CHAPTER NINE
THE TINY TRATTORIA tucked down a cobbled lane a few blocks from Leo’s building was not what Helena had expected when, after a steamy afternoon in bed, he had declared they would go out to eat. From the moment the owner had greeted them with a broad smile and a back-slap for Leo, then ushered them into a cosy booth, however, everything about the place had charmed her.
She chased down her last bite of crispy Roman pizza with a large sip of Chianti. ‘You were right.’ She wiped the corners of her mouth with a red-and-white-checked napkin. ‘That is quite possibly the best pizza in the world.’
He smiled, and her heart missed a beat even though she tried to be unaffected. Tried to wedge a solid wall between her head and her heart. Sitting here sharing a casual meal felt too...ordinary—and nothing about their contrived relationship or the things she had told him this afternoon was ordinary. Letting a few hours of phenomenal sex, a little easy talk over pizza and a disarming grin convince her otherwise was naive...and yet there was no harm in relaxing for a bit, surely?
She sipped her wine, savoured the intense flavour of ripe cherries on her tongue. She was pleasantly full, but the warm, contented feeling inside her wasn’t only thanks to good food and wine. It was a carryover from earlier, when Leo had held her in his arms. When he’d listened to her talk about things she’d never talked about with anyone and made her feel safer, more secure, than she ever had in her life.
‘You seem to know the owner well,’ she remarked. ‘Are you a regular?’
He leaned back, extended his long jean-clad legs under the table. ‘I worked here as a delivery boy during my first few semesters at university—one of three jobs that supported us while I studied.’
She couldn’t hide her surprise. The man who ran a multi-million-dollar global business had delivered pizzas?
‘Us?’ she said.
‘Marietta and me. My father was still alive then, but he was drunk most days and the people he mixed with were undesirable. My sister needed a better environment, so as soon as I could afford the rent I took her with me to a bedsit in a safer neighbourhood. It was cramped, but clean—and secure.’
Helena frowned. ‘Your father was an alcoholic?’
‘He turned to drink after my mother’s death. He never got over her loss.’
Sympathy bloomed. Leo and his sister had had such a traumatic childhood and then, as if they hadn’t dealt with enough, Marietta’s paralysing accident had happened. By contrast Helena’s childhood, though far from perfect, had at least afforded material comforts, her father’s wealth ensuring she’d wanted for nothing except the one thing money couldn’t buy. The one thing she’d constantly craved as a child. His love.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I can’t imagine the hardships you and your sister endured.’
He shrugged. ‘We survived.’
She twirled the stem of her wineglass. They’d survived because Leo had made sacrifices, worked hard to keep his sister safe and create a better life for them both. Leo didn’t trust or forgive easily, but he looked after his own. It was a quality in a man impossible not to admire.
‘Does Marietta live in Rome?’
‘Si. She has her own apartment and she’s largely independent—both at home and at work.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s curator at a contemporary art gallery—and an artist in her own right. She recently had her first exhibition.’ His voice resonated with pride. ‘The landscape in my entry hall is her work.’
Helena’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wow! I was admiring that just this morning. It’s fabulous.’
‘The accident quashed her ambition for a time, but with encouragement from her physical therapist she resumed painting a few years ago.’
‘It would have been a shame if she hadn’t. Talent like that shouldn’t be wasted.’
‘No,’ he agreed, watching her intently. ‘It shouldn’t.’
Something in his tone made Helena’s hand still on her glass. He wasn’t talking about his sister now and they both knew it. She dropped her gaze, a flicker of unease chasing the warmth from her insides. She couldn’t let the conversation go down this road. Couldn’t explain the real reason she’d abandoned her textile design degree.
Desperately she cast around for a diversion, but only one sure-fire tactic sprang to mind.
Stifling a twinge of guilt, she reached under the table and slipped her palm over one muscle-packed thigh. ‘So, are we staying for dessert.
..?’ She glided her hand higher until, under cover of the table, she found the impressive bulge in his snug-fitting jeans. ‘Or should we indulge at home?’
She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and watched his pupils dilate, his throat muscles work around a deep, convulsive swallow.
He clamped his hand over her wandering fingers and leaned close, eyes glittering darkly. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, sexy rumble. ‘You, tesoro mio, are insatiable.’