She made a honking noise the second time. Luca smiled and gathered her to him again.
“I’m sorry for being so silly.”
“You’re not silly. You’re wonderful.” He clasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “And I’m going to reward you.” He laughed at the rush of pink that swept into her face. “By taking you to La Scala,” he said. “It isn’t the season for opera, but there’s a concert tonight. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.” She smiled and linked her hands behind his neck.
“And,” he said, “I promise you another reward tonight, after we return here.” He brushed his lips lightly over hers. “Does that please you, cara?”
Everything about him pleased her. His voice. His smile. His touch. Just being with him pleased her.
The enormity of the realization stole her breath away. She wanted to say something light, to offer the kind of sophisticated response she’d given other men in the past, but this was Luca, not any other man, and what she felt for him was—it was—
“Tell me that I please you,” he said gruffly.
She raised her eyes to his. There were truths so ugly she would never share them, especially with him, but this was one truth she wanted him to know.
“You please me more than I ever dreamed possible,” she said softly. “You make me—you make me happy.”
Her sweet admission, the way she was looking at him, put a lump in his throat. He wanted—he wanted—
He wanted her.
Physically, yes, but he wanted something more, and it scared the hell out of him. It was safer to kiss her, then kiss her again until he felt the fire leap between them.
“Turn around,” he said gruffly. “Hold onto the balcony rail.”
“Here? On the balcony? But someone might—”
“Turn,” he commanded.
Her body’s response, the hot rush of desire that swept through her, was instantaneous.
She turned her back to him, clasped the rail, heard the snick of his zipper, felt his hands under her skirt taking down her thong, and then he was inside her and she was one with him, lost to the place, to the hour, to everything but Luca.
* * *
The concert was wonderful, but being together was the best part.
After, they stopped for a light supper at an elegant little ristorante near their hotel. Luca ordered a bottle of Barone Ricasoli Chianti Classico, bruschetta and antipasto.
Once their wine was poured, he said that he would be busy the next morning.
“Will you be in meetings?”
“Dull stuff, most of it. I’ve arranged for a car and driver to show you the city.”
“I’d much rather walk around on my own,” she said. “Besides, I know Milan very well, remember?”
“Ah. Yes, of course. You worked here.”
“More than that. My career really took off here. Four different designers wanted me to do their shows.” She sighed at the memory. “It was a heady experience for a kid.”
“Of course they wanted you.” He smiled. “They weren’t fools. I’m sure you could make a dishrag look sexy and desirable.”
“That’s the idea,” she said, smiling back at him.
“To make dishrags look good?”
She laughed. “To make whatever you put on look good, even if it’s—”
“Cheyenne! Mia bella Cheyenne! Come stai?”
A tall, good-looking man had appeared beside their table, beaming at Cheyenne. He took her hand and kissed it.
Cheyenne smiled.
Luca frowned.
“Franco! How wonderful to see you. I’m fine, thanks. And you?”
“Also fine, but I have been desolate these last months, not seeing you, you exquisite creature! Where have you been hiding?”
“I haven’t been doing much travelling lately.”
“But now you are here, in Milano, and you did not tell me that you were coming? For shame, my love. For shame!”
Luca cleared his throat as he got to his feet and held out his hand.
“Luca Bellini,” he said gruffly. “And you are…?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Cheyenne said. “Luca, this is a dear old friend, Franco Savo. Franco, this is Luca Bellini.”
Savo turned his smile on Luca. The men shook hands.
“How nice to meet a friend of Cheyenne’s.”
“I am her very good friend,” Luca said in a tone that left no doubt as to what he meant.
Cheyenne looked from one man to the other. Luca was jealous. Normally, that would have angered her. She had no use for men who had such proprietorial attitudes about women, but what she felt now wasn’t anger at all.
This was her lover, and what she felt was pure delight.
Savo dipped his head. “You are a fortunate man.”
“Si, I most certainly am.”
“And you are Italian?”
“I am Sicilian.”
