This Time for Keeps (Doctors of Rittenhouse Square Book 3)

by Jill Blake

  Condoms. Right. She needed her toiletry bag. She’d packed a whole bunch of condoms in one of the zippered compartments, when she’d first booked her trip.

  She flipped on the wall switch and blinked at the sudden flood of overhead light. In the antique mirror above the sink, her reflection stared back. Flushed face, wild hair, bare breasts, and fire-engine red thong that fairly screamed “Take me!”

  As far as you could get from the usual scrubs and practical cotton.

  But that was the point, wasn’t it? She wanted wild, uninhibited, mind-blowing sex. The kind she’d never really experienced, come to think of it. Her last boyfriend had always been in a rush, eager to get to the main event, ever mindful of the fact that at any moment they might be interrupted by the beeping of a pager.

  Well, no pagers here. No cell phones, no medical emergencies, no hospital or patients demanding her attention. Nothing but a too-sexy-to-be-believed Italian male waiting for her to return.

  She grabbed her travel kit from the counter where she’d left it earlier that day. Her fingers fumbled with the metal snap. She cursed under her breath. For someone who could open and close a surgical case practically blindfolded, who wielded a scalpel and needle driver with unfailing accuracy, who prided herself on the speed and precision of her fine motor skills in the operating room, the momentary clumsiness was both unexpected and a little frightening.

  She needed to slow down, take a breath. Unfold the toiletry kit, search through each zippered compartment systematically. Luca would wait.

  Twenty seconds later, she hit pay dirt.

  She turned and caught a glimpse of the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. She briefly debated pulling it on to cover up the awkwardness of facing Luca in stilettos and practically nothing else, especially if the break in action had resulted in a cooling off of passion. Then she decided against it. They both knew what they were here for. No need to dress it up in demure white terrycloth.

  She flicked off the light and stepped into the bedroom.

  In her absence, he’d apparently discovered the gas fireplace. The flames danced behind an elaborate metal screen, dispelling some of the evening chill and lending a warm glow to the room. In the flickering light, she saw that he had shed his jacket and bow tie, and was in the process of removing his cufflinks.

  He must have heard her move, because he turned toward her. She felt his gaze like a caress, tracing an unhurried path down her body, lingering on her hair and mouth, her breasts, the triangle of red silk that was her last remaining claim to modesty, the strappy heels that showcased her matching red toenails.

  She dangled a strip of gold foil packets between thumb and forefinger.

  His smile melted the last of her inhibitions. She swayed toward him, hyper-aware of the cool air hardening her nipples, the dampness gathering between her legs.

  He dropped his cufflinks on the nearest surface without looking. His hands burned against her skin, fingers trailing along her jaw, outlining her ears, burrowing into her hair.

  She shuddered at the feel of his lips on her neck, his breath raising gooseflesh as he worked his way down. He lavished particular attention on her breasts before moving on to her quivering stomach. Her fingers went slack as he traced the edge of her thong to where it narrowed in back, and then he was on his knees before her, his hands cupping her buttocks.

  “Spread your legs,” he murmured.

  She wasn’t sure she could. They felt watery, ready at any moment to give out. His hands slid down to the backs of her thighs, applying gentle pressure, and she found that she could move, after all. Just a little, just enough for him to hook a finger into the strip of cloth between her legs and pull it aside, providing access for his tongue to delve beneath and burrow between the folds. She let out a startled cry and gripped his shoulders for support.

  He zeroed in on the most sensitive spot, and she bucked. His fingers tightened, bringing her closer, his tongue working her clitoris, pressing hard, adjusting the rhythm to her response, until she could barely stand, muscles trembling, and all that kept her from slipping down were his hands and mouth.

  Tiny tremors spread from her core, welling into bigger ones, until she felt like her entire body was shaking, convulsing around him, and then suddenly he was lifting her, turning so that they both fell, her back against the cool bedcovers, his body covering hers.

  The starched cotton of his shirt abraded her overly sensitized nipples. His erection pressed into the juncture of her thighs, throbbing against her through layers of clothing.

