Christmas in Da Conti's Bed

‘And let Niccolò have his own way? I don’t think so. You’ve been the best of friends to me, Alannah—and I want you there. In fact, it’ll probably do Niccolò good on all kinds of levels. I’ve never heard anyone speak to him the way you do.’ She smirked. ‘Nobody else would dare.’

Alannah wondered what Michela would say if she realised how much of her reaction to her powerful brother was bravado. That her feelings for him were…complicated. Would she be shocked if she knew the truth? That she only had to look at him to want to rip the shirt from his body and feast her eyes on all that silken olive flesh? That somehow he brought out a wildness in her which frightened her. Which she knew was wrong. And not only wrong…she knew only too well that those supposedly seamless sexual fantasies were nothing but an illusion.

She forced a smile. ‘Okay, if you insist…it’ll be business as usual. In which case, we’d better get going. I know it’s traditional for the bride to keep her groom waiting on the big day, but not on the eve-of-wedding dinner!’

They took the elevator down to the iconic Midnight Room, where a large clock was set permanently at the witching hour. It was a spectacular party room designed by Emma Constantinides, the hotel owner’s wife—and had won countless industry prizes since its opening. Circular tables had been set for dinner and the dark velvet ceiling was punctured with tiny lights, so that it resembled a star-filled sky. In the silvery light from hundreds of candles, people in evening dress stood drinking champagne as the scent of dark blue hyacinths wafted through the air.

A roar of delight greeted the bride-to-be’s appearance and Alannah leaned forward to whisper in Michela’s ear as people began to surge towards them. ‘You go and sparkle,’ she said. ‘Anything you need me to check?’

Michela shook her head. She had already spotted Lucas on the opposite side of the room, talking to his mother. ‘No. You go and sparkle too,’ she said. ‘And for goodness’ sake, have a very large cocktail before we sit down to dinner. You look completely washed out, Alannah.’

But Alannah refused a drink. A drink on an empty stomach was a recipe for disaster and hers was already in knots. All she had to do was to get through the next thirty-six hours without crumbling, and surely she could do that.

And then she looked around the room and saw Niccolò—and every empowering thought flew straight from her mind as her gaze focused on him.

He was standing talking to a blonde whose sequined dress left little to the imagination and Alannah found herself thinking that he didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The woman was gazing up at him and nodding intently, as if nothing but pearls of wisdom were falling from those cruel and kissable lips. There were other women clustering nearby, too—as if he were a dark shark and they were all hungry little pilot fish, just waiting for whatever scraps he cared to leave for them.

He lifted his head as if he had sensed her watching him—glancing across the room to where she stood. And suddenly it was too late to look away. His gaze captured hers and held it and it felt as if some fierce dark light were piercing through her skin. She felt sensitive. Exposed and raw. Terrified he would see through to the dark mass of insecurities hidden beneath her cool exterior, she tried to look away, but she couldn’t. Shecouldn’t. He seemed to be drawing her in by the force of his formidable will.

Desperately, she tried to compose herself. To concentrate on something other than how beautifully the dark suit caressed his hard body, but she failed at that, too. Instead she found herself staring at the snowy edge of his dinner-shirt and the way his olive skin gleamed like burnished gold above it.

He bent his head to say something to the blonde, who turned to look at her, and Alannah thought she saw faint surprise clouding the other woman’s eyes. Had her uncomfortable stance given her away—making the woman guess that she was the outsider here?

She forced herself to turn away to talk to some of the other guests, who seemed genuinely charmed by her English accent, and for a while she allowed herself to relax before the bell rang for dinner. But a glance at the seating plan showed her that she was next to Niccolò—of course she was, for hadn’t Michela made it clear that she wanted the two of them to get along better? She wondered when her friend was going to realise that it simply wasn’t going to happen. Or at least, not in this lifetime. Her heart began thumping painfully as she made her way towards the top table.

She felt his presence behind her even before his shadow fell over the table. The palms of her hands were clammy and the race of her heart was thready, but somehow she managed to fix a wide smile to her lips as she turned to look at him.

‘Niccolò!’ she said brightly.

‘Just the person you wanted to sit beside, right?’

‘How did you guess?’ Solely for the benefit of the other guests, she maintained that brittle rictus of a smile. ‘You were right at the top of my list.’

But Alannah tensed as he leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks, just as he would have done to any other female guest. She wondered if any other female guest would have reacted the way she did, with a pulse which was threatening to rocket out of control and a desire to tip her head up so that his mouth would meet hers, instead of grazing the innocent surface of her cheek. She found herself longing to reach up to touch that hard, chiselled jaw and to feel it scrape against her fingertips. She wanted to press her lips against his ear and kiss it. And how crazy was that? How could you want a man so much when you didn’t even like him?

Stop it, she told herself as he pulled out her chair with an exaggerated courtesy, which seemed to be at odds with the mockery gleaming from his eyes. Did he know what kind of effect he had on her? Did he realise that her legs were weak and her breasts growing heavy? He sat down next to her and she could smell his warm, male flesh—as subtle and spicy as sandalwood—and all she wanted to do was to breathe it in. Reaching out, she picked up her champagne flute and took a gulp.

