Reckless Nights in Rome (15 page)

From a
distance, Nico heard himself roar as he held her tight and emptied
his seed within her.

Then a deep sob
escaped from his throat as he collapsed, gasping for air on top of
her.

He rolled to
his side, turning Bronte and taking her with him.

He closed his
eyes.

His heart
thundered against her back as he settled her in the spoon position
and her body rippled around his. Mini aftershocks followed one
after the other. He seriously didn’t know whether he was ecstatic
or devastated. He’d thought it couldn’t get any better than the
first time they’d made love and he’d been so wrong.

Nico clenched
his jaw as again her internal muscles milked every drop of life
giving liquid from him. He shuddered and buried his face in the
fragile nape of her neck. If they kept this up, they would be dead
within a week.

She was slick
with healthy sweat and he was in just as bad a state.

He was not a
snuggler, never had been, but he wanted to stay like this, joined
to this woman for ever. Reality elbowed him in the ribs, but he
ignored it, simply enjoying the moment, muttering endearments in
Italian and pressing soft kisses to the sensitive skin, baby soft,
below her ear. He was stroking her hip, her thigh as he held her
close.

At last she
calmed, relaxed, her body still reluctant to release his. She was a
miracle. Nico didn’t question his too intense feelings. They were
what they were and that was the beginning and the end of it.

He knew for
certain that Bronte was destined to play a crucial part in his
future. Although how the mighty had fallen in less than forty-hours
was a complete and utter mystery.

They must have
slept.

When Nico awoke
he was no longer inside her.

Bronte
whimpered, curled up in a foetal position near the edge of the bed.
Her shuddering sobs fractured the steel door protecting his heart.
He couldn’t bear the sound of her distress. Desperately he pulled
her sobbing into his arms. It took him a heartbeat and then another
to realise she was in the grip of a vicious nightmare.

She muttered
words he couldn’t grasp.

Appalled, he
watched rapid eye movement under eyelids so fragile they reminded
him of tissue paper. Tiny beads of sweat prickled across her brow
and top lip. With infinite care, he pressed his lips to her brow
and stroked her gently bringing her back to him.

“
Cara
,
wake up. It is a bad dream.” And he thanked Christ when her eyelids
fluttered and her breathing calmed. “Wake up, you are
dreaming.”

Dazed, Bronte jerked
awake and stared at him.

Nico, good God,
she was in his arms and he was murmuring words in soft, rapid
Italian.

Heat scorched
her cheeks and other intensely intimate parts of her as reality
dumped her firmly in the present.

Still groggy,
she refused to let her mind linger on the moment when she found her
parent’s bodies lying under blankets at the side of the road. She
would not permit a nightmare to destroy this wonderful moment.

Stretching like
a cat she ached gloriously in parts of her she never knew
existed.

Nico’s mouth
brushed over hers.

“I am going to
run you a bath
, cara
. Lie still until I come for you.”

He rose and
strode naked in all his glory into her bathroom.

Indulging
herself, Bronte admiring his tight buttocks and long, lean,
muscular legs.

The thud of
ancient water pipes heralded hot water gushing into the antique
clawed bath.

Nico hummed in
a deep baritone.

Still sleepy,
she listened to the sound of swishing bubbles, then the water
ceased and he strode to her side of the bed.

He lifted her
as if she weighed nothing, kissed her forehead and carried her into
the bathroom.

Bronte nuzzled
his collar bone, determined to enjoy a moment that was quite unique
in her experience.

With care, he
stood her in the bath.

A move that
brought her eyes level with his.

He cupped her
face between his hands and studied her with an intensity that made
her shiver.

How did he do
that?

“Are you okay?”
She nodded but he didn’t appear convinced. “Do you have nightmares
often?”

Bronte cleared
her throat as his grey eyes scanned her features.

“I haven’t had
it for months.”

He frowned.
“Are they always the same?”

Her pulse
fluttered.

“Yes.” She
shivered.

“Lie down. You
are chilled
, cara
. I will use the shower.”

