The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (15 page)

What would it take to entice her into his arms, to make her
come to him? Would that absolve him of the necessity for keeping his hands off
her?

He could not stop looking at her for more than a minute or
two. Every little thing about her drew his attention: the way the wind swirled
her hair around her face or molded her white shirt against the surprisingly
lush curves of her breasts. The shape of her cheek, the delectable curves of
her mouth, the pearl-like sheen to the skin of her neck and arms, the smooth
shape of her knee exposed as her straight skirt rose above it.

The fragrance she wore, a clean floral, made him want to
lean closer to breathe it in instead of repelling him like the heavy designer
fragrances preferred by most women he knew. His fingers itched with the need to
sink them into her hair, to position her head so he might take the freshness of
her mouth like drinking purest spring water. He wanted to feel every inch of
her skin pressed to him while he was absorbed by her, sinking so far into her
that he touched her heart.

Was it some ancient instinct, an eye for an eye, a sister
for a sister, a possession for a possession--an obsession for an obsession?

Or was it only because she was forbidden?

He was going insane, he must be. Any excuse would begin to
seem acceptable if he was not careful. Any excuse at all.

~ ~ ~

The trattoria overlooking the sea was
rustic but inviting with its façade of silver-gray weathered wood. A framework
of wooden cross pieces stretched across its front, supporting long strips of
blue and white canvas that flapped lazily in the onshore breeze. The tables
beneath this makeshift awning were painted a vivid blue, while the cloths that
covered them were stunningly white. Pots of red geraniums centered the cloths
and more spilled from ancient wine barrels on either side of the entrance.

The scents of seafood, garlic and herbs were a powerful
invitation to step into the shade and select one of the tables. They were
reinforced by the welcome of a large woman with a mustache and a white apron
snapping around her ankles. She enveloped Nico in a powerful embrace and
scolded him for not visiting more often.

Nico ordered a carafe of the house wine. Their hostess,
still talking while eyeing Amanda with frank curiosity, backed away then
disappeared toward the kitchen.

Warm artisan bread and a pottery dish of plump ripe olives
appeared with the wine, brought by the woman’s gangling teenage son who served
as waiter in this family enterprise. The boy had a head of wild Pan-like brown
curls, smooth olive skin and a bright yet knowing smile that marked him as a
charmer. He shook out Amanda’s napkin and draped it over her lap with a deft gesture.
Pouring a little of the wine for Nico, he waited for his approval. Gaining it,
he filled Amanda’s glass first. Nico didn’t object, and neither did Amanda as
she was uncertain of making herself understood. The teenager recited the menu items
in proud but strongly accented English, however, and received their order. He
lingered then, straightening the tablecloth, brushing at imaginary crumbs, until
Nico gave him a straight look accompanied by a quick lift of his chin. Still he
hesitated.

“There is nothing more I can do? You are — you are
perfetto
?”

“
Perfetto
,
grazie,
” Nico answered for her with
dry certainty. “Absolutely perfect, thank you.”

The young waiter lifted a shoulder with a droll smile.
Without haste, he moved away to see to other customers within the trattoria’s
dim interior.

Amanda would have liked to think Nico had sent the boy away
because he preferred not to share her attention or her company. She suspected,
instead, that he merely liked his privacy. And why it should matter one way or
the other was more than she could say.

Leaning back in his chair at a slight angle, Nico stretched
out his long legs, crossed his ankles and took up his wine glass. His gaze
rested on her, accessing, intent, as he sipped the rich red vintage.

Something oddly predatory in his gaze set tension to coiling
in her stomach. Imagination, she told herself, yet she could not be entirely
natural under that steady regard.

“What?” she asked after a moment, threading her fingers
through her hair to bring some order to the wind-tangled strands.

“Nothing.” He pushed the bread and olives toward her, nudged
her glass a little closer. “Eat. Drink your wine. Relax.”