  She willed her fingers into action, attacking buttons, shoving aside fabric, panting in frustration at her slow progress. He lifted up briefly to dispense with the rest of his clothing and retrieve the condoms that had fallen to the floor.

  She barely had time to appreciate the sight of his erection before he sheathed himself and rejoined her on the bed. He whisked off her G-string and hooked a palm beneath her thigh, pulling her leg up so that she was spread wide, his other hand skimming down her belly into the curls below, thumb flicking at her clit. A finger slipped inside her, followed by another, and then they were gone, replaced by his erection, pressing slowly into her until she felt almost too full. She clutched the rigid muscles of his back and tried to move, but his fingers dug into her hips, keeping her still. Slowly the inexorable pressure subsided, and he withdrew before pushing forward again, deeper.

  His mouth settled over hers, tongue mimicking the movement below. They settled into a rhythm that gradually accelerated, until they were both gasping for air. He leaned back slightly, insinuating a hand between them, rubbing his thumb over the pebble of flesh just above where they were joined, once, twice, and by the third stroke she was flying.

  “Dio.” He stiffened and collapsed against her, his groan muffled by the bedding.

  A few moments later, he rolled to the side, and she shivered at the sudden loss of heat. They were still lying on top of the covers. Despite the fire he’d lit earlier, the room seemed to be getting colder by the minute. Luca’s breathing slowed, and she realized he wasn’t moving any time soon.

  The terrycloth robe was going to come in handy, after all.

  She sat up, wincing as muscles she’d forgotten about twinged in protest.

  And then she grinned. She was still wearing her strappy heels. They were deep burgundy, the exact color of her bridesmaid’s dress, which was why she’d originally ordered them.

  “You’re kidding,” Samantha had said when she first saw them. “Sandals on a four inch heel, for an outdoor wedding in September?”

  Jane, ever the peace-maker, came to Isabelle’s defense. “The reception will be indoors.”

  “Fine,” Sam said. “But they still look like ‘fuck-me’ shoes.”

  Oh, yeah.

  ###

  It was the sound of running water that woke him.

  For a while, he’d been drifting in and out of sleep, enjoying the press of Isabelle’s warm body against his. At some point during the night, he’d gotten up to use the bathroom and turn down the fire, then climbed back into bed, this time beneath the duvet. He’d managed to coax her out of the ugly white bathrobe and under the covers, where they’d enjoyed a second round of lovemaking before falling back asleep.

  He glanced around the room. Slivers of light peeked through a gap between the heavy velvet drapes. An ornate clock on the mantelpiece read seven-fifteen.

  The bathroom door was closed. The shower abruptly cut off, and a few minutes later Isabelle emerged, toweling dry her hair. She wore jeans and a shapeless long-sleeve shirt that hid the delightful curves he’d enjoyed last night. She drew short when she noticed he was awake.

  “Buongiorno, Bella.”

  She smiled and draped the towel over the back of a chair. “Morning.”

  He propped himself up against the headboard. “You’re up early.”

  “Yes.” She smoothed her hair back into a casual twist and anchored it in place with a claw-tooth clip. “They have a
lovely breakfast downstairs, if you’re interested. From seven-thirty to ten.”

  “Later, Bella. Come back to bed.” He lifted a corner of the duvet and noted with amusement that her cheeks colored as her gaze dropped to his lap.

  “I can’t.” She jerked her eyes back up and swallowed. “I have to get going.”

  She ducked back into the bathroom, re-emerging with what appeared to be a fully packed travel kit. She deposited it in an open suitcase on a nearby luggage rack, and then swept around the room, gathering up their clothing from the night before.

  “Jane arranged for a late check-out,” she said, draping his tuxedo and shirt over the bench at the foot of the bed. “So you can go back to sleep if you like.”

  He watched silently, fascinated by her quick, almost nervous, movements as she rolled her gown and shoes into a tight bundle and shoved them into a canvas bag. “You don’t want to hang that up?” he asked, imagining how his sisters would cringe at such careless handling.

  “The dry cleaner will take care of it.”

