The Italian's Perfect Lover (2 page)

Spring flowers tumbled around the
stone-flagged pathway along which they walked, but Emily was only
aware of the silk of his jacket and the heat of his arm under her
fingertips.

Within moments, she found herself seated in a
secluded courtyard, enclosed by a high yew hedge, in the centre of
which a small fountain played. Moon-white flowers clustered at its
base.

“So, M, relax and tell me about
yourself.”

“Nothing much to tell.” She could barely
breathe, let alone think, with his body in such close
proximity.

He turned towards her, his arm resting along
the back of the seat, close to her shoulders. She could feel her
skin prickle, as if her body responded to his magnetism by the
force of physics alone. And she knew all about the inevitability of
the laws of science. But how they applied here was beyond her
education.

“So, where have you been hiding, M, that you
are so unused to people? So unaware of your effect on my
guests?”

“What effect could I possibly have?”

He searched her eyes before shaking his head.
“You have no idea, do you? No idea how very different you are.”

Different? Another thing they had in
common.

She could feel heat sweep up through her
body, following the path of his eyes. “English, I look English.”
She said hopefully.

“It is not that. You look,” his hand brushed
down her arm lightly before resting once more on the seat,
“sensual, very sensual.”

She tensed then. She wasn’t used to being
touched. But his eyes held only interest—a wonderful, inexplicable
interest that her body exulted in—and gentleness. This wasn’t a man
like her last—her only—boyfriend. There was no rage there, no
insecurity, no jealousy, no violence. She exhaled jaggedly.

History could repeat itself—as an
archaeologist she knew that—but it didn’t have to, not if she
learnt from the lessons of the past. She’d never trusted her
intuition before—not even when it screamed at her to run from her
ex-boyfriend—but now she did.

“Sensual?” No-one had ever said such a thing
before. But she felt sensual. The skimming fit of the borrowed
dress against her body, rubbing her skin, tantalized her arousal
even further, the warmth of the night breeze on her skin. And this
man.

“Of the senses.”

“Such as sight?” Hesitantly at first, she
allowed her gaze to travel from his hair, curling where he’d pushed
it roughly back, to the pulse that thudded in his neck and then
down to his chest and legs before resting once more on his
face.

“Sight is indeed a sense.” His voice was
roughened, deeper somehow.

Her effect on him gave her a sense of power.
She closed her eyes.

“And sound.” The soft exhalation of his
breath was louder to her than the rustle of the leaves high above
them and the distant music and laughter. She opened her eyes again.
“What else? Touch?”

Dare she? If he’d moved she would have
retreated, but he didn’t. He said nothing but she could see his
eyes narrow and darken as she reached out to his arm, pausing only
briefly before touching the sleeve of his black tux. The tentative
touch turned into an appreciative slide of her finger tips—more
used to dirt and rough rocks—across the dense silk.

She knew she should stop but felt compelled
to continue. “Such as—,” she leaned into his neck, “smell”.

His breathing quickened against her face. She
couldn’t see now because she’d closed her eyes, all the better to
register the different notes of his aftershave, the spring air
against his skin and a deeper note, that her mind couldn’t
identify, but to which her body reacted.

Reluctantly she sat back. “What else?”

“You tell me.” He didn’t move, simply looked
at her lips as if anticipating something delicious, something he
wasn’t going to take unless it was offered. The predator might be
hungry, but he was patient.

All thought of who she was, of where she was,
of her past, disappeared. There was nothing except this man.

“Taste.”

She didn’t move. She was sure she didn’t
move. But somehow their faces were so close that their mouths were
a mere whisper apart.

She wanted him to kiss her but no kiss came.
Instead she felt his hand touch her cheek, gently, so gently that
she couldn’t have said whether it was him or the soft breeze. It
was a tender, lingering exploration: stimulating, rather than
controlling. This wasn’t a man who needed to prove anything; this
was a man who wanted to experience everything.

