AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She decided not to over-analyse this unexpected physical response to a total stranger, because though some people, her sister included, might suggest thatchoicewas not involved where attraction was concerned, Maya firmly believed that you always had a choice. So as far as she was concerned, her head would always rule her heart and her hormones, not the other way around.
And there was also the purely practical side to consider. At this point in her life, romance or sex—what was the difference?—would have been a complication too far.
She and Bea were trying to start up a fashion business and one of them had to stay focused. Her sister was going through the trauma of a divorce and Maya needed to take up the slack. Her eyes slid briefly to where Bea sat, her death-ray stare glued to her phone, but Maya saw the sheer misery underneath the anger and her tender heart ached. Beareallywasn’t the best advert for love right now, but, if it ever crept up on her, Maya was determined she was not going to allow her happiness to depend on a man—notanyman.
She couldn’t conceive of feeling that way,ever, she was not that person, but if a man made her unhappy there would be no looking back for her. She’d vowed to herself that she wouldn’t be weighed down by someone else’s baggage.
The heat, the crush of people, in here was unbearable and Samuele almost turned around and walked straight back through the revolving glass doors and into the street where the snow that was melting on his hair and overcoat had started to fall in earnest. But he had two hours to kill if his cautiously optimistic contact with inside information on the unfolding situation in the airport was to be believed, and suffering from hypothermia was not going to help the situation.
Was anything?
It deepened his sense of grinding frustration to know that there was a private flight ready for him on the runway—so near and yet so far—but waiting here remained his best bet of getting back to Rome in time to be with his brother before Cristiano went in for his scheduled surgery.
His fingers curled around the phone in his pocket as he thought about ringing Cristiano again, but on reflection he decided to wait until his revised travel plans were confirmed; he didn’t want to make promises to his brother that he could not keep.
His facial muscles tightened in response to an explosion of laughter off to his right, and the sound of happiness grated on his nerve endings. He didn’t want to hear it, he didn’t want to be here, he wanted, no, heneededto be with his brother.
Cristiano was in the worst kind of trouble, trouble not of his making, and he was alone going through this ordeal, because the wife he adored had aproblemwith hospitals. Violetta did not do theuglythings in life, or, it seemed,dosupporting the man she had married while someone cut into his brain to biopsy the reason for the blinding headaches and other assorted symptoms he had suffered in silence for the past six months.
‘She cried when I told her,’ Cristiano had said.
Female tears did not affect Samuele; well, not all female tears. Even now, after all these years, the memory of his mother’s tears, mostly silent, still made his gut tighten in an echo of the remembered helplessness he had felt as a child. But tears that were purely cosmetic or used to manipulate left him cold, and Violetta’s were both. Sadly, his brother was not as immune.
Samuele embraced the anger and contempt he felt towards Violetta even as it deepened the frown line that was threatening to become permanent between his thick slanted brows.
His hand came away wet as he dragged it across his dark hair, before clenching it into a fist.Dio, what was it with the men in his family and their bad choices in wives?
He supposed that he was just lucky he had never found the so-calledlove of his life. One thing was certain, if he ever saw her coming he’d sprint in the opposite direction. Samuele gave a thin cynical smile that left his dark eyes cold. He was reasonably confident he would not need his running shoes any time soon, because love was a complete work of fiction, and he was not living in the final scene of a Hollywood romantic comedy.
As he made his way over to the bar thoughts of what his brother was going through alone crowded in, dominating his thoughts, so it took a few seconds for the question being directed at him to penetrate.
Samuele glanced at the face of the young man, then looked down at the sketch being held out to him. He flinched inside. It was good,too good, for on the paper he saw a man who was clearly too unapproachable for even his own brother to confide in.
The anger he felt at himself, the frustration he felt at being unable first to save Cristiano from a toxic marriage and now from this disease that had sunk its claws into him, surged up inside him. The release after the past hours of enforced calm was volcanic, though it erupted not as fire but ice.
‘Is that really the best you can do?’ He allowed his blighting stare to rest on the caricature before he trained his hooded gaze back on the artist. ‘The future is not looking bright for you, is it? I sincerely hope you have a plan B.’ For a split second he felt a surge of satisfaction but then the kick of guilt came fast on its heels.
Talk about finding a soft target, he derided himself, contempt curling his lip, but this time it was aimed purely at himself. The only thing the guy had done was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and to have a future for him to mock, unlike his brother, who might not.
Bleakness settled over him like a storm cloud, sucking away any form of hope.
‘No problem.’
Instead of releasing the sketch to the young man who was backing away, Samuele held onto it, reaching in his pocket for his wallet with his free hand.
Always easier to throw money at a problem than say sorry, Samuele thought cynically, but before any conscience-easing exchange could be quietly made a small figure appeared, her dark hair a riot of flying Pre-Raphaelite curls, her sweater beneath a padded coat a flash of hot orange. She virtually flung herself between him and the young artist, who let go of his sketch and took a step back to avoid a collision.
She had moved so fast that Samuele had no idea where she had come from as she stood there, glaring up at him, her hands on the slim supple curves of her hips.
With a sinuous little spin that rather unexpectedly sent a slither of sexual heat through his body, she directed a warm look at the boy before turning sharply again and continuing to vibrate scorn towards Sam. ‘He,hehas more talent in his little finger than you...you...do in your whole body!’
She didn’t raise her voice but every scathing syllable reached its intended target—him.
To say Samuele was taken aback by the sudden attack would have been an understatement. On another occasion he would have liked to have listened further to her voice, which, in contrast to her delicate build, was low and husky.
He could imagine it having a rich earthy tone, he could imagine it whispering private things for his ears only...which said a lot for his state of mind, considering that at that moment it shook with the emotions that were rolling off her—emotions that were neither warm nor intimate.
Samuele found his initial shock melting into something else equally intense, as enormous brown eyes flecked with angry golden lights narrowed on his face. The further kick of attraction he felt was suddenly so strong that the pain was actually physical as it settled hot in his groin. There were not many inches involved here—she did not even reach his shoulder—but every single one packed aperfectsensual punch.