“I don’t do relaxation very well.” She reached for an olive
and took a small bite. The flavor was so fresh and rich that she gave it closer
attention.

“I’ve noticed.” He nudged her glass again. “You do know that
a few sips won’t make you drunk?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And that it did not, almost surely, contribute to your
mother’s death?”

She made no answer as she discarded the olive pit. The cause
of death had actually been stronger spirits mixed unwisely with prescription
drugs, but it would only weaken her position, and possibly her resolve, to
admit it.

“She was, in that too apt phrase, drowning her sorrows, yes?”

Amanda looked away toward a low stone wall that ran along
one side of the trattoria. A large orange tabby cat lay sunning on its concrete
cap. “I suppose.”

“You have too much common sense to do the same,” he said
with the lift of a shoulder. “That being so, you may as well enjoy one of
life’s greatest pleasures.”

Too much common sense. Amanda was not sure she liked that
description. It made her feel rather older than she was, and minus any trace of
daring.

The wine was a serious temptation, in all truth. Everyone
seemed to relish it so here in Italy, drinking it as naturally as breathing. It
had no special significance to them, carried no puritanical taboos, but was
simply part of life.

And what a life it was, she thought as the breeze fanned her
face and lifted her hair. With its emphasis on family and caring, food and
warm, ever-ready emotion, it made her more aware than she wanted to be of the
barrenness of her days.

It was so beautiful here, just now, so quiet and peaceful.
The only sounds were the distant wash of the sea, the clatter of pots and
dishes from the kitchen, the drone of bees and lazy slap of the canvas strips
overhead as the sea breeze lifted them and let them fall again.

She eyed the glass in front of her. Sighing a little, she
looked away, took another olive.

“Of course you must do as you prefer,” Nico said with a
gleam of challenge rising in his eyes. “You will know best if it’s likely to
make you do things that are wild and unlike yourself.”

“Not happening.”

“How can you know if you’ve never tried? You might lose all
control. You could tear off your clothes and run naked down to the sea.”

She snapped her head around to stare at him while heat
flared upward across her cheekbones. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“If that isn’t what you fear, what is?” He swirled the wine
in his glass, breathing the bouquet that rose from its rich red vortex before
taking a deep, appreciative sip.

It was pure provocation and she knew it. That did not
prevent the rise of a strong need to show him she feared nothing, least of all
him and his uninformed judgment of her. She gave him a dark look. “It would
serve you right if I did drink too much, if I climbed into your lap and begged
you to make love to me right here.”

“I believe I could handle it,” he said, his voice layered with
dry humor and something more that deepened its tone.

She met his eyes for a long moment, absorbing the
speculation and dark promise they held. She’d thought to startle him, even
discompose him. It hadn’t worked, yet he didn’t mean what he’d said, surely he
didn’t.

The thought that he might turned her mouth dry. The day was
suddenly far too warm and the only thing on the table to drink was the wine.
Watching him inhale its bouquet, taste and swallow with such evident enjoyment
made her mouth water with the sudden need to see what was so pleasurable about
it.

“You know very well you would be outraged if any woman with
you did such a thing,” she said in strained derision.

“Are you quite sure?”

“And if one of your sisters dared crawl into a man’s lap in
a public place, you would lock her up for a year!”

“True,” he said as he surveyed her in languid appreciation,
his gaze drifting slowly from her mouth to her breasts under her crisp white
blouse and back again, “but you are not my sister.”

Her nipples tightened under his gaze and her stomach muscles
clenched. Beneath the peace of the setting lay a sudden and most definite
sizzle of tension. She desperately needed something to drink and it mattered
little at that moment whether it was alcoholic or not.

“Oh, all right! But if I’m to have wine, I’d like mineral
water to go with it.”

His smile was triumphant but approving. It was almost worth
the surrender to see the way it changed his face, lighting it with devastating
attraction. Also to feel the warmth of his favor before he signaled for the
waiter and ordered mineral water for them both.

