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‘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.
The last thing he wanted was to drag any of that guilt up again. Fine, he could admit to mild curiosity about the duca and the man who had impregnated his mother. But he had no intention of playing happy families.
And if that meant he had some unresolved anger, well then maybe he did. But he could live with it just fine. ‘Listen, Eva I’m all grown up now, and I couldn’t care less about what happened a generation ago between De Rossi and my mother.’
‘Okay,’ she said, nodding carefully. ‘I just thought you might be interested in—’
‘I’m much more interested in talking about you,’ he cut in, the sudden desire to change the subject almost as acute as the need to wrestle back control of the conversation—and her.
He didn’t want to talk about the duca, or his son, or his own past. He was much more fascinated by the woman sitting beside him. And the unprecedented effect she still had on him. Which seemed to have become more acute since their first night. Instead of less.
Even while she’d been asking those intrusive questions, he’d felt the residual hum of arousal at the provocative tilt of her chin, and the softening in her gaze. The small patch of skin where her fingers had touched his arm still sizzled. He’d never been this aware of a woman before.
‘What do you want to know?’ she asked warily.
Reaching towards her, he drew his thumb across the little indent under her bottom lip, heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘Let’s start with how you got that tiny scar on your belly?’
As expected the intimate enquiry had hot colour firing across her cheekbones, but her gaze didn’t falter. ‘It’s an appendix scar,’ she said, both direct and delightfully flustered.
He leaned close, whispered: ‘Want me to kiss it better?’
She didn’t reply, but stunned arousal darkened her irises to a rich cobalt as her eyes flew wide.
He closed the gap, caught that full bottom lip between his teeth and gave a soft nip before sliding his tongue across it.
She jerked back, thudding against the aeroplane wall. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said, more breathless than outraged.
‘That’s a shame.’ He chuckled, noting the frantic rise and fall of her breathing, the pink flush on her neck. She fascinated him all right. And what fascinated him most of all was the way she responded to him. And how much her instant, untutored response turned him on.
Even when she was trying really hard not to.
He kissed me. Why did he kiss me?
Eva rubbed her hand over her mouth, unable to relinquish her fixed stare out of the window.
