The Good, the Bad and the Wild (12 page)

She stood rooted to the spot. Determined not to give in to the sudden instinct to lift the hem of the confining pencil skirt and leg it straight out of the terminal building.

She’d flown once before, and he’d caught up with her. What she had to do now was fight.

Fight for composure. Fight to regain her dignity and fight to maintain control of this situation for the next two weeks. Not to mention fight an attraction that for some inexplicable reason had not gone away, despite the appalling way this man had treated her already and the unpleasant way she was sure he intended to treat her again.

Unfortunately, her hormones paid absolutely no attention whatsoever to her mission statement. Because as Nick Delisantro got closer, they began jumping and jigging about as if they’d just won the lottery.

She squeezed the fingers of her free hand into a fist, released them and then thrust out her palm as he stopped in front of her. ‘Good afternoon,
Mr Delisantro. I hope you had a pleasant flight,’ she said, her voice satisfyingly polite and professional despite her jackpot-hitting hormones. ‘But I’m afraid we need to hurry or we’ll miss our plane to Milan.’

His fingers closed over hers, making electricity zing into her palm and then shoot up her arm.

‘
Mr
Delisantro?’ One dark brow arched as a mocking smile curved his lips. ‘Isn’t that a bit formal, given that I’ve seen you naked, Eva?’

The confidence in his tone, and the spark of humour in his eyes, made it clear he wasn’t asking a question. And her temper finally got the better of her hormones.

‘Formal works for me, given that you’re not going to see me naked again,
Mr
Delisantro,’ she fired back, tugging her hand out of his grasp.

Nick chuckled at the steely hint of aggravation in her tone.

Damn, how could he have forgotten how direct she was? And how much he enjoyed that about her?

He let his gaze drift over her, and enjoyed the view too. While the buttoned-up two-piece suit should have made her look a lot less appealing, somehow it didn’t. She’d tied her riotous hair back in a ruthless bun, but those big baby blue eyes, full kissable lips and petal-soft skin were as exquisite as he remembered them, belying her attempts to disguise her beauty.

Had she disguised herself especially for his benefit? The thought gave him a nice little ego-boost and confirmed the decision he’d come to on the plane.

He was through feeling guilty about the way he’d lost his temper with Eva the morning after their night together. He’d got Eva her job back—and was submitting to being judged like a prize stallion by a man he’d never met before, plus he was travelling all the way to Italy for the privilege. So as far as he was concerned, his conscience was now clear on that score.

Which had rather neatly paved the way for the second decision he’d come to a split second ago, as his libido had rioted right back into overdrive at the sight of her. He hadn’t been able to forget her in two whole weeks now. And he was through trying. They were going to be stuck together in Italy for a fortnight. And he for one couldn’t see the harm any more in making the most of it. Especially given that flush of arousal turning her pale cheeks a rosy pink.

‘Now that sounds like a challenge,’ he teased.

Her eyebrows lifted all the way to her neatly brushed fringe. ‘It’s not,’ she said swiftly, but the firm words were contradicted by the tiny tremble of her bottom lip.

‘If you say so, Eva,’ he replied, his eyes drawn to her full breasts, which quivered deliciously under the prim shirt she wore.

Heat punched his groin. He wanted to feel the
weight of her breasts again. Wanted her straining against him and begging for his touch the way she had a fortnight ago.

That could take a while, he acknowledged, as his thought processes finally kicked in, certainly longer than the first time, given that she didn’t seem entirely pleased to see him.

Good thing they had more than one night.

‘We have to get to Terminal One,’ she said, glancing at her wristwatch and avoiding his eyes. ‘The flight to Milan leaves in less than two hours.’

‘I’m all yours,’ he said, his voice husky with innuendo.

The colour in her cheeks hit critical mass, but she only sent him a wary glance, before shooting off towards the terminal entrance. He followed at a more leisurely pace, easily keeping up with her short strides. And wondered if she realised the tailored skirt did nothing to disguise the seductive sway of her hips.

He was playing some sort of game with her. That had to be it, Eva thought as she stared out of the aeroplane’s small window and the puzzled frown on her face reflected in the perspex.

But she didn’t have a clue what game. Why did he keep sending her those long, smouldering looks? And what was with the husky tone of voice? The sexy teasing? Had she imagined it,
simply because she was so relieved that he was being cooperative instead of cruel?

She cast a look over her shoulder, to find him lifting his bag into the overhead locker. His T-shirt rose up his waist, to reveal a narrow strip of lean, tanned belly, dusted with dark hair. Her eyes traced the jagged white scar that defined the hollow of his hipbone. And the moisture dried in her mouth, and gushed elsewhere. His arms dropped and the tantalising glimpse disappeared. She squeezed her knees together and jerked her gaze back to the window.

But then her hearing became impossibly acute. She listened to the muffed thump as he sat down, then the creak of the seatback as he adjusted his long legs in the business class seat and finally heard the deafening metallic click of his seat belt fastening.

She stared out at the dull, concrete terminal building, rolled her lip under her teeth.

What was going on? Why was he being so reasonable? He hadn’t raised a single objection as she’d rushed them over to Terminal One, dealt with the check-in and then directed him straight to the queue to get through Security.

He’d stood in line behind her for what felt like several millennia but had only actually been about twenty minutes. She’d made some pointless attempts at small talk, until nerves at the penetrating looks he kept sending her had forced her to shut up.

But despite his silence, he hadn’t been disdainful, or even annoyed. He’d been relaxed, amused even.

While she felt as if she were on a knife-edge. Why was she so unbearably aware of his physical presence? Maybe it was simply his height, that imposing physique. She hadn’t really noticed how much taller than her he was, until now. That had to be why he seemed to tower over her, why it felt as if he were standing too close. When he really wasn’t.

