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Her kindness was unexpected and touching—it was also unsettling. Because he suspected he didn’t deserve kindness—particularly not from Amelia.
‘Perhaps seeing you put all thoughts of my father from my mind,’ he said, aiming to lighten the mood.
Her cheeks glowed pink, but she dropped her gaze, suddenly pretending fascination with the meal in front of her.
‘I doubt that.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’ And she looked him square in the eyes, and something in the region of his chest tightened. ‘You came to me because of your father. Why else would you act then? Shortly after his death, you enact this revenge plan of yours?’
‘It wasn’t that,’ he said, although of course the timing had seemed fortuitous. ‘It took my detective some time to locate you.’
‘Detective?’ she repeated, scandalised. ‘You had a detective looking for me?’
His shrug was more relaxed than he felt. ‘You weren’t in Italy, as I’d presumed you would be. Nor were you in London. Who would have thought you’d take up a job as a teacher in a school in a town in the middle of nowhere, using an assumed name? It was as though you were trying to disappear from the face of the earth.’
Her lips twisted. ‘I suppose I kind of was.’ Her expression assumed a faraway look. ‘I love my family, Antonio.’ She sent him a look, and he heard the words she hadn’t said: Enough to marry you to save them. ‘But I never fitted into their way of life. I didn’t like the sense of being a commodity rather than a person. All my life, I’ve wanted to be normal. Just a regular person with a real job, who can do normal things. That’s why I was in tiny village in the middle of nowhere. It’s why I became a teacher.’
His chest compressed at the picture she painted, of a girl always out of place and time, and he couldn’t help the surge of guilt that rushed through him. Because he’d dragged her back into the spotlight, and deep down he knew she would have been happier if only he’d left her alone.
‘But a detective?’ she teased, turning their conversation back to his method of locating her.
He took her lead, but his mind was raking over her admission of having felt so out of place, and making a new kind of sense of that. Her refusal to take part in a wedding reception suddenly made sense, and he marvelled at his insensitivity. Her reaction had been unusually panicked. Now he understood that. Pity clouded his eyes but he kept his voice light.
‘Why does that surprise you?’
‘I suppose it shouldn’t. You wanted my shares in Prim’Aqua; you did what you needed in an attempt to procure them—including sleuthing me out with a private eye. You don’t let anything stand in the way of your dreams.’
But her words rankled and he needed to reject them instantly. ‘I didn’t come to your home to seduce you, Amelia,’ he said throatily. ‘What happened between us that night was as simple as me wanting you and you wanting me.’
‘It wasn’t simple,’ she said softly. ‘Not with all this between us.’
Never had truer words been spoken, yet still he sought to refute the statement. ‘I wasn’t thinking of our families when I took you to bed.’
And more heat suffused her cheeks and, Cristo, he wanted her in that moment. He wanted her, but not just because his body was tight with desire. He wanted her because he longed to kiss her, to make her cry out for him; he ached to seduce her slowly, to show her how it could be between two people completely in sync. Their single night together had been too short; had he known he would not have the pleasure of her company again, he would have lingered over their lovemaking, enjoying every move and thrust, every shift of their bodies in that primal heat. He would have helped her learn the ways of her own body, the pleasure she was capable of feeling, what she longed for most.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, but the words hitched in her throat and there was a breathless quality to them that spoke of her own desires and needs, and how he ached to indulge those!
And, despite the fact this was all new and different, and he didn’t know what they were doing, he reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her fingertips as his eyes held hers.
Her lashes fluttered closed, but not before he saw the desire swirling in their cornflower-blue depths. Not before her lips parted on a sharp intake of breath.
Sensual heat was in the air around them, and he had no intention of ignoring it this time.
* * *
Did he have any idea what he was doing to her?
She tried to focus on the page of her book, but with Antonio doing push-ups on the terrace just beyond her, wearing a pair of black bathing briefs, his broad, tanned chest on display, his powerful legs, his dark hair slicked against his head like a pelt after his early evening swim—she was lost, powerless, completely entranced. The words in her book swirled before her eyes and she valiantly made an effort to read the paragraph once more.
It was her own fault, she supposed, for picking up Anna Karenina. Having read it before and suffered through a more in-depth appraisal of nineteenth-century Russian agriculture than anyone truly needed, she wasn’t exactly sure why she’d felt compelled to pick it up once more.
It was hardly engrossing.
Not as engrossing as her husband, in any event. Their conversation over lunch had got deep under her skin. His insistence that he had come to her to buy shares but had then wanted her, not because of Prim’Aqua, not because of anything. Except desire. Lust. Need. Passion.
She hadn’t realised until lunch how desperately she’d needed his assurances on that score and, now that she had them, how empowering it was. Because it legitimised what she felt—it showed that, no matter what else they were, this desire was real. It was true. He hadn’t seduced her because he’d thought it would lead to her compliance. He’d been unable to resist her.
