Happy Mother's Day! (3 page)

‘Oh? And what’s that supposed to mean?’

Gianluca heard the defensiveness in her voice. Did she have an Achilles heel like other mortals? Was the icemaiden seeking his approval? ‘One of the reasons you are so good at your job is because you have a critical and discerning eye—but it seems to be absent tonight. And that is no bad thing.’ He smiled. ‘Relax,
cara.
Don’t look so tense. Tell me what you know about wine.’

‘Well, nothing really,’ she said quickly. ‘Except how to drink it.’

‘Then perhaps I should educate you. What do you think—would you like me to teach you everything I know?’

Aisling bit her lip.
Everything he knew.
How much would that be? As she met the sensual question in his eyes she found herself wanting far more than being taught about wine appreciation. Gazing at the perfection of his hard body, she found herself wondering what it must be like to be made love to by him. Had he
meant
her to think that? You
work
for him, she reminded herself—but it didn’t seem to alter her chaotic thoughts.

‘Education is never wasted,’ she said primly.

Gianluca gave a soft, low laugh at the repressive note in her voice and felt the ache in his groin increase.
Ah, sì.
This was novel indeed. A woman who was keeping him guessing about whether she would let him make love to her. ‘Then let me be your teacher,’ he murmured.

She wanted to tell him not to be so provocative—but what if that was simply her interpretation of his behaviour? A repressed single woman’s wildest fantasies. What if he was just being an affable host, out to give her an enjoyable time after the successful completion of a job? Who was to say that he wouldn’t have been behaving this way if she had been a man?

But if she’d been a man, surely he wouldn’t have been standing quite so close to her, so close that she could smell his subtle scent—evocative of sandalwood and citrus and something else which seemed to symbolise everything that was masculine. From this near she could feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame, and see a tendril of dark hair which curled onto the olive sheen of his skin, so that at that moment she found herself wanting to curl that errant lock around her finger.

‘You know how to drink it—to best enjoy it? No? Then I shall show you. First, we look at it.’ Gianluca held his wine up, swirling the claret-coloured liquid around the bowl of the glass, so that it left sticky little trickles running down the side. ‘See its beauty? Like the richest rubies, sì?’

‘Y-yes.’

He shot her a look before briefly lowering his nose to inhale deeply, his dark lashes arcing downwards to shield the dancing dark light in his eyes. ‘And then we breathe it in. We inhale its bouquet. We engage the senses before at last we feel it on our tongue to taste it, and then, at last, we savour it.’ His eyes captured hers over the rim of the glass before taking a slow mouthful of the dark red wine and moving it around his mouth in a gesture which was sheer eroticism.

‘You see, the anticipation of pleasure only adds to the
eventual enjoyment—as it does with all the pleasures in life,’ he finished and waited for her to bristle with her very English disapproval. But to his surprise, she did no such thing.

‘I see,’ said Aisling faintly, completely mesmerised by the silken caress of his voice. She wondered what spell he had cast to root her feet to the spot like this, to make her want to carry on looking at that beautiful, rugged face until the end of time. To want to touch her fingertips to its glowing skin and trace the line of those perfect lips.

Oh, Aisling, Aisling, you’ve started to commit that sad sin of women nearing thirty—who believe that fairy tales really can happen.

At work, she was better equipped to deal with his charisma, yet it was as if by coming here tonight, and putting on these jeans—which were clinging rather suggestively to her bottom—she had removed whatever it was which usually kept her safe. She had put herself at risk, and she needed to do something about it. The question was what.

‘You like this wine?’ he queried.

‘I like it … very much.’

‘Perfetto.’
He took another sip, aware that his heart was pounding with a strangely slow and heavy beat. He could see the swell of her breasts brushing against the fine material of her top and, despite the warmth of the evening, how her nipples were perking in pert points.

He was aware of the sweet pain of his erection, which was pushing against him, and suddenly he felt like a schoolboy, aware that the evening had cast him into a role in which he was unfamiliar. That for once he was playing a game and he didn’t know how it would end—or even which rules to engage. Normally, when he wanted a
woman he didn’t even have to try. A glance, a murmur, a hint of sensual promise in his eyes was enough to capture his quarry.

