A Dangerous Solace

It had been different, though. She had been different. She’d had attitude even then—giving him directions when he was cruising the Ducati downtown, fussing and complaining. He’d humoured her and pretended to get lost. He’d thought he’d enjoy watching her lose it...but she hadn’t.

Instead she’d lost her edge and grown curious about his city, and then excited when he took her to the Forum, where she’d wanted to know the entire history of the place. He’d found himself having to compete with monuments and long-dead historical figures for her attention.

She’d made him compete. She’d forced from him what other girls had never demanded—to be entertained. By the time they’d reached the top of Palatine Hill she’d had him in the palm of her hand.

He actually hadn’t planned anything when they’d sunk down into the grass. She’d talked a lot, he remembered, and he’d found he didn’t mind listening. He might have said a few things himself, and when she’d begun to cry he had kissed her, because her tears had felt real. It probably wouldn’t have gone beyond that...but she had smelled incredible, and tasted so sweet, felt warm and soft. The minute he’d slid his hands under the boned bodice of her fairy-tale dress and felt the warm satin weight of her breasts, her nipples pushing up against his palms, there had been no going back.

He had known she wasn’t like any girl he’d ever met. He had known there would be a messy aftermath. He had known he was inviting a thousand complications into his clear-cut life but he’d dived in anyway.

Evie, Evie, Evie. Ava.

What he hadn’t known was that she’d cut and run before he could learn another detail, and within minutes of waking to an empty bed he’d received the phone call that had changed his life.

He was still shouldering those changes.

What he also hadn’t known then was that seven years later he’d be woken at 6:00 a.m. by another phone call, this time from his cousin Alessia, to tell him her husband’s sister was in Rome. She was refusing point-blank to come to them. He was to bring her with him this weekend.

‘Her name is Ava Lord and she’s staying at the Excelsior. Josh has been ringing and ringing, but her phone’s switched off.’

This had been followed by another phone call from his mother. ‘You must pick up this girl, Gianluca. Alessia tells me she refuses to come to us. We were not kind to her at Alessia’s wedding, and I’m afraid it’s influencing her decision-making. I feel it’s my fault.’

Gianluca killed the water jets and, shaking his cropped dark hair free of water, padded from the wet room, dragging a towel over his shoulders.

Ava Lord.

Alessia only had to say her name and he knew what he’d done.

He’d gone and slept with the groom’s sister!

* * *

He shaved and dressed rapidly, punching his arms into his shirt, swearing under his breath. Going into his room earlier this morning he’d intended to confront her. But that had been his first mistake.

He’d found her lying in the middle of his bed, twisted in a sheet that did nothing not to remind him of how lush her curves were, making it pretty obvious that she was naked under the sheet.

Her thick, lustrous hair had been spread about and one arm flung out, as if to showcase the curve of shoulder, breast and hip. It was a ratio of numbers that would make a mathematician weep.

She had shifted, and the full impact of her made-for-sin body had been outlined in fine white Egyptian cotton. All the blood in his body that hadn’t already headed that way had surged to his groin.

Madre di Dio.

How was he supposed to conduct any sort of conversation with her and not think about sex?

Irritated, he’d hit the controls for the window shutters and a wave of morning light had splashed over the bed. He’d intended the harsh light of day to take the edge off her sensual display.

‘Come on—wake up.’

He had reached down to shake her but his hand had hovered over her bare shoulder. He’d tried to find a portion of her body he could touch with impunity, but she seemed to be made up entirely of erogenous zones. He had known if he touched any part of her it would be soft and pliant and far too female, and his self-control would be history...

Cursing under his breath, he had struggled to peel his mind off the rise and fall of her chest.

‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.’

She’d murmured something and his gaze had been drawn away from the sheet and due north, like a compass, to that strawberry of a mouth, as luscious as any of her curves. Sultry green eyes had gleamed behind slowly lifting lashes.

She’d absolutely killed him.

God help him, he’d wanted another taste of the soft pink fullness of her lips, the heat of her mouth, the explosive reaction in the kiss they had shared last night. His ungoverned imagination had moved on, taking the sheet down slowly. He would shape the heaviness of her breasts with his hands and feast on nipples he remembered amazingly clearly as being the same strawberry colour as her mouth...and when she was wet and wanting, begging him to come into her, he would push himself deep inside her, fill her hard and...