Seduced by the Italian (An Italian Romance)

CHAPTER 1

He was late.

Isabella, Contessa Di Sorano, fixed her gaze on the coffin as it was lowered into the waiting grave, all the while acutely aware of the man who’d arrived only minutes earlier and now stood beside her.

Not just late, but too late.

She focused on her breathing, determined to control the anger that simmered inside her, as hot as the Tuscan sun. Why had he come now, when his grandmother was dead, when he was no longer wanted?

From beneath her broad-brimmed black hat and sunglasses she could see only his immaculately pressed black trousers and highly polished shoes that reflected back the harsh sunlight as if it had no effect on him, as if nothing could touch him.

She turned her gaze back to the coffin. Once, everything had touched him but it seemed he’d hardened over the years. She wondered briefly if his eyes—which had always been so warm and passionate—reflected the change, but she refused to shift, to look at him, to acknowledge him.

Heat enveloped her, making it hard to breathe. She felt trapped by her sleek black dress and the stiletto shoes that were as unyielding as the sun-hardened soil upon which she stood.

Sadness and anger formed a lump in her throat and a throbbing in her head that surged and retreated like the pulsing rhythm of the cicadas. She tightened her grip around the flowers she’d picked that morning, trying to distract her mind by pressing their woody, rough stems into the palms of her hands. It didn’t work.

She’d wondered how she’d feel when he returned. And now she knew—exactly the same. It was as if the seven years hadn’t passed. But there was one difference. She’d learned how to hide her feelings.

She closed her eyes so she could see nothing of him. But the tiniest shift of air brought a thread of his expensive aftershave drifting across to her. Her nostrils flared in response, her heart quickened and she swallowed. He’d never worn that before. It would have been too expensive. But now, apparently nothing was too expensive, too out of his reach, apart from spending the last few days with his grandmother.

She drew in another deep breath of air—a complex mix of his aftershave, wild oregano and the scent of the disturbed earth—and glanced at the priest who had fallen silent.

He nodded and she stepped forward and scattered a bunch of white wildflowers—beloved by her old nurse for their tenacity—on top of the casket. She looked down as if the coffin lid were not there; as if the lined and resigned face with the all-seeing eyes looked straight back up at her. Her breath caught in her throat and she gasped and stepped back abruptly, stumbling on the uneven ground.

A hand reached around her to steady her. She closed her eyes against the power of the fingers that pressed into her waist, against their warmth on her already heated body, and against the slide of his fingers across her back as he withdrew his hand, as if aware his support wasn’t wanted.

She didn’t turn around; she didn’t acknowledge his touch, simply stood looking down at the grave, trying to hold back the tide of feeling that surged inside her.

Dust hung in the air as people filed by and dropped handfuls of soil onto the coffin before walking away. When it was her turn she scooped up a handful of the dry lumpy earth that looked too hard, too rough, to drop onto her old friend. She rubbed it between her fingers, the soil working under her manicured nails, until it grew soft. Only then did she let it rain gently onto the coffin.

It was time to move on. The old lady would have understood. She’d have insisted. Isabella stepped back, hesitating for one last look at the flowers that were already bruised and wilting and then turned and walked to where her friends stood.

She felt his eyes on her. She knew only he remained behind. Let him. She had nothing to say to him.

Isabella sighed, kicked off her shoes and curled up on the window seat of the western tower of the Castello Romitorio. It had been a long day. The party continued downstairs but she couldn’t face it—nor him. Here, in this empty room, she was safe. For today, at least, because tomorrow it would be her home no longer. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift.

It was the draft of cooler evening air that first alerted her to his presence. A chill wave of alarm swept through her body as she snapped open her eyes to see the figure of a man standing in front of one of the large stone-framed windows. The saffron rays of the evening sun shone directly behind him, lighting up the motes of dust he’d disturbed and illuminating only his silhouette: shadowed face turned toward her, broad shoulders, elbows jutting as he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets.

What the hell are you doing here? Her voice was hoarse as if forced through a filter of raw emotion.

I’ve come to see you. His voice was deeper than she remembered.

With his face partly in shadow, she couldn’t see his expression. She didn’t want to see his expression. Awkwardly she looked down and then away, out of the window, anywhere but at him. Well, you’ve seen me. Now perhaps you’ll leave.

He walked up to her and she felt his presence encroaching on her space as much as his physical body. Both were more than she could deal with.

He stopped immediately behind her. Are you ever going to look at me?

And why would I want to do that?

It’s usual.

She turned slightly toward him, her head still lowered, unwilling to reveal anything to this man who had once meant so much to her; the man who had been instrumental in bringing disaster to her and her family.

It’s usual to be on time for your grandmother’s funeral. It’s usual to be with the woman who’d raised you when she’s dying. It’s usual to have kept in contact with her over the years. I think you have no sense of what is, and what isn’t, usual.

She twisted in her seat and slipped her shoes back on her feet. Her hand trembled as she smoothed her already smooth hair, checking its length was intact in the perfect, low knot.

Cara, I’ve long since come to believe that nothing is usual. Least of all my life, least of all yours.

His voice had softened, had become a caress that melted something she’d frozen long ago. She looked up at him then and what she saw wasn’t what she’d expected to see.

While his clothes were immaculate, he looked tired and disheveled. Stubble darkened his chin, his black hair was too long and fell away from his face in rough waves and his honey-brown eyes were underscored by dark shadows. But it was his eyes that drew her. They hadn’t hardened like she’d anticipated but still held the same passion and fire she remembered, except now the heat was tempered with a maturity and sadness she’d never seen before.

