There had been no repeat of his proposition in the limousine on the way to the opera. In fact, he had barely spoken to her on the rare occasions when they had been alone together since. He hadn’t set foot inside her apartment since that first night, always waiting in the car now when collecting her. And she’d never visited his apartment, until now.
When they were together for the short drive to whatever event they needed to be ‘seen’ at, he kept the dividing screen down so the chauffeur could hear every word—almost as if he wanted to ensure nothing could happen between them. But once they stepped into the glare of the public spotlight, his fierce gaze, those possessive, provocative touches that he was a master of—his hand gripping her waist, his palm resting on her back, the light brush of his lips against her neck as he whispered something in her ear like a besotted lover—had begun to drive her insane.
Of course, his behaviour around her in public was all part of the subterfuge they had agreed to. But occasionally, she caught him watching her with that fierce desire in his eyes, and she knew he still wanted her… And unfortunately, whenever he stood too close, and she inhaled the intoxicating scent of sea salt and lemons from his cologne, or felt his gaze on her, she knew their ‘chemistry’ was still there. And getting worse. Because she wanted him too, desperately.
The thought of sitting through an interview with a journalist, though, filled her with dread. Not only had she never spoken to the press before, she wasn’t sure why he had decided to include her. There were so many ways she could screw this up. But when she’d told him about her concerns in the car last night, Dario had simply shrugged and murmured, ‘Do not concern yourself, it will be conducted mostly in Italian. All you need to do is look as if you want me.’
She sighed as Aldo led her through the huge penthouse apartment towards the living area. Well, at leastthatwouldn’t be a struggle—after the dreams which had been waking her in the dark, hot and sweaty and desperate for those devastating touches in that darkened limo on their first date, which he had denied her since.
Dario stood when she entered the large open-plan living room. He looked tall and gorgeous in a pair of jeans and a black polo-neck sweater which clung to the impressive contours of his chest. Her heart stuttered, the familiar blush rising into her cheeks on cue. How could he be even more devastating in casual clothing than he was in a tux? How was that fair?
‘Ciao, Tallulah,’ he said, lifting her fingers to his lips, his gaze rivetted to her burning cheeks as he pressed his lips to her knuckles.
He introduced her to the journalist, an impeccably dressed older woman called Gianna Lombardi with a shrewd smile on her face. After congratulating them both on their recent engagement, Gianna placed a recording device on the coffee table between them while explaining how much her readers were looking forward to hearing the details of their whirlwind romance.
What details?She didn’t have any details, because Dario hadn’t briefed her for this interview.
Tali’s nerves started to strangle her. Perhaps sensing her distress, Dario laid a steadying hand on her hip and directed her to sit beside him on the sofa. And suddenly it wasn’t the prospect of the interview that made her heart reverberate in her chest, but the awareness of him, his arm placed casually across the back of the sofa behind her, the brush of his muscular denim-clad thigh against her bare leg boxing her in and the tantalising scent of citrus and man which engulfed her.
She swallowed, trying to focus on the journalist and look the part of a woman comfortable in her fiancé’s presence, and disguise the fact her pulse had kicked up to warp speed and her nipples had begun to throb against her bra.
His fingers skimmed over her hair, and he leaned close to whisper in her ear. ‘Relax,tesoro.’
Even though she knew his affectionate words were for the journalist’s benefit, the husky tone had her giddy heartbeat sinking into her abdomen. She crossed her legs, trying to squeeze the brutal pulse of awareness between her thighs into submission, as the journalist watched them both like a raptor.
‘Signora Whittaker is it true that you speak no Italian?’ the journalist asked.
‘Not much,’ Tali replied, caught off guard by the random question. ‘But I—I’m taking lessons,’ she offered.
Dario’s thigh tensed, and his fingers stilled on her hair.
The journalist let out a harsh laugh. ‘You did not know this, Signor Lorenti?’ the woman asked.
‘Of course,’ he lied smoothly. ‘I suggested it and Tallulah is keen to learn.’
Tali glanced back at him. If he was surprised at the news, it was hard to tell, because his face had gone carefully blank. But his body language suggested he was nowhere near as relaxed as he had been when she’d arrived.
Had she made a mistake? So soon.
She hadn’t told him about the lessons she’d arranged through Aldo, because she hadn’t thought he’d mind. In fact, she’d hoped he might even be pleased, when she had more than a few basic phrases to rely on… And the truth was she’d enjoyed taking the classes with her tutor, Maria. The app she’d been using had been great for learning vocabulary, but she wanted to learn to speak the language. Plus, it helped fill up the long hours each day after she’d finished her morning session going over all the day’s business with Ellie at Westwick and checking in with her mum…and before the stylist and her team arrived in the afternoon to dress her for her next ‘date’ with Dario.
She’d always been active and busy, and there were only so many books she could read or long walks through the Brera she could go on. Plus, not being able to converse in Italian made her feel at even more of a disadvantage in Dario’s world.
‘I’m enjoying the lessons, it’s a beautiful language,’ she added when Dario remained ominously silent.
‘This is good, yes,’ the journalist said absently, but then her gaze shifted to Dario and sharpened. ‘But, still, it is surprising you have fallen in love with a British woman, Signor Lorenti,’ the woman said, still speaking in English, the shrewd smile becoming positively sly, the implied criticism of Dario’s choice hard for anyone to miss.
‘Why would this be a surprise?’ Dario replied, his voice calm, but Tali could hear the frigid note of disapproval. His hand swept down her back, to settle on her hip, the intimate touch making her shiver. ‘Tallulah is accomplished in many things, and exceptionally beautiful, what man could want more in a wife?’
The journalist’s expression became flat and direct. ‘And yet, you have never dated an Englishwoman before now. Everyone assumed you would marry an Italian, given your estrangement from your British father, Lord Westwick.’
‘My father has been dead for seven years, Signora Lombardi,’ Dario shot back, as his hand tightened on Tali’s hip, signalling his fury at the line of questioning. ‘He has no bearing on my choices, now or ever,’ he finished, but the sharp tone couldn’t disguise the fact he hadn’t denied what she’d said.
While Tallulah had always known about Dario’s difficult relationship with his father—given the man’s absence from his gravely injured son’s bedside during most of that summer and the cruel way he had spoken to him the one time he had visited him—Dario’s volatile reaction now felt revealing in a way she hadn’t expected.
Was it true? Had he deliberatelyavoideddating British women?
That he didn’t want to discuss his dating preferences, or his father though was obvious, but the journalist refused to take the hint. Her eyes gleamed, like a shark’s while going in for the kill.
