But before she had managed to go two paces, a hard hand clamped around her wrist.
‘Fermare!’ he said, as he hauled her around to face him. And suddenly she was inches from that hard chest, those vivid gold eyes glaring at her, but the expression in them was not anger, or condemnation…but the same furious, untamed hunger which had been torturing her for days.
‘My father hated that I did not want his title, or his estate. So, he made it a requirement in his will that I marry an Englishwoman, to inherit the house he owned on Capri where I lived with my mother.’ He said the words through gritted teeth. ‘For seven years, I have tried to purchase Palazzo di Constanzo from my father’s Trustees without succumbing to his blackmail. But I have invested a fortune in the property, andstillthey refuse to let me own it outright.Thisis why I need you as my wife…’
She shuddered, shocked he had confided in her, but even more shocked to see the shadow of hurt beneath the swirl of temper and fierce desire in those molten brown eyes. Because it reminded her of that surly, desperately unhappy teenager—injured and in pain—who had pushed her away so often that summer, like a wild animal caught in a trap.
The sense of connection, of shared pain, made her heart hammer her chest wall. The bite of temper disappeared until all she felt was compassion for the injured boy who still lurked inside the man. Maybe he really believed this marriage was about owning his mother’s old home…and defying the man who had tried to keep it from him. But she doubted that was the whole story, however much he might want to believe it. Perhaps his desperation to own the palazzo was also a way of righting the wrongs his father had done to him. All those years ago. She knew how that felt, because she’d spent so long fantasising herself, about making her father regret discarding her, as well.
And to think she had convinced herself in the past two weeks that that boy had become a cold man, who felt nothing.
She pressed her palm to his scarred face, hoping to soothe, desperate to heal.
‘Your father sounds like an even bigger prick than mine,’ she managed. ‘You deserved better, and so did I.’
The muscle in his cheek jumped and flexed against her palm, but then he flinched and let her go. Swearing under his breath, he walked back to the terrace.
He stood with his back to her, staring out at the late-afternoon sun. But his stance lacked the rigid control which had always intimidated her.
She followed him out onto the balcony. ‘Is it true? What the journalist said? That he wouldn’t allow you to speak Italian?’ Maybe she had no right to ask, but suddenly she wanted to know exactly how bad it had been for him. Because while her father had chosen to be absent for much of her life, she had always had her mum. While Dario, it seemed, had had no one to protect him.
He shrugged, but the movement was far too stiff to be nonchalant. ‘I do not require your pity,’ he said, his tone brusque again.
She sighed.So that would be a yes, then.
‘All I require is that you do the job I have asked of you,’ he continued. ‘And I did not ask you to learn Italian.’
Why was he so hung up on her decision to learn the language he obviously loved and preferred to use—especially if his father had used English as a means of punishment when he was a boy? It made no sense. But she forced herself to take a mental step back.
She’d always been too willing to believe the best of people, too desperate to want to heal anything and everything she thought might be wounded, or sad, or need her help. And she had the scars to prove it… All those nicks and scratches caused by the wild animals who had quite literally ended up biting the hand that had tried to feed them… Her mum had called it her Miss Fix-it complex.
Dario Lorenti wasn’t that lonely boy now. He was a man who guarded his pain as vehemently as he guarded his privacy. And he’d made it very clear he didn’t value her sympathy.
‘Do you really want me to stop the lessons?’ she asked, carefully.
She didn’t want to give them up, for so many reasons—one of which was she didn’t want him to resent having to speak to her in English… Which was so screwed up considering he was the one insisting she stop. But Dario was paying for the tutor Aldo had hired, so if he asked her to stop, she would have to.
He turned, and the perplexed frown on his face had the sympathy squeezing her ribs again. Did he even know why this was troubling him so much?
‘I have said it is not necessary.’
‘I know, but… I’m enjoying the lessons—they’re a lot more fun than having to get prodded and poked by the stylist. And I wasn’t lying when I told Mrs Lombardi I think it’s a beautiful language. Plus, it would totally make our love affair look more convincing…’ She shrugged, starting to become wary herself of how much she wanted to continue to learn Italian. ‘If I’m making the effort to learn your language, you know…’ She stumbled to a halt. Was she making too big a deal of this? Because the yearning to speak to him in his native tongue felt like more than just a way to pass the time. Was she trying to please him without realising it? And to what end, when they both knew this relationship wasn’t real?
He stared at her for the longest time, but then his lips curved, the half smile more rueful than amused. He brushed his thumb across her cheek and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
She shivered, the automatic response something she couldn’t control as the unrequited yearning flared back to life. It was the first time he had touched her when she was alone with him since their charged moment in the limo ten days ago.
‘I can think of a much better way to make our love affair more convincing,’ he murmured, the low tone reverberating in all her pulse points. The promise in his eyes was as potent and provocative as it had been ten days ago…and just as terrifying.
She pressed a palm to her own cheek, aware of the sizzle of sensation where his thumb had cruised across her skin. She wanted to sleep with him, wanted to find out where this terrifying chemistry would lead, but she felt even more exposed now than she had ten days ago, the tiny glimpse into his past bringing back the fierce sense of connection she’d always felt for that surly, unhappy boy.
She nodded. ‘I want you, too,’ she admitted, because there was no point in denying it, especially as she’d already broken cover during their argument.
‘I know,’ he said.
He cradled her face in warm palms, his gaze fixed on hers, and lowered his head to slant his lips across hers.
She sobbed, shocked by the blast of heat and longing, as her mouth moulded to his. He took his own sweet time, tempting, tormenting, swallowing her sighs, absorbing the shimmer of fear. His lips were persuasive, firm, demanding, his tongue even more so as it pressed into her mouth.
