Her Roman Holiday (25 page)

Calia laughed.
 
She was so full of happiness, she didn’t know how she was going to contain it all.
 
“So you’re saying you bought this company just so you’d have a reason to come see me.”

“Essentially, yes.”
 
He was grinning, too.

“Good God, Gio.
 
Trust a Diamanti to come up with a scheme like that.”

He watched her, his expression growing serious once again.
 
“You do trust me, don’t you, Calia?”

“I do.”

“Just the two words I wanted to hear.”

He leaned in to kiss her, and suddenly conversation became secondary to communication between them.
 

Other books by Jamie Anderson:

Leaving Rafe

Raphael Alvarez broke Alicia Witherspoon's heart years ago, prompting her to leave her home and her family and build a new life abroad.
 

But, when her father falls ill, Alicia must return home and take over the family business, which means working with Rafe, who is as gorgeous--and as infuriatingly dominating--as ever. She soon finds that the chemistry between them is difficult to resist. But, a tragic accident during their years apart has robbed her of more than the ability to trust men like Rafe. Dare she risk everything by telling him the truth behind why she has avoided relationships over the years--and will she lose everything if she does?

Excerpt:

The cadence of the tango music brought back a flood of unwelcome memories as Ali absently watched a few older couples walk onto the tiled floor and begin dancing.
 

She paused, not really seeing them at all.
 
Instead, she saw the laughter in Rafe’s expression as he patiently taught her the steps all those years ago.
 
She burned with the memory of his darkly sensual gaze as their bodies moved in perfect unison--close enough to feel each other’s heat without quite touching.
 
Her thighs grazing against his as they--

“Shall we show them how it’s done, my dear?”
 
The graveled murmur against her ear was followed by an electric touch on her shoulder.
 
And then, before she could begin to protest, Rafael Alvarez swung her into his arms and deftly led her through the other partygoers and onto the dance floor.

For a few moments, Ali was too dazed by the sight of him up close--by the unyielding heat of his hand, firm against the curve of her waist, while the other held hers captive in the stiff, tight tango frame--to voice her objections.
 
To even remember she had any.
 

He looks harder.
 
She swallowed, staring at his harsh, sculpted features with wide eyes.
 
And his eyes are almost frightening.
 
They burned her and she looked away, fixing her gaze at an invisible point over his right shoulder.
 

She took a deep breath as she continued to stare into the distance.
 
That’s better.
 
Now she only had to contend with the molten heat of his skin against hers, the tantalizing brush of his leg as he stepped between her thighs, leading her inexorably backward.
 
The traitorous tingle of her breasts, achingly close to the hard expanse of his chest as he held her in a grip of steel.

Another breath, Ali.
 
Compose yourself, for God’s sake!
 
She gave herself one more moment, then she leveled what she hoped was a sardonic glare at him.
 

“What’s the idea, Alvarez?
 
A walk down memory lane?”
 
She looked away from the proximity of his gaze, relieved at the dry tone of voice she had managed to maintain.
 
But she couldn’t continue looking at him.
 
He was too close--and she needed every little bit of distance she could get.

His laugh was harsher than she remembered and it carried the feline undertone of a predator about to pounce.
 
“Since when was it ‘Alvarez’, Ali?
 
We’re old friends, after all.”
 
The faintest trace of an accent amid the rough sensuality of his voice.

She swallowed as he shifted his hold and led them into the center of the dance floor.
 
Ali could feel the heat of his skin as he held her, cheek almost grazing cheek.
 
The goosebumps rose on her arms and excitement roiled in the pit of her stomach.
 
He loosened his grip and sent her into the tight spin that signaled the pointé, before catching her firmly.

As the warmth began to surge between her legs, Ali felt a different kind of heat burning her face at the knowledge that he could still do this to her.
 
He spun her back across the floor and she cast him a glare before returning her gaze to that same point over his shoulder.
 
He started forward once more.
 

“I’m not interested in any of your games, Alvarez.
 
In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve grown up in the years since we last met.”

“Ah
querida
,” he replied, his voice the sheathed velvet of a tiger’s claw, “you will have to forgive me if I doubt your claim.
 
From the looks of things, you seem quite interested in--and well-acquainted with--the kinds of games I had in mind.”

Ali glimpsed the flash of his grin out of the corner of her eye and kept her gaze averted.
 