Warm water,
scented with jasmine, eased out aching muscles.

Bronte didn’t
want to think of her ex-fiancé at such a time, feeling it was
unfair to Nico. But in the years of intimacy she’d shared with
Jonathan, she’d never experienced anything like the sex she’d
shared with Nico. The man was an amazingly generous lover and how
lucky was she? Not that she was keeping count, much, but she’d come
three times. Wow, she’d never known it was even possible. And
weren’t men supposed to need time to recover? Someone obviously
hadn’t told Nico.

Drowsily, she
kept an eye on him through the opaque glass of her walk-in shower.
He was quick, efficient and exited with a white towel slung low on
his hips. He towel dried his hair, and then ran his fingers through
it. The easy intimacy, the sheer domesticity of the moment, caught
her throat.

She found
herself wishing if only and told herself to behave and live in the
moment.

Those dark eyes
cruised possessively over her face and her body.

Saliva dried in
her mouth. Her breasts, bobbing among creamy bubbles, tightened and
her nipples hardened into rosy bullets.

Nico’s sharp
eyes missed nothing. He gave her that slow, sexy smile, revealing
those adorable dimples and Bronte knew she was toast.

He crouched
beside her. His fingertip stroked her breast rubbing a nipple. She
couldn’t help it, she pulled back.

He frowned.
Those eyes sharp as a blade stared into hers.

“You have
beautiful breasts.”

With the
horrible nightmare still jerking her chain and Jonathan’s voice
telling her she was built like a boy, Bronte gave a tiny shrug.

“They’re only
breasts. I’m not defined by them.”

Those slashing
brows flew into his hairline.

“Of course you
are not defined by them.” He frowned. “I hope you are not thinking
about implants?”

“I’ve, er,
thought about it.” Her teeth bit her bottom lip and she couldn’t
look him in the eye.

“You are not
happy with your breasts?”

“I don’t think
about them.”

He grinned. But
his eyes remained sharp on hers.

“I have no
complaints about any part of you,
cara
. Would you like me to
wash you? I am very thorough.” That accent, intimate and terribly
erotic, had her catch her breath.

She eyed him.
“I bet you are. No thank you, I can manage.”

Nico grinned
and captured her mouth, exploring it thoroughly with his. Gentle
but passionate, it was a kiss full of promise of good things to
come.

His forehead
touched hers.

“Do not fall
asleep in the bath you still look drowsy. I will make coffee.”

Mr Bossy was
back and Bronte found she didn’t give a damn.

“That would be
nice.” She sank into the water until bubbles reached her chin.

He rose, the
hunger in his gaze evident.

Nico growled in
his throat as he left making her smile.

Bronte replayed the
amazing events of the day and knew Sundays would never be quite the
same again.

Part of her
couldn’t quite believe that what she’d experienced was real. If
this was an affair or a quick fling then Nico appeared to be taking
it very seriously indeed. But perhaps that was how men of the world
behaved when they were with a woman? She supposed a playboy was
called a playboy for a reason. It wasn’t as if she had experience
of these things.

There was
absolutely no point, she told herself, in trying to analyse what
was happening between them. He’d told her he found her amazing and
she believed him. She’d satisfied him and that gave her a wonderful
feeling for the first time in her life of immense feminine power.
Bronte Ludlow had made Nico Ferranti tremble. He’d called her name
in the throes of physical passion. And how wonderful was that?

“Bronte! Do not fall
asleep,” he yelled from the bottom of the stair.

“I’m
coming!”

She leapt out
of the bath.

Wrapped in a
towel she tiptoed into her bedroom and stopped dead.

Pillows were
strewn across the polished floor of dark oak. Her usually pristine
Egyptian cotton sheets and duvet looked as if they’d been through a
hurricane. Evidence of energetic sex lay everywhere.

With a shrug,
she ignored her perfectionist tendencies. That siren call to bring
order back to her bedroom and her life. She dug out black skinny
jeans and matching polo neck from her closet.

