‘Cosa?’
She hadn’t meant it, but she discovered she couldn’t back down. If she did he would see too much—her fear of intimacy—and he’d put two and two together. She feared that exposure more than his anger.
‘You heard me.’ She avoided his eyes. ‘I was upset and not thinking straight and you were in like a shot.’
‘I think you should get your facts straight, Signorina Lord,’ he drawled, those golden eyes watchful, ‘before you start making accusations.’
Ava swallowed hard, staring past him, chin up. She so didn’t want to have this conversation here and now. It was too intimate, there was nowhere to run to, and he was right beside her—seeing too much, holding the power to slice and dice her fragile ego.
‘You threw yourself at me,’ he observed, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Ava flinched.
‘You did it last night, and you did it seven years ago,’ he continued remorselessly. ‘It seems to be your modus operandi, tesoro. I’m guessing I shouldn’t feel flattered.’
As she absorbed the impact of his opinion of her the motorbike’s engine roared into life again and Ava gripped the hard column of his waist.
He didn’t say anything else all the way down the mountain—because, really, what more was there to say?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE HOTEL, LIKE EVERYTHING about Gianluca Benedetti, was not what she’d expected. It was subtle and charming and took advantage of the best water views in Positano.
As he crossed the foyer, shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves shoved up to the elbows, hand-tooled shoes dusty and scuffed, Gianluca still managed to look like an advertisement for a high-end men’s fragrance—one of those where a guy came out of water or walked down a beach or gazed knowingly over the naked body of a lithe, bronzed woman.
Ava was all too aware she looked like a woman who had been dragged backwards through the underbrush.
A posse of beautiful leggy girls on their way out fluttered and smiled and broke into a flurry of giggles as Gianluca held the door for them.
Completely unnecessary, as far as Ava could see. They had arms and hands, didn’t they?
One of the women stopped to speak to him. Did he have to linger?
Flirt.
Her heart started to pound, and not in a good way. Well, that was fine. She could look after herself.
She folded her arms and looked around. She spotted the welcome desk and headed over.
She was just handing over her passport when a deep voice intruded, ‘She has a room, Pietro.’
Ava ignored him.
‘As I was saying, I would like a single.’
But the desk clerk was looking over her shoulder. Frustrated, Ava rounded on Gianluca. ‘Could you butt out?’
He merely looked at her, with stone-cold disapproval, and Ava’s bravado-meter dipped.
Because she was behaving this way for the most obvious reason. She was jealous.
‘Notice me!’ was what she wanted to say. But what would he notice? A tired, grubby, irritable woman who had done nothing but snipe at him all day.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sounding stiff and all wrong yet again. ‘That was rude of me—’
‘It’s been a long day already, Ava, and I have business to attend to,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ll have a car made ready for you in the morning to take you on to Rome, or Ragusa. Whichever you prefer.’
What she preferred was to put her head on his shoulder and apologise for every horrible thing she’d said today, to have him cradle her face with his hands again as he had on the bike, and not to look at other women.
That was never going to happen now, and she was feeling too tired and sorry for herself to get mad about it.
In the lift he took out his phone, which was as good a message as any from where she stood. Enclosed in a small space with him, she couldn’t help inhaling the scent of him. He smelled so good, even after all the tramping around, the bumping through underbrush on that motorcycle. He smelled of hot male skin and grass and salt and a little bit of petrol fumes from the bike.
It was a heady combination on him, but probably not so entrancing on her, and she held herself even more stiffly, folding her arms, wishing she could just vanish into merciful invisibility.
A furtive glance at their reflection in the mirrored walls only reinforced the contrast, and Ava realised in a rush of self-actualisation that he was right. These clothes did her no favours.
When had she started dressing this way? When had not wanting to draw attention to herself become a kind of self-obliteration? Bernard had said a woman in her position, with her figure, needed to be careful. So she was careful. High-necked blouses. No skirts. Nothing that would draw attention to her femininity.