The Italian's Seduction Page 6

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “YOU should have gone with them,” Mimma said disapprovingly as she handed Massimo another tiny cup of caffè. “And you’re drinking too much coffee in the morning. It’s not good for your digestion.”

  The kitchen was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked chitellini—almond butter biscuits, or cookies, as Valentina would call them, imitating her American friend’s American English. Massimo pulled up a chair and sat himself at the table and downed the offending beverage in a single swallow, then reached for one of the chitellini. He didn’t feel like going back to his office. He was restless and couldn’t concentrate on work. As a boy growing up in this house, he’d always gravitated toward the kitchen when he was in trouble with his parents, or just wanted a sympathetic ear. Mimma had always been there. She had listened to him, fed him fruit and pastries. It always smelled so wonderful in the kitchen.

  “Why didn’t you go with them?” she demanded when he did not answer her.

  He shrugged. “It was not necessary, in my opinion. Charli is perfectly capable of collecting a key and taking possession of an apartment. And Valentina is with her in case there is a need for translation.” Besides, Charli hadn’t asked him.

  He felt a ripple of irritation. When the phone call had come this morning she’d practically burst with enthusiasm.

  “Maybe I can even move in today!” she’d said, her sapphire eyes big as the sky. And she’d rushed right out, as if eager to escape. He gritted his teeth. She was eager to escape. What was it about that woman that drove him crazy? And why did she make such an effort to stay out of his way? What was she afraid of?

  He watched Mimma clean a baby octopus, working quickly and efficiently from many years of practice. Tonight there’d be insalata di polpo on the menu, octopus salad. He wondered if Charli would be there to eat it. Surely that apartment wasn’t near ready to be occupied after having been empty for a year.

  “Do you think Charli will like octopus?” His experience with the eating habits of American women did not give him much hope. Even the sight of a perfectly nice whole fish, head still attached, made them squeamish.

  Mimma gave him a deprecating look. “In case you haven’t noticed, she likes everything I cook.”

  Right she was. He smiled at her. “Of course. What was I thinking?”

  “She’s a lovely young woman. She asked me to teach her how to cook Italian dishes, and she likes to help me in the kitchen.”

  No better way to get into Mimma’s heart than that, for sure.

  Mimma took another small octopus from the bowl. “Giulia, she was never in my kitchen.”

  “Cooking was not one of Giulia’s talents,” he said evenly. He didn’t want to think about Giulia and her talents. He did not want to feel what he felt when he thought of her at all. It was in the past and it was much better for his peace of mind if it stayed there.

  Mimma did not look up from her work. “You like Charli.”

  “I do?”

  She looked up to meet his gaze. “I am old. I am not blind.”

  “You’re not old. You’re only sixty-two.”

  “You’re changing the subject. I think you should find a wife. A man like you, it’s no good to be without a wife.” She frowned at him. “Why don’t you find a wife? Giulia, she’s been dead now a long time.”

  “You keep asking me that, Mimma. I don’t want to get married again.”

  Mimma made an impatient gesture, waving her hand around, the knife slashing through the air. “What nonsense! There are plenty of good women to marry.”

  He said nothing, knowing what was coming.

  “You think there are no good women left? You think all women are bad?” She launched into a fervent monologue about good women and bad women, and about good men and bad men, and how he was a good man and he deserved a good wife. Surely he wanted bambini, didn’t he? And here he was, already far into his thirties, and surely it was time for him to get wise. And the women in Roma that he associated with, perhaps they were too loose and no good—

  And so on and so forth.

  He’d heard this speech numerous times and he let it flow over him like water, not really even hearing it anymore.

  A good wife.

  Surely if one wanted a wife, a good one would be the kind to have. But what was good? Mimma’s requirements were simple: a good wife would like to cook and bear him children. But these were modern times and cooking talents were not a requirement. And the bearing of children was an issue to discuss. He did not need children to work his vineyard or plow his fields. So, theoretically speaking, what would he want?

  A woman he could trust. A woman with loyalty and integrity. A woman who loved him enough to not die and—He stopped himself. Forget it. The issue was closed.

  He pushed his chair back from the table. Mimma gave him a despairing look. “I say the rosary! I ask the Blessed Mother for her help! I light candles for you! Soon I will pray to San Giuda and Santa Rita!”

  Patron saints of hopeless and desperate causes. He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “If it makes you feel better, go ahead.”

  He glanced at his watch and wondered when Valentina and Charli would come back. If they’d found the apartment liveable.

  No matter what, Charli would leave sooner or later, but she’d still be right here in town.

  He didn’t want a wife, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want Charli.

  What he needed to do was find out why she kept resisting him.

  Something was wrong. Charli stood at the door of the apartment and stared at the white Nikes on the floor underneath the coat rack. Further along she looked straight into the sitting room full of heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Sunlight slanted into one of the windows, setting on fire a bouquet of bright red flowers on the coffee table. The light slipped over a stack of books, a coffee cup and a laptop computer.

  “Are you sure this is the right apartment?” Valentina asked, her voice incredulous.