She barely saw the boy she’d once known in this man; he was broader, more powerful than she remembered. But she felt he was the same: it was the same feeling his eyes gave her when she looked into them; it was the same sensation of wanting to close the gap between them, that his body gave. Her eyes stung with heat and pain.

She saw from his reaction he’d registered her unwanted emotions. His frown lifted and the brown of his eyes darkened with the unmistakable flare of desire. He pulled his hands from his pockets and started forward, as if to reach for her. She held up her hand to stop him and looked away, shifting back against the window. She had to stop this. She needed to protect herself. She took a deep breath and faced him again, prepared this time for the onslaught of emotional turmoil that just seeing him, feeling him close, brought to her.

You’re wrong, Luca. Come on, tell me, why are you here? You failed to be with your grandmother during her last days and almost missed her funeral.

I had no choice. His voice was quiet, contained by a tension in the tight lines around his mouth.

Right. Something else came up more important than your grandmother. Business, no doubt. You’ve become your father, just as my father predicted. Business above all else. Why bother to come at all?

His eyes narrowed dangerously—just as they used to whenever he spoke of the father who’d deserted him—and his jaw clenched as he worked at controlling the anger her words had evoked. But it was a relief to see some emotion other than the heat of desire in his eyes.

As I said, something else came up. My grandmother knew about it.

Your grandmother knew? Come on, you haven’t seen her in years.

I kept in contact.

She didn’t say anything.

Perhaps she didn’t tell you everything. Why should she tell you about my calls, my visits? You’d made it clear you felt nothing for me, wanted nothing further to do with me.

She had. But, despite that, she felt a flicker of betrayal at her old friend keeping this from her; allowing her to think that Luca hadn’t cared enough to see her.

Of course. It’s none of my business anyway. But it still doesn’t explain why you’re here, now.

To see you; to talk with you.

There’s nothing to talk about.

He exhaled roughly and walked away, his quick gaze scanning the room. I knew you’d be here. I watched you at the funeral and knew you’d come.

A knot tightened in her chest. It’s just somewhere to catch my breath.

No, it’s more than that. It was always your retreat, the place you came to find yourself. And, of course, it was the place we found each other.

You think I’ve come here because of you?

His eyes flickered over her face, his expression thoughtful. Why not? Re-live the moments we shared here together. He looked around. But back then it was not so sparsely furnished. What happened to the old sofa?

She swallowed hard and tried to still the hammering of her heart as the memories came flooding back to her: of the first time he slowly undid the buttons of her dress and of the brush of his finger against her skin; of the way his hair—always too long—had tickled her breasts as his lips explored her body; of the way they’d fallen in a tangle of limbs onto the old sofa, and of the feel of him inside her.

She stood up and opened the window, closing her eyes against the cooling evening breeze, trying without success to dispel the heat her thoughts had created.

The sofa’s gone. I had to clear everything out. You know, of course, the castello was sold a year ago?

Si.

And that the year’s grace the owner gave us to settle our affairs has now expired?

You did what you had to do to pay off your father’s debts. You can make a new start for you and your sisters. You can return to England where you spent so much time with your mother’s family.

"I may sound English, but I feel Italian. Five hundred years, Luca, half a millennium the castello has been in my family and now it’s gone. I’ve had to let it go."

He shrugged. Traditions are made to be broken.

She shook her head. You’ll never understand.

No, why would I? I have no traditions, no background, as your father made clear to me. Isabella opened her mouth to speak. You’ve no need to defend him. Luca shrugged. He was right. He sighed and looked around the empty room. But now it’s all gone anyway. He swept his hand the length of the empty bookshelves that lined one of the walls between two of the four windows. And the books have gone, too. But the shelves remain. I built them well.

The silence was filled with the memories of seven years before when Luca had worked on small building jobs around the castello and had built the shelves.

You were always good at your work.

His hand sought out the carving on the side of the shelves. Still here.

You etched it in with your pen-knife: a deeply-cut heart never fades away, no matter how much work one does to eradicate the damage.

His hand instantly stopped moving and he frowned, turning slowly toward her again. Depends on how deep the damage went. I can erase it if you’d like me to.

Please do. The castle isn’t mine any more. The new owner is to take vacant possession tomorrow and so I’m sure he, or she, would appreciate any graffiti removed.

Graffiti, he murmured. Yes, I’ll organize it for you.

Not for me. For the new owner. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a meeting to attend. She began to move away but he placed a hand lightly on her arm and she stopped dead in her tracks.

Isabella, tell me, did she suffer?

For the first time since he’d entered the room she looked, really looked, into his eyes and saw a raw pain that cut through everything else.

She balled her hands tightly to stop them from reaching out to him and shook her head. No, Luca, she didn’t. We made sure of that. She blinked to hold back the tears that threatened. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

You were with her when she died?

Isabella nodded.

Good. She loved you.

Isabella gasped sharply as grief threatened to overwhelm her. And I, her. She passed peacefully. She was just waiting to go.

Si, si. He nodded, looking down at the ancient floorboards, now bare of rugs. My grandmother was a patient woman. He looked back at her again. Unlike her grandson.

Isabella felt a smile tug at her lips.

Yes. Unlike her grandson, who could never wait for anything.

I waited for you.

The atmosphere changed in a heartbeat. As the sun slipped behind the mountain ridge, a dense twilight fell on them, as heavy as the shadows of the past that