The Good, the Bad and the Wild (14 page)

‘Would you leave us too, Signorina Redmond?’ the duca asked. ‘I would talk to Niccolo in private.’

‘She stays,’ Nick interrupted before she could answer.

The older man waited a moment, as if assessing his reply, then nodded. ‘If you wish.’

‘And the name’s Nick, not Niccolo,’ Nick replied, the cold tone bordering on rude.

The duca stiffened, but instead of ordering
Nick to leave, as Eva had half expected, he only inclined his head towards an antique leather sofa and two wide wingbacked chairs, arranged in front of a huge stone fireplace. ‘Let us sit. The staff are bringing refreshments.’

‘That would be love—’ Eva began.

‘I don’t think so,’ Nick cut off her acceptance. ‘I’ve been travelling for close to twenty-four hours. I need to crash for a while.’

As if on cue, the two female members of the duca’s staff entered carrying silver trays laden with a coffee service and plates full of dainty sugared pastries and slices of fresh fruit. Continuing to watch Nick, the duca clicked his fingers and redirected the staff in Italian. The maids left and the butler rushed in, concern etched on his face.

‘Eduardo will take you to your rooms,’ the duca announced, but the hollow melancholy had left his voice. He sounded stern and his eyes were sharp and completely lucid now as they assessed Nick. ‘I dine at nine. Eduardo will show you where.’ It wasn’t an invitation, but a command from a man who spoke as if he were chastising an errant child, and was willing to be patient, but only up to a point.

Despite the dictatorial tone, Nick shrugged. ‘Maybe, if I don’t sleep through.’

The reply was insolent, clearly stating that Nick had no intention of obeying the command. Eva had the strangest impression of two stags,
one a young buck, the other the leader of the herd, their antlers poised as they prepared to fight for control.

But instead of locking horns, the duca simply inclined his head. ‘Eduardo will wake you in good time if you fall asleep, Niccolo,’

Nick sent the old man a hard stare, but didn’t reply to the obvious challenge before they were led out of the room by a worried looking Eduardo.

They’d gone a few feet into the lobby area, when a young footman appeared bearing Eva’s case. ‘Signorina Redmond, we have the room for you in the garden house,’ he said in faltering English.

But as she went to follow him Nick took her wrist and she jerked to a stop. ‘We’re together. I want her in the room next to mine.’

What?

Heat raged up her neck and burned her scalp. She twisted her hand free.

‘I don’t think that’s entirely necessary,’ she said to Eduardo, who was already redirecting the footman up the stairs with her case, the mortification on his face plain. ‘Anywhere you want to put me is absolutely—’

But before she could say any more, Nick began talking over her to Eduardo in his supposedly rusty Italian. From the look of concern on Eduardo’s face and the way he was practically
genuflecting to Nick it was clear her protests would be futile.

The Prodigal Grandson had spoken and that was that.

Within minutes, she was being ushered up the wide, sweeping central staircase of the mansion right behind her suitcase, her wishes having been ignored as Nick continued to converse in Italian with the butler.

Not fluent, my butt
.

She fumed every step of the way up the stairs to the first floor and then down a long corridor, shock and embarrassment warring with indignation. The footman opened a large door leading onto an enormous room, dominated by a four-poster bed on a dais. Laying her rather worn-looking suitcase on a dressing table, he whipped back the drapes and opened terrace doors onto a wrought-iron balcony that looked out over the lake. Sunlight flooded the room, but the awe-inspiring view did little to calm her rising temper.

Nick had made her sound like his lover.

The footman paused as he crossed back to the door, gave a quick bow. ‘Your bathroom is shared with Signor Delisantro,’ he said and she was sure she could detect a little Italian smirk of approval. ‘This was the room of the contessa.’

Which one? Eva wondered as the footman left, assuming he was referring to one of Conte Leonardo De Rossi’s four wives, the last of whom he’d divorced two months before
his death. From the grandiose furnishings and the deluxe silken bedspread, she would have guessed the last contessa. A French supermodel who had been under half of Leonardo De Rossi’s sixty-five years of age when they had married during a spur-of-the-moment ceremony in San Moritz.

But she wasn’t Signor Delisantro’s wife. Or his mistress. In fact she wasn’t even his girlfriend. Despite what he’d implied. And she didn’t want an adjoining room. Her role here had become completely redundant as soon as the duca had set eyes on Nick. She doubted he would even want to see the PowerPoint lecture she’d worked a week on to explain her research and how she had come to identify Nick’s mother as the heartbroken girl Leonardo’s journal referred to only
as ‘il frutto proibito’
—the forbidden fruit.

Roots Registry would get their commission without her having to prove the validity of her research. And as if her situation weren’t already untenable enough, Nick had now made her look like a convenient bit of totty rather than a certified genealogical research fellow. Which was probably all part of the nasty little game he was playing with her.

She unzipped her case and swore under her breath. A word she hadn’t used since her teens. Her eyes landed on the bathroom door as she heard the muffled voices of Nick and Eduardo
from the hallway. Dumping her treasured collection of lace lingerie into the polished maple-wood dresser, she slammed the drawer closed.

The time for playing games was over. She stalked to the bathroom door and sailed through it. Barely sparing a glance for the magnificent marble bath, and the gilded fixtures and fittings, as she headed for the connecting door to Nick’s suite. Her hand tightened on the handle.

Forget professionalism. Forget demure, efficient and composed. Forget being a damn conciliator and worrying about stepping out of her comfort zone. She didn’t need to put up with Nick’s arrogant behaviour a moment longer. She was going to throttle the man.

CHAPTER TEN

E
VA
gave a quick rap on the door, then marched into Nick’s room without waiting for a reply.

