The Italian's Perfect Lover (3 page)

She smiled to herself. If the old count
wanted to meet her somewhere private, as opposed to an office—a
place where rational decisions were made based on economic
sense—then that was OK with her.

There would be no economic return on
completing the mosaic. Her mind flashed to her vision of the
courtyard impressive once more: its fountains carefully repaired,
its gardens restored and the mosaic—the masterpiece—painstakingly
put back together using the detailed nineteenth century drawings
she’d discovered buried in the archives of the Museo Archeologico
Nazionale. The pieces were all there: buried and scattered within
the grounds. It would be a place of peace and beauty, a place where
the past could be experienced and understood.

Her reverie was interrupted by the elevator
arriving in a huge vestibule. She stepped out and hesitated,
frowning. Still no personal touches, no pieces of antiquity that
betrayed the count’s interests. Not even in his own home?

She pushed her old-fashioned glasses back
into place, smoothed the worn summer dress that was all she had in
her wardrobe that was the least bit smart and walked carefully,
trying to minimize the flop of her roman sandals against the marble
floor. As she approached, a large oak door swung open
noiselessly.

“Signorina M?” An immaculately-clad woman,
with a phone clamped to her ear, didn’t wait for a reply but
impatiently clicked her fingers and beckoned Emily to enter the
room.

Emily followed the woman’s pointed finger and
sat down where she was told, as the woman promptly ignored her and
continued to berate some poor minion with a barrage of shrill
Italian. She looked around, bemused. If this was a home, it wasn’t
like one she’d ever seen. Sleek, minimalist and scarily
officious—and that was just the woman—Emily wondered what on earth
the count was doing here.

She didn’t have time to form a conclusion
because a man—as stressed-looking as the woman—swung open an inner
door suddenly and impatiently clicked his fingers and beckoned to
her.

“Now. Come!”

She jumped up and followed him into a large
reception room and, again, sat down where indicated. The man
promptly disappeared.

Then she heard a door open behind her and she
closed her eyes in irritation.

“If anyone’s about to click their fingers at
me again, I’ll—”

“You’ll what, Miss M?”

She jumped up.

Standing before her—taller than she
remembered but just as mesmerizing—was the stranger from last
night.

She dropped her gaze quickly, shocked.
Although he’d arranged the meeting, she hadn’t expected to see him
again. In fact she’d spent her day trying to forget him.

She chanced another look, only to see a flash
of amusement further warm his eyes that glowed like dark amber in
the rich light of a Naples evening. Their heat seemed to leap the
narrow gap between them and send a flare deep inside. She took a
steadying breath.

“I’m here to see the count.”

She lowered her eyes and focused directly
ahead—on his chest.

Unfortunately, he had on no tie and his shirt
was unbuttoned. A few hairs pushed up and rested on dark, tanned
skin. A vivid memory of his scent, of the feel of his skin against
hers, filled her mind and her body.

“So I understand.”

“I thought you’d made an appointment for me
to see the count.”

“I have, for Signorina M.” The warmth of his
eyes suddenly grew warmer, as he worked to contain a smile. “Is
that really you behind those glasses?”

She could feel her skin flush. “Of course it
is. I always wear them. Except—”

“Except last night when you needed to
impress.”

“I wish I had worn them, perhaps I wouldn’t
have been such an easy target.”

She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say
that.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. You appear to believe
I targeted you. I tend to think it was the other way around.”

Don’t respond. Don’t say anything. He’d be
gone in a minute—presumably he was here only to introduce her to
the count—and then she’d regain her sanity.

“Drink?”

She shook her head.

As he poured himself a whisky Emily looked
around, trying to stifle the potentially debilitating mixture of
attraction and nerves. The room had 180 degree views of the city
and of the Bay of Naples, with Mount Vesuvius sitting ominously
beyond. She looked away. She had her very own brand of simmering
eruption.

The room was like the others except for a
huge table in front of the window upon which sat scale models of a
building development. She narrowed her eyes. What on earth was the
count doing with these? Then she did a second-take. And why did
they look vaguely familiar?

