The Italian's Seduction Read online

  “Can you be away that long?” he asked. “What about your family, your job?”

  Well, she couldn’t be luckier when it came to her job. “I’m a teacher and work for a distance-learning school, online. I teach English writing to foreign students all over the world. I can do it from anywhere as long as I have an internet connection. I brought my laptop.”

  He leaned back against the rock wall, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Interesting.”

  She gave a little laugh. “I think so. I learn a lot of things from the papers my students write. Did you know that in Bulgaria nodding your head up and down means no rather than yes, and vice versa?”

  His mouth quirked as he shook his head. “Yes, I did know.”

  She laughed. “It must be really confusing.”

  Valentina came flouncing onto the terrace wearing a short little black skirt and a tight red top. “What is confusing?”

  Massimo gave her a long disapproving look, generated by her clothes, Charli was sure, before answering her question. At which moment Mimma, the housekeeper, arrived with a platter of sliced melon and prosciutto ham and generous shavings of what looked like Parmesan cheese.

  Valentina took off like a babbling creek, explaining the intricacies of the Italian dinner with its various courses and how the pasta would come next but it was only the primo and not the main dish so she shouldn’t have too much of it because meat or fish would follow, but she, Valentina, didn’t eat pasta usually, and—

  “Why not?” Charli asked, stopping the flow of words. “What kind of Italian are you if you don’t eat pasta?”

  “Pasta makes you fat,” Valentina declared with true teenage conviction. “Also, I don’t drink coffee. Only green tea.”

  “Does coffee make you fat too?” Charli asked. She could not resist.

  Valentina tilted her chin in defense. “Of course not. It’s just bad for you.”

  “I see.” Valentina’s ideas were no doubt being influenced by her international friends at school. She only hoped she wasn’t on some flaky diet. Charli was aware of Massimo calmly eating his melon and ham, apparently content not to join in this conversation.

  The pasta arrived, in a delicious mussel sauce, and Valentina had a couple of spoonfuls of it because mussels were good for you, and then there was fish with tomatoes and herbs and after that marinated peaches for dessert.

  Charli was infinitely grateful for Valentina’s chatty presence. Being alone with Massimo would have been nerve-wracking. Just watching him eat was affecting her pulse-rate and her body was feeling tingly and restless. It was very disturbing. He said very little, letting his sister dominate the conversation, and Charli wondered what was going on in his head. If he knew how he made her feel…if he felt…She couldn’t even think straight.

  Valentina decided to pass on the dessert and excused herself to go inside to watch television and there she was, alone on a moonlit terrace with the sea beyond and a man who messed with her body chemistry.

  Candles flickered and danced. The breeze stroked her skin, the air velvety soft and fragrant with jasmine. The peaches were sweet seduction on her tongue. Her blood ran warm with wine and wanting.

  A scene straight from a romantic movie. She could see the possibilities in her mind. Another glass of wine, the moon above, the glittering sea. The man kissing the girl with all his seductive Italian charm. The girl practically swooning by the magic of the kiss.

  Oh, lord, she had to get out of here.

  She stood up. “I’d better go in as well.” She managed to sound calm. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  “Not at all. You must have a digestivo first. Sambucco, or some of Mimma’s homemade limoncello, perhaps?”

  She must? The word rang warning bells. Oh, don’t overreact, a little voice said inside her head. She hesitated.

  “Please, sit down,” he said. “I’d enjoy some adult company. I admit that spending time with a teenager challenges my patience sometimes.” He lifted a frosty bottle of limoncello Mimma had just brought to the table and she sat down again and nodded.

  “I’d love to try that.” Well, she would, must or not.

  He poured them each a small glass of the icy-cold lemon liqueur and she sipped it, savoring the sweet lemony flavor.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Very. Everything was delicious. A wonderful dinner.” She took another sip. “And your sister is great—she’s bright and fun. I enjoyed her.”

  “But she’s only seventeen. And she’s headstrong and not always realistic about what she wants.”

  “I’m sure it’s not easy raising your teenage sister,” she said, “but she’s a nice kid, so you must have done something right.”

  He gave her a considering look. “I try, but I think my talents lie elsewhere.”

  In running a company and making lots of money, she assumed. Valentina had said her brother owned an international consulting business specializing in restoration projects.

  “What kind of restoration projects?” she’d asked.

  Valentina had waved her hand in a casual gesture. “Oh, ancient palaces and castles and all kinds of colonial or historic buildings.” She’d grinned. “The world is full of ruins, you know, and some people find it important to preserve them.”

  “But you don’t?”

  Valentina had shrugged. “I like modern things. I’m sort of tired of old stuff.”

  Well, she was young. Charli looked at Massimo, who made money by fixing up the old stuff.

  “Your talents lie in the business field, I expect.”

  He nodded, making a casual gesture with his hand to help along his affirmation.

  “You have to deal with people and their individual temperaments in business too,” she said.

  His mouth quirked. “Yes, but if they’re too much trouble I fire them, or sue them. Can’t fire my own sister. Or sue her, for that matter.”

  “In the States you can try.”

