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He braced his hands on the balcony, stared out into the night, his frustration making the muscles in his shoulders throb.
Him? A nice guy? Hardly.
The woman had led a seriously sheltered life if she believed that. She’d certainly read way too many of those racy books that peddled all that happy-ever-after stuff and made women think that hot sex equalled love.
He gave a harsh laugh. As if real life were anything like that.
He propped his butt against the balcony rail, alert to even the slightest sound from her room. But all he heard was the cricket going berserk and the water lapping on the dock below. His nose wrinkled, the citrusy aroma of lemons floating up from the tree under his balcony reminding him of the sharp, fresh scent of Eva.
He dropped his head back and gazed at the stars sprinkling the night sky, the tension in his shoulders almost as pronounced as the tension in his groin.
But wasn’t that just the problem with Eva? She hadn’t had a real life, not yet anyway. How could she have and still have been a virgin at twenty-four?
He let his chin drop and cursed. Which was why he had to treat her with a little more care than any of the other women he’d slept with. Not only did she not know the score, she probably didn’t even know there was a score.
He knew how much she wanted him. That sure as hell wasn’t in any doubt. If it hadn’t already been obvious after her live-wire response to his caresses last night, it had been even more so today during their scheduled trip to Riva del Garda.
He’d heard her strangled little gasp when his thumb had lingered on the inside of her elbow as he’d helped her into the duca’s motor launch. Had smelt the glow of sweat forming on her nape when he’d stood just a little bit too close as they were escorted round the duca’s riverside offices. Had felt her body quiver when he’d stroked his palm down her spine, and left it resting above the curve of her buttocks to direct her to her seat in the waterfront restaurant Don Vincenzo had booked for lunch. Had seen the way her eyes darkened when he’d brushed a lock of silky hair behind her ear during their pre-dinner drinks at the palazzo.
Truth was, he’d been so damned attuned to every one of her responses—every single sight, scent, sound and touch—he’d actually been grateful to have the duca there chaperoning them, or he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself dragging her off and forgetting about his stupid promise altogether.
The woman was driving him mad. He’d never been particularly good at deferred gratification. And he was getting less so every second he spent in her company. Even now he could taste the sultry scent of her arousal, hear her shocked gasp as he circled the stiff nub of her clitoris.
The blood pumped into his groin. His teeth clenched and his back muscles knotted as he spent several fraught moments contemplating the quick journey from his balcony into her bedroom—and the feel of soft, slick skin, dewy with need.
Damn it, Delisantro, get a grip. You’re worse than Leonardo.
The repulsive thought doused the fire like a bucket of icy water. He sucked in a breath, pushed out another, thrust shaking fingers through his hair, and shoved away from the balcony to head back into the bedroom. Sick loathing made his stomach muscles clench when he spotted Leonardo’s journal on the coffee table.
Stop torturing yourself.
Stretching out on the bed, he punched the pillows into submission and switched off the bedside lamp. He had no connection to Leonardo. So what if he looked like the guy? He had more than enough sins of his own to deal with, without shouldering the blame for someone else’s.
Folding his hands behind his head, he watched the moonlight cast eerie shadows in the velvet canopy above his head and waited for the nausea to go the hell away. The light citrus-scented breeze gradually cooled the sweat on his brow and replaced the acrid taste in his mouth, bringing with it comforting memories of Eva. And her nutty insistence that he was a nice guy.
Welcome heat curled in his abdomen.
No, he wasn’t a nice guy. Or a particularly patient one. But he’d proved that he could be decent, or decent enough, by giving her some time to realise he wasn’t one of her storybook heroes.
That said, he wasn’t a masochist—which meant he’d be doing his very best tomorrow to ensure he didn’t have to spend any more nights alone with only Leonardo’s creepy journal for company.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘YOUR mind is elsewhere today, Niccolo?’
Nick glanced up from his lunch, to find Don Vincenzo’s astute gaze steady on his. He sighed inwardly. He’d stopped bothering to correct the old guy about his name yesterday, when he’d figured out the man was as stubborn as he was. And yeah, he was a little preoccupied all right.
He hadn’t expected Eva to be gone this morning before he’d woken up. He also hadn’t expected her to sneak off to the lawyers’ offices in Milan without bothering to mention it to him. But worse had been the panic that had skittered up his spine when he’d found her room empty at ten o’clock and figured she’d run off back to London. He’d felt pretty stupid about that when Eduardo had told him the truth. But that hadn’t stopped him sulking for a while, and then watching the clock all morning waiting for her to return.
Make that a lot preoccupied.
But he wasn’t about to talk to an octogenarian he barely knew about the dismal state of his sex life.
‘I guess I’m still jet-lagged,’ he muttered.
Don Vincenzo nodded, as if digesting the information, then said: ‘Eva tells me you have read my son’s journal.’
Nick put down his fork. ‘Yeah. Some of it.’ Where was this headed? Because talking about Leonardo’s journal was even less appealing than talking about Eva’s disappearing act.