  “Apartment number two. I have the keys, and they worked. The doors open. Yes, it is the right apartment. It’s the right address!”

  They both still stood in the doorway, uncertain as to whether they should enter.

  “Well, somebody’s living here,” Valentina said, stating the obvious.

  Charli was stunned. She had no idea what to think now. She took a hesitant step into the entryway. Nobody was home, that was clear. She clenched the keys in her hand. “I don’t believe this,” she said. “I mean, how can this be?”

  “Maybe this great-aunt of yours didn’t actually die.”

  Charli gave her a look. “Right, and maybe at the age of 95 she plays solitaire on the computer.” She pointed at the sneakers. “And she goes to the gym every day for a workout.”

  Valentina laughed. “I was joking, you know.”

  “I hope so.” Charli took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to have a quick look around. It is my place and I do have the keys, so I’m not trespassing.” She knew she was trying to convince herself of that. The person living here was a trespasser, a squatter, even if it was a person who liked fresh flowers.

  “Look at this,” Valentina said, frowning down at a map that lay spread out on the sofa. “Uzbekistan! A girl in my school is from there.”

  It felt odd, looking through the apartment of a stranger, someone she had never known. It was all neat and tidy but full of knick-knacks that looked a hundred years old. Maybe they were a hundred years old. In the kitchen there was a bowl of fruit on the counter—peaches, plums and grapes, dishes in the drain rack, half a loaf of bread in a plastic bag, a glass bowl with two balls of fresh mozzarella floating in water.

  Never put fresh mozzarella in the fridge, Valentina had told her, translating Mimma’s instructions. There was a balcony off the kitchen and through the glass door she glimpsed clay pots with cactus plants. They looked quite primordial with their contorted shapes and evil-looking spikes.

  There were two bedrooms, and one of them was in use. A
cobalt-blue suitcase stood in the corner. An expensive-looking digital camera lay on the dressing table and a pair of white linen slacks lay draped over a chair, with a pair of strappy white sandals underneath.

  The squatter was a woman.

  In the old-fashioned bathroom, toiletries stood lined up on a narrow ledge and a sexy purple bra hung over one of the towel racks. Probably not her great-aunt’s either.

  “We’d better get out of here,” Valentina whispered, clearly not feeling comfortable about their inspection tour of the apartment.

  A few minutes later they were outside again. Charli blinked against the bright sunlight and fished her new sunglasses out of her pocket. She stared up at the balcony she now knew to be hers. Helpless anger gripped her and she cursed under her breath.

  “I’m going back to the notaio’s office right now,” she said. “They’d better figure out what is wrong here.”

  Valentina shook her head. “It will be closed. I heard that assistant woman say she’s only there until twelve.”

  Charli felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. Only ten minutes ago she’d climbed those stairs feeling as if she was on a high, and now her spirits had crashed. How could this all be so complicated? Why was nothing working the way it was supposed to? What did she have to do to get into her own apartment? To get away from Massimo?

  “Come on, let’s go home,” Valentina said. “Massimo will know what to do.”

  The words were meant to comfort her, Charli knew, but in reality they only made her angrier. She didn’t want to ask Massimo what to do. She wanted to take care of her own business, deal with her own problems.

  It was just past noon and the Mediterranean sun blasted down without mercy. She was hot and thirsty and angry. A headache threatened behind her eyes.

  With a defeated sigh she followed Valentina down the narrow street, back up through the alleys full of washing, up the stone steps that climbed the hill, back to the cool villa.

  A shower revived her and she was drying her hair with a towel when a knock came on her door.

  “Come in,” she called out and Massimo entered.

  “Oh, I thought you were Valentina.” She tossed the towel on the bed.

  “Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes,” he said.

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  He studied her and she felt ridiculously self-conscious standing there in her bare feet with nothing but a skimpy little bathrobe on.

  “Valentina told me what happened,” he said.

  She tightened the belt. “I’ll call the office again later. Maybe they know what happened.”

  “I doubt it. Nobody is supposed to be in there. You’re the owner.”

  Impatiently, she wiped at a drop of water sliding down her cheek. “Then I’ll go back to the apartment later this afternoon and wait to see who’s there and talk to them—her. It’s a woman.”

  He pushed his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’ll sort it out for you. I’ll make some calls.”

  He was just trying to be helpful, and she tried not to be annoyed. “No,” she said tightly. “I mean, I should be able to take care of this myself.” She swallowed. “Thank you, though, for offering.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Charli.”

  “Well, it is for me! None of this is working out the way I had planned.”

  “Is this causing you a real problem? What had you planned?”

  She threw her hands in the air, caught herself making the gesture. “I had expected to be in the place by now! To not be…”

  “Is it so terrible to stay here? To be my guest?” He moved a little closer.

  “It’s not that. I appreciate your hospitality, truly. It’s…I don’t like feeling that I’m not in charge of things, to be so dependent. That there’s no place to go.”

  He laughed and she glared at him.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “Are you not a little melodramatic? I’m not holding you captive, am I?”

  “Well, no, of course not.” He was standing right in front of her. She wiped away another vagrant drop of water and looked down at her bare toes.