  He laughed. It was a wonderful sound, deep and sexy. “An amazing place, that country of yours.”

  “I’m rather fond of it,” she said, smiling. “Most of the time, if not always.” She finished the drink and came to her feet. “And now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  He stood as well, his dark gaze meeting hers. Her heart raced.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, very proper, very polite. “Goodnight.”

  She swallowed. “How do I say that in Italian? Bonne…noche?”

  “Noche is Spanish. It’s buona notte.”

  “Buona notte,” she repeated.

  “Bravo.” Amusement—and something else—in his eyes.

  She tried not to rush as she moved her feet toward the door, but once she was inside she took a deep breath and realized how tense she had been. Knew too that he’d been aware of it.

  “One night only,” she muttered to herself as she got into the big, comfortable bed. “Tomorrow I’ll get the key and be out of here.”

  In spite of her fatigue she slept restlessly, dreaming odd dreams in which Massimo featured in disturbing ways. It was light when she awoke, the sun shining and the birds twittering in the bushes outside her window. For a few minutes she lay very still, gathering her thoughts, realizing that today she would get the key to the apartment. Energized by excitement, she jumped out of bed and rushed into the glamorous bathroom to get ready for the day.

  The house was very quiet, until she reached the kitchen where she found Mimma singing some schmaltzy love song, going by the word amore. She was washing greens at the sink.

  “Buon giorno!” the woman said cheerfully, and then went on to say something else. Charli gathered it meant something about eating breakfast and having caffè.

  Coffee, yes, she’d love some coffee, and she smiled and nodded and Mimma fussed and brought food to the kitchen table. Croissants and honey and white cheese—ricotta, she realized—and an espresso coffee pot along with a pitcher of hot milk, so she could pour it the way she wanted. A lot
of milk was what she wanted. The coffee was thick as syrup.

  She wondered if Massimo was at home or had gone out.

  “Dov’è Signor Castellini?” she asked. She’d learned about twenty words and phrases from her tourist book and she might as well try them out.

  Mimma rolled her eyes. “Studio,” she said, pantomiming speaking on the phone and typing on a keyboard, “due ora.”

  He’d been in the office for two hours already. A workaholic, maybe. Valentina had said that he worked from his home office here and was in touch with the headquarters in Rome and the project offices abroad on a daily or hourly basis. E-mail, phones and faxes made it all so easy.

  She ate a crispy croissant, which Mimma called a cornetti, drank a cup of sweet, milky coffee, had some creamy fresh ricotta and a juicy peach, and figured breakfast didn’t come any better than that.

  It was too early yet to call the lawyer’s office, so she took her guide book and sat on the terrace enjoying the cool breeze coming from the sea and read for an hour about the wonders of nature and the delights of the food.

  Back in her room she took out the letter from the notaio and dialed the number. It took a while but finally a woman answered. But not one who spoke a single word of English. She did, however, offer up what seemed a long speech in Italian of which Charli understood absolutely nothing. She asked where Signor Bernardini was. Another flood of Italian followed. No one else came to the phone to facilitate matters, which seemed odd. All correspondence had been done in good English, so surely somebody in the office had to be proficient enough to be called to the phone. Surely it must be apparent that she didn’t understand and was not responding in Italian. Charli hung up in frustration. Fifteen minutes later she tried again and got a repeat performance from the same woman.

  Now what? The only thing she could do was go in search of Massimo and ask for his help. She groaned. Why did she have to be so helpless?

  Mimma pointed the way and moments later she knocked on the door and he called out telling her to come in.

  It was a dream office. Large, light, super-sleek modern except for the jewel-colored oriental carpet on the marble floor that stood out in passionate contrast to the beautifully designed contemporary furnishings.

  Massimo sat behind a desk, his eyes focused on her as she entered. He had on a striped shirt, but no tie or jacket. A lock of hair curled over his forehead. He held a black pen upright in his left hand as if ready to start tapping it on the desk at any minute.

  She swallowed nervously under his regard, wondering what it was about him that made her feel so…insecure.

  “Buon giorno,” he said.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” she answered, and he quirked a brow.

  “Already your morning is not good?”

  She told him her tale of failure and he frowned. “Very odd,” he said. He reached for the phone and held out his hand for the letter. “I’ll give it a try.”

  She handed him the letter, feeling like a child needing help.

  “Sit down,” he said as he punched in the number.

  She obeyed like a good girl and watched him, listening to his voice. Italian was such a wonderful musical language. She really should try and learn to speak it a little, at least enough to not feel like a total incompetent.

  Massimo frowned. She didn’t understand what he said, but the expression on his face did nothing to comfort her. She felt a sudden flutter of apprehension.

  Something was wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MASSIMO put the phone down. “There’s a problem,” he stated, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

  His words gave her no comfort either. “I could tell from your expression.”

  “Signor Bernardini had a massive heart attack on Saturday and is in hospital. His daughter is on her honeymoon on a cruise in the Far East, of all places, so the office is closed.”

  “His daughter?”

  “She works with him. It’s a family business. Notaio offices often are in Italy.”

  “Oh. And who was that you were speaking to?”

  “The cleaning lady.”