Yet with Aisling, it was different. The unthinkable had happened because he simply didn’t know whether she would be willing to be seduced. Or whether you should be breaking the rule of a lifetime and sleeping with someone with whom you have a professional relationship—someone you employ!

But he ignored the voice of his conscience—for something much more compelling was driving him. He wanted her and he would have her. ‘We should eat something,’ he said suddenly.

Aisling looked at the nearby tables, which were completely covered with food. Platters of anchovies and whitebait, and colourful dishes of salad. A whole small roasted pig sat close to pasta with wild boar and truffle sauces and yet another table was stacked with cheeses and figs and ripe peaches, the fruit tumbling over the bowls like a still-life painting.

The whole scene was exquisitely beautiful and yet, more than anything, it seemed to represent the huge differences between them. This was the kind of world Gianluca had grown up in, Aisling realised with a pang. One rich with culture and tradition and wonderful fresh food.

She recalled her own meals of something on toast—meals she’d cobbled together after school—her ear always half cocked for the door, wondering whether her mother would make it home that night.

But there might as well have been sawdust heaped on the table for all the temptation it offered and Aisling had
never felt less like eating. ‘I’m just not very hungry,’ she said weakly. ‘It’s too hot to eat.’

‘Yes. Isn’t it?’ Much too hot. He felt the flicker of a pulse at his temple because he had seen her watching him and he wanted to kiss her. Instinctively, he knew that this was the moment to strike, when her lips were half parted in that unconscious invitation, when her whole body had softened—her defences down. He felt the slow, irresistible pulsing of desire.

‘Why don’t we go outside? It will be cooler there and we can look to see if there are any shooting stars. Have you ever seen one before?’ Aisling shook her head.

No? But that is an unspeakable crime!’ He smiled. ‘Don’t you know that the Italian skies are full of them?’

And despite the tension which thrummed between them like the heavy, electric atmosphere before a storm, Aisling laughed. ‘Oh, really?’

‘You don’t believe me? Then come and see for yourself.’

It was one of those life-defining moments. The forkwhich-lay-in-the-path moment. The tantalising difficulty of deciding which direction to take. Play safe like she always did—or live dangerously? The quicksand gave way beneath her feet. Just this once, she thought.
just this once.

‘Why not?’ she said lightly, as if it didn’t matter. And it
didn’t
matter—at least, not to him.

And to her?

Aisling didn’t know. A lifetime of hard work and denial and playing to the rules had been vanquished by the tall, powerful man they called
Il Tigre
on that scented Italian evening. Something alien and tantalising was driving her and she was being propelled by an instinct she was in no
mood to fight. Or maybe it would have taken a stronger woman than her to fight the night and the moonlight and the man.
This
man.

Her heart was beating very fast as they stepped out into the scented air and walked away from the noise of the party in silence, like two conspirators.

The moon was full and the sky full of stars but they weren’t moving anywhere and Aisling quickly turned her face upwards, as if to reinforce the real reason why they were out here. Except that deep down she knew it was not the real reason. Because who cared about stars?

‘Which shooting stars? I can’t see any,’ she said, in a voice which didn’t sound like her own.

‘It is a little late in the year,’ he conceded, but he wasn’t looking at the sky—his attention was captivated by a cloud of dark hair and the pale profile which looked as if it had been carved from marble—intensely beautiful because it was so unexpected. How could he have been so blind not to have seen her loveliness before?

‘You see them mostly in August,’ he said distractedly. ‘The feast day of St Lorenzo is known as the night of the shooting stars—and then you can see meteors showering the skies like fireworks. People consider them lucky and they make a wish.’

‘Gosh. How … romantic.’

‘You like that?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘And yet this morning you told me you preferred the pragmatic approach,’ he mused.

‘Did I?’ But this morning seemed a lifetime ago. She kept looking upwards towards the heavens, losing her gaze in its
star-studded blackness, terrified of what she thought might be about to happen—and yet her heart was beating fast with a mad kind of eagerness because she wanted it to begin. ‘Aisling?’

