Hot Nights with...the Italian. Lucy Gordon

could say the same of you, mia cara.’ His tone was dry. ‘I thought you had gone to pick the beans.’ He tasted the brew and winced slightly. ‘But clearly not.’

      ‘I’m sorry if it doesn’t meet your exacting standards.’

      Damn, she thought. In view of what she was about to ask, a more conciliatory note might be an improvement.

      He rinsed his razor and laid it aside. ‘Well, it is hot,’ he said. ‘And I am grateful for that, at least. Grazie, carissima.’

      And before she could read his intention, or take evading action, his arm snaked out, drawing her swiftly against him, and he was kissing her startled mouth, his lips warm and delicately sensuous as they moved on hers.

      The scent of his skin, the fragrance of the soap he’d used, were suddenly all around her, and she felt as if she was breathing him, absorbing him through every pore, as he held her in the strong curve of his arm.

      And she waited, her heart hammering, for his kiss to deepen. To demand …

      Then, with equal suddenness, she was free again. She took an instinctive step backwards on legs that were not entirely steady, the colour storming into her face as she met his ironic gaze.

      ‘So,’ he said. ‘We make progress, mia bella. We have not only shared a bed, but I have kissed you at last.’ He collected his razor and toothbrush, and put them in his wash-bag, then walked to the door, where he paused.

      He said gently, ‘You were worth waiting for, Maria Lisa,’ and went out, leaving her staring after him.

      If there had to be only one door in the flat with a bolt on it, she was glad it was the bathroom.

      Not that she would be interrupted. Instinct told her that Renzo would not try to make immediate capital out of what had just happened, but would leave her to wait—and wonder.

      Which, of course, she would, she thought, gritting her teeth.

      She’d always known it would be dangerous to allow him too close, and she could see now that her wariness had been fully justified.

      He was—lethal, she thought helplessly.

      Yet even she could see it was ridiculous to be so profoundly disturbed by something that had lasted only a few seconds at most.

      Her only comfort was that she had not kissed him back, but had stayed true to her convictions by remaining passive in his embrace.

      But he was the one who stopped, a small, niggling voice in her head reminded her. So don’t congratulate yourself too soon.

      Showered and dressed in her working clothes, with her hair drawn back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck with a silver clip, she emerged from the bathroom, mentally steeling herself for the next encounter.

      Cool unresponsiveness would seem to be the answer, she thought, but a lot might depend on how the question was asked.

      A reflection that sent an odd shiver tingling through her body.

      But it seemed there was to be no immediate confrontation because, to her surprise, Renzo wasn’t there. The only sign of his presence was the neatly folded blanket, topped by the pillow, on the sofa.

      She stood looking round her in bewilderment, wondering if by some miracle he’d suddenly decided to cut his losses and leave for Italy alone.

      But it wasn’t a day for miracles, because his travel bag was still there, standing in the hall.

      On the other hand, she thought, she could always fling a few things together herself, and vanish before he returned. There had to be places where the Santangeli influence didn’t reach—although she couldn’t call any of them to mind.

      And with that she heard the sound of a key in the flat door and Renzo came in, dangling a bulging plastic carrier bag from one lean hand.

      Marisa stared at it, then him. ‘You’ve been shopping?’

      ‘Evidently. I found the contents of your refrigerator singularly uninspiring, mia bella.’

      ‘But there’s nowhere open,’ she protested. ‘It’s too early.’

      ‘Shops are always glad of customers. This one was no exception.’ He held up the bag, emblazoned with the name of a local delicatessen. ‘I saw a light on and knocked. They were perfectly willing to serve me.’

      ‘Oh, naturally,’ Marisa said grittily. ‘How could anyone refuse the great Lorenzo Santangeli?’

      ‘That,’ he said gently, ‘is a question that you can answer better than anyone, carissima.’ He paused. ‘Now, shall we have breakfast?’

      She wanted to refuse haughtily, furious at having been caught leading with her chin yet again, but she could smell the enticing aroma of warm bread and realised that she was starving.

      He’d bought ham, cheese, sausage and fresh rolls, she found, plus a pack of rich aromatic coffee.

      They ate at the small breakfast bar in the kitchen, and in spite of everything Marisa discovered it was one of the few meals she’d enjoyed in his company.

      Renzo poured himself some more coffee and glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost time we were leaving. There are a number of things to be attended to before we leave for the airport, and you have yet to pack.’

      ‘That won’t take very long,’ she said. ‘I haven’t many clothes.’

      ‘No?’ he asked dryly. ‘You forget, mia cara, that I remember how many cases you brought with you to England.’

      She bit her lip. ‘Actually,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘I don’t have those things any more.’

      ‘You had better explain.’

      ‘I gave all my trousseau away,’ she admitted uncomfortably. ‘To various charity shops. And the luggage too.’

      ‘In the name of God, why?’ He looked at her as if she had grown a second head.

      ‘Because I didn’t think I’d need clothes like that any more,’ she said defiantly. ‘So I’ll just have one bag.’

      ‘Very well.’ His voice held a touch of grimness. ‘Then let us start by going to this place where you have been working. Handing in your notice will take the least time.’

      It wasn’t the ideal moment after her last revelation, Marisa thought, but it was still now or never.

      She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, the visit may take rather longer than that. You see, there’s something I need to—discuss with you first.’

      ‘About the gallery?’ Renzo put the knife he’d been using back on his plate with almost studied care. ‘Or its owner?’

      ‘Well—both,’ she said, slightly taken aback.

      ‘I am listening,’ he said harshly. ‘But are you sure you want me to hear?’

      ‘Yes, of course. Because it’s important.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I want—I mean I would really like you to buy me—a half-share in the Estrello.’

      There was a silence, then he said, almost grimly. ‘You dare ask me that? You really believe I would be willing to give money to your lover?’

      Marisa gasped. ‘Lover?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘You think that Corin—and I …? Oh, God, that’s so absurd.’ She faced him, eyes sparking with anger. ‘He’s a decent man having a bad time, that’s all.’

      She paused, then added very deliberately. ‘I don’t have a lover, signore, and I never have done. As no one should know better than yourself.’

      Renzo looked away, and for the second time in her life she saw him flush. ‘Then what is your interest in this place?’

      ‘Corin’s