She could feel him watching as she drank the cold, fizzy wine but the champagne tasted as sour as a remedy you might take for an upset stomach. She put down her glass and looked at him, because they couldn’t go on like this. Not with a whole day and a half to get through.

‘I think Michela has sat us together deliberately,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Because?’

‘I think she’s hoping that we’re going to declare some sort of truce.’

‘Why—are we engaged in some sort of battle?’

‘Please don’t be disingenuous, Niccolò. You know we are. We’ve done nothing but argue since we reconnected.’ She shrugged. ‘And while that seems to be what you seem to want—I’d prefer it, and your sister would prefer it, if we could manage to be non-confrontational. At least, in public.’

Niccolò met her denim-blue eyes and gave a small dissenting shake of his head—thinking how wrong she’d got it. Because battle was the last thing he wanted. His needs around Alannah Collins were much more fundamental. He might even have contemplated a more conventional route by asking her out on a date, if she hadn’t been the kind of woman he despised.

Yet there was nothing of the precocious teenager or sexy glamour model about her tonight. The image she presented was almost demure. Her navy silk dress was high-necked and the hemline showed nothing more than an couple of inches of slender knee. A small, glittering brooch in the shape of a fluttering moth was her only jewellery. Her most magnificent assets—the breasts which had once so captured the imagination of the British public—were only hinted at and certainly not on show. All he could see was the occasional glimpse of a soft curve as the material brushed against them. He swallowed. Was she aware that it was just as provocative to conceal something, as to reveal it?

Of course she was.

Trading on her own sexuality had been her stock-in-trade, hadn’t it? She knew everything there was to know about how to pull in the punters and leave them slavering for more.

Shaking out his napkin, he placed it in his lap and scowled, recalling the first time he’d seen her at his godson’s birthday party.

He remembered looking in amazement at the silver dress, which had clung to her curvy body like melted butter, and thinking that he’d never seen anyone looking quite so alluring. Had he been frustrated? Too long without a woman? Unlikely. All he knew was that he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from her.

The look which had passed between them had been timeless. The lust which had overwhelmed him had been almost tangible. He had never experienced anything like it in his life—not before, nor since. The hardness at his groin had been almost unbearable as he had danced with her. Something elemental had caught him in its grip and he’d felt almost…lost. The dance had been simply a formality—paving the way for their first kiss. He had kissed her for a long time, tempted by a need to pull her into a dark and anonymous corner and just take her. And even though he detested being out of control…even though his own history had warned him this was not the way to go—it hadn’t been enough to deter him from acting on it.

He had been just about to drive her back to his hotel, when there had been some sort of commotion by the door. He remembered turning to see Michela giggling as she’d entered the room, accompanied by a group of boys. His sister. Large flakes of snow had been melting on her raven hair and her look of guilt when she had seen him had told its own story.

And that was when Niccolò had discovered that Alannah Collins wasn’t some twenty-something party guest, but the teenage best friend of his only sister. A wild-child who had been threatening to ruin Michela’s reputation and bring shame on the da Conti name, after he’d spent years meticulously dragging it from the mud.

Was it any wonder that he despised her?

Was it any wonder that he despised himself, knowing what he had nearly done to her?

What he still wanted to do to her.

He leaned back in his chair, paying little attention to the plates of smoked salmon which were being placed in front of them. ‘Did you ever tell Michela what happened between us?’ he questioned suddenly.

She stiffened a little before turning to look at him, her eyes narrowing warily. ‘But nothing did happen.’

‘Oh, come on.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It might as well have done. It would have done, if my sister hadn’t arrived. I’ve never had a dance quite so erotic as the one I had with you. It was a dance which was headed straight for the bedroom.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake—’

‘Does Michela realise that you would have spent the night with me if she hadn’t turned up when she did?’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘Yes, I can. And so can you. Why don’t you try being honest with yourself for once, Alannah?’ He leaned forward and his voice roughened. ‘I know enough about women to realise when they want a man to make love to them—and you were screaming out to have me do it to you that night.’

‘Really?’ She took a nervous sip of her drink.

‘And you’ve avoided answering my question,’ he persisted. ‘What exactly did you tell Michela?’

There was a pause. ‘I didn’t tell her anything.’

‘Why not?’

Alannah shrugged, reluctant to admit the truth—that she’d been too ashamed of her own reaction to want to acknowledge it to anyone and certainly not to her best friend. That she’d felt dirty and cheap. Michela had warned her that her big brother was a ‘player’. That he changed his women nearly as often as he changed his shirts. She remembered the two of them agreeing that any woman who went out with a man like him was sad. But she’d nearly been one of those women, hadn’t she? Because he was right. If Michela hadn’t walked in right then, she would have…

Briefly, she let her eyes close. She’d been so in thrall to him that he probably could have taken her outside and taken her virginity pressed up against a cold and snowy tree. She had certainly been up for going back to his hotel with him.