  She swallowed, pushing back the sudden fear. “There is no one else in the office?”

  He shook his head. “It’s just a small father-daughter business.”

  She took a deep breath. “I suppose worrying about a key is rather shallow in the face of a heart attack and a ruined honeymoon.”

  “But understandable, considering you do not know the parties involved.”

  “Maybe.” She hesitated. “Did the cleaning lady have any ideas as to what would be happening businesswise?”

  “Her suggestion was to phone again later in the week.” He tapped his fingers on an open file in front of him. “The daughter has been notified and hopefully she’ll be back by then.”

  This was not good news. It was Monday now. She’d really wanted to get into her apartment today. Waiting around for several days was not in her plans. But she had no choice.

  She came to her feet. “Okay. Well, thank you for making the call for me. I really appreciate your help, and thank you very much for your hospitality as well, of course. It was very nice of you to invite me to stay the night.”

  He arched a quizzical brow. “You are not thinking of leaving?”

  “Yes, of course.” She’d drive around and go down the coast to the next town and see if she could find a small hotel or a bed-and-breakfast place. In a few days she’d call the office again. In the meantime she could get an idea of the surroundings, relax, have a vacation.

  Waste money. She had to watch her money. She felt a sudden surge of anger, remembering. How stupid could she have been to have had a shared bank account with Richard? And to break up with him just after he’d used the account to pay off a huge credit card bill—his credit card bill. He’d bought exercise equipment, having decided for both of them that it was important to have, that she should use it also, even though she’d said she hated exercising with machines. She was not going to exercise on machines. Not ever. Well, he’d said, she’d better use the equipment once they had it. It was good for her.

  “Don’t you tell me what’s good for me,” she’d snapped.

  Okay, so her relationship with Richard had cost her on several fronts, but both her pride and her finances would survive.

  Massimo observed her for a moment. “You are my guest and I cannot let you leave,” he said then in a businesslike voice. “You must stay, of course. It’s only a matter of a few days.”

  “I don’t want to impose on you. Really, it’s not necessary.”

  He raised an imperious brow. “Do I look like someone who allows himself to be imposed upon? I think not.”

  She tried not to be bothered by his tone, his take-charge attitude. Temptation took over, flavored with a hint of excitement. It would be so convenient to stay here in this magnificent villa, sleep in that beautiful bedroom, eat the wonderful food the singing Mimma prepared.

  Be near this tall, dark and handsome Italian.

  No, that had nothing to do with it. She was not, absolutely not interested in Massimo Castellini, whose dark eyes were still focused on her face, no doubt seeing her hesitation.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Valentina will be delighted, naturally. She’s bored without her friends. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Still asleep, I think.”

  He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “She sleeps like no one else I’ve ever known.”

  “Teenagers need a lot of sleep. It’s normal.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well then, I learned something today.” He gave a half-smile. The phone rang.

  She made a start for the door. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

  “Not to worry,” he said, reaching for the phone. “And don’t leave.”

  She gritted her teeth. Maybe he meant well, but his ordering her around hit a sensitive nerve.

  “Is something wrong?”
He must have seen her expression and she felt guilty, oddly, and then angry at herself for feeling that way. Man, she was a mess. He was only trying to be helpful, wasn’t he?

  “No, no. Thank you for your help.” She rushed out the door like a naughty child and behind her his voice turned to sexy Italian music as he answered the phone.

  In her room she stared blindly at her suitcase. Oh, damn, damn, she thought. Here I am, with a man in charge of my comfort.

  Oh, don’t be silly, said the voice of reason. It’s only a few days. Surely, she could manage to live in a luxurious villa, sleep in a wonderful bed, eat delicious food for a few days? Really, now. It wasn’t as if she were moving in with him, was it?

  Massimo stood by the door to the living room and watched Charli and Valentina sitting on the sofa, looking through a fashion magazine. They were unaware of him, laughing, pointing things out to each other. One sleek dark head, one curly blond one—a nice contrast. He felt an odd prickle of annoyance as he noticed the easy way they communicated, heard their laughter. Charli was cheery and bright whenever he saw her with Valentina, or with Mimma in the kitchen, or the gardener in the garden.

  With him she was very polite and tried to stay out of his way.

  He didn’t like it.

  He didn’t know why he didn’t like it. He wanted to be left alone. It was often trouble enough keeping women at a distance, so he should be grateful she wasn’t all over him and begging for his attention.

  He wasn’t grateful. He was irritated.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He’d invited her to stay the rest of the week, this time without any prompting from Valentina. What had possessed him? She stirred something in the hidden corners of his heart, something he wasn’t so happy feeling. He’d been aware of it the first time he’d seen her in the marina and it should have been a warning.

  She’d been at the villa for several days now and the studio di notaio was still closed. It might well be Monday before the bride was back from her honeymoon in the Far East and Alessandro Bernardini would be in hospital for a while.

  He’d felt a strange apprehension when he’d first seen the letter Charli had shown him, and now he knew why. This was a small town and last week he’d overheard a passing comment that Alessandro was in hospital. There were lots of Alessandros and he’d not made the immediate connection, but at least now he understood his initial unease.