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EVA’S body was still humming four hours later as she headed through the palazzo’s labyrinthine corridors to the terrazzo, where Lorenzo the footman had informed her the duca would be hosting pre-dinner aperitifs for her and Nick.
She wanted to believe it was indignation that had made her throat go dry and other more sensitive parts of her anatomy feel moist and swollen as she’d lain awake on the satin covers of her four-poster, listening to the muffled splash of running water from the bathroom—and imagined Nick Delisantro’s naked chest gilded with soap suds—but she wasn’t sure indignation quite covered it.
Maybe sexual obsession would be more appropriate. Or complete insanity.
But one thing was certain. She’d always been more comfortable studying the lives and loves of people she didn’t know—people in parchment documents, in ledgers of births and marriages and deaths, people who were either long dead or lived lives completely removed from her own. Her life had been exceptionally dull, but also sensible and secure, because she’d never had the guts, or the inclination to take what she wanted and damn the consequences.
Nick Delisantro, on the other hand, didn’t have the same reservations. He’d lived his life on the edge and forged a successful c
areer out of taking risks. Which made him extremely dangerous.
Huge French doors lined the airy corridor and opened out onto the estate’s vast ornamental gardens. The scent of jasmine and lavender perfumed the air while the dying sun added a redolent glow to the riot of colours.
Eva stared at the lavish gardens and felt the flicker of panic and confusion that had been dogging her all afternoon. Unfortunately, Nick Delisantro’s wild, uncivilised behaviour and his reckless approach to life had somehow rubbed off on her.
All he had to do was look at her in that surly, sexy, I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive way he had, and her hormones shot into hyperdrive. She touched her fingers to her chin, felt the slight sting of the mark he had left on sensitive skin.
The low heels of her sandals clicked on the polished stone flooring as she continued down the corridor, frowning into the mirrors that lined the walls. She’d made the stupid mistake of losing her virginity to a man she found it impossible to resist. Even though their one night hadn’t exactly been the most comfortable experience, her body seemed to have forgotten the pain.
The sheen of sweat dampened her breasts in the simple summer dress she’d been forced to change into for the evening—because the tailored suit had felt unbearably restrictive. She walked briskly to the open door at the end of the corridor.
She was in serious trouble. Her one wild night with Nick Delisantro had not been a roaring success. The man was taciturn, moody, demanding and unpredictable. And had a temper that she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of again. Plus, she’d almost lost her job.
But even knowing all that, everything she knew about herself as a person—her caution, her common sense, her obedience—was on the verge of collapsing around her ears, and she seemed powerless to stop it happening. In fact if the kiss she’d given Nick was anything to go by, all he had to do was take off his shirt and she’d happily fling herself into the inferno again without a second thought.
The only possible solution was to stay away from him… But how could she do that when she was now sleeping right next door to him? For two whole weeks. And he seemed more than happy to exploit her lack of control. She needed a plan, and she had to come up with one fast. Because her will power was non-existent and the rational, sensible behaviour she’d always relied on in the past seemed to go up in flames whenever he was within ten feet of her.
She let out a small sigh of relief when she stepped onto the wide, flagstone terrace situated at the end of the house, and found the duca sitting alone at a wrought-iron table laid with drinks and canapés. She needed to gauge her situation with Don Vincenzo and see if he would be happy for her to fly back to London once she had given him her PowerPoint presentation. She’d considered all the possible permutations, and it seemed like the only option. There was no reason for her to stay longer than a day or two. Don Vincenzo was her company’s client, not Nick, so how could he insist she stayed if her job was done?
‘Signorina Redmond, you look beautiful,’ the duca said in his flawless English as he greeted her with a glass of Prosecco. ‘And well rested I hope.’
‘Very much so, Your Excellency,’ she said, accepting the flute of sparkling wine and the compliment, although she doubted its veracity. She’d had the quickest shower in human history, worried that Nick might walk into the bathroom and press his advantage, and she hadn’t managed to get a wink of sleep during her so-called nap. Because she’d been far too busy having inappropriate thoughts about the man in the room next door. ‘But, please, call me Eva.’
‘Then you must call me, Vincenzo,’ he replied, directing her to a bench rimmed with climbing vines that bloomed with purple wisteria. ‘My title is little more than an old man’s vanity, after all, as we have been a republic in Italy for many years now and rightly so.’
‘You’re not a monarchist?’ Eva said, surprised by the statement. The laws of Italian nobility were notoriously complex and confusing, and fake titles had abounded since the dissolution of the monarchy after the Second World War, but she knew that the Duca d’Alegria’s family was one of the few who could claim a direct lineage to the throne—and as such she had expected him to be a strong supporter of pomp and circumstance.
‘I am a pragmatist,’ he said, the lines of his face more pronounced in the dusky early-evening light. ‘My noble title has given me a very comfortable life, several beautiful homes and a pretty crest to put on the bottles of olive oil we produce at the Savargo Estate. And for that I am grateful.’ He took the seat opposite her. ‘But it did not make me a noble father, nor help me to raise a son I could be proud of.’
‘You mean Conte Leonardo?’ she murmured, taken aback by the intimate nature of the confidence—as well as the weight of disillusionment in his voice.
‘Let us call him Leo,’ he said. ‘My son always insisted on being addressed by his full title when he was alive. However, he did not deserve it, nor did he honour it, so I refuse to address him by it in death.’
The duca didn’t sound bitter or angry, just weary, his voice heavy with regret.
‘I didn’t realise you had such a low opinion of your son,’ she said, feeling desperately sorry for the old man.
‘You have read Leo’s journal,’ he stated. ‘So you know my low opinion was well earned.’
She nodded, not sure what to say. How could she argue with the truth? Leonardo’s journal had revealed a man who had been given everything he could ever want but who had always wanted more. Reading the translations, she had tried to remain impartial, not to judge, to maintain a scholarly distance while analysing every word and phrase for clues that would help her to identify the young farmer’s daughter Leonardo had been introduced to on her wedding day, and then ruthlessly pursued until he got her pregnant. But it had been next to impossible not to despise the author for his arrogance, his reckless pursuit of his own pleasure and his selfish disregard for everyone’s feelings but his own. She could understand why a man of principle would find it hard to be proud of such a son.
‘Can you tell me,’ Don Vincenzo asked, contemplating his glass, ‘has Niccolo read his father’s journal?’
She shook her head. ‘No, he hasn’t.’ She didn’t elaborate, deciding Vincenzo didn’t need to know the whole truth—that Nick had refused to read it.
The old man bowed his head. ‘So that does not explain his dislike of me.’
‘Nick doesn’t dislike you,’ she countered, her sympathy for the duca increasing. She was beginning to realise that this reunion meant a great deal to the old man, and not just for reasons of heredity. Did he hope to forge a relationship with his grandson to replace the unhealthy relationship he seemed to have had with his son? From what she knew about Nick, she suspected the duca was doomed to failure but she didn’t want to add to his pain. ‘Nick doesn’t even know you,’ she continued. ‘I just think he’s a little overwhelmed by the whole…’ She paused, trying to think of a suitable explanation for Nick’s animosity. ‘By the prospect of the title.’ She finished lamely, knowing perfectly well Nick was as disdainful of the duca’s title as everything else.
