The Italian's Virgin Bride

But even as he waited for her response, something else happened in her eyes. The momentary flare cooled, a sheen of varnish turning them hard and cold and unreadable.

‘Opal,’ she said, only a touch shakily around the edges even though he could see the tightening white-knuckled grip on her folio, held up as a barrier between them. ‘I said you could call me Opal.’

In spite of himself, he liked the way she said her name. Liked the way her mouth opened and then pouted to form the ‘p’, widening once more until her pink tongue brushed her top teeth over the ‘l’. There was something very sexy about the way her lips made that word. Come to think of it, there was something very sexy about her lips, period.

If only her eyes gave the same message.

‘Opal,’ he said, his lips curling but a few centimetres from hers. ‘You wouldn’t try to put down the man who was thinking about saving your business?’

This time her eyes met his savagely. ‘And here was I thinking I was offering a solution for yours.’

He smiled. Those lips were so close he could just about reach over and sample them. ‘That’s not how it sounded to me.’

Now he had her nervous, her eyes darting from side to side, searching for escape almost as if she could read his mind. Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips before darting back in.

‘So maybe you weren’t listening,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the wall to his left.

‘Oh, I’ve been listening,’ he crooned, ‘and watching, and wondering.’

Without Opal turning her head, her eyes found his before fleeing to fix on the wall once more.

‘Wondering what?’

He dropped his head even closer. ‘Whether that mouth tastes as good as it looks.’

He dipped his head, banishing the remaining few centimetres between them. His lips brushed hers, catching her sharp intake of air, and tasted warmth, life and just a hint of sweetness, before the lift doors behind him dinged, heralding their arrival at the ground floor and then opening with a whoosh.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, sounding a little bit breathless as she ducked her face, pushing past his arm and out to the freedom of the richly decorated marble foyer beyond. ‘I think this is where I get off.’

He watched her shapely rear view as she fled for the safety of the foyer. She was some surprise package all right. He’d set out to intimidate her, not kiss her, but that didn’t stop him thinking about the possibilities of a second chance.

‘Lady,’ he muttered under his breath as he followed her, ‘this ride has only just begun.’

CHAPTER THREE

SHE was a fool. Opal poured herself a cup of Earl Grey tea from the silver pot, watching a flurry of tiny leaves swirl and tumble through the amber liquid. She didn’t need to be a fortune-teller to know they were telling her the selfsame thing.

It was at least two hours since Domenic had pressed her against the back of the lift, had brushed her lips with his own and frozen her to the spot, and still she couldn’t think about anything else.

He would be back to finish his coffee any moment, after excusing himself to take a private call on his mobile phone, and here she was, still thinking about what might have happened if those lift doors had not opened when they had, when she should be thinking about how to convince him to invest in the business.

By all accounts he had been impressed with the luxury and sheer class of Clemengers, from the moment Sebastian, the doorman, had greeted their entry with a formal nod to them both, his top hat and tails setting the tone for the tour to follow. He’d appreciated the generous size and furnishings of the suites, the bold antique tones that decorated each room, their sumptuous furnishings spelling wealth, luxury and prestige, with not a bland pastel water-colour print in sight.

He hadn’t even balked when she’d shown him the figures, just studied them, nodding where he was clear, asking pertinent questions exactly where she’d expect anyone with the analytical ability to know when to drill down for further details.

Even the meal they’d just shared in The Pearl, Clemengers’ award-winning restaurant, had been beyond reproach. Thai chilli king prawns, followed by the most tender fillet of steak, served on fried sweet-potato wedges and topped with lobster medallions in a white-wine sauce. Domenic had made a point of meeting the chefs before coffee, to compliment them personally and discuss their attitudes, their philosophies and their aspirations.

He would be doing none of this if he weren’t seriously considering the idea of investing in Clemengers.

So it would be logical at this stage for her to be thinking about how she should close the deal. That would make sense. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers wasn’t about to be gutted or razed and turned into so many more flats. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers could continue operating into the future. Close the deal…

Which didn’t help explain one bit why she kept thinking about what had happened in the lift instead. Why was it so hard to forget about the gentle brush of his lips against hers, the heat of his breath next to her cheek, and the way his touch made her senses unfurl and open, like palm fronds given birth, stretching out into the humidity of a warm tropical morning?

He’d kissed her.

