Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

‘Cabinet on your left.’

After filling a tall glass and savouring her first thirst-quenching swallow, she hovered awkwardly. ‘Anything I can do?’

He scooped the cut tomato onto a platter with thin strips of prosciutto, sliced mozzarella, fresh basil leaves and fat cloves of garlic. ‘If you still like Cerignola olives, there’s a jar in the fridge door. Small bowls are in the same cabinet as the glasses.’

Her mouth watered. Years ago he’d introduced her to the large, sweet-flavoured Italian olives and she’

d loved them. Still did. The fact he remembered that tiny detail made her heart clench in an unexpected way.

What else did he remember?

She found the jar and grabbed two ceramic bowls—one for the olives and one for discarded stones.

It didn’t matter what he remembered. Or what he didn’t. She wasn’t here for a waltz down memory lane.

She hunted out a spoon and fished out the olives, putting them into a bowl, careful not to transfer too much of the oily brine.

She couldn’t resist. The olives were plump and juicy and she was ravenous. She popped one straight from the jar into her mouth, paused a second to anticipate the burst of flavour on her tongue—then nearly inhaled the olive whole when two large hands circled her waist from behind. Her hand jerked and the spoon slipped, catapulting an olive over the benchtop like a miniature green missile. Helplessly she watched it shoot off the end and roll, leaving a wet, glistening trail over the limestone floor.

Leo pulled her against him. ‘Relax,’ he murmured in her ear, and she bit through the flesh of the olive.

The temptation to do exactly that—relax into him, let her shoulders and buttocks mould to his hard, muscular contours—was too strong. Too dangerous.

She gripped the edge of the bench.

Oh, God.

She wasn’t ready for him to touch her like this, hold her like this, whisper in her ear like a sweet, familiar lover. No more than she’d been ready for the mind-blowing impact of his kiss. Yet in less than twenty-four hours she had to be ready. Tomorrow people would watch them closely. Especially the Santinos. And Italians were demonstrative people, unafraid to express themselves in front of others. She and Leo couldn’t simply claim to be lovers. They must behave like lovers.

She forced her grip on the bench to loosen.

‘I’m just getting in some practice.’ His warm lips brushed the sensitive skin below her earlobe, inciting an involuntary shiver in her muscles. His arms tightened around her. ‘You are cold?’

Damn him. She wasn’t cold and he knew it. The evening was humid and sultry. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

‘So quiet, Helena...’ His mouth trailed to the ultra-sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder. ‘What are you thinking?’

That I want this. I want you. I want you to stop and I want you never to stop.

She removed the olive stone from her mouth and very carefully placed it in the empty bowl. ‘I’m thinking I’d quite like that glass of wine now.’

He straightened. And chuckled? Yes, she could hear the gravelly purr in his throat. Feel the vibrations in his chest. His hands slid off her waist and she returned to her task. Focused on her breathing in an effort to slow her heartbeat.

He placed a glass of wine beside her.

‘Thanks.’ Somehow she managed to sound normal rather than breathless. Lifting the glass to her nose, she inhaled the spicy, berry-scented aroma. Did he also remember her preference for red wine?

Eager to avoid the onset of a tense, awkward silence, she sipped and said, ‘Mmm...nice.’

‘Vino Nobile di Montepulciano.’

She blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘Noble Wine from Montepulciano. Not to be confused with the more commonly known wine derived from the Montepulciano grape in Abruzzo.’ He extracted a tray of rustic-style bread slices from the oven’s grill. ‘Montepulciano is a hill town surrounded by vineyards in southern Tuscany. Vino Nobile di Montepulciano is one of Italy’s oldest wines.’

‘Tuscany?’ Was he trying to put her at ease now with idle chitchat? Okay. Fine. It was safe ground—safer than where they were before. She’d go with it. She had to. She wouldn’t survive the week if she couldn’t handle a harmless conversation with him. ‘I hear that part of Italy is beautiful.’

‘Si. Very.’ He transferred the platters to a slab of granite extending from the island and pulled out two high leather stools. ‘I have a villa in the province of Siena, not far from Montepulciano.’