Cheyenne almost laughed. Her lover—her beautiful, exciting lover—wasn’t just staking his claim; he was drawing a line in the sand.
“Ah. Un Siciliano. And Ms. McKenna has come to Milan to meet with you? Are you in the fashion business?”
Either Franco hadn’t gotten Luca’s none-too-subtle message, or he was having fun at Luca’s expense. Either way, Cheyenne was enjoying the show.
“I am not. And Ms. McKenna did not come to Milan to meet me, she came to Milan with me. We are together, Cheyenne and I.”
Cheyenne sighed. It was time to put an end to the game.
“Franco is a designer. I modeled for him several times.” She paused. “He and his wife,” she said, emphasizing that word, “are world-famous.”
“Si. My Maria is in the powder room. I am sure she will be delighted to… Wait! There she is now. Maria, dolcezza, come and see who is here!”
A stunning blonde hurried toward them. The color that had striped Luca’s cheekbones vanished in a flurry of introductions, handshakes and air kisses. Luca invited the Savos to join them; Franco explained that they were just leaving. More handshakes and air kisses.
Then Maria said, “Wait! Cheyenne, will you still be in Milano tomorrow? Because if you will…” She looked at her husband, who nodded. “If you will, we have a huge favor to ask.”
“A favor?”
“Vogue is coming to do a spread on us.”
“That’s great!”
“Si. It is, indeed. We will be offering glimpses of our next collection—you know the kind of thing it will be. We have three girls coming in for the shoot.” Maria named them. Cheyenne said yes, perfect, wonderful…and then Maria took a deep breath. “But we built the set, the entire concept of the shoot, around Jane Houston.”
“A fantastic choice.” Cheyenne glanced at Luca. He looked like a man hearing a language that was not his own for the very first time. “Jane is absolutely stunning,” she told him. “She’s one of those girls who makes everything she wears look like a million dollars.”
“Like you, cara,” he said softly.
The Savos smiled.
“We think so, too,” Franco said. “That is why Maria’s idea is so perfect.”
“What idea?” Chey
enne asked, looking bewildered.
“We just had a text message from Jane’s agent. Jane is ill. She won’t be able to make it tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry she’s—”
“As illnesses go, this is a good one.” Maria smiled. “Jane is pregnant. She’s begun suffering from morning sickness—and we are scheduled for seven o’clock!”
“You and Jane have similar coloring,” Franco said. “In fact, though we adore Jane, if we’d known you were available… Cheyenne, dearest one, we know it is a great deal to ask. You are on holiday, you and Luca probably have plans, but if you could possibly step in—”
“She can’t,” Luca said, at the same instant Cheyenne said, “I can.”
They looked at each other. The silence became palpable. Franco Savo gave a discreet cough.
“Um, Maria and I will be at the bar, having a nightcap. Let us know your decision, Cheyenne, yes?”
“Yes,” Cheyenne said, but she never took her eyes from Luca.
“Bellissima,” he said softly, as soon as the Salvos had walked away, “this is a holiday. Why should you work?”
“You’ll be working, too. “
“Yes, but that’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“Well—well, I run a business.”
“And I have a career.”
Hell. He’d said the wrong thing. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her career, but—but he’d envisioned himself at work, with her waiting for him to return to her at home. Well, not at home. At the hotel.
“I like working, Luca. It’s what I do. Who I am.”
“And if I were to say no?”
She sat back. There was a sudden coolness in her eyes.
“I would tell you I make my own decisions.”
Yes. He knew that. And as much as he admired her for it, he wanted her to be… What? A little more dependent?
A little more needful of him, not just in bed but out of it?
Dio! Even having such thoughts was crazy. The last thing he would ever want of a woman was that she’d organize her life around him—and what was with that image of her waiting for him at home? This relationship, if you could call something that was only a few days old a ‘relationship,’ was about passion and fun, not about domesticity.
He took a drink of his chianti.
“Of course you do,” he said pleasantly. “I only meant that I hoped you working tomorrow would not interfere with the plans I’ve made.”