And she hadn’t even attempted to stop him. From the moment she’d sensed his lips descending, she’d forgotten entirely why she was there. Even more damning, she’d forgotten what he was. He was a playboy. The lowest kind of man.

Sure he might end up investing in the hotel. For the sake of Clemengers, she’d have to look past the man’s personal life. But she herself must never forget what he was. She should only think of her mother’s sad and empty life to remind her what that would cost.

Absently she stirred a half-teaspoon of sugar into her tea. It was quiet in the restaurant. People spoke in hushed tones. The waiting staff were efficient and non-invasive, with no clatter or rattle of flatware and cutlery, and it was as if the traffic outside in the busy Rocks area didn’t exist. But that didn’t stop the prickle of awareness steadily creeping up her neck, then needling down her arms.

She was imagining it. All this thinking of the episode in the lift—she was not thinking rationally, and she was in danger of making a fool of herself. Obviously Domenic would have forgotten about it already. No doubt such incidents meant absolutely nothing to a man who had trouble committing to just one woman. She took a deep breath and focused on placing the spoon on the saucer, gently tinkling silver against porcelain.

She shivered, the creepy feeling persisting in spite of all her logical explanations. On pure impulse she looked across to her right and instantly her eyes snagged at the sight of him, Domenic, standing stock still and…and watching her.

For a second the space in the room evaporated in the arc between their eyes. Nothing happened, yet something happened between them in that infinitesimal moment that Opal could only wonder at. She felt hot, cold, shivering and flushed, all in the same amazing second his unreadable gaze washed over her. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t look at him for a moment longer, he smiled and warmth filled her senses. Instinctively she knew the smile was for her and in spite of all her reservations, in spite of all the reasons why it shouldn’t, the warmth inside her bloomed to a slow burn.

Annoyed at her burning cheeks, she battled to drag her eyes away as he moved between the tables towards her, slipping his mobile telephone into the top pocket of his fine cotton shirt as he did so.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘My father would not be denied any longer. I’m afraid that no matter how important any business, family must come first.’

‘You don’t need to apologise,’ she said. ‘The twins—my two sisters—and I are very close, although I don’t see them now as often as I’d like.’

He took a sip of his long black and nodded approvingly. Even Clemengers’ own special blend of coffee seemed to find favour with him. ‘Tell me about them,’ he said.

She put down her cup, thankful for the opportunity to talk about her sisters, to think about someone else. ‘Well, they’re twenty-two. Sapphy—that’s Sapphire—is the eldest by ten minutes. She’s working in fashion design in Milan right now. She’s making quite a name for herself by all accounts while she works with one of the big fashion houses. One day she wants to have her own label. And the way she’s going, I believe she’ll get it.

‘Ruby lives in Broome while she gets first-hand knowledge of the pearl industry. Jewellery design is her first love. She’s done some fabulous pieces.’

‘And all of you are named after precious stones.’

She gave a small laugh. ‘That was my mother’s idea. She was the original Pearl. This restaurant,’ she made a sweeping gesture with her hand, ‘is named for her. She said we were all uniquely beautiful and inherently precious, and she wanted to give us names to reflect that.’

She paused, memories of her mother flooding back on a bitter-sweet tide. Her tender, sad-eyed mother, who had died alone when Opal was just nine, her spirit broken and her will to live erased. Her beautiful, gentle mother, whose only crime had been to love too much.

And everyone had thought she led the perfect life. A wealthy lifestyle, three beautiful little girls and even a plush restaurant named after her. No one else had seen the empty bed, the shame of her husband’s constant infidelities and the broken-down shell of her marriage.

No one but Opal. Old enough to feel her mother’s pain but far too young to be able to do anything about it, except swear that one day, some day, she would do something to help women who were trapped in marriages they couldn’t escape.

‘I approve of her philosophy.’

His words permeated her consciousness, dragging her from her reflections of her mother’s wasted life. ‘Do you?’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘I don’t know if Dad would have though, if she’d given him a son. Somehow I can’t imagine him tolerating a son called “Garnet”.’

His lips pulled into a grimace. ‘Perhaps not. How long ago did your father die?’

‘Two years.’ She frowned—that couldn’t be right. ‘No, more like two and a half now. A massive heart attack, apparently.’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said. ‘The stress of running hotels can be enormous, and I’ve found is often underrated by those outside the business.’