The Italians: Luca, Marco and Alessandro: Between the Italian's Sheets / The Moretti Heir / Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny

‘What are you doing?’

‘Torturing us both.’

‘Why?’

He didn’t answer directly. She felt his head resting on her shoulder, but he held the rest of him away from her. ‘I want you like I have never wanted before.’

There it was again—want. And there was an unmistakable note of agony in there as well. She closed her eyes. He didn’t want to want her like this.

‘I’d better get back to the others.’ He pulled away.

‘I need a minute.’

‘Of course.’ He took another couple of deep breaths and left.

She made it to the bathroom but there was no way she could disguise the colour in her cheeks or the redness of her mouth. It had only been minutes—maybe three? But everything had changed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_1fb499da-306f-5a9f-89e8-512fedf9e735)

LUCA watched her walk into the lounge. Head high, cheeks flushed. He could almost hear the thunder as the lightning look flashed from her eyes—on fire and unforgiving. It wasn’t missed by the others either in a moment of utter silence.

She went to the piano.

‘Do you play, Emily?’ Francine asked.

‘A little.’

‘You’ll play for us now?’

She nodded. He was relieved because it meant the end of having to hear her conversation for a while and he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes again either. That look made him feel worse and he already felt like a jerk. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, to get so far out of control. But all through dinner he’d watched her discomfort, listened to her put herself down. He didn’t give a damn about whether she’d been to uni or not—nor did the others. Didn’t she understand that he knew how hard she’d worked? She’d achieved something far more important than a few choice grades at university—she’d taken on a workload and level of responsibility many people with PhDs wouldn’t cope with and she couldn’t have done a better job of building her sister’s confidence and independence.

But at what cost to herself? Her own life, her own ambition had been put on hold and he wanted to see her take charge of it. Just then he’d wanted to reassure her—let her know how beautiful she was, how bright, how giving—and the simplest way to do that was by showing how much he wanted her. Big mistake—once he’d touched, he’d almost lost complete control.

She played a few chords experimentally. ‘I don’t have the voice of my sister.’

He tensed, damn her defensive downplaying again.

‘And while I love classical, I must be honest and admit I prefer a little blue with my tunes.’ Her fingers slid on the keys, adjusting a note here and there and the result became a jazz standard.

Her voice was lower and had a husk to it and he was almost in a puddle. And as she hit her stride there was a raw quality he almost couldn’t stand to listen to.

While she didn’t have the brilliance of her sister’s tone, she had a far greater emotional depth. Luca knew first hand the reservoir of feeling within Emily. It intrigued him, aroused him and scared him.

She kept it short and he was glad because he wasn’t sure he could take much more—this looking but not touching was just about killing him. Then Francine asked her to play another. He gritted his teeth.

‘Only if you sing this time.’ Emily’s huskiness was more apparent.

He shifted in his seat, recognising that she was wrung out and frustrated with his inability to do anything about it. Fortunately Francine smiled and sat beside her and did the singing and Luca watched as Emily won her over completely. And then he just watched her. The light played on the diamonds at her wrist just as he’d imagined it would. He would never regret buying her the gift. She did deserve spoiling. It was stunning, elegant and classical—just like her. And also like her, it shone bright with an internal fire. Only now he regretted that he hadn’t chosen handcuffs. Then he could chain her to his bed and have her as much as he liked—and keep her from invading other areas of his life. But she was like this force barrelling into him, challenging the things in the world he’d worked hard to establish—like peace, solitude and isolation.

‘You find her very beautiful.’ Pascal’s tone was low and Luca started.

Hell, he’d forgotten the old man was right beside him. He’d forgotten—

‘You can’t take your eyes off her.’

‘I find her frustrating.’ As was his attraction to her—uncontrollable, insatiable, undeniable. Even now, right now, he wanted her.

He turned to Pascal, blinked as he looked into those brown eyes that held understanding and just a tinge of sadness—brown eyes that were so familiar and yet for a few moments there had been forgotten. Desolation washed through him. Despair. How could he have forgotten? Guilt seized his heart and he looked quickly away. He’d tried so hard to make eyes just like those happy. And a long time ago, for a few magical moments, he’d succeeded. But then there’d been nothing and there could never be anything again.

‘I’m sorry, Pascal.’ Sorry for the past, sorry for tonight. Sorry for his failures both then and now. He stood, wanting to end this line of conversation before it even got started. ‘Let’s go out to the balcony. I’ll concentrate better there.’

They could talk work and avoid the personal and Luca could try to go back to denial. But he suspected it was too late. He hadn’t been able to control the way she got to him, certainly hadn’t been able to hide it. And now he felt his guilt grow. He hadn’t wanted to bring pain to anyone.

Pascal and Francine didn’t stay late. Pascal explained that he had too much work to do in the morning before flying back to Paris. Emily had sat quietly listening for that last half hour as Luca had taken over the conversational duties and he and the others had talked money and markets and things she had no idea about. She hadn’t even been able to look at Luca, had been too wobbly for words.

As Luca was helping Francine with her coat Emily found Pascal standing near her. He spoke softly. ‘Don’t let him stamp out your fire. It’s good for him. You warm him up and he’s been cold for too long.’ And with that he was gone, following the beautiful Francine down the stairs. Surprised, she stared after him, not really listening as Luca said the final farewells.

The door closed and she blinked. She looked at Luca directly for the first time in hours then and found her fire far from gone. It blazed. He stood, his back to the door. His host facade dropped, leaving him looking big and moody and dangerous.

She shook her head at him, reined in her own frustration as she saw the lines of unhappiness deepening in his features. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘The football.’ He leaned right back against the door, his edge of sarcasm more bitter than humorous. ‘Don’t you know there isn’t a man alive who doesn’t hate that question?’

‘Then there isn’t a man alive who isn’t a coward.’ It was her turn to stare him out, waiting for more.

The hint of humour faded totally. ‘I don’t like feeling out of control and I’m out of control. I was out of control tonight.’

She took a step towards him. ‘You once said that things beyond your control scare you. Do I scare you?’

His gaze dropped to her body as she stepped closer still. ‘Yes. But I think that, given a little more time, I’ll get that under control.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yes. Just a fling, Emily, one that’ll finish soon.’

She stopped walking then. How soon? Because she definitely wasn’t done yet.

‘Do you want to know what else I’m thinking?’ He lifted away from the door.

‘I’m not sure.’ His honesty wasn’t that great so far.

He walked towards her. ‘I’m thinking about how much you’ve achieved, how hard you’ve worked. And yet you don’t recognise it. You sit there and belittle your job and barely mention the reality of your life.’

‘I’m not going to trot out the sob story to score sympathy points, Luca. You don’t do that either.’

‘No, but nor do I put myself down. Be proud of your achievements, Emily. Not many people could have managed all that you have.’

She looked down, watched his broad chest come closer. It was hard to be proud of her achievements when she compared them with those of someone like him or Francine.