A Deal Sealed by Passion

by Louise Fuller

  ‘I don’t understand me either,’ he said softly. ‘But I do know that I don’t want to fight with you.’ He shook his head. ‘I want it to be like it was earlier.’

  She bit her lip and then nodded slowly. ‘I do too.’

  He watched a flush of colour spread over her cheeks and, feeling a sudden overwhelming need to touch her, he reached out and gently stroked her face.

  She looked so young and, remembering the sadness in her eyes when she’d told him about her mother’s death, he felt a sudden urge to protect her. To turn the yacht out to sea and sail away into that glorious, cinematic sunset.

  He sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I know I said we could spend the night on the boat but we can’t,’ he said slowly. ‘I forgot I’ve got a dinner. Tonight. And I can’t not be there. It’s business. Well, politics and business. I’m having dinner with the prime minister.’

  Watching her eyes widen in shock, he shook his head. He still couldn’t quite believe that it had slipped his mind. It had certainly never happened before. Eyeing him sideways, Flora felt a rush of disappointment but as he met her gaze, she held out her hand.

  ‘It’s fine. Give me that bikini. I can swim home.’

  She was back to teasing him. Relief swept over him and then swiftly faded. He didn’t want to leave her behind. Nor did he want to be stuck in some soulless hotel room with just the mini-bar and his thoughts for company.

  But why should he be alone?

  He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her firmly against him. ‘How would you like to go to Rome with me?’

  * * *

  ‘I think—perhaps—if we do this...’ Frowning, Massimo got to his feet and, standing in front of Flora, folded the shimmering blue fabric below her collarbone. ‘Would that work?’

  Elisabetta, the tiny and incredibly chic head assistant at the Via dei Condotti fashion house, nodded approvingly. ‘It would indeed, Signor Sforza.’ With swift fingers, she deftly pinned the silk in place and then, turning to Flora, she smiled. ‘Perhaps you would like to see yourself now, signorina?’

  Smiling weakly back at her, Flora nodded and stepped tentatively in front of the mirror. She stared at herself in silence, jolted by her reflection.

  It fitted perfectly. As it should, she thought wryly, after two hours of pinning and pinching. It was all so exciting. She’d never had a dress made for her before, and she’d loved every moment. More exciting though was the way Massimo had dominated the huge fitting room, not a single stitch escaping his glittering blue gaze.

  Watching him, it had been easy for her to see why he was so successful in business: he had given her dress the same focus as he gave to driving his sports car or teasing her to orgasm with his tongue.

  And lucky for her that he did, she thought, gazing raptly at her reflection in the trio of huge mirrors that lined one end of the room. The dress was utterly divine.

  She caught sight of Massimo watching her in the mirror and blushed. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘It’s lovely, really, and incredibly generous of you.’

  He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘It’s my pleasure. Truly. And the dress is lovely, but it would be nothing without you, cara. You take my breath away.’

  She smiled mechanically. His voice was soft, his gaze softer still, but that didn’t make his remark true any more than it made the evening a date.

  Heart hammering, desperate not to let him see how much she wanted his words to be true, she reached up and pressed a trembling finger against his lips. ‘Then don’t say any more,’ she said lightly. ‘I don’t want you collapsing on me.’

  It had been like a rollercoaster ride.

  They had flown to Rome in Massimo’s helicopter and a chauffeur-driven limousine had met them at the airport and whisked them across the city to the salon just as it had been about to close. It was yet another reminder that Massimo was no ordinary man. And that in his world shops were always open, restaurants always serving food.

  Now the limousine was slipping smoothly through the traffic-clogged streets. She blinked as a flash of blue light swept past them.

  ‘I still can’t believe we’ve got a police escort. I thought only world leaders had those.’

  Massimo squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t normally have one. But we’re guests of the prime minister; that’s why security’s a little over the top.’

  Lounging beside her like a modern-day Roman emperor in a dinner jacket and dress shirt, he looked as though he could rule not just the country but the universe, she thought helplessly. He was just so perfect. As though sensing her focus, he turned, his gaze locking onto her and horrified that he might actually be able to read her thoughts, she took refuge in humour. ‘It certainly is. Your ego is bulletproof. You certainly don’t need any encouragement—’

  She broke off, her breath snagging in her throat, as he jerked her towards him and she felt the hard length of his arousal through his trousers.

  ‘Not with you, I don’t.’ He groaned softly. ‘I can’t bear being this close to you and not being able to do anything.’

  She felt her skin began to burn as his eyes roamed slowly and appreciatively over the clinging silk, and then she shivered as he slid his hand through the slit in the back of her dress and pressed his cool palm against her hot bare flesh.

  ‘And I am definitely not going to be able to keep my hands off you in that dress for much longer—’

  There was a discreet cough over the intercom.

  Gritting his teeth, Massimo looked up sharply towards the front of the car.

  ‘We’re nearly there, sir,’ said the chauffeur. ‘There are quite a lot of photographers, so do you want me to take you to the front or use the service entrance—?’

  ‘The front entrance will be fine.’