  “The dry cleaner,” Luca repeated. “Of course.”

  Her dismissive remark confirmed his earlier impression. This was not a woman used to cleaning up her own messes. He was surprised she’d even made an attempt to tidy up the room.

  “So,” he said, after observing her somewhat haphazard packing process for several more minutes. “May I ask where you are off to in such a rush?”

  “Home.” She zipped the small suitcase and looked around, as if checking for anything she might have left behind. “I still have some packing to do before I fly out tonight.”

  “You’re going somewhere?”

  She glanced at him. “Rome.”

  His eyebrows shot up, but before he had a chance to respond, she rushed on, “I’ve been planning this trip for a while. It has nothing to do with…” She broke off, gesturing vaguely toward the bed. Whether she was referring to him, or to the activity they’d engaged in last night, he wasn’t sure. She bit her lip, and he realized that the brash, audacious siren of the previous evening wasn’t quite so comfortable with the morning after.

  It was that awkwardness, more than anything else—more even than the pleasure they’d taken in each other’s bodies—that prompted him to say, “I can show you Campania, if you like.”

  She blinked. “Don’t you have to teach, or something?”

  He threw back the bedcovers, and with complete disregard for his own nudity, closed the distance between them. “Fall semester doesn’t start until the middle of next week. And since my first lecture isn’t until Friday, I have ten days to play with.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it without saying anything.

  Luca ran a finger down her cheek and jaw, leaned in to claim her lips. “Give me a half hour,” he murmured as they broke apart. “Go have breakfast. I’ll take a quick shower and join you. Then we’ll talk. Va bene?”

  For a moment he thought she would refuse. Then she nodded, and he felt like the sun was once again shining. “Okay.”

  He waited until the door closed before taking a deep breath and heading for the bathroom.

  It had been a while since he’d seen his family. They’d welcome a visit, regardless of the impetus. And it would be good to have a small break that had nothing to do with work.

  He closed his eyes and stood beneath the pounding hot water. He wasn’t a spontaneous person, couldn’t recall the last time he’d done something impulsive. Until last night. And again this morning.

  Amongst his siblings and friends, he was the planner, the one who’d always kept his nose to the grindstone. Studying while his peers lounged in town squares ogling girls. Working his ass off through college and grad school so he could score a coveted tenure-track position at one of the premiere universities in the States. Submitting paper after paper to the top conferences in computer science, and then continuing to grow his DBLP publication list and his H-index on Google Scholar, even after attaining tenure.

  In his personal life, he’d likewise left little to chance. He’d married early, and planned everything, down to the timing and names of the children he’d always wanted. Which was why, he supposed, the implosion of his marriage had blindsided him. His wife had apparently harbored different ambitions. In the end, there hadn’t been any children to split—only a house to put up for sale, and seven years’ worth of assets to divide.

  Since then, Luca had become even more careful and compulsive with regard to women. Liaisons consisted of light dinners out, followed by some pleasant recreational activity either at the woman’s home, or some place that guaranteed anonymity and a convenient escape. Nothing that could be construed as long-term intent, or that obligated him to a repeat performance.

  But with Bella, he felt like chucking all caution out the window, tearing up the rulebook, and just basking in the joy of her presence. Maybe it was the fact that she made him feel carefree, at peace with the world. Not angry or shell-shocked like he’d been for much of the past year since his divorce, or perhaps even longer, before he had realized that his wife was cheating on him, and that she’d never intended to get pregnant and have his children.

  He’d lived with that oppressive weight for so long that it had become a part of him, noticeable in retrospect only by virtue of its sudden absence. Whether it was the passage of time, or Bella’s influence, that had relieved him—even temporarily—of that grim burden, he could only be grateful.

  And so he did what he’d never done before, or even imagined doing: he decided on the spur of the moment to drop everything and travel halfway across the world with a virtual stranger, just so he could spend some more time in her company.

  If his sisters ever got wind of this, he’d never live it down. Better keep his visit home separate from the rest of this trip. Surely he’d be able to carve out some time to see his family while Isabelle was otherwise occupied.

