Margherita's Notebook (27 page)

“The second course,” she continued, lifting a silver lid, “is a triumph of lobster and shrimp . . . You eat these with your hands, biting into them, sucking the claws . . . an exotic, primitive dish . . . It conjures up white sandy beaches, crystal-clear water, naked bodies rolling in the waves . . .”

Describing the dishes was Margherita's way of telling him all the ways she would have made love to him. Totally, passionately, both tender and wild at the same time. She wanted him to remember her this way, with the tale of her sensual fantasies, no holds barred. A Scheherazade who kept her sultan imprisoned in a game of seduction made up of scents, flavors, erotic suggestiveness.

“. . . and to finish off, a tray of fruit on ice.” She fingered the fruit lightly, testing its consistency, while continuing to look into his eyes. “Strawberries, cherries, mangoes, passion fruit . . .”

Nicola was getting more and more aroused, almost uncontrollably so. He adored this game and all that it signified.

“The only thing that's missing is dessert,” she whispered hoarsely.

Margherita walked past him, brushing up against him as she did. Deliberately, perhaps? Nicola had to force himself
not to grab her and press her up against the first hard surface he could find, perhaps the wall, or the table covered with cooking utensils, or the marble counter. Little did it matter; the only thing he wanted right now was to feel her body against his and . . . devour her. The thought actually took him by surprise. It wasn't like him. He never lost control. He knew how to keep his “animal” instincts in check. But she managed to unleash them, and he felt his self-control wavering. That apron was so much sexier than a pair of stiletto heels. And that mouth, those eyes that looked at him with such naïve mischief were driving him crazy.

Margherita could see the yearning in Nicola's eyes. For an instant, she saw a wild look, a primitive one, which both frightened and intrigued her.

“Here it is.” She opened the refrigerator door and showed him a crystal tray covered with wrapped pralines.

“Candy?”

Margherita caressed him with her gaze.

“The bonbons of love.
Baci di dama
, lady's kisses, that are meant to be eaten slowly as they melt in your mouth . . .” Without realizing it, she licked her lips, as if she were imagining the flavor, which forced Nicola to close his eyes for a moment.

“Why did you wrap them?” he said in a whisper.

“You asked me to help you out,” she answered provocatively. “Each ‘kiss' corresponds to a piece of clothing. I'll leave the rest to your imagination.”

Nicola picked one up from the plate.

“Unwrap it,” he said.

Margherita looked at him, puzzled.

“Why? I don't . . . ,” she began.

He took her hand, then put his mouth on the palm, gently sinking his teeth into it, biting it and at the same time caressing it with his lips.

Margherita looked at him in disbelief. She'd never imagined a feeling like this could exist. She wanted him to do it again. Nicola seemed to read her mind. He bit her again as though she were a soft, juicy piece of fruit . . . then he stood back, looking deep into her eyes, and put the lady's kiss in her hand just above the tiny red circle his mouth had left there.

“Unwrap it and taste it.”

“Why?” was all she managed to ask, her voice hardly audible.

“You're my guest tonight . . .”

She froze in amazement. As she looked at him, he could see her pupils dilating, her parted lips trembling.

“. . . and I've decided to start with dessert.”

He unwrapped the bonbon, never taking his eyes off her.

He put the cookie between her lips, touching them with his fingers, slipping a caress inside her mouth that she couldn't resist.

Margherita tasted both the softness of the “kiss” and his fingers, mixing his flavor with that of the chocolate, tasting that exciting aroma as much as she possibly could.

“Let's see what the note says,” Nicola whispered.

The striptease . . . no way!

“Nicola . . . please no . . .”

He ignored her and read out loud, “ ‘Blouse . . .' ”

A look of amusement flashed in his eyes. “This makes everything much easier . . .”

Now his fingers were on her neck, then they moved down slowly, touching her breasts, unbuttoning a button
at a time, until Margherita's light summer dress slid to the floor, leaving her completely at his mercy.