She didn’t want to see Rafael Alvarez smiling at her--not from the other side of a room or across a table.
 
And certainly not when she stood in the circle of his arms, his hand shifting from the curve of her waist across into the sensitized expanse of her bare back.
 
She had to force herself to ignore the frissons of excitement triggered by the more intimate hold.
 

And then, the full implications of his comment finally penetrated the miasma of sensations she had been struggling against.
 
Her mouth went dry at the thought.
 
He can’t mean what I think he means,
she assured herself, even as her body stiffened at the thought.
 
She tried to pull away from him then, but he held her too firmly.
 

He laughed again as he tightened his grip.
 
“That’s the spirit, my dear!
 
The
tango
is the dance of conflict--of seduction and resistance.
 
Of fire and passion.”

“I’m not interested,” she ground out between clenched teeth.
 

“Are you absolutely certain of that,
querida
?”
 
He changed his grip once more, moving slightly to one side as he led her into the closed fan, the subtle but inexorable guidance of his arms forcing her body to twist, the outside of her thigh brushing against his muscled leg.
 

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, remembering the deep joy she felt when he used to murmur the endearment in her ear, his voice tender with emotion.
 

He tsked, slipping back into the basic position and moving forward once more.
 
“You’re trying to wound me, aren’t you, Ali?
 
All this rebuttal and repudiation.
 
And here I am, just trying to rekindle a little of our old friendship.”

“We were never friends, Alvarez.”
 
But I did love you.
 
And you betrayed that.

Unforgettable

As a result of an abusive first marriage, which she has kept hidden as her own, dark secret, Claire's marriage of convenience with her sexy, workaholic boss Ethan has been all business--and that has suited her just fine.
 

But, when he is attacked and wakes with no memory of the person he used to be, Claire finds that her attraction for her gorgeous boss is all that much more difficult to resist--but can she learn to trust again?

Ethan might not have a memory of the man he used to be, but unless his former self was dead from the waist down, there's no way he could have been unaware of his stunning wife of convenience's many attractions--and he hopes to make their marriage a whole lot less convenient in the very near future.

Excerpt:
 

Darkness and pain.
 
A throbbing in his head.
 
Ethan opened his eyes and winced at the brightness.
 
He remembered odd flashes.
 
Making his way to a desk in a large lobby.
 
Blackness.
 
Then, the sound of sirens and the looming face of a young man, his dark hair cut short.
 
“You’ll be fine, Mr. Forster,” the man said, before everything went dark again.
 
Other, less comprehensible flashes of recollection.

He blinked and gingerly looked around, wondering where he was.
 
It looked like a hospital, he realised.
 
He felt uncomfortably warm, and glancing down, he saw that he wore some sort of hospital gown.
 
From waist down, he had been swathed in layers of blankets.
 
His head hurt more with his eyes open, but the need to know what was going on had overridden the pain.
 
What had happened?

His light-blinded eyes were drawn to a figure in red, standing some distance away.
 
A splash of vivid colour amid the drab greens and whites that swam on the edges of his vision.

Finally, his eyes finished adusting and the figure came into focus.
 
For a moment, he forgot about the pain, forgot to wonder what might have happened to him.
 
Forgot everything but her.
 

She stood in profile to him—and what a profile!
 
The dress she wore caressed her figure, revealing curves that made him draw in a tight breath.
 
Dark waves clustered around her face and cascaded down the silken curve of her back in a riot of darkness.
 
Even what he could see of her face was exquisite—high cheekbones, full lips and large eyes.
 
A Spanish gypsy, he thought with a smile.

He wondered who she was.
 
She couldn’t work here—she’d give the male cardiac patients a heart attack.
 
Even he was having trouble breathing smoothly as he watched her—and he didn’t
think
he had a heart condition.
 
She was talking with a doctor of some sort.
 
He frowned a little as he watched her.
 
There was something intensely familiar about her—something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.
 
He almost felt as though he knew her, though perhaps that was just wishful thinking, he reflected ruefully.

I wonder if she’s married,
he thought, then frowned, his eyes widening.
 
I wonder if
I’m
married.
 

Jamie Anderson lives in Ontario, Canada, with her husband and two cats. She started writing stories not long after she learned to write, and hasn’t stopped since.