in them. You’ve got a lovely body, Lily. You should be proud of it.’
She shook her head.
‘You’ve made your point about me being a recluse. You don’t need to say things that aren’t true.’ He had no idea how cruel that was. How badly a woman who’d never had such a compliment in her life yearned for it to be real.
She’d spent half a lifetime being told that true beauty was on the inside. But some pathetic, juvenile part of her still longed to be thought pretty. Just once.
‘You think I’m lying?’ His dark eyebrows steepled together. ‘You know me, Lily. I always get straight to the point. These days I tell the unvarnished truth instead of any easy lies.’
He leaned forward, closing the gap between them. His bluer than blue eyes pinioned her. ‘You have a beautiful body, Lily, and I enjoy looking at you. That’s the truth.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
RAFFA WATCHED HER stalk from the pool terrace, along the path through the gardens. Head up, shoulders back, long legs supple and strong, hips swaying in unconscious invitation. She was as alluring as any classically beautiful model he’d known.
More. There was nothing artificial about Lily. From those pert breasts to that searing golden-brown stare she was authentic.
Desirable.
Around the poolside heads turned to follow her progress. Raffa saw women lean close together, whispering, their expressions varying from sympathy to horror.
No doubt about it, Lily had been brave sitting here alone, without even a hat to conceal her scarred face.
But for every female shudder he caught more masculine stares. Some overt, some discreet, all fixed on the delectable sway of her body.
Raffa tried to analyse what it was about her that fired his libido. The swell of her hips? The ripe thrust of her breasts? The long, seductive curve of thigh and calf?
Maybe the way her voice turned to a throaty purr when she was annoyed. Or the curious mix of vulnerability and vivacity that kept him on his toes. Even her prickly defensiveness appealed, provoking him time and again to pursue the woman who tried to disguise herself.
For the first time he was attracted to a woman’s mind, her thoughts and character, as well as her body.
Whatever this was, he’d passed the point of hoping it would go away. She’d stirred him out of sexual apathy so profoundly he felt wired, attuned to her as a predator to his prey. Her every shift of mood jangled his senses, undermining his concentration on the vital deal he’d come here to close. He should be focused on Bradshaw, yet Lily was a distraction he couldn’t ignore.
Worryingly, she also aroused dormant feelings—concern, protectiveness, caring. Feelings expunged the day his childhood ended. The day Gabriella had been found dead.
Raffa sank back in his seat, winded by the devastating simplicity of what he faced.
For the first time in his life there was no careful consideration of pros and cons, of benefits versus risks. Just untrammelled desire, simple and unprecedented.
That explained his less than impressive performance just now. No one hearing him would believe he’d once made a living out of sweet-talking women. He’d known how to pander to female fantasies, to become whatever they wanted for long enough to get what he in turn needed from them. He’d been smooth but never obvious. He’d made each one feel special. That had been his gift and his greatest asset.
The question was, had he completely lost his touch?
* * *
Raffa was lost in thought when a flash of colour caught his eye. A stream of dark gold as familiar as the reflection he saw in the mirror if ever he bothered to look. Colour as rich as ancient coins, hoarded for a king’s pleasure, but instead of cold metal this was a ribbon burnished by the sun, cascading down a woman’s back. It rippled in soft waves as she moved.
Emotion clutched his chest, digging talons deep into his heart, squeezing his lungs. His breath stopped on a harsh rasp. She moved again, slender arms pushing her hair over her shoulder in a gesture he’d known from infancy.
Gabriella.
Raffa opened his mouth till instinct, more primitive than logic, stopped him. To call out would break the magic.
He wanted to run to her. Pour out his apologies for not behaving better, for not appreciating how lucky he was to have her. For driving her away in frustration that last night. He was twelve again and desperate. He felt grief and regret, shame and hope.
Till she moved again and the magic was lost.
It wasn’t Gabriella.
Of course it wasn’t. Gabriella was twenty-one years’ dead. Yet for a moment she’d been vividly alive again. Raffa’s heart sprinted in a sickening, uneven gallop, his lungs atrophied and he forced his fisted hands to loosen.
The young woman moved again, walking through the shallow end of the pool, and her walk wasn’t Gabriella’s. Her hair wasn’t down to her waist and she was boyishly slim whereas Gabriella had been curvy.
One thing they had in common though. They were both in their teens. The girl was around fifteen or sixteen, much younger than the man helping her from the pool.
Raffa was turning away when his gaze sharpened. That wasn’t her father taking her arm. He recognised the fleshy face and ham-like hands. Hands that lingered on her hips.
Robert Bradshaw. The man he’d avoided since arriving. He had no interest in seeing him till he was ready to make his move. Making Bradshaw sweat, waiting for that moment, was a bonus.
But it wasn’t the deal on Raffa’s mind now. It was Gabriella and how Bradshaw had ushered her aboard his boat twenty-one years ago, an arm hovering near her waist as he offered champagne.
The next morning Gabriella was dead.
There was a crash and Raffa looked down to see glass splintered across the paving where he’d knocked his drink.
Bradshaw heard it too, his head snapping up. Seconds later he was patting the girl and murmuring in her ear before leaving h
er.
‘Signor Petri. It’s good to see you at last.’ He lunged forward to shake hands but Raffa avoided the gesture, leaning down to collect broken glass.
‘Leave that. It’s what the staff are for.’ The Englishman turned as a waiter hurried out with a brush and pan. ‘About time! You should have been here instantly.’
‘It’s fine.’ Raffa nodded to the waiter. ‘My fault.’
Seconds later the glass was cleared and Bradshaw hefted himself into a chair. ‘I’ve been wanting to catch up with you. We’ve a lot to discuss.’ He waved expansively. ‘Excellent idea to come here personally to see the resort before we close a deal. It’s really something, isn’t it?’
Behind his air of ease Raffa detected strain. Good. That was a start. Ideally Raffa would see him behind bars for the rest of his life but, as that wasn’t possible, the revenge he’d planned would have to be enough.
‘It’s peaceful.’ He saw Bradshaw frown, dismayed at Raffa’s lack of praise. The man was no negotiator, letting his fear show.
‘Come to my house and I’ll see you get some action.’ Bradshaw leaned in. ‘Come to dinner. I’ll throw a private party. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’
Raffa was shaking his head before Bradshaw stopped speaking. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He didn’t bother giving an excuse. Let him stew.
Bradshaw’s smile grew guarded. ‘Later in the week then. Let me know when you’re free to discuss business. In the meantime, relax, enjoy.’ He leaned close enough for Raffa to smell sweat and expensive aftershave.
‘Would you like some female company to amuse you while you’re here? It would be very discreet.’ When Raffa didn’t respond he continued, flicking a glance across the pool. ‘A nice, fresh girl. Blonde, maybe? Or redhead? Just say the word.’
Nausea clutched Raffa’s belly as he followed Bradshaw’s leering gaze to the girl he’d seen earlier. His hands dug so tight into his chair’s armrests he’d probably mark the metal like he wanted to mark Bradshaw’s face. It was a miracle he held back, a miracle possible only because he knew Bradshaw would pay with everything he had and everything he’d ever wanted, once this deal went through.
