His For Christmas. Amy Andrews

himself, hadn’t he? Though he realised now that his own choices had been far less stark than hers. And although he hated the solution she had chosen, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from wanting to comfort her.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said huskily. ‘For what happened and for the choices you had to make.’

      She shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s history.’

      ‘Your mother was lucky to have a daughter like you, fighting for her like that,’ he said suddenly. He found himself thinking that anyone would be glad to have her in their corner.

      Her head was bent. ‘Don’t say any more,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

      He stared down at the plateful of cooling risotto which lay before him. ‘Alannah?’

      ‘What?’

      Reluctantly, she lifted her head and he could see that her eyes were unnaturally bright. He thought how pale and wan she looked as he picked up his fork and scooped up some rice before guiding it towards her mouth. ‘Open,’ he instructed softly.

      She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

      ‘Open,’ he said again.

      ‘Niccolò—’

      ‘You need to eat something,’ he said fiercely. ‘Trust me. The food will make you feel better. Now eat the risotto.’

      And although Alannah was reluctant, she was no match for his determination. She let him feed her that first forkful—all warm and buttery and fragrant with herbs—and then another. She felt some of the tension seep away from her, and then a little more. She ate in silence with his black eyes fixed on her and it felt like a curiously intimate thing for him to do, to feed her like that. Almost tender. Almost protective. And she needed to remember it was neither. It was just Niccolò appeasing his conscience. Maybe he’d finally realised that he’d been unnecessarily harsh towards her. This was probably just as much about repairing his image, as much as trying to brush over his own misjudgement.

      And he was right about the food. Of course he was. It did make her feel much better. She could feel warmth creeping through her veins and the comforting flush of colour in her cheeks. She even smiled as he swopped plates and ate some himself while she sat back and watched him.

      He dabbed at his lips with a napkin. ‘Feel better now?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But probably not in the mood to sit here and make small talk or to decide whether or not your waistline can cope with dessert?’

      ‘You’ve got it in one,’ she said.

      ‘Then why don’t I get the check, and we’ll go?’

      She’d assumed he would take her straight back to Acton but once they were back in the car he made the driver wait. Outside, fairy lights twinkled in the two bay trees on either side of the restaurant door, but inside the car it was dark and shadowy. He turned to study her and all she could see was the gleam of his eyes as his gaze flickered over her face.

      ‘I could take you home now,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want the evening to end this way. It still feels…unfinished.’

      ‘I’m not in the mood for a nightcap.’

      ‘Neither am I.’ He lifted his hand to her face and pushed back a thick strand of hair. ‘I’m in the mood to touch you, but that seems unavoidable whenever you’re near me.’

      ‘Niccolò—’

      ‘Don’t,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Don’t say a word.’

      And stupidly, she didn’t. She just sat there as he began to stroke her cheek and for some crazy reason she found that almost as reassuring as the way he’d fed her dinner. Was she so hungry for human comfort that she would take anything from a man she suspected could offer nothing but heartbreak?

      ‘Niccolò—’

      This time he silenced her protest with the touch of his lips against hers. A barely-there kiss which started her senses quivering. She realised that he was teasing her. Playing with her and tantalising her. And it was working. Oh, yes, it was working. She had to fight to keep her hands in her lap and not cling onto him like someone who’d found themselves a handy rock in a rough sea.

      He drew away and looked into her face and Alannah realised that this was a Niccolò she’d never seen before. His face was grave, almost…assessing. She imagined this was how he might look in the boardroom, before making a big decision.

      ‘Now we could pretend that nothing’s happening,’ he said, as calmly as if he were discussing the markets. ‘Or we could decide to be very grown-up about this thing between us—’

      ‘Thing?’ she put in indignantly, but his fingers were still on her face and she was shivering. And now the pad of his thumb had begun to trace a line across her lower lip and that was shivering, too.

      ‘Desire. Lust. Whatever you want to call it. Maybe I just want to lay to rest a ghost which has haunted me for ten long years, and maybe you do, too.’

      It was his candour which clinched it—the bald truth which was her undoing. He wasn’t dressing up his suggestion with sentimental words which didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t insulting her intelligence by pretending she was the love of his life or that there was some kind of future in what he was proposing. He was saying something which had been on her mind since Michela’s wedding. Because he was right. This thing between them wouldn’t seem to go away. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stop wanting him.

      She wondered if he could read the answer in her eyes. Was that why he leaned forward to tap briefly on the glass which separated them from the driver, before taking her in his arms and starting to kiss her?

      And once he had done that, she was left with no choice at all.

       CHAPTER SIX

      HE DIDN’T OFFER HER a coffee, nor a drink. He didn’t even put the lamps on. Alannah didn’t know whether Niccolò had intended a slow seduction—but it didn’t look as if she was going to get one. Because from the moment the front door of his Mayfair apartment slammed shut on them, he started acting like a man who had lost control.

      His hands were in her hair, he was tugging her coat from her shoulders so that it slid unnoticed to the ground and his mouth was pressing down on hers. It was breathless. It was hot. It was…hungry. Alannah gasped as he caught her in his arms. He was burying his mouth in her hair and muttering urgent little words in Sicilian and, although her Italian was good, she didn’t understand any of them. But she didn’t need to. You wouldn’t have to be a linguist to understand what Niccolò was saying to her. The raw, primitive sounds of need were international, weren’t they?

      He placed his hands on either side of her hips and drew her closer, so that she could feel the hard cradle of him pressing against her. He kissed her again and as the kiss became deeper and more urgent she felt him moving her, until suddenly she felt the hard surface of the wall pressed against her back and her eyelids flew open.

      He drew back, his eyes blazing. ‘I want you,’ he said. ‘I want to eat you. To suck you. To bite you. To lick you.’

      She found his blatantly erotic words more than a little intimidating and momentarily she stiffened—wondering if she should confess that she wasn’t very good at this. But now his palms were skating over her dress to mould the outline of her hips and the words simply wouldn’t come. She felt his hand moving over her belly. She heard him suck in a ragged breath of pleasure as he began to ruck up her dress.

      ‘Niccolò,’ she said uncertainly.

      ‘I want you,’ he ground out. ‘For ten years I have longed for this moment and now that it is here, I don’t think I can wait a second longer.’

      Niccolò