Christmas in Da Conti's Bed. Sharon Kendrick

she turned the look into a bright and meaningless smile. ‘I’m not going to rise to that,’ she said as she turned instead to his sister. ‘Are you ready for your fitting, Michela?’

      Michela nodded, but her eyes were still fixed nervously on Niccolò. ‘I wish you two could be civil to each other—at least until the wedding is over. Couldn’t you do that for me—just this once? Then you never need see one another again!’

      Niccolò met Alannah’s speculative gaze and the thought of her smiling serenely in a bridesmaid gown made his blood boil. Didn’t she recognise that it was hypocritical for her to play the wide-eyed innocent on an important occasion such as this? Couldn’t she see that it would suit everyone’s agenda if she simply faded into the background, instead of taking on a major role? He thought of the powerful bridegroom’s elderly grandparents and how they might react if they realised that this was the same woman who had massaged her own peaking nipples, while wearing a dishevelled schoolgirl hockey kit. His mouth hardened. How much would it take to persuade her that she was persona non grata?

      He flickered his sister a brief smile. ‘Why don’t you let Alannah and I have a word or two in private, mia sorella? And let’s see if we can sort out this matter to everyone’s satisfaction.’

      Michela gave her friend a questioning look, but Alannah nodded.

      ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You’re quite safe to leave me alone with your brother, Michela—I’m sure he doesn’t bite.’

      Niccolò stiffened as Michela left the suite and his unwanted feeling of desire escalated into a dark and unremitting tide. He wondered if Alannah had made that remark to be deliberately provocative. He would certainly like to bite her. He’d like to sink his teeth into that slender neck and suck hungrily on that soft and creamy skin.

      Her eyes were fixed on him—with that infuriating look of mild amusement still lingering in their smoky depths.

      ‘So come on, then, Niccolò,’ she said insouciantly. ‘Do your worst. Why don’t you get whatever is bugging you off your chest so that we can clear the air and give your sister the kind of wedding she deserves?’

      ‘At least we are agreed on something,’ he snapped. ‘My sister does deserve a perfect wedding—one which will not involve a woman who will attract all the wrong kind of publicity. You have always been wild—even before you decided to strip for the cameras. And I don’t think it’s acceptable for every man at the ceremony to be mentally undressing the bridesmaid, instead of concentrating on the solemn vows being made between the bride and groom.’

      ‘For someone who seems to have spent all his life avoiding commitment, I applaud your sudden dedication to the marriage service.’ Her cool smile didn’t slip. ‘But I don’t think most men are as obsessed with my past as you are.’

      ‘You think I’m obsessed by your past?’ His voice hardened. ‘Oh, but you flatter yourself if you imagine that I’ve given you anything more than a fleeting thought in the years since you led my sister astray.’ His gaze moved over her and he wondered if the lie showed in his face because he had never forgotten her, nor the effect she’d had on him. For a long time he had dreamt of her soft body and her sweet kiss—before waking up in a cold sweat as he remembered what he had nearly done to her. ‘I thought you were out of her life,’ he said. ‘Which is where I would prefer you to stay.’

      Calmly, Alannah returned his stare and told herself not to react, no matter what the provocation. Didn’t matter how angry he got, she would just blank it. She’d seen enough of the world to know that remaining calm—or, at least, appearing to—was the most effective weapon in dealing with an adversary. And Niccolò da Conti was being very adversarial.

      She knew he blamed her for being a bad influence on his beloved sister, so maybe she shouldn’t be surprised that he still seemed to bear a grudge. She remembered reading something about him in the press—about him not being the kind of man who forgot easily. Just as he wasn’t the kind of man who was easily forgotten, that was for sure. He wore his wealth lightly; his power less so. He could silence a room by entering it. He could make a woman look at him and want him, even if he was currently staring at her as if she were something which had just crawled out from underneath a rock. What right did he have to look at her like that, after all these years? Because she’d once done something which had appalled his straight-laced sensibilities—something she’d lived to regret ever since? She was a different person now and he had no right to judge her.

      Yet it was working, wasn’t it? The contempt in his eyes was curiously affecting. That cold black light was threatening to destabilise a poise she’d spent years trying to perfect. And if she wasn’t careful, he would try to crush her. So tell him to keep his outdated opinions to himself. Tell him you’re not interested in what he has to say.

      But her indignation was beginning to evaporate, because he was loosening the top button of his shirt and drawing attention to his body. Was he doing that on purpose? she wondered weakly, hating the way her stomach had suddenly turned to liquid. Was he deliberately reminding her of a potent sexuality which had once blown her away?

      She became aware that her heart was pounding like mad and that her cheeks had grown hot. She might not like him. She might consider him the most controlling person she’d ever met—but that didn’t stop her from wanting him in a way she’d never wanted anyone else. Didn’t seem to matter how many times she tried to block out what had happened, or tried to play it down—it made no difference. All they’d shared had been one dance and one kiss—but it had been the most erotic experience of her life and she’d never forgotten it. It had made every other man she’d met seem as insubstantial as a shadow when the fierce midday sun moved over it. It had made every other kiss seem about as exciting as kissing your teddy bear.

      She ran her gaze over him, wishing he were one of those men who had developed a soft paunch in the intervening years, or that his jaw had grown slack and jowly. But not Niccolò. No way. He still had the kind of powerful physique which looked as if he could fell a tree with the single stroke of an axe. He still had the kind of looks which made people turn their heads and stare. His rugged features stopped short of being classically beautiful, but his lips looked as if they had been made with kissing in mind—even if their soft sensuality was at odds with the hostile glitter in his eyes.

      She hadn’t seen him for ten years and ten years could be a lifetime. In that time she’d achieved a notoriety she couldn’t seem to shake off, no matter how much she tried. She’d grown used to men treating her as an object—their eyes fixed firmly on her generous breasts whenever they were talking to her.

      In those ten years she’d seen her mother get sick and die and had woken up the day after the funeral to realise she was completely alone in the world. And that had been when she’d sat down and taken stock of her life. She’d realised that she had to walk away and leave the tawdry world of glamour modelling behind. She had reached out to try something new and it hadn’t been easy, but she had tried. She was still trying—still dreaming of the big break, just like everyone else. Still trying to bolster up her fragile ego and hold her head up high and make out she was strong and proud, even if inside she sometimes felt as lost and frightened as a little girl. She’d made a lot of mistakes, but she’d paid for every one of them—and she wasn’t going to let Niccolò da Conti dismiss her as if she were of no consequence.

      And suddenly, she was finding it difficult to do ‘calmʼ, when he was staring at her in that contemptuous way. A flicker of rebellion sparked inside her as she met his disdainful gaze.

      ‘While you, of course, are whiter than the driven snow?’ she questioned sarcastically. ‘The last thing I read was that you were dating some Norwegian banker, who you then dumped in the most horrible way possible. Apparently, you have a reputation for doing that, Niccolò. The article quoted her as saying how cruel you’d been—though I guess that shouldn’t have really surprised me.’

      ‘I prefer to think of it as honesty rather than cruelty, Alannah,’ he answered carelessly. ‘Some women just can’t accept that a relationship has run its natural