After tying up
her hair she pulled on cosy socks and padded down to the
kitchen.

He’d been busy.

The table was
set for two. In the middle of the table a heavy white platter was
piled high with wholemeal sandwiches filled with what appeared to
be slivers of lean ham and cheese.

Nico turned
with a smile for her that would melt the polar ice cap and Bronte
simply stared.

Her breath
caught in her throat at the look in his eye for her.

Dressed in
jeans and his sweater, she noticed he hadn’t bothered with shoes.
With the tousled hair, the five o’clock shadow on that strong jaw
and the glint in his eye, the man was gorgeous. And he was looking
at her as if she was his sun in the morning and his moon at
night.

She managed to
reach a chair before her legs gave way.

He genuinely
cared for her? A shaft of alarm, a portent of disaster slid into
her heart. Desperately, she told herself she was imagining it. Nico
had laid his cards on the table. He’d told her in words of one
syllable that he didn’t want commitment. And Alexander had made it
crystal clear that Nico had no place in his heart for a woman.

But he’d been
so gentle with her after her nightmare. Then he’d run a bath for
her, cared for her, warning her not to fall asleep.

Dismay squeezed
her lungs as she studied the food meticulously prepared, for her.
When he placed a bowl of fresh strawberries on the table and poured
her a cup of coffee Bronte could barely breathe. He must not care
for her.

She had
nothing, no future, to give him.

He was a man
who moved fast in all things she realised now. This was not the
time for her to become heavily involved with any man, never mind a
man like Nico.

“
Cara
?”

She blinked as
he crouched in front of her and Bronte forced herself to smile into
his eyes. As ever, he smelt divine. If she bottled it, she’d make
an absolute killing.

Gentle
fingertips stroked her cheek.

Telling herself
she was over thinking things and over reacting as per usual, she
took a breath and picked up a sandwich.

“You’ve been
busy. Thank you.”

“It is my
pleasure. I enjoy looking after you.”

Oh God, her
mind desperately searched for a neutral subject when the phone
rang.

Saved by the
bell she thought as she rose and picked up the receiver.

“Hello? Bronte
speaking.”

There was a
long silence before the person hung up.

She replaced
the receiver.

Nico rose to
stand next to her. “Wrong number?”

With a frown
she shrugged at him. “I don’t know, they didn’t speak.”

The message
light was flashing. It must have come in when they were in bed.
Pressing play she cocked her head listening to the long silence
with a spooky feeling in her gut that someone was there and almost
certain she could hear faint breathing.

Then they hung
up.

“Do you receive
many crank calls?”

With a slow
shake of her head Bronte remembered the messages earlier.

“Strangely
enough I had three that hung up early this morning. I turn the
volume off on the extension in the bedroom on weekends.”

Nico frowned
now.

“If you
continue to have problems call the telephone company.”

“I will, but it
could be one of those automatically generated sales calls.”

She spotted
her sketchpad on the table.

“So, what are
you going to do with my drawing?”

His eyes
searched her face and she pumped up her smile as she returned to
her seat.

He sat next to
her. “I will frame it.”

Sipping her
coffee, Bronte choked.

“Good grief,
why?”

At ease Nico
leaned back in the chair stretching out long legs.

“Because it
will remind me to keep my ego in check.”

“You’ve lost
your mind.”

“It is how you
see me, no? You see me as the devil.”

He took her
hand in a relaxed friendly fashion but his eyes were too
watchful.

Bronte ordered
herself to be very careful.

“I believe I
was a tad pissed off with you at the time.”

Nico barked out
a laugh.

“Not a terribly
ladylike expression,
cara
.”

“Well, there
are times when I’m not a lady.”

His fingertips
stroked the back of her hand. “You cannot change who and what you
are.”

Perfectly true,
she admitted.

She picked up
her cup and eyed him over the rim.

“So, you’re
going to run Ludlow Hall for a month?”

He nodded as he
shovelled in a sandwich, wiping his fingers on a white linen napkin
he’d unearthed from God knew where.