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PROLOGUE
ALESSIODIBARICOULDcope with the fact that Nicola Bennett disliked him. He was used to women disliking him—usually when they finally realised he had no intention of budging from his negative position on matrimony, or indeed any form of long-term commitment.
And he was used to anger. Hot-blooded passion, which often ended up in the bedroom in a riot of hastily discarded clothing and warm, pulsating flesh. It made a welcome change from his infamously cold and scientific demeanour.
What he wasn’t used to was indifference.
He frowned, because such a lukewarm sentiment was insulting—and it was definitely indifference which was filtering through the air towards him as he stood within the airy confines of the exclusive London art gallery.
‘Would you like some coffee, Signor di Bari?’
Her eyes were glacial, he thought. Cool as ice. But then, everything about Nicola Bennett was cool. Her clothes. Her demeanour. Even her voice—every syllable carefully chipped out, as if she’d thought about each and every word she was uttering.
Alessio met the shuttered grey gaze which gleamed from her unmoving features, puzzled by his fascination for her. Because she certainly wasn’t beautiful and neither was she particularly well-dressed—although he recognised that he had fairly exacting standards. Her plain white shirt and plain black skirt were undeniably smart but surely a littledull. Her shoes were sensible,sì, as were her neatly filed fingernails—but again, they were dull. Her only adornment was the thinnest gold chain he had ever seen—a modest piece of jewellery which glittered at the base of her long neck. Her pale hair was styled into a neat pleat at the back of her head and, because he had never seen a single strand of it out of place, he sometimes thought it looked more like a helmet. Nothingfeminineabout such a style as that, he thought disparagingly. Indeed, the only thing which marred her neat precision was the tiny rose-shaped birthmark on one side of her breastbone.
She was the most uptight woman he had ever met.
A pulse at his temple flickered.
Veryuptight.
Yet at times, didn’t he find his gaze inexplicably straying to that rosy little birthmark and wondering what her skin would taste like if he traced its raised surface with the tip of his tongue? Or imagine how it might be if he unclipped that severe hairstyle and let the blonde strands tumble in silken profusion over his fingers?
Again, he frowned.
What wasthatall about?
And since he was a scientist and therefore a man who abhorred the grey landscape of uncertainty, he always demanded answers to speculative questions. Perhaps it was because his busy schedule had been off the scale recently, with a new factory opening in Germany as well as another in his adopted country of America. But the subsequent stream of late nights and early mornings had led to an almost complete absence of leisure. Was it that which was responsible for him fantasising about the most unlikely of people, like the cool Miss Nicola Bennett?
‘Shouldn’t you be offering me champagne?’ he drawled. ‘Considering the significant hole which has blasted its way through my finances as a result of purchasing this overpriced painting.’ He raised his eyebrows as he gestured towards the large canvas. ‘Wouldn’t you have thought your boss would have presented me with a hefty discount for being such a regular customer to his gallery, considering we’ve been friends for so long?’
But her implacable features barely moved and her polite smile stayed frozen in place. ‘If you wait until the weekend, you’ll get the chance to haggle with him in person,’ she answered smoothly. ‘He’s due back from Argentina on Friday.’
‘Unfortunately, I’m busy at the weekend,’ said Alessio, but when he thought about the reason why, he could feel a trickle of distaste whisper over his skin.
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ She gave a small shrug, which rather distractingly drew his attention to the slender curve of her breasts, which were outlined in crisp white cotton. ‘For what it’s worth, I happen to think you’ve got yourself a bargain,’ she added.
‘Do you?’
‘Of course.’
Silently, their gazes travelled to the oil painting which depicted a woman sitting beside a bathtub, wearing nothing but a man’s shirt and the expression of someone who had just been sexually satisfied. Her dark hair was tangled, her thighs slightly open and a soft smile was playing at the edges of her lips. The artist was well known for portraits of his many lovers and it was an astonishing piece of work, yet there was something about the study which was uncomfortably intimate, which made the viewer feel almost like a voyeur.
Alessio couldn’t imagine staring at a woman for long enough to paint her in such a situation—even if he possessed a shred of artistic ability, which he definitely didn’t. He was the type of man who cut short post-coital reflection by going straight to the bathroom and dousing himself beneath the jets of a powerful shower and afterwards becoming engrossed in work—employing any method he could to avoid sentimental contemplation. It had been noted and complained about on more than one occasion, but he had no intention of changing his behaviour. Why should he?
He glanced at the smooth profile of the woman beside him, noting the faint flush of colour which was staining her creamy skin as she studied the painting. ‘Do you like it?’ he enquired.
‘It’s one of his finest pieces of work,’ she replied carefully.
‘That’s not what I asked, Nicola.’ He paused, his gaze flickering over her. ‘You’re a very evasive woman, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’ She raised a pair of neat eyebrows. ‘That’s news to me. I just happen to prefer landscapes, Signor di Bari, nothing more mysterious than that.’
‘And you never call me Alessio,’ he observed softly. ‘Even though I’ve asked you to on more than one occasion.’
There was a pause.
‘Because I prefer professional boundaries,’ she answered crisply. ‘I refer to all Sergio’s clients using their titles and nobody’s ever objected before. In fact, some people seem to enjoy the use of formality in an increasingly informal age.’
