Carrying His Scandalous Heir

He leant across to open the passenger side door. ‘Prego,’ he invited in a pleasant voice.

He’d surprised her—he could tell. Had she really believed that walking away from him would discourage him?

He went on in a dry voice, ‘It would gratify me if you complied without delay, for the traffic warden over there—’ he nodded carelessly along the street to where such an individual had recently turned the corner ‘—would so very much enjoy booking me.’ He gave a brief sigh. ‘I find that officials take particular pleasure in exercising their petty authority when their target is driving a car like this one.’

He smiled. He could see the conflict i

n her eyes—in those amazingly dark violet-blue eyes of hers—but above all he could see that same flare of awareness, of desire, which had been in them when he’d first approached her. That told him all he needed to know.

His expression changed again. ‘Carpe diem,’ he said softly. His eyes held hers. Tellingly, unambiguously. ‘Let us seize all that we may have of this fleeting life,’ he murmured, ‘before we are dust ourselves.’

His casual reference to her own comment in front of the Luciezo was accompanied by an exaggerated gesture of his hand as he again indicated the seat beside him.

His lashes dipped over his eyes. ‘What is so difficult,’ he murmured, ‘about accepting an invitation to dinner?’ His gaze lifted to hers again, and in his eyes was everything that was not in his words.

Carla, her expression immediately urgently schooled, stopped in her tracks on the pavement, felt again that incredible frisson go through her whole body—that shimmer of glittering awareness of the physical impact he made on her.

All around her the city of Rome buzzed with its familiar vitality. The warmth of the early evening enveloped her, and she could hear the noise of the traffic, the buzz of endless Vespas scooting past. The pavement was hot beneath the thin soles of her high heels. While in front of her, in that outrageously expensive car—as exclusive and prestigious as its driver so undoubtedly considered himself to be—the oh-so-aristocratic Conte invited her to join him.

As she had before, in the gallery, she felt the overwhelming impact of the man. Felt even more powerfully the impulse within her to give him the answer that he was waiting for.

Thoughts—fragmented, incoherent—raced through her.

What is happening to me? Why now—why this man of all men? This arrogant, lordly man who is scooping me up as if I were no more than that woman in the portrait—scooping me up to serve his pleasure...

Yet it would be for her pleasure too—she knew that with every shimmer in her body as she stood, poised on the pavement, feeling the weight of his lidded gaze upon her. That was the devil of it—that was the allure. That was the reason, Carla knew with a kind of sinking in her heart, that was keeping her here, hovering, just as he was keeping that monstrous, powerful car of his hovering, its power leashed, but ready to be let forth.

His words, mocking her, echoed in her head. ‘What is so difficult about accepting an invitation to dinner?’

His voice—deep, amused—cut across her tormented cogitations. ‘You really will need to decide swiftly—the warden is nearly upon us.’

The uniformed official was, indeed, closing fast. But Carla’s eyes only sparked deep blue. ‘And you couldn’t possibly afford the fine, could you?’ she retorted.

‘Alas, it is a question of my pride,’ Cesare murmured, the glint in his eye accentuated. ‘It would never do for il Conte to put himself in the power of a petty bureaucrat...’

Was he mocking himself? Carla had the suspicion he was not...

For a moment longer every objection she had made when he’d first invited her to dinner flared like phosphorus in her head. Every reason why she should give exactly the same kind of answer as she had then—evasive, avoiding the invitation—then walk briskly away, back to the comfortable, predictable evening she’d planned for herself in her own apartment. Making herself dinner, going through her notes in preparation for writing her article. An evening that had nothing, nothing to do with the man now waiting for her answer...

And yet—

Her own thought replayed itself in her head. How dangerous might it be to light a passion that could not be quenched?

But other thoughts pushed their way into her head. Thoughts she did not want to silence. Could not silence... Desire and passion will burn themselves out! They cannot last for ever.

Neither desire nor passion was love.

Yet both were powerful—alluring—speaking to her of what might be between them.

Passion and desire.

The same tremor went through her, the same flush in her skin as when he had first made his desire for her plain, calling from her an answering awareness. No other man had ever drawn from her such an overpowering response.

For a second longer she hesitated, hung between two opposing instincts.

To resist that response—or to yield to it.

The dark, lidded eyes rested on her—holding hers.