But that hardly accounted for the sudden attack of paranoia. Every time she looked away, she could have sworn she could feel him watching her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were prickling alarmingly, even now, as if she were being shocked with static electricity. Her brow creased some more in the perspex. She was being ridiculous. A look could not possibly have a physical manifestation. She had to be imagining it.

Soft hairs brushed against her forearm on the arm rest and she jumped. She laid her arm across her lap, and sent him a tight smile to disguise her skittish reaction. ‘It’s only a two-hour flight. I hope your jet lag’s not too bad.’

He sent her a steady look. ‘I’ll survive.’

‘The duca is sending a car to pick us up at the airport. His social secretary said in her email that the drive to his home is about two hours, apparently.’

‘Fine,’ he said, sounding indifferent.

‘What made you change your mind about meeting with the duca?’ she asked, on impulse.

His eyebrows lowered slightly, but he didn’t reply.

‘You didn’t seem inclined to pursue your inheritance, before,’ she said, trying not to wince at the memory of exactly how disinclined to pursue it he’d been.

‘My
possible
inheritance,’ he said carefully. ‘There’s no conclusive evidence that we’re related. And I’m not taking a DNA test.’

The reply was deliberately evasive, and only made his decision more confusing. If he had no intention of pursuing this, why was he even going to Italy? ‘I doubt the duca will insist on a DNA test,’ she remarked.

‘Of course he will,’ he said, dismissively. ‘He’ll want proof.’

‘He won’t need proof once he sees you.’

‘Why not?’ he said, the hint of irritation surprising her. It was almost as if he didn’t want to be related to the duca…

‘Your resemblance to his son is uncanny.’

His eyebrows rose fractionally but then his mouth flattened into a thin line. ‘I see.’ He hissed the words under his breath, just as the steward announced the details of the in-flight services.

‘I have a photo of your father, if you’d like to see it?’

* * *

Nick looked at Eva blankly. ‘My father?’ he asked, momentarily confused. Was she planning to whip out the newspaper clipping of Carmine Delisantro? Then he realised who she was talking about, and he had to stifle the renewed stab of annoyance. ‘You mean Leonardo De Rossi?’

She blinked. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I meant your biological father. I should have clarified that. I realise this must be hard to—’

‘He’s not my father,’ he interrupted her sharply, not liking the way her features softened.

I don’t have a father
, he almost added, but didn’t. Instead he grabbed the in-flight magazine out of the seat pocket, flipped a few pages to find something to read. But when she took the hint and didn’t say anything more on the subject, he began to feel churlish, like a sulky child. Plus biting her head off for no good reason probably wasn’t the best way to persuade her he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

He stuffed the magazine back in the pocket. Turned to find her switching off her mobile.

‘As far as I’m concerned De Rossi’s a sperm donor,’ he clarified, careful to hide the bitterness in his voice. ‘He means nothing to me. And neither does this inheritance.’ He wasn’t about to admit that the main reason he’d agreed to come was to see her again, so he added, ‘I’m just a bit curious to find out what kind of man could make my mother forget her marriage vows.’

She said nothing for a long time, but he had
the strangest sensation she could see right past his show of indifference. The truth was he was more than a little curious about the duca and his son, and why his mother had betrayed his father, or the man he had always thought of as his father, all those years ago.

He felt the unfamiliar flush of colour rise up his neck under her unwavering gaze, then her fingers touched his arm.

‘You seem to have a lot of unresolved anger towards your mother.’

‘What?’ he croaked.
Where had that come from?

‘Your mother,’ she said softly. ‘You seem to have a lot of unresolved anger towards her.’

That was what he thought she’d said. He gave a half-laugh. ‘Is this a joke?’

Her eyes widened as if she was surprised even at the suggestion. ‘No, not at all.’

He chuckled, but the sound was hollow. He’d admit to curiosity, but anything else was ludicrous. He propped his elbow on the arm rest to study her. ‘My mother died of breast cancer when I was still a kid. Believe me any anger I had towards her for what she did—unresolved or otherwise—is long gone.’ He leaned closer, skimmed his thumb across her cheek and watched her eyes darken delightfully. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

Her eyes flickered away for a moment, then flicked back to his, the determination in them
more than a little unsettling. ‘Leonardo wrote a journal, the duca discovered it a year after his death and read it. That’s how he found out his son had fathered a child. You should read it,’ she said, the earnest tone as disturbing as the sympathy in her eyes.

‘No, thanks.’

‘It’s written in Italian, but I have an English translation if you need—’

‘My Italian’s fine. I don’t want to read it,’ he said stiffly.

‘But don’t you want to know what actually happened?’ she murmured, the pads of her fingertips touching his arm again. ‘If you read the journal you’ll see that your mother wasn’t to blame for…’

‘I don’t care what happened between them.’ He tugged his arm off the seat divider. Taking a calming breath, he kept his voice low and even. ‘And I never have.’

It wasn’t strictly speaking true. He’d cared a lot when he was a teenager, tortured by the thought that his father was not the man he loved, the man he had always tried to emulate, and live up to, but actually some slick Italian playboy who his mother had screwed and then lied about for years.

But he didn’t care about it any more. And he certainly didn’t want to read about their illicit affair in the playboy’s journal. That would just open up all the old bitterness and anger that had
followed him around like a bad smell throughout his teens and early twenties, making him do stupid things, take pointless risks—and hurt the only people who had ever really cared about him. He’d finally managed to outrun the anger, finally calmed down enough to make a success out of his life and put all the mistakes behind him—but he’d never be able to apologise to Carmine Delisantro.