  ‘What is this place?’ Flora said shakily. She had never seen so many paparazzi or security guards.

  ‘The Palazzo del Quirinale. It’s the official residence of the Italian President,’ Massimo said smoothly.

  ‘I thought we were meeting the Prime Minister?’

  ‘We are. And the President too.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Is that all?’

  He hesitated. ‘No. Not exactly.’

  She stared at him nervously. ‘How many other people are going?’

  ‘Not many. Probably about fifty or sixty,’ he said casually. Her mouth fell open, but it was too late to say anything now. They had arrived. The car slid smoothly to a stop and he gave her hand a quick squeeze.

  ‘I’ll be with you the whole time,’ he said firmly.

  As the doors opened she smoothed her dress down over her legs and stepped out onto the road into a roar of sound. Around her camera flashes exploded in every direction, and then Massimo was by her side, his hand locked tightly in hers.

  ‘Don’t look so worried. Just keep looking at me like you’re crazy about me!’

  His eyes gleamed, and she pinched him on the arm. ‘I’m a gardener. Not an actress!’

  ‘You won’t need to act.’

  He grinned at her, that sweet, slow grin that made her skin slip from her bones, and then, lowering his head, he kissed her. Lights flashed. But whether or not they were just inside her head she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that there was nothing and no one that mattered but him and the fierce pressure of his kiss.

  He lifted his head. ‘See! No acting required,’ he murmured.

  His eyes were the darkest blue, as though he’d swallowed the night sky. She stared at him in confusion, her body tingling, her head still swimming. Behind them the photographers were calling out Massimo’s name, and with shock she realised that it wasn’t just the two of them any more. This wasn’t the kitchen at the palazzo or even his yacht. This was public. It was real.

  She felt a sharp stab of longing. Did t
hat mean it was more than sex for him too now?

  ‘Wh-why did you do that?’ she said shakily.

  Taking her hand, he led her along the red carpet, past the lines of security guards.

  ‘We’re in the city of love, cara. What else could I do?’

  She gazed up at him, transfixed by the light in his eyes. ‘I thought Paris was the city of love?’

  He frowned and shook his head slowly. ‘A Frenchman told you that, right?’ He sighed. ‘I’d be charitable and say he made a mistake, but I know that guy and he is not to be trusted. Rome is definitely the city of love.’

  It was only later that she realised he’d been trying to distract her, no doubt prompted by her poorly concealed panic. But despite her nerves she started to relax—in the main because at every opportunity Massimo materialised by her side and slid his hand into hers. Almost as though he wanted everyone to know she was with him. Although that was most likely wish fulfilment on her part rather than fact.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ he muttered in her ear as the doors to the dining room opened. ‘Don’t worry—I tipped one of the waiters to put us next to one another. That way I can make sure you don’t run off with the Minister for Trade!’

  * * *

  The Minister for Trade turned out to be a large, florid man in his mid-sixties, whose wife was sitting next to Massimo.

  ‘She seemed nice,’ Flora said later as they sat in the salon della feste enjoying their coffees.

  ‘Carla? Yes, she is. They both are. It’s his second marriage. His first wife died. They had a daughter about your age who’s in a bit of a mess. She’s not really coping.’

  Flora bit her lip. ‘That’s so sad.’

  He nodded, his eyes resting on her face. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I told her about you.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I thought maybe you could talk to her. You don’t mind, do you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t mind. But I’m not sure how much use I’d be.’

  He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Stalling, she picked up her coffee. ‘I’d feel like a fraud,’ she said stiffly. ‘It’s not as if I’m really coping.’

  There was a brief silence, and then Massimo leaned forward. ‘Why do you think that?’ he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. The air was shifting around them—thickening, tightening. ‘Because if I was I’d be at home in England.’ She put down her coffee cup. ‘I only came out here in the first place because I couldn’t cope with being at home.’ She sighed. ‘My dad and my brother were always quite protective when I was growing up. But after my mum died they just completely stopped listening to me.’

  Looking up, she gave him a small, stiff smile.

  ‘They treat me like a five-year-old. So in the end I ran away. I told them it was so I could get my head together and finish my thesis. But really it was to get away from them.’

  A faint flush of pink crept over her cheeks.

  ‘That’s why I got on so well with Umberto. I know what everyone thought. But we were never lovers. We just understood each other: he was on the run too. From his wives and his mistresses. And the fact that he couldn’t paint like he used to. So you see I didn’t cope. I ran away.’

  She fell silent. Around them the noise of laughter and people talking swelled and faded like a tide.

  ‘Could you talk to your dad, maybe? Or Freddie?’

  His voice was gentle. Too gentle. She felt her chest grow tight. How could she explain her father’s grief? If she was struggling then he was hanging on by a thread. And Freddie was a lawyer. If she spoke to him she’d just end up agreeing with him as she always did.

  ‘It would hurt him,’ she whispered. ‘And he’s so broken. So fragile.’

  Just thinking about her father, his face still anxiously scanning crowds, hoping for a glimpse of her mother, made her want to cry.

  ‘I don’t ever want to be that reliant on anyone,’ she said angrily. ‘What’s the point of loving someone and caring for them if it makes you feel like that?’