  She felt his hands on her arms. “Relax, Charli.”

  Her heart began an uneasy rhythm and before she could react he had slipped his arms around her and her head ended up on his shoulder. She didn’t resist, and she knew she should, really, but she was tired and discouraged and it felt nice to be held. It was a very good feeling. Much too good for the moment and the occasion.

  “It wouldn’t be a bad fantasy, come to think of it,” he whispered in her ear. “I’d lock the door, keep the key, and every night I’d come to you and make passionate…”

  She pulled back, out of his embrace, and glared at him. “Over my dead body!”

  He grinned. “I’m joking, Charli. At least about the key.”

  “I should hope so.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And you’d better be joking about the passionate whatever, too.”

  He studied her. “So, who kept you imprisoned, if I may ask? That former lover of yours?”

  “No! What kind of question is that?”

  He shrugged. “You seem to be overly sensitive about the issue.”

  “Overly sensitive?” She took another step away from him. “Because I don’t want to be…to be dependent on your goodwill? Because I don’t like feeling that I can’t figure things out for myself?” Her body was tense with nerves.

  “Why is it so terrible to accept help from me?”

  She took a steadying breath. “It’s against my personal rules.” She flopped down on the side of the bed.

  “Your personal rules? Rules for what?”

  “Rules for living my own life,” she said, her voice tight. “For being independent.”

  His shrug was pure Italian—easy, casual. “Everybody needs help sometimes. It’s perfectly normal. It doesn’t mean you’re incapable or incompetent, Charli.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. Surely you’re not—”

  “And here you are, all ready to take charge of my problems. To help the maiden in distress.” It gave her satisfaction to see the annoyance flashing across his face.

  “You make it sound like a crime. I am a man, Charli. I see a maiden in distress, and out come my natural gentlemanly instincts, my normal Italian helpfulness, and—”

  “…your natural desire to seduce me.”

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say, but yes, the thought has occurred to me that…ah…a bit of seduction might be a pleasant mutual experience.” He moved closer to the bed. She didn’t like it.

  “I told you before, I’m not interested.”

  He stood in front of her and stared down into her eyes. “Are you afraid I’ll demand sexual favors as reciprocation for helping you?”

  “You’re a man, aren’t you?”

  He held her challenging gaze for a long moment. “Not that kind of a man.”

  She felt a moment of embarrassment. Good grief, what was she thinking? “I suppose you don’t need to…do a lot of bargaining and haggling to get women in your bed.”

  “Bargaining and haggling?” He arched one eyebrow. “You mean like over the price of…peaches, cherries?”

  “Or meat.” She bit her lip, controlling the sudden urge to smile.

  He gave a careless shrug. “To answer your question, no. I do not bargain or haggle. I prefer women who come to me willingly.” He moved closer, standing right in front of her. “However, a bit of seduction beforehand can be amusing.” He stroked her cheek in a slow feathering caress and her pulse leaped. “Don’t you agree?”

  She’d made a mistake sitting down on the bed, she realized. There was no way to escape with him standing right in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders and nudged her enough so she lost her balance and fell backward. He leaned over, placed his hands on the bed beside her face and balanced his body over hers, not touching.

  “I�
�ll scream,” she said, her voice low with threat.

  “Yes, I have that effect on women when they’re in the throes of passion,” he said deadpan.

  “I am not in the throes—” She stopped herself, saw the glint of humor in his eyes. She bit her lip and turned her face away. “Get off of me,” she said tightly.

  “I’m not even touching you.”

  “What do you want me to do? Beg you?”

  “No, that would be so undignified.” He offered her his most charming smile. “Kiss me. Prove to me you’re not interested and not willing and I’ll let you go. Gentleman’s honor.”

  “I’m not interested and not willing. My word should be enough.”

  “You’re lying, cara.” He said it very softly, lowering his face a little. She closed her eyes, clenched her teeth and said nothing.

  Gently, very gently, he touched his lips to hers, then teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, slipping into her mouth as her lips softened. She gave a little moan—of protest or pleasure or both, and a dizzying desire rushed wildly through her.

  He reached his arm under her shoulders and drew her further onto the bed and lowered himself on top of her. She gave no resistance, yielded to him, kissing him back, and she was aware that she could easily lose all control.

  He rolled away from her suddenly. Sat up and looked at her face, then lowered his gaze. She glanced down, saw her robe gaping open at the top, exposing one bare breast, the nipple hard and raspberry pink. She reached up to cover herself, feeling…she didn’t know what she was feeling. Her body ached and trembled and she hated him for doing this to her so easily.

  He got off the bed, raked his hand through his hair and marched to the door, leaving without a word.

  “Where’s Charli?” Valentina asked impatiently. “I’m starving.”

  Massimo took a slice of mozzarella and shrugged. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

  After leaving her room he’d taken a cold shower, cursing himself for being an idiot. It had helped cool his blood, but he was beginning to wonder what reaction Charli was having to their little tussle on the bed. Surely by now she’d recuperated and put her clothes on.