Nicola took another praline and played the game again.

“Let's see . . .”

He read what it said and then searched for her gaze.

“I'm lucky,” he murmured. “Don't you want to see?”

She blushed and lowered her eyes, without taking the note.

“Nicola . . .”

“What is it?” His voice excited her as much as his hand did, which was moving up her bare leg.

“Don't you want to play? After all, it was your idea . . .”

She could hardly breathe. Her desire became an unstoppable flow, an uncontrolled force, a vortex that drove her to satisfy all his demands.

She searched for his mouth and pulled him toward her in a wild, feverish embrace.

Almost without realizing it, she was naked against his body. It made her feel like a succulent white coconut finally rid of its protective shell. In his arms, while Nicola stripped off his clothes, she could tell he, too, wanted more.

Nicola, his skin against hers, felt it would never be enough. He had to leave a sign, to “brand her,” until he felt she belonged to him. Still holding her to his body, he turned her around and lifted her hair so that the nape of her neck was bare, delicate, defenseless. Margherita felt the bite, at first light, then more intense. She let herself go against him, her legs suddenly incapable of bearing her weight.

Nicola made her turn around once more and lifted her up and sat her on the table, clearing away the kitchen tools. Margherita looked at him, her eyes filled with awe and desire.
Nicola had never truly lost his head over a woman. No woman had ever unleashed in him such conflicting desires: of possessing her violently, of overcoming her totally, of penetrating her as deeply as he could, and at the same time caressing her gently, cuddling her, covering her with tender kisses, tasting her slowly.

The first impulse prevailed.

All of Margherita's senses were magnified. His hungry mouth, his tongue moved up her body and stopped in places she had never thought could excite her so much. The arch of her foot, behind her knee, the curve of her hip, and then farther down again . . . until Margherita uttered a cry. Her mind was a blinding kaleidoscope of images, while the pleasure she felt spread like incandescent honey oozing everywhere, burning her.

Like her, Nicola was overcome by desire. The gentleness of his gestures was gone. All that remained was gut instinct, one he had no control over. She responded with the same intensity, abandoning herself to him, letting herself be transported by the pleasure of the senses.

Nicola immersed himself inside her, his passion overflowing.

All he wanted was to satisfy his hunger for her.

And all Margherita wanted was to satisfy that hunger.

C
arla knew she was losing ground. She'd figured it out from the details. Yes, the details, the kind that could tell you what was going through a person's mind and heart, what was brewing under an apparently peaceful surface. And something was definitely happening in Nicola Ravelli's heart and mind. Except she wasn't the cause of it; the cause was that wet blanket, that cook. Carla loathed Margherita. She'd loathed her from the moment she'd set foot in the villa with her ridiculous shopping bags full of groceries. Carla's sixth sense had told her that this woman could turn into a dangerous rival. But she'd ignored her instinct, because Margherita was so very different from the women Nicola usually dated. And she had seen loads of them parade by—
parade
, that was the right word—while she, Carla, stayed by his side. It would have been only a matter of time before Nicola noticed her. But then that silly brat had shown up and spoiled everything. Carla was certain that she'd deliberately
sabotaged Nicola's birthday dinner. Although she had no way of proving it, she'd sworn to herself that she'd make Margherita pay for it. And now here she was, the involuntary witness to that woman's maneuvers to move into the villa. The details, precisely. Now she wasn't just making dinners, but breakfast, too, and—clearly on purpose—she would leave traces of her presence: something sweet to eat, a plant, a floral composition . . . sometimes she even shifted the furniture around to her liking. All subtle, underhanded attempts to conquer the territory that, up until then, Carla had felt was her own. She'd tried to make Nicola take notice of the intrusion, but, she'd realized too late, it had been the wrong move.

“Margherita makes breakfast for me because I asked her to,” he'd replied rather icily. “And if she's decided to change some things around, I don't mind.” And that was that, making it quite clear to Carla that it wouldn't be wise for her to pursue the matter any further.