His soft voice made her stop looking at the sky and turn her gaze instead to the sculpted shadows of his face. In the dim light she could see the glitter of his eyes and the gleam of his lips.

Her voice was tremulous. ‘What?’

‘Do you know what I would wish for, if I saw a star blazing across the night sky right now?’

She shook her head, so that the hair moved like a heavy silken curtain. ‘No.’

His lips curved into a mocking smile. ‘Yes, you do,’ he taunted softly as he pulled her into the shadow of a large tree and into his arms.

H
IS
body was hard, his breath was warm as he pulled her close against him and Aisling could scarcely breathe as every longing she’d ever had about him fused into that single moment. ‘Gianluca!’ she gasped, her voice a mixture of plea and protest.

‘Mia
bella!
Kiss me. Just
kiss
me!’

‘But this is wrong!’

‘Why is it wrong? How
can
it be wrong?’ he demanded.

She tried to think of a reason but her brain had gone to mush and so had her body. Was it the raw urgency in his voice which made her want to obey him without question, or her own overwhelming hunger which made Aisling stay right where she was? Perhaps it was simply the fleeting feeling that if she didn’t, then she would regret it for the rest of her life. That she would become one of those bitter old women who had rejected a taste of paradise when she’d had it offered to her on a soft, warm night in Umbria.

‘You know you want me,’ he asserted harshly.

‘Yes,’ she assented breathlessly. And with a little moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck, lifting her mouth to meet his hard, seeking kiss.

A thousand fireworks exploded in his head as her lips opened beneath his. ‘Aisling,’ he groaned, her name as unfamiliar on his lips as the taste of her, the smell of her, this sheer unexpected reality of having her soft and compliant and oh-so-hungry in his arms. The ice-queen melting! The cool Englishwoman kissing him!

Aisling swayed as she responded with a fervour which seemed to sap her of strength and reason. His hands were touching her breasts, and—oh, heavens!—she was
letting
them, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Fingertips moving over her body, as if examining her by touch alone. Lingering at the indentation of her waist. Skating over the curve of her hips. Cupping the swell of her buttocks and pulling her into the hard rock of his arousal.

‘Oh!’ she gasped.

‘You like that?’

‘Yes!’

‘And that?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She breathed.
‘Yes!’

‘You want me to keep doing it?’

‘Yes!’

He flicked his tongue over her bone-dry lips. She was like molten lava, bubbling beneath his touch—so responsive, so unbelievably receptive in a way which belied her normal cool image.

Gianluca thought quickly. If his barn were not filled with villagers and local dignitaries, he would have thought nothing of taking her there, beneath the tree. He could have fought to get her jeans down and thrust deliciously into her. Then they could have gone back to the party afterwards as if nothing had happened.

He frowned with concentration. If he kissed her thoroughly enough, silenced the sounds of her orgasm, he might yet be able to accomplish it. And yet he was still not certain of her. Some women were needlessly sentimental when they took a new lover—insisting on the formality of a bed rather than a shadowed space in an orchard. Would Aisling be one of them?

He realised that this was madness—that there were a million other women more suitable to take to his bed than this one. She was a good head-hunter and this could impact badly on their professional relationship. Yet for once he failed to heed the note of caution in his head. He wanted her in a way which surprised him. Against her lips, he smiled. He wanted her and he knew how to guarantee that she would be his.

He moved his hand to touch her thigh through the thick material of the denim, feeling her shudder against him.

‘Gianluca?’

The word came out breathlessly against his lips and he heard her uncertainty. Ruthlessly, he moved his fingertips upwards, alighting and burrowing over her mound with irresistible precision, and heard her helpless little moan.

‘You like that too, I think,
cara mia,’
he murmured, and now he began to move his hands with accurate sweetness, knowing that the barrier of her jeans was exciting her as much as frustrating her. ‘Don’t you?’

The world tipped on its axis as for one second Aisling really thought she was about to lose it there and then.

‘Don’t you?’ he prompted huskily.

Mutely she nodded her head—words beyond her ability as she clung to him with all the hunger of someone who
hadn’t had sex for so long, she’d almost forgotten what to do. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? It was because it was him—her every fantasy personified. ‘Gianluca,’ she moaned.