He pulled away slightly as if to question
her, his hand still barely touching her cheek, his fingertips
tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Whatever expression she had in
her eyes seemed to have given him an answer because he dipped his
head and held it close to hers for one long moment—lips not
touching, his cheek brushing hers.

She’d never known the exquisite tensions that
now flowed through her body; never felt the gentle touch of a
lover’s hand; had never felt so in tune with another that her mind
became suspended and her body took over.

For one delicious moment she surrendered to
his touch that stimulated every nerve ending in her body; for one
intense second, the world forgot to breathe and she held herself in
that moment, only with him,
feeling
through him; for one
instant she felt perfect.

But she wasn’t perfect, was she?

“No.” She pulled away from him, overwhelmed
by the grief-filled knowledge that she could never be this man’s
lover.

The blind darkness of his lust-filled eyes
lightened with confusion. “I am sorry. Forgive me.” He blinked, as
if awaking from a daze, and rose abruptly.

Like her attraction, she felt his withdrawal
as a physical sensation, a pain that made her flex her hands for
relief. “It’s me who should apologize. I practically forced myself
on you.”

He smiled. “Believe me, our attraction proved
mutually strong.” His smiled faded into a frown as if he couldn’t
understand the reason why.

She turned away from him then. No, of course
he wouldn’t know why. Why would he, a devastatingly handsome man be
attracted to her, Emily Carlyle from East London: an academic, a
spinster and most definitely
not
the most beautiful woman at
the party?

He reached out to her tentatively, as if to
reassure—either her or himself—before he thrust both hands back
into his pockets.

“Come, I will take you back.”

Of course he would.

He had no interest in her. Why would he?
There was a room full of beautiful women awaiting his pleasure. His
responses to her were automatic—the result of a lust-filled woman,
wearing very little, throwing herself at him.

She’d just made a fool of herself. And now he
was trying to get rid of her.

They walked in silence until they came to the
villa.

She stepped away, too embarrassed to look him
in the eye. “I must go now.” She shook her head at her own
stupidity and confusion.

“Come inside. I’ll have someone drive you
home.”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve troubled you enough.
I’ll find my own way home.”

“The same way you found your own way here.
Tell me, why did you come?”

“I came to find someone.”

“Who?”

“Conte di Montecorvio Rovella.”

It was as if a shadow fell across his face.
He looked toward the room, almost angry.

“You were looking for the conte. You know
him?”

“Sure. I’ve met him a number of times. Do you
know him?”

He ignored her question.

“And what do you want with the conte?”

“It’s business.”

“Personal business, no doubt. The conte is a
lucky man. It is a shame he’s proved elusive.”

“Yep. Misinformed, I guess.”

“I’m sorry you wasted your time on me.
Presumably you had your sights set higher.”

“You think I’m a gold digger?” She shook her
head in sudden defeat. “You’re probably right. I need his money.
But it’s business, not personal.”

Without his funds she’d never complete the
ancient Roman mosaic at her dig, never piece together the fragments
of the past into one unified, beautiful, perfect whole. She chewed
her lip in an effort to stem the tears that threatened. She turned
away and looked up into the night sky for the same reason.

A stray gust of wind caught her shawl and it
slipped, drifting down past her bare shoulders and back.

Alessandro looked at the beautiful woman, as
the wrap descended in a cloud of silk, and his breath suddenly
halted, his heart ached.

He had never seen such scars—luminescent
white under the moonlight, pearly slivers of pain criss-crossed
around her shoulders, and back. No doubt she barely felt the
downward slide of the silk against the desensitized skin.

He reached his hand to touch one of the
scarred shoulders, but stopped short.

“I’m sorry.” He swallowed back the impulse to
place a kiss where his hand had nearly touched. “Perhaps I can
help. I know the conte and will arrange for you to meet with
him.”

She turned quickly back to face him and he
dropped his hand. The beauty of her eyes, dark and passionate in
the dim light took his breath away once more. What was it about
this woman?