  She looked up at him, but he’d glanced away to where the waiters were clearing tables, and she felt despair, sudden and sharp enough to cut her skin. Of course! Why would Massimo be interested in her pain?

  ‘It’s what makes life worth living.’

  His voice was so quiet at first she thought she might be hearing things.

  But then he turned and said softly, ‘If you don’t feel sad when someone isn’t there... If you don’t care if they’re happy or not...then there’s no point.’

  His eyes fixed on hers and, leaning across, he took her hand and pressed it against his mouth.

  ‘Mr Sforza—?’

  Flora turned and looked up dazedly. It was one of the waiters.

  Massimo stared at him coolly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have a telephone call for you, sir.’

  It was as though a switch had been flicked. Flora froze as Massimo shifted in his seat, his jaw tightening.

  ‘Can’t you see we’re busy?’

  His tone was so harsh she was surprised it didn’t strip the gilt off the salon’s golden walls. Glancing at Flora’s frozen expression, the waiter hesitated.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. But there’s been an accident—’

  Massimo’s face went white. ‘Is she hurt?’

  The waiter shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir—’

  Massimo turned to Flora. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back as soon as possible.’

  She’d barely had a chance to drain her cup of coffee when he reappeared looking, if possible, angrier than he had on the yacht.

  She got to her feet. ‘Is she okay?’ She had no idea who this mysterious ‘she’ was but she could feel Massimo’s pain and she wanted to help him.

  He stared at her, his features distorted with pure, blank-eyed rage. ‘Of course she’s okay. She lied just to get me to come to the phone.

  Flora felt her heart start to pound. What kind of person would lie about being in an accident?

  ‘Why would she—?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said coldly, his voice as flat and dangerous as black ice. She stared at him numbly, seeing the anger in his eyes and for a moment she hesitated. They’d already had a huge row that day. And some problems were just too big to solve. Like her father’s grief...

  Her stomach tightened. She hadn’t wanted to deal with her dad’s misery or his over-protectiveness so instead of confronting him, she’d run away. Feeling something like shame or guilt prod her in the ribs, she lifted her chin. This time though, she wasn’t going to run away.

  ‘Tough!’ she said slowly. ‘You can’t just expect me to ignore this, Massimo. What’s the big secret? Why won’t you tell me who keeps ringing you?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to discuss it with you,’ he said roughly.

  ‘But you are prepared to have sex with me?’ she snapped.

  Around them the room fell quiet. There was a moment of tense, expectant silence and then everyone began speaking at once.

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then his eyes slipped away across the salon.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, his breath catching savagely on the word. ‘Have it your way! But not here.’

  He grabbed her roughly by the hand and dragged her out of the salon. He was walking so fast she had to run to keep up with his strides. Glancing up at his set, cold face, she felt dread scuttle across her skin.

  What had she done?

  But it was too late for regrets. Pushing open a door, he pulled her through with him, and suddenly they were outside.

  He stopped and dropped her hand as though it were burning him. Glancing round, she saw that they were on a huge, terraced balcony and beyond that there was nothing but darkne
ss.

  She could hear his breathing—sharp, unsteady—and, turning slowly, she stared at his profile.

  ‘Who is she?’

  There was a silence, and then finally he said curtly, ‘She’s my stepmother.’ He turned and looked at her. ‘Her name’s Alida.’

  The rawness in his voice made her wince, but she said as calmly as she could, ‘Why won’t you speak to her?’

  He laughed—a harsh laugh without any humour in it whatsoever. ‘Because she made my life a misery.’

  She hesitated. ‘When did she marry your dad?’

  His lip curled back into a snarl. ‘Just after my mother died. When I was five.’

  Watching his body tense, she shivered. She knew he was remembering the hurt and the loneliness in every nerve and muscle, and the misery on his face made her feel sick.

  ‘Is that why you were sent to boarding school?’

  His eyes, narrowed and hostile like a cornered animal’s, met hers. ‘She told my father she couldn’t manage me. That I was too difficult to handle.’

  Flora felt a knot in her stomach. ‘But you were only five,’ she said slowly, ‘and your mum had just died. I don’t understand. Why didn’t your dad stand up to her...?’

  Her voice trailed off as Massimo’s mouth curved into a grim smile.

  ‘My father always took the path of least resistance. I don’t think he wanted to oppose her. He hated rows, confrontation—’

  ‘But surely he didn’t want you to go away?’

  A muscle jumped in his cheek and he stared out into the darkness. ‘I don’t know what he wanted. After he married Alida I barely saw him.’ His eyes glittered coldly. ‘I spent most holidays at school. When I was allowed home they went away travelling. I used to get sent to live with my father’s handyman and his wife.’

  Her head was spinning. But she needed to stay focused. Her shock and horror were not important beside his pain.

  ‘What happened next?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘He died when I was sixteen. The last time I saw him properly was about five months before his death. I was summoned so he could tell me he’d changed his will.’ The anger had faded from his voice. There was nothing in it now—no life, no feelings and tears rose in her throat.