‘We can’t stay here,’ he ground out.

Again, it was a statement. He was not given to asking permission, Aisling realised weakly—in the same moment realising that she didn’t
want
him to ask. She wanted him to take control in that masterful and autocratic way of his. Because that will take some of the self-recrimination away—is that why? questioned a mocking voice in her head, but she silenced it.

‘I know,’ she whispered, her answer making her complicit in what they were doing.

Those shaky words were all he needed—and he didn’t realise how much he had been fearing that she would tear herself away from him and let sanity prevail until he heard the rush of pent-up air escape from his lips. The slow seep of anticipation began to ensnare him and, compelled by some primitive instinct, Gianluca did what he had never done before. He picked her up in his arms and carried her up towards the house.

‘Put me down,’ she whispered.

‘No.’

‘I’m much too heavy.’
‘No.
You are perfect.’

It felt like being in a dream, as if she had spent her whole life waiting for just that moment. Cradled in Gianluca’s strong arms with her head resting against his chest in the warmth of the balmy night and a silver moon blazing overhead.

She barely noticed the cool, dim house with its ancient
flagstones and its worn stone steps and beautiful old furniture—all she could feel was the pounding of his heart against her body. Gianluca didn’t even put her down once they were inside—instead he began to mount the stairs with Aisling still in his arms. How strong he was, she thought, in admiration and slight bewilderment.

The first moment of panic she knew was when he kicked open a door which revealed a huge bed, its counterpane and cushions covered in some dark, silky material. An unashamedly masculine bed which looked made for seduction—and Aisling suddenly wondered what he would expect of her in return. Would she let herself down with her relative inexperience?

Her tongue snaked out over bone-dry lips. ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,’ she whispered.

He had been expecting this, but it didn’t stop him from laying her down on the bed as carefully as if she had been composed entirely of something fragile. He smoothed a stray tendril of hair from her cheek, his black eyes suddenly serious. ‘Oh, yes, it is,’ he affirmed softly. ‘It is the best idea I’ve ever had.’

And then he bent over her and kissed her with a different kind of kiss from the one beneath the tree—it was all soft and tender and stomach-melting—the kind of kiss which said:
Trust me.
Could she? More importantly, could she trust herself not to read anything more into this than what it really was? If she was prepared to accept reality for just this once, then she would be safe.

Gianluca felt another unexpected kick of something which seemed to exceed mere desire as her arms looped up behind his neck and her lips parted as she stared up at
him in silent invitation. Her dark hair was fanned out against the gleaming backdrop of the bed, the filmy top outlining her amazing breasts and her denim-clad legs splayed out in careless abandon.

His lips began to graze over her eyelids. ‘Do you know how beautiful you look tonight,
cara?’

‘Seriously?’ she questioned uncertainly, guessing that this was what he said to every woman he took to his bed. But it unsettled her. She might have scrubbed up well tonight, but no way was she
beautiful.

‘Oh, yes.’ He felt her tense and his hand cupped her breast until he felt her nipple peak against his palm and he wanted to say to her—Why the hell don’t you dress like this normally? Except to say that risked bringing work into the bedroom and destroying the enchantment.

So instead, he whispered to her in Italian, telling her that she was much too beautiful to hide her hair and body away—allowing himself the luxury of knowing that she could not understand anything he was saying. So there was no chance his words could be misinterpreted … only their sensual tone would be taken on board.

He felt the apprehension begin to leave her as he told her that her hair was as dark as the night and that she looked like a sorceress. He told her that her body was everything a woman’s body should be, and as he tugged off the jeans he realised that he had been right.
Madonna mia,
but she was a Venus! It was true that her lingerie was a little on the plain side, but he wasn’t intending that she wear it for very much longer.

‘Gianluca,’ she breathed as he slid off her panties and tossed them aside to join the other garments on the floor.
And suddenly the uncertainty began to dissolve with the sure caress of his fingers against her nakedness and his murmured words.

