The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (7 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Not at all. For proof they need only print the photo with
my arm around you as we entered the hospital.”

“But it meant nothing.”

The denial was mere kneejerk reaction. Amanda didn’t read
the tabloids, but had seen enough while waiting in line at grocery store
checkouts to know there was little they would not print. There were also few
places safe from invasion by their long range camera lenses.

“You are a beautiful woman alone in my country where you
don’t know the language. I can’t leave you at the mercy of these predators. No,
nor of any other man who may decide to seek you out after reading their lies.”

She ignored the glancing compliment, knowing its purpose was
to further his argument. “Only at your mercy, I suppose.”

His eyes turned blacker as anger expanded the pupils until
they seemed to merge with the irises. “Meaning?”

“If you won’t take me where I ask, then I am forced to go
where you please. I call that being at your mercy.”

A smile edged with perilous threat moved over the graceful
curves of his mouth. “Now, there you may be correct,
signorina
, for I
have decided to take you home with me.”

4

“Thank you, but I still prefer a hotel.
Please tell your driver to turn around and take me back.”

So polite, so cool, though her voice was not quite even as
she made the request, Nico thought. Her breasts under the jacket of her
ridiculously severe suit rose and fell at too swift a rate as well. Watching
that subtle movement under the fabric, he felt his fingers curl with the need
to uncover those mysterious curves so buttoned away from his view, to cup them
in slow exploration.

It wasn’t easy to return his gaze to her face, or to
concentrate on calming the tension he felt coming from her in waves, tension he
had caused.

“I can’t do that,” he answered.

“Order your driver to stop then. I’ll find a taxi or walk
back from here.”

“Even more impossible. You will not meet with a taxi for
hire along here at this time of morning. What you may meet with, instead, is a
man who will offer you something more than a lift.”

Her gaze was assessing as her eyes met his. “You don’t think
much of your countrymen, do you? Or maybe you judge them by what you would do,
what you’re doing.”

She had no idea, he suspected, of the insult she had given
him by suggesting he would harm her. Or else she hoped anger would cause him to
abandon her. If the latter, she had completely misread his character.

“There can be no comparison,” he said in tight-lipped reply.

“So you say.”

She turned from him to glance at the door next to her. A
muscle firmed under the fine-grained skin of her cheek as her gaze touched the
handle.

“It locks automatically when the car is put in gear,” he
pointed out. “An excellent innovation, wouldn’t you say?” He reached without
haste to flip a latch at his side so a satisfying metallic click sounded in
both doors. “It also has child-proofing that prevents the locks from being
operated from inside.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she said with assurance. “I am quite
able to see we are moving too fast to make jumping a possibility.”

“
Bene
. I am pleased to hear it.”

She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Look, I just
want to be close to the hospital, closer to Jonathan.”

“You may see him when you wish, as often as you wish. You’ll
have only to ask.”

“I don’t want to have to ask. I much prefer not to be
dependent on you.”

“I brought you here, exposed you to those who would hound
you for my sake. You are my responsibility.”

“No, I’m not! I don’t need you to look after me. I don’t
want to go with you. I don’t want to stay in your home. Can you not understand
plain English?”

Fury erupted inside of him for the rejection of his aid, the
unwarranted apprehension that lingered in her eyes, the continued insult. It
coalesced with the strain of the past hours and his inconvenient attraction to
become raging impulse.

“Why is that?” he demanded. “Can it be because you expect
this?”

He reached for her, gripping her waist to haul her toward
him, catching her with his other arm across her back so she twisted to fall
across his lap. Her hair tumbled around her rose-tinted features so she stared
at him through its silky strands. Her lips were parted, and her fingers
clutched at the muscles in his arms. She looked exactly as he’d thought she
might after being thoroughly kissed. Yes, or after he had just made mad,
desperate love to her.

“
Por Dio
,” he muttered, both a prayer and a curse,
and lowered his head to take her lips.

She was sweet fire, heady coolness, molten magic and
everything he had dreamed a woman should be. She gasped with a strangled sound,
and he followed that breath of air into her mouth, seeking its source, heating
the inner surfaces with languid sweeps of his tongue as he savored her like a
gourmet sweet. He pulled her closer while cursing the stiff suit jacket that
prevented him from feeling the firm curves of her breasts or their hardened
tips. He wanted her to relax into him, to lift her arms around his neck and
press against him in need, to give him her tongue so he might take it deep into
his mouth in clear possession.

He wanted her to want him instead of being wary of him, to
need him instead of pushing him away.

The effort it took to lift his mouth from hers made his neck
creak with strain. The air he breathed felt hot in his chest, and the pain in
his groin was like the slash of a fiery knife. With hooded eyes, he stared at
her mouth that was swollen from his kiss, her eyes that accused him and the
flush of color that mantled her skin in the beginnings of desire. And the urge
to strip her bare and take her on the leather seat while the world moved past
them tied his stomach in knots and made his blood pound a primitive tarantella
in his ears.

What prevented him was the certain knowledge that she would
fight him every inch of the way and hate him when and if she succumbed to his
passionate possession.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, shoving at his shoulder.

It hovered on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she
should know, as she had made scant effort to resist him. That would be dim-witted
as well as ungentlemanly. If she had been merely stunned into immobility, he
had no wish to know it.

“Delivering an object lesson, I believe,” he answered when
he could force words through the wool-lined dryness of his throat. “Or else
living up to your obvious expectation.”

