Phantom Marriage

‘No,’ he replied, not wanting to admit that he hadn’t even looked, that he’d been reading the report again.

‘Oh, well. At least we have an idea now about why he left me his house. He must have known Mum would tell me he was my father and that I’d want to come here and find out all about him.’

Leonardo had his doubts about that, but declined to say so. Laurence had had a very unemotional way of looking at most things. His daughter had some of his pragmatism but, being a physiotherapist and not a geneticist, this possibly inherited characteristic had been softened by her more caring profession and her sex. She could be tough, he could see that. But she was still all woman, with a woman’s tendency to surrender herself totally in bed. Just thinking about how she felt under him fired his testosterone once more. It pained him to think that one day she would just be a dim memory.

But she’s not gone yet…

Leonardo walked over to her and took her in his arms. ‘If he hadn’t left you this villa,’ he said, ‘today would never have happened.’

‘What a horrible thought,’ she said, her voice teasing but her eyes sparking with instant desire.

‘I’ll get some pizzas delivered afterwards,’ he pronounced as his mouth slowly descended.

‘What about the wine cellar?’

His lips hovered above hers, his heart thundering in his chest as he fought for control. ‘I’ll take you down there afterwards as well. Though, you might find it a little chilly without your clothes on.’

He thrilled to her widening eyes, plus his recent knowledge that she wasn’t nearly as sexually experienced as she’d pretended to be. Hell, he was the first man she’d slept with in three years. He vowed to make this weekend something she would never forget. But to do that he would have to concentrate on her pleasure, not his. Even now he could feel his body racing away with him.

He breathed in deeply, telling himself that making love was not the same as a downhill skiing competition. It was not a case of first to finish in the shortest possible time. It was more like ice-skating, where technique and artistry instead of speed won the day.

He kissed her slowly, doing his best to concentrate on her reactions and not his own. If only she hadn’t wrapped her arms up around his neck. If only she hadn’t pressed her breasts against him. If only she hadn’t moaned…

It undid him, that moan.

To hell with taking things slowly! All thought of control was abandoned as he started stripping her where they stood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘THIS IS ONE of the best pizzas I’ve ever tasted,’ Veronica said truthfully as she took another large bite.

They were sitting out on the terrace, night having descended. They were fully dressed again, a necessity with the evening air having turned fresh.

‘But of course,’ Leonardo said smugly. ‘It’s Italian. But this wine is French.’ And he picked up one of the glasses of red which sat on the small table between them.

He’d finally shown her where the cellar was, the entry behind a doorway that she’d mistaken for a closet. It was an enormous basement and, yes, chilly, with wall-to-wall shelves only half-filled with wine. Veronica had stared at the empty spots and felt sad at the thought of how much her father must have drunk to get liver cancer.

‘I did know it was French,’ she said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Even an Aussie philistine like myself can recognise a French label when they see it. I’ll have you know that I know a few Italian words as well.’

‘Oh, really? Tell me some.’

‘Let’s see… There’s pizza, and arrivederci, and grazie, and bellissima. And the best one of all. Si. I like that one. Si.’

‘You’ll be speaking like a native in no time,’ he said drily.

‘Si,’ she repeated, her eyes smiling at him over the rim of her wine glass.

His eyes twinkled back at her.

‘So how come you speak such good English?’ she asked after she’d put her glass back down and picked up her slice of pizza.

‘I did learn English at school. But I’d have to say my command of the language was mostly due to the fitness trainer my uncle hired for me when I became serious about my skiing. He was English and he refused to speak anything but English. His name was Hugh Drinkwater and he was quite a character. He was also a very bad skier. But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t teaching me to ski. I had a coach for that. He taught me the discipline of fitness. Believe me when I say there is no one better than an Englishman when it comes to discipline. He was ex-army and took no prisoners.’

‘But you liked him,’ she said, having heard the affection in his voice.

Her statement seemed to surprise him. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I did. But he was a hard taskmaster.’

‘A necessity with you, I would imagine, Leonardo.’