“Take a seat.”

She looked directly into his eyes for the
first time and struggled to retain her sense of purpose under the
flicker of interest and humor she saw there. Unconsciously she
pressed the palm of her hand to her stomach, where the heat lay,
desperately trying to keep her body in check.

“Look, I won’t waste your time and I don’t
want to keep the count waiting.”

“You won’t.”

“And that would be because?”

“He’s here. Waiting for you to take a seat so
that he can also sit and have a drink.”

“What,” she said in her iciest tone, “are you
talking about?”

“I am Conte di Montecorvio Rovella. I am
surprised you don’t recognize me as you said that you’d met him.
After all, you have your glasses on today.”

“
You
are the count.” Her voice was
quiet. The heat of attraction twisted to anger in a heartbeat. What
the hell was going on? Who did he think he was fooling?

“That is correct. Now, all I need to know is
why you would lie to try to see me.”

She dropped into the chair and tapped her
finger on its side, attempting to gain control of the confusion
that ran rampant through her mind and her body. She took a deep
breath.

“You’re calling me a liar? And yet you had
your staff contact me at the estate. You must know who I am, know
that I’m not a liar.” Her voice was so quiet that she could hear
the soft thud of her heart.

He shrugged. “You are a worker on my estate.
I haven’t been there for years. You don’t know me. Why did you say
you did?”

“A liar,” she repeated. “And yet you agreed
to set up this meeting with the count. Why would you do that for a
liar?”

His eyes contracted slightly but still held
her gaze steadily. “Curious. Interested, maybe.”

“Your life must be very dull if a meeting
with a liar interests you. Or perhaps you wanted to seduce me more
thoroughly this time?”

She winced as soon as the words slipped out.
She didn’t know what made her say it. It was stupid. But it had
been the thought that she’d been trying to suppress all day: why
did he pay attention to her when he could have had any woman in the
room?

He smiled, a slow lazy smile that sent her
heart rate up yet another notch.

“Yes, I suppose a midnight flirtation could
be seen as only a partial seduction: a trial perhaps, to see if one
wants to go further—or not. It seems that you would.”

“I most certainly would not. But you’re a man
and—”

“Men always want more? Is that how you see
the opposite sex? All or nothing, black or white? It seems that you
have experienced little to do with seduction in your life.” He
leant forward, his eyes alight with humor. “Perhaps I should show
you after all. Perhaps—”

“No—”

“Please don’t interrupt. You were quite
correct. I should seduce you more thoroughly. Particularly as it’s
something you expect.”

Emily shot up to her feet. “That’s it. I’m
going. You got me here under false pretenses. You’re claiming to be
the count and it’s obvious you’re simply playing with me. I have
business to do with the count, not this nonsense.”

“Now, seduction equals nonsense? Ah, cara,
you really are in dire need of seduction.” He rose too and, before
she could do anything, flicked the band out from her hair, allowing
it to shower down around her shoulders. He sat back down, playing
with the band in his hands.

“That, is better. Now sit down and tell me
what your business is with me.”

She gritted her teeth and contented herself
with giving him one of her glares while pushing the hair firmly
behind her shoulders. “Business? You sure?”

He raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. “Of
course”.

She sat down warily.

“I did not lie. I met the count two years ago
in London. He’s passionate about Roman antiquities and a real
gentleman. Which is more than can be said for you.”

All humor gone, he dropped his gaze as a
flicker of sadness passed over his face.

“You have described my father well. I must
apologize. I assumed you were—well, let’s say I jumped to
conclusions.” He looked up at her and, this time, she could see
sadness and regret in his eyes. “I don’t meet people like you very
often.”

“People like me? Hard working, honest? Then
you’ve been mixing with the wrong crowd.”

To her surprise, his lips parted in a relaxed
smile. “Now I know that you would have got on well with my father.
He was of the same mind.”

Emily felt herself melt under that disarming
gaze. Her breath hitched as he rose and walked towards her. Then
her eyes dropped as he walked by and poured a large glass of
chilled white wine.