“I didn’t — I don’t—”

“No? Then what are you afraid of that you refuse my
hospitality?”

“Nothing. Let me up.”

“
Certo
,” he replied, his tone as politely aloof as he
could make it. Returning her to her place at his side, holding her there until
she was balanced, he went on. “In fact, I would have you understand that you
have nothing whatever to fear from me. As a guest in my house, it will be my
duty to protect you from the instant that you pass through the door. Honor and
tradition demand it. This includes keeping my distance in everything except
polite touches to aid or direct you.”

“Really.”

He could hardly blame her for the irony in her voice after
what had just passed between them. His behavior could hardly be called
reassuring. Perhaps he was more tired than he realized that he had gone so far.
Or possibly it was the knowledge that he would soon be prevented from doing
anything remotely like it again.

“Be assured that once you enter the doorway of my home, I
will not trespass again except by your invitation. But if you indicate by the
smallest word or deed that you want something more, it shall be yours. Only be
very certain of your desire. Once I have you, I will not let you go until
whatever is between us is finished.”

She swallowed before she spoke, a movement in the slim line
of her throat that he watched with a painful need to feel it under his mouth.
“There is nothing between us.”

“You think not?”

“You are very sure of yourself,” she said with a lift of her
chin.

She had courage. Nico saluted it even as he deplored it. He
would have preferred that she tremble against him instead of suppressing the
small tremors that shook her, that she be unable to meet his eyes instead of
watching him like a gazelle eyeing a prowling lion, deciding whether to flee or
ignore danger. Either of these would indicate a more certain surrender.

And yet her defiance made his heart swell. She did not fear
him entirely. She might yet answer his unsubtle invitation.

“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice soft with promise. “I am
unsure of one thing only, and that is what you want.”

~ ~ ~

What was she to make of Nicholas de
Frenza’s declaration? Amanda worried at the question as she tugged her suit
jacket back into place with spasmodic jerks, swept trembling fingers through
her hair to tidy it. She was not used to the sophisticated games or sensual
experiments that left her lips tingling with the rush of blood, aching as if
something important had been interrupted. Nor could she be sure he meant his
warning, though she could not imagine why else he might have given it.

She barely knew the man who turned from her now to take out
his phone again, could not count even twenty-four hours since they had first
met. Relationships took far longer to develop than he seemed to be suggesting.
Besides, the idea that someone used to moving in the rarified circles of continental
society would single her out for an affair was ridiculous.

That was just as well as she wasn’t interested.

Even if her thoughts were not all for Jonathan, she would be
wary of sexual games. She had no time for them, had never felt the urge to
indulge in brief, meaningless affairs, getting naked with men she barely knew.
To start now, with someone so far out of her league, could bring only
heartache. There was absolutely no future in it.

So she was attracted to him. So he made her blood sing as it
tumbled through her veins and danced through the too-tight chambers of her
heart? It meant nothing, just as the fact that he was Italian need not
automatically mean he would be a skilled and tender lover.

Why —
why —
was she thinking such things when he
probably meant nothing at all beyond what he had said? Well, or else he’d been
curious to see how she would react, to discover if she was available. Had
perhaps thought they might ease their mutual stress with a fast and meaningless
joining of bodies.

It wasn’t happening.

She crossed her arms over her chest, crossed her legs as
well to ease the hollow ache between them. The next time the two of them
visited the hospital she would slip away and find her own hotel room. He could
hardly keep her a prisoner.

Yet glancing at him as he rode beside her, noting the
brooding expression in his eyes and forbidding, untamed set of his handsome
mouth, she was not entirely certain of it.

Villa de Frenza
.

The words, highlighted by golden morning light, were incised
into a gracefully sculpted white marker set amidst clipped shrubbery that
flanked an enormous set of iron gates. The moss and lichen that straggled over
the marble surface made it appear so ancient and incredibly venerable that
Amanda wondered if she should recognize it from some history lesson.

Certainly, Nicholas had expected her to know the name. It
did seem vaguely familiar, in all truth, though she could not quite grasp the
reason.

They turned between the gates, nosing onto a drive that
wound between masses of sunflowers backed by evergreens. Moments later, they
came to open hills topped by dark green spires of cypress trees. Beyond was an
endless grove of silvery olives, gray ghosts of trees that marched away toward
the burning blue of the sea. Set among the olives, like a jewel nestled in soft
gray velvet, was a house of astounding beauty, a fantastic Palladian villa that
stared down at its reflection in the lake.

Villa de Frenza
.

Good grief. Of course.

Astonishment gripped Amanda as she recognized the famous
structure of stone turned mellow-gold with age, with its perfectly proportioned
wings on both sides and dark green shutters arched to match the windows they
covered, its elaborate front entrance with columned portico featuring a
cartouche embossed with a weathered crest.

She had seen the mansion and its perfect reflection a
thousand times on supermarket shelves and in her own kitchen cabinet. It was
featured on colorful metallic labels attached to millions upon millions of
bottles.

“Villa De Frenza Olive Oil,” she murmured.

The brand was august indeed, even historic, a recognized
standard of quality the world over. It was no wonder Nicholas de Frenza had
far-flung business contacts, a private jet, personal assistants at his beck and
call and shining limousines that slid to a stop in front of him the moment he
appeared. Also no mystery why the paparazzi were drawn to any hint of scandal
or catastrophe attached to one who without doubt mingled with the rich, famous
and titled of Europe.