Their meal arrived in due time. Whether it was the wine, the
cook, the place, the beauty of the day or the company, it seemed to Amanda that
she had never tasted such wonderful food. Before she knew it, she had finished
every drop of the lovely elixir in her glass.

Nico lifted the carafe. She passed her glass to him, and he
steadied it, resting his fingers on hers, as he poured. That firm touch sent
such a jolt of sensation through her that she jerked a little, causing the wine
to splash out onto her hand.

Nico retained it in his grasp while he set the wine aside.
Removing her glass from her hold, he lifted her fingers to his mouth, sipping
the spilled droplets from her knuckles, following with a quick, warm flick of
his tongue.

“Delicious,” he said, amused enjoyment in the depths of his
eyes as he met her gaze.

A shiver feathered over her skin, settling with a gentle
vibrato in the lower part of her abdomen. It seemed she was melting under his
regard, growing increasingly warm and liquid. Her lips parted in a startled
breath and she turned her gaze to the carafe.

“Don’t blame the wine,” he said, releasing her hand and
sitting back. “It’s something else entirely.”

She absolutely refused to ask what he meant. Reaching for
her water glass instead of the wine he had poured, she lowered her lashes to
conceal her eyes as she drank.

“It’s the moment and whatever this feeling is that lies
between us,” he continued as if it was normal to speak of such things over a
lunch table. “It’s been there from the beginning, and is a part of what makes
you nervous of me, I think.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I believe you do. But we won’t speak of it if it
embarrasses you. Instead, allow me to tell you something of the region.”

She was so relieved that she reached for her wine glass
almost without noticing. Holding it, sipping now and then, she listened to his
stories about the Liguria region, of the Cinque Terre and its string of small seaports
best accessed by ferry, also of Poet’s Bay, a place name dating from when Byron
and Shelley had visited and Shelley had drowned nearby during a storm.

As he spoke the sea breeze rifled through his hair and
flattened his shirt against the firm musculature of his chest. The brightness
of the sun beyond their shaded arbor made him narrow his eyes until the lashes
at the corners of his eyes meshed. His voice lulled her, yet stoked some deep
inner core of need. She watched with care for his occasional smiles.

The day was growing warmer as the sun crept in between the
strips of canvas awning. Almost absently, Amanda reached up and unfastened a
button at her neck. The touch of the breeze on her heated skin felt so good
that she unfastened another, while holding her face up to the soft onshore
breeze.

~ ~ ~

What was it about Amanda Davies?

Nico was baffled by the question. She made no effort
whatever to attract him, yet the more time he spent in her company, the more
intrigued he grew. The way the awning shadows wavered over her face, the small
shafts of sunlight that found golden gleams in her hair, the discreet glimpse
of a gently curved breast above a bra of flesh-colored lace where she had
opened her blouse — all these things affected him far more than was sensible.

He’d been annoyed that she refused to wear the clothing he’d
had delivered for her use, yet had to admit that watching the slow release of
the buttons that fastened her staid white blouse had turned his body far harder
than any spaghetti-strapped sundress ever designed. That pressurized ache
allied to the mystery of her made his voice abrupt as he broke the silence
surrounding them.

“You would be much cooler in something more suited to the
climate.”

“Without doubt.” Her smile was fleeting.

“There is no reason to refuse what was provided. You can’t
continue to make do with the little you brought with you.”

“It won’t be for very long, and I prefer not to be in your
debt.”

“So you said before. There is no question of that, just as
there is nothing personal about the delivery of a few pieces of clothing. I
merely placed a call.”

She gave him a direct look. “Did you indeed?”

Was she disappointed? He could not tell, and that did not
suit him at all.

“Perhaps you may find something among the items that will be
more comfortable for tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.”

It was neither agreement nor disagreement. She was simply
refusing to argue while clinging to her damnable pride. He would have preferred
angry denial, defiance, anything except this quiet self-possession. It made him
long to wring some more passionate reaction from her.