She pushed her glasses back on her nose, even
though they were still in place, and took a deep breath for
control.

“Here.”

“But I don’t want—”

“Have it anyway. I’m afraid I need to tell
you something.”

She took a large gulp of wine.

“Firstly, I’m sorry to tell you what you
obviously don’t yet know. My father died last month.”

Shock and sadness and hopelessness filled
her. She slowly and deliberately placed the wine glass on the
table, focusing on the movement to give herself time to absorb the
fact that the erudite, very much alive, man was no more. If only
she’d ventured out of the estate that was deserted except for her
team, she might have discovered this fact before now. But she’d
been cut off, lost in her work, oblivious to everything else. She
closed her eyes as the hopelessness of her future hit her. The
completion of the mosaic—the culmination of years of intensive
research—had just slipped out of her grasp.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, somehow
managing to swallow back the bitter disappointment and realize that
this man had just lost his father.

“Thank you.” The confident exterior flickered
briefly. “Now, what can I do for you?”

She looked up into his eyes, all fight gone.
“Are you interested in Roman antiquities?”

He shook his head. “They exist; they are the
past and I’m not interested in the past. I’m a property
developer.”

“A developer?” It was scarcely credible that
this man was the son of the count, someone who had treasured the
past. She smiled and rose. “Well, thanks for your time. I won’t
waste any more of it.” She nodded over to the modernist development
models by the window. “It’s obvious demolition and construction is
more your thing.”

“Wait.” He touched her arm with his hand, too
gently to stop her. He didn’t need force anyway, not with the
effect his body had on hers. She turned and faced him, searching
his face, trying to find some explanation for the bone-deep
attraction she felt for him.

He didn’t speak immediately. The low evening
sun flickered across his jaw, his muscle clenching as though
indicating an inner tension.

“I want to help. Tell me, first, how you knew
my father.”

She let out a breath that she didn’t even
know she was holding. The tension had been reconciled somehow. The
mood had changed.

“I’m an archaeologist working on the
Aphrodite Mosaic and Roman courtyard at the Rovella estate. I’ve
made progress but run out of the funds that my university and the
generosity of the count gave me. I need funding to complete the
dig.”

“You’re the archaeologist?”

“Yes. I’ve been working on the estate for the
past year.”

“Emily Carlyle. Of course. I didn’t
know.”

“You haven’t been there. The place has been
shut up except for the estate cottages that the count allowed us to
use.”

“And you like it there?”

“The work is incredible—there’s nothing like
it—the mosaics are a real find.”

“But do you like it there—the estate?”

“Of course, who wouldn’t? It’s beautiful, so
peaceful, so quiet, a place where you can think, where the past
really comes alive.”

“Quite.” His voice was suddenly chilly,
distant. He rose slowly and walked across the room, looking down at
the model of buildings. “I haven’t been there for many years. But…”
He turned to look at her suddenly; a brief, heart-melting smile
flashed across his face. “But, as it happens my father has left
part of his legacy for the purposes of restoring the villa estate.
It’s yours.”

She looked up shocked, at a loss for words
for once.

“If you still want it.”

“Of course I want it. It’s my life.”

“One part of your life, maybe. It’s yours but
there are certain conditions.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “And they
are?”

“It is part of my father’s bequest that the
archaeologist in charge of the dig stays on site.”

“I’ll stay with the others at the cottages on
the edge of the estate. They’re fine for our needs.”

“No, if you want the money, you’ll stay at
the villa. I’ll make sure it’s comfortable for you.”

“Where I stay is none of your concern. I’ll
be hired for my professional services alone.”

“That’s fine, Emily—may I call you Emily?” He
smiled at her glower. “Well, Emily,” he eased himself back in the
chair, “if you don’t wish to stay in the villa, we will simply find
another archaeologist to take over the dig. I’m sure there are any
number of unemployed archaeologists eager to get their teeth into
something like this. Shame, that you’d let one small thing stand
between you and the opportunity to cement your reputation.”