‘Yes,’ she said, tilting up her chin, ‘that’s exactly what I am. A card-carrying, definitely-no-men-on-board lesbian. Can we go now? The sooner we start out the quicker this will be over.’
He opened her door.
‘I can do that myself, you know,’ she snapped, and slid inside.
He shut the door with a click.
‘I can do that too,’ she muttered, stuffing her bag down at her feet and adjusting the seatbelt.
He was beside her but made no move to start the car.
‘I thought we were in a hurry,’ she said stiffly. She hated that she now felt self-conscious in her tailored black pants and high-necked white silk blouse. There was nothing wrong with her clothes. They were practical.
She eyed his bespoke jacket, the crisp pale green shirt that somehow clung to his broad chest and muscle-packed waist and abdomen as if it had been ironed on, the faithful fit of those dark jeans to his long, powerful legs. He looked as if he’d stepped off the catwalk at Milan, and she had a flash of the sort of woman who would stride off that catwalk with him. Elegant, racehorse-thin, not afraid of colour.
Ava plucked at her sleeve. At least her silk blouse wouldn’t crease, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with the black trousers. They gave the illusion of a flat tummy and reduced the impact of her round derrière. She had twelve pairs hanging up in her closet at home. A woman who wasn’t reed-thin needed to downplay her lumps and bumps.
He had the body of a Roman athlete, fresh from killing something in the arena. Whatever he wore was going to look good.
Not that she was paying particular attention to how good he looked. No, she was just settling accounts in her head. There were all sorts of reasons she preferred black and white to... Why weren’t they going anywhere?
‘Why aren’t we going anywhere?’ she demanded, refusing to look at him.
‘I have offended you,’ he said unexpectedly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she muttered.
‘I am not accustomed to women wearing trousers.’ He spoke carefully, as if choosing his words. ‘I shouldn’t have implied you lack femininity because of your wardrobe choices.’
Ava felt her stomach hollow out.
‘You presuppose I care what you think.’
But she did care. She suddenly wished she’d put on a skirt. But she didn’t own a skirt.
She turned her head and immediately wished she hadn’t, because he was so close. Too close. She could see where he’d shaved this morning, see the indent of his upper lip, and had a sudden, shocking longing to press her mouth to it.
‘I know you were trying to insult me, but it’s water off a duck’s back,’ she informed him, wrenching her attention off his ridiculously sensuous lips. ‘What I am about to say will come as a shock to you, as I suspect no woman has ever told you the truth.’
‘You could be right.’
‘But I’m not afraid of the truth. I like to face things head-on.’
‘Go on,’ he encouraged, almost gently.
A little thrown, Ava gathered herself together. He wasn’t being nice to her. He was just lying low to get her to attack him and then he’d swing in with something insulting that made her feel...made her feel...
‘The truth is you’re just a handsome face with a lot of money and a habit of control, so women let you get away with murder. I haven’t and you don’t like that.’
‘Is that so?’ He was smiling at her as if he saw right through her.
Ava looked away, folding her arms. ‘That’s so,’ she said, and wondered why she didn’t sound sure.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GIANLUCA SLOTTED THE Jota in at the circular entrance and leapt out with an energy and purpose that mocked her indecision.
Ava trembled, frustrated by her own complicated desires as she climbed out of the car.
‘Why have you brought me back here?’
‘It is my home.’
‘I understand that,’ she said with exaggerated patience, but he was already taking the steps, leaving her standing by the car.
He wasn’t giving her any time to think. Ava said something rude under her breath and took off after him.
In the vast entrance hall she was vaguely conscious of the black and white parquet underfoot, the grand shallow staircase ahead. But only because Gianluca was on his way up it.
‘Benedetti!’
He didn’t respond.
‘I demand you answer me!’ she shouted, and her voice echoed around them. She jumped, startled.
He lifted his hands in a gesture of male impatience.
‘Must we have theatrics every time you fail to notice the obvious?’
Ava was on the verge of informing him that she’d never indulged in theatrics in her life. She was a calm, measured woman and she never shouted... She was only shouting now because he was—which was when she realised he was on the move again. She hurried upstairs after him. Why were they going upstairs? His bedroom was upstairs. Lots of bedrooms were upstairs.