Carla was furious: she refused to accept the fact that an insignificant woman like Margherita could throw her plans to the wind. For days now she'd been trying to concoct a plan to get rid of her and regain her ground.

Then one day came a phone call from Giovanale. Not long afterward, Nicola called her over the intercom: “Carla, can you come here right away, please, I need to talk to you.”

She raced into his office, hoping that what he had to say to her was what she'd been waiting to hear.

“Giovanale has made his mind up. He's selling,” Nicola confirmed, with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Carla held up two fingers as a sign of victory. “I knew you'd succeed!”

“It wasn't easy, but in the end I managed to convince him.”

“Excellent.” Carla was ready for action. “How can I be of help?”

“You take care of drafting the contract. I . . .” Nicola hesitated a moment. “I need to do something else right now.”

Carla looked at him in amazement. What could possibly be more important than that contract? But the expression on his face told her it was best not to ask any questions. She stood up, businesslike as usual.

“Fine, I'll get to work on it right away.”

As she left the room, Nicola dialed a number on his cell phone.

A few minutes later, sitting at her desk, Carla could clearly hear him speaking to someone on the intercom. She was about to turn it off, but she stopped when she heard Nicola's words: “Ciao . . . drop everything you're doing. We need to celebrate!”

It didn't take much for Carla to figure out who was on the other end.

“No, I can't wait . . . and I want to do it with you.”

Carla stiffened. Then she heard him chuckle.

“I meant . . . I want to
celebrate
with you.”

Carla angrily silenced the intercom. She had heard more than enough.

Margherita was happy that Nicola had called her, that he wanted to share this celebration with her. She left the house without getting changed, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with
SAVE THE EARTH
printed on the front. When she got to Vini del Sole, she went past Carla's desk, ignoring the spiteful look Carla gave her, and, trying not to walk too fast, headed for Nicola's office. She knocked on the door. He opened it and took her into his arms.

“Ciao,” Margherita tried to greet him, but his mouth was
all over hers, and she couldn't get a word out. She'd dreamed about being kissed like that over the few days they hadn't been able to see each other. She'd imagined it in a million ways: slow, sweet, more and more passionate; forceful, violent, breathtaking; deep, demanding, lasting forever . . . It was all these things, and more. Rediscovering the flavor of his mouth, his scent, the touch of his hands, conveyed a feeling of warmth, pleasure, arousal that spread from her lips, her nostrils, her skin to the rest of her body and forced her to pull him toward her, to hold her body tight against his . . . Nicola lifted her as he continued to kiss her, then pushed her up against the wall, caressing her, searching for her, while she wrapped her legs around his waist . . . That is, until the sound of steps in the hallway interrupted them. Margherita found it hard to let him go. She straightened out her hair, pulled down her T-shirt, and picked up her handbag, which she'd dropped on the floor and the contents of which were strewn about everywhere.

“I'd better be off . . . ,” she said softly.

Nicola tilted her face upward, caressing it slowly, then his hand slid down until it lingered on the part of her neck where he could feel the quick throbbing that told him her heart was racing.

“Yes . . . you'd better, otherwise I don't know if I can control myself.”

Margherita smiled at him.

“Me neither.”

It was hard not to touch him, not to search for his hands, his body, his mouth . . .

“So, what are we celebrating?”

Nicola clasped his hands behind his back as if he had something very important to say.

“If I touch you, I won't be able to talk to you . . .”

“You still haven't told me what we're celebrating . . .”

“The signing of an important contract. Giovanale has decided to sell.”

Margherita was happy. She knew how much the deal meant to him.

They walked to the door together. Carla had left the door to her office slightly ajar and for a moment Margherita felt a wave of hostility coming her way that hit her like a gust of freezing wind.

I'm getting paranoid.

“I'm leaving, Carla,” were Nicola's only words to her.

“Fine.”