“Really? I’d appreciate it. A lot.”

She looked up at him, completely unaware that
the tracery of scars was on display. He focused on her beautiful
eyes: eyes that could create magic, could create love, could create
a future.

He turned away suddenly. He’d vowed never to
live for the future or the past—always to stay in the present.

When he turned back she was standing, her
wrap back in place, seemingly unaware of it having fallen. She
looked at home in the luscious garden: sensual and arousing,
demanding more than a physical response. But surely that was
something he couldn’t give?

She looked up at him, a complex blend of
hope, embarrassment and pride combining in that one glance. Then
she turned and began walking away.

She was different to anyone he’d ever met.
Even simply in this one act. Because no woman had ever walked away
from him since his wife had done so.

The thought of the resemblance cut through
the heat of his passion like a blade. He’d help her if he could.
But that was it. No-one, but no-one must be allowed to touch him.
He had enough guilt and hurt to last him a life-time. But the sight
of the scars on this beautiful woman had already cut through his
defenses.

“M,” he called. She stopped without turning.
“Where can the conte reach you?”

“He knows.”

“He may have forgotten.”

“Unlikely. I’m living on his estate.”

Emily didn’t hear him reply. It was obvious
she’d never hear from him again. And she began walking back, back
to the road, back to the past. It was the only thing that mattered
after all.

The midday sun glinted on the naked bodies;
the chips of white marble were artfully set to give depth to the
mosaic and to highlight its sensuality.

Emily’s eyes followed the line of the man’s
thighs until they met the curve of the woman’s bottom. She sat
astride him, she was taking pleasure from him—her face glowed with
sensual arousal, her mouth was partly open as if a moan had just
escaped—but her heavy-lidded eyes were staring directly at the
person observing her: the artist, Emily assumed.

It wasn’t just the focus on the camera that
Emily had to check. Her own perspective seemed to have altered
since last night. She could see only the woman’s ecstasy and the
intimate connections between the couples, rather than the mosaic’s
artistry and antiquity. She swallowed hard, refocused the camera
onto the wider scene and took the shot.

She had to have something to show the count.
This undiscovered, mini-Pompeii, had lain undisturbed by the
outside world for centuries, until the old count had sought her
services. He’d been frail then and she’d rarely seen him. And now
months had passed without word and the money had run out.

But it seemed the man from the party, Alex,
had been as good as his word and she’d received a message that she
had an appointment with the elderly aristocrat.

With her camera clamped firmly to her eye,
Emily ducked her head as she shuffled backwards under the overgrown
canopy of grape vines and tangle of what was once a beautiful, lush
garden, edging away from the subject of the camera until it was all
in focus. She needed to show its extent; she needed to be
persuasive.

There, she had it—the Aphrodite Mosaic—in all
its incomplete glory. The mosaic was unique in terms of the scale
and artistry. It was unique to Emily. She felt a deep need to see
the shattered and fragile mosaic complete once more: to be as
perfect as it could be, to be beautiful once more.

The artists responsible for the Aphrodite
Mosaic had been trained in Athens before sailing to the Greek
colonies in Italy hundreds of years before Christ—that was obvious
from their technical skill—but their heart, their soul, their
vision of Aphrodite could be traced directly to the local
vernacular of art. It was rich, earthy and sensual.

And Emily was going to make it whole again if
it was the last thing she did.

She clicked the shutter once more and let the
camera fall, looking at the mosaic—only half complete, only half as
beautiful as it would be.

All she needed was the money.

The moment the elevator doors swept open
noiselessly Emily knew she was in trouble.

This wasn’t the place for antiquity-loving
people. Austere, modern and expensive, the building screamed
corporate finance. The old count didn’t look the corporate type and
yet it was to the Rovella Tower that she’d been told to go.

She gave her name to the receptionist and was
taken directly to the top floor—the Penthouse Suite.