  He hadn’t even asked how long she planned to be in Italy, or what arrangements she’d already made. No matter. With the right incentive, and sufficient resources, there was no hotel reservation that couldn’t be changed, no tour that couldn’t be cancelled.

  A smart phone, a credit card, and a little charm were all that he needed to find a last-minute flight out of Philadelphia to Fiumicino Airport in Rome. The place to stay took a bit longer, but luckily August was over, and all the German and French tourists who mobbed Italy during the summer were gone. It didn’t hurt that Amalfi and Positano were his old stomping grounds, and he knew people who could pull a few strings.

  By the time he joined Isabelle at breakfast, he had an itinerary in hand. Years of attending international conferences and workshops had taught him to travel light. A quick trip to Princeton to throw some clothes in a suitcase and pick up his passport, and he’d be all set. Now it was just a matter of convincing Bella to go along with his plans.

  Chapter 4

  Strapped into the passenger seat of their rented Passat, Isabelle questioned the wisdom of agreeing to put her life in the hands of a lunatic. The speedometer edged over 150 kilometers an hour before she forced herself to look away. It didn’t help that other cars on the Autostrada were zipping past them. When they finally exited the A3, she released her white-knuckled grip on the armrest, only to realize that her relief was premature. The last leg of their three-hour drive was a stretch of single-lane road whose hairpin twists hugged a sheer cliff wall with no guardrail to prevent them from plunging into the Mediterranean.

  By the time they arrived in Amalfi, Isabelle was so grateful to still be alive that she barely noticed the beauty of her surroundings. It was only later, after they’d settled into their suite at the Luna Convento, and she’d had the time to shower and change, that she took the time to look around.

  She was leaning against the railing of the private terrace off of their bedroom, absorbing the infinite expanse of sea and sky, when Luca came up behind her.

  “Try this,” he said, offering her an old-fashioned glass filled with ice and
a ruby liquid.

  “What is it?”

  “Campari. It’s an aperitif.” He’d cleaned up as well, but hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Her eyes drank in the impressive chest and abdominal muscles, and she wondered yet again how a university professor managed to maintain such superb form.

  She took a small sip and promptly gagged at the bitter taste. “Ugh. It’s awful.”

  “An acquired taste, Bella.” He grinned and handed her a bottle of water in exchange for the liqueur. “We’ll work on it.”

  “I’d rather eat chalk.”

  The laugh lines crinkled again. Mid-afternoon heat shimmered off the water below, and here, on the balcony, the temperature edged up a few degrees. “You’re in Italy now. No chalk on the menu. But I’m sure we can find something that meets your approval. We should head out soon, before all the restaurants close for siesta.”

  They ended up on the second floor terrace of Da Gemma, where Luca apparently knew the chef. Their table overlooked the Piazza Duomo, and Isabelle spent half the meal enjoying her first real glimpse of Amalfi.

  A fountain in the center of the square seemed to be a gathering place for people and pigeons alike. It was dominated by a life-size statue of St. Andrew surrounded by marble nymphs, and as Isabelle watched, a succession of people stopped by to drink directly from the twin jets of water spouting from one of the nymph’s breasts.

  “We’re less prudish here,” Luca said, intercepting her expression. “You’ll get used to it, Bella.”

  Maybe, but she couldn’t help wondering about the water, and whether it was filtered. All those germs...

  Stop it, she told herself firmly. You’re here to get away from work. The hygiene of local customs wasn’t her concern.

  Beautifully groomed women in sundresses and espadrilles, some in wide brim hats, others in Sophia Loren type sunglasses, sauntered past, seemingly ignoring the leers and catcalls of the youths lounging near a shuttered storefront. Men clustered at outdoor café tables, their speech punctuated with animated gestures as they smoked and drank from tiny espresso cups. A solidly build woman in white utilitarian dress and long headscarf herded a group of chattering schoolchildren toward the stone archway that led to the waterfront. Across the piazza, a few straggling tourists climbed the massive sweep of stairs toward the gilt-encrusted Duomo di Sant’ Andrea.