He was just so gorgeous, and he was making
her
feel gorgeous—and hadn’t she been nurturing a fantasy about this man from the very first moment she’d met him? Reaching up, she burrowed her fingers beneath his silken shirt, feeling the flat, hard planes of his torso and the rough texture of the hair which grew there.

‘Sì,
touch me,’ he urged, and closed his eyes as she began to unbuckle his belt, as he had prayed she might. ‘Do not be shy,
cara.
Ah,
sì
—touch me right
there.’

The momentary inhibition Aisling felt at the formidable length of him against her palm was soon banished by the groan of pleasure he made and now she felt powerful. Equal. Because she wanted this, too.

She wanted it enough to forget everything but the potent strength of her own desire, which had her tugging off his jeans and hearing his low laugh until suddenly they were both naked, their bodies and limbs entangling, and Aisling gave a little cry of delight.

Gianluca kissed her and touched her until she cried out for him to take her and that made him laugh and kiss her some more. ‘Shall I make you wait?’ he teased.

‘Don’t you dare!’

‘Or, what?’

‘Or … this …’

She took her hand away from where it had been playing with him and he groaned, even while he wriggled with pleasure. So the cool and contained ice-maiden was melting, was she? Inside she was as hot and as sexy as any
woman he’d ever made love to. He moved over her, brushing aside a few wild strands of dark hair, kissing the tip of her nose, and suddenly he was overcome with a need to make love to her.

‘Aisling?’ he said unsteadily. ‘You are protected?’

As Aisling shook her head he groaned and reached for some protection, stroking it on with shaking and impatient fingers and then moving over her once more.

There was that split-second before he entered her which somehow felt as intimate as anything could be. She wanted to tell him that she never normally did this kind of thing, that this was special, but she sensed that it would be inappropriate. As if she was expecting too much from it.

And besides, Gianluca was too aroused to be able to hear anything and so she just drew him down to her, wrapping her arms possessively around his bare back, wanting him closer than close—on her and in her and … ‘This is …’

‘I know it is,’ he groaned as he delayed for one more blissful and agonising second.
‘Il settimo cielo.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that it feels like heaven. That
you
feel like heaven.’ And then he thrust into her—slow and hard and deep—enjoying the cry of delight which was torn from her lips as they moved in the act of life itself.

Again and again, he brought her to the edge—teasing her into writhing submission until suddenly he knew that he could wait no longer. He bent his mouth to her nipple, his teeth grazing against the sensitised bud, so that her nails gripped into the flesh of his shoulders when at last she tumbled over the edge and he winced with the heady combination of pleasure and pain before he climaxed himself.

They lay there, tight together, moist bodies mingling as their breathing and their hearts slowed, and as a delicious torpor began to creep over him he lifted his arm up to glance at his watch and swore very softly.

Sleepily, Aisling lifted her head. ‘Is something … wrong?’

He yawned and shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly behaving like host of the year, am I?’ he murmured. ‘We’ll stay here for a while, but then we really ought to get back to the party, cara.’ But the temptation of a goose-down heap of pillows and a warm, naked body next to his was just too much to resist and Gianluca fell asleep—a naked thigh spread carelessly against the curve of her hip, one hand lying lightly just above her waist, a few stray tendrils of hair like silk bonds against his skin.

Aisling must have slept too, because when she awoke she felt both disorientated and yet utterly contented. Her limbs felt heavy and her body warm and replete—its sticky heat and the tingling sensation of her skin reminding her of … of …

Her eyes flew open and she experienced a momentary feeling of sheer, blind panic as she realised just where she was.

And with whom!

She swallowed. It couldn’t be. She must have dreamt it. Please may this be a dream.

But then she heard the sound of a small sigh and the stirring of a body beside her and she knew that it was no dream.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she carefully turned her head to look at the figure on the bed next to her, as if seeking visual reassurance that she had really just slept with her client.

In sleep, Gianluca’s face was much softer. The ruffled hair and dark sweep of his lashes made him seem a million miles away from the high-powered executive with the
restless nature and rather cruel smile. For one mad moment she almost gave into the overwhelming desire to lower her head and to whisper her lips along the olive silk of his bare shoulder and to move her body over his, until a wave of reason washed over her like a cold shower, bringing her to her senses.