She was a rational, level-headed woman who would do pretty much anything to avoid an argument. But she’d never had to deal with anyone as hard-headed, self-absorbed and insensitive as Nick Delisantro before. And there was a fine line between being diplomatic and being a doormat.

And whatever he might believe her role here to be, it wasn’t as his doormat… Or as his personal punching bag.

‘I want a word with you,’ she announced as she stepped onto the thick silk carpeting, and took in the palatial splendour of the master bedroom, which was even bigger than her own suite next door. He stood by the large casement window, with his back to her and his hands dug into the rear pockets of his jeans.

He twisted round, but didn’t say anything.

She wrapped her arms round her waist, her
temper stuttering slightly under that intimidating gaze. The piercing look in his eyes had little tingles of electricity sizzling across her skin. ‘You totally undermined my credibility, my professional integrity and my position here as a representative of Roots Registry by insisting we be roomed together.’

He turned fully towards her. ‘Did I?’ It was the amused twist of his lips that did it. She felt something inside her crack, and her temper boiled like molten lava flooding through a volcanic fissure.

She strode across the room. ‘You know perfectly well you did.’ She stabbed her index finger into the centre of the motorbike logo on his T-shirt. ‘You made me sound like your mistress. In front of Eduardo and the footman. It was humiliating.’

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and glanced at her finger. She whipped it back, too aware of the unyielding chest muscles beneath.

‘And you did it deliberately,’ she added, struggling to focus on the lava. ‘You… You…’ She sputtered, trying to think of a suitable name to call him. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a particularly wide vocabulary to hand. She never called people names. ‘You…’ She racked her brains. ‘You berk.’

He gave a rough chuckle and the molten lava burned. ‘Berk? Seriously? You need to work on your insults, sweetheart.’

Heat pounded into her cheeks. ‘Don’t call me that.’

It was the same generic endearment he’d called her two weeks ago. Before he’d kicked her out of his apartment. And she was sure it meant nothing to him. He probably used it with every woman he slept with. But for her it had been special, had made her feel special. And hearing it again now, when all he wanted to do was humiliate her only made her feel more foolish.

‘Why not?’ he said, apparently oblivious to her runaway temper. ‘You
are
sweet.’

He cruised a finger down the side of her face, and she jerked back, the tiny touch like an electrical zap of energy to every one of her pulse points.

‘Stop it,’ she said, panic making her shout.

He stepped forward, invading her personal space. ‘Stop what?’

‘Stop playing games with me.’ She stood her ground, despite the shock waves of awareness making her whole body tremble and yearn to step towards him—like a vertigo sufferer about to leap off a high ledge. ‘It isn’t fair and you know it.’

‘What games?’

‘This game.’ She spread her hands, took another step back, the force field of raw machismo pumping off him making the heat pound hotter between her thighs.

How did he do that to her? When she didn’t want him to?

‘The flirting and the innuendo and the… The kiss,’ she babbled. ‘The kiss you gave me on the plane. And that look,’ she finished in a rush, knowing she sounded like a nutcase, but desperate now to make him stop his little charade. So her body would come to its senses.

‘What look?’ he asked, but she knew he understood, because he was giving it to her again. Her nipples tightened painfully under the lace of her bra, and throbbed in unison with the tender spot between her thighs.

‘That
look.’ She pointed at him. ‘That look right there. That says you want me. When we both know you don’t.’

The air crackled with tension, and then he had her cheeks in his palms and his mouth on hers.

His lips were firm, warm, seeking and tasted of coffee and need. Without warning, hunger flared, and the craving for him that she’d been pretending didn’t exist charged through her system with turbo-powered intensity. He opened his mouth to take more, and her tongue thrust back, drinking him in like a long cold glass of icy water on a hot summer day.

His fingers thrust into her hair as he angled her head to take the kiss deeper—she placed her palms on his waist, her fingers gripping soft cotton and hard muscle and rose on tiptoe, to let
him. Searing heat fired through her body as they devoured each other. She wanted him, wanted this, with a power that overwhelmed her.

He stopped first, the breath expelling from his lungs in a couple of ragged pants. She heard her own staggered breathing. Dazed with the sudden rush of sexual hunger and the realisation that she’d forgotten to breathe.

He reached out, pressed his thumb to her raw, swollen bottom lip.

‘I’m not playing games.’ His thumb trailed down, to where her pulse hammered against her neck, and all she could do was stare blankly back, scared to move in case she swayed towards him like a cat in need of stroking.

His hand dropped away. ‘And from the way you kissed me back, I’d say neither are you.’

‘We can’t do this,’ she said. ‘It’s not appropriate.’ The denial sounding absurd after the kiss they’d just shared. But her mind was engaging again, and the stupidity of what she’d just done was staring her in the face. The wild woman had returned.

‘Who cares if it’s appropriate?’ he demanded, his face fierce, his tone tight with impatience. ‘We both want to. And we’ve got two damn weeks here…’ She saw it then, the flash of something she would never have expected. Something she’d failed to spot before because she’d been too busy trying to control the uncontrollable.

‘Unless I can get His Highness to kick me out sooner.’ He turned away, buried his hands back in the pockets of his jeans. But now that her mind had engaged, it wouldn’t stop engaging.

‘This isn’t about me,’ she murmured, suddenly understanding the game he had been playing all along. This wasn’t a game of humiliation—it was a game of avoidance.

But instead of feeling used, or insulted, all she felt was a choking sense of sympathy. ‘I’m just a convenient distraction.’

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You’ve lost me?’

‘It was all an act, wasn’t it? That sullen “I don’t care about any of this” act you put on downstairs. You’re not indifferent, or bored. You’re scared.’