In the Italian's Sights. HELEN BROOKS
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awoke it was because some sixth sense was telling her to beware. From a deep sleep her eyes flew open, and she raised her head to stare into the beautiful smoky-grey eyes that had featured in a dream she now couldn’t remember but which she knew had been disturbing.
‘Sleeping Beauty.’ Vittorio’s voice was soft and deep. ‘This is a fairytale, si?’
It might be—but never had the Prince been dressed in nothing but a brief pair of swimming trunks, and she didn’t think even Prince Charming’s body could compete with the man in front of her. The flagrant masculinity had been raw enough when Vittorio had been fully dressed. Now it was positively alarming. His thickly muscled torso gleamed like oiled silk, and he had obviously just been in the pool because the tight black curls on his chest glistened with droplets of water. The hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line over his flat belly, disappearing into the trunks, and his thighs were hard and powerful. He looked lean, lithe and dangerous, and undeniably earth-shattering.
Cherry swallowed. There was something about Vittorio Carella which made her feel completely subjugated and painfully feminine. She could cope with the second emotion, but the first was causing her hackles to rise again. Nevertheless, she did what she’d promised herself she would do the next time she saw him and said quickly, ‘I must apologise for not thanking you properly for allowing me to stay. I’m not usually so rude.’
He eyed her speculatively for a moment, then stretched out on the sun-lounger his sister had used earlier. Lazily, he drawled, ‘Then why so remiss today, Cherry?’
She might have known she couldn’t expect him simply to accept her apology and leave it at that. It took all of her considerable willpower to bite back the tart retort hovering on her tongue and say flatly, ‘Probably because we got off on the wrong foot.’
‘The wrong foot?’ He was clearly amused. ‘This is an English expression, si? But why did we get off on this “wrong foot”, eh? I think I know the answer to this.’
She stared at him, not knowing what to say.
‘For some reason you do not like me. This is true, si?’
She could tell he was enjoying her discomfiture, playing with her like a cat with a mouse, and nothing could have stopped her next words. ‘As it happens, you’re dead right.’ So much for the apology. But it was his fault, not hers.
‘You are an independent woman, I think. Strong. And surprisingly unmaterialistic.’
She didn’t know if she agreed with his opinion—certainly with regard to the first two attributes. She hadn’t felt very strong lately. Weakly, she said, ‘Surprisingly?’
‘I have found most modern women are driven by avarice and greed when it comes to looking for a partner in the opposite sex.’
Cherry reared up like a scalded cat, glaring at him with shocked eyes. ‘That’s absolutely ridiculous.’
‘You think so?’ He smiled coldly. ‘But this is not a criticism, Cherry. Most mothers want their daughters to marry well and live a life of luxury. It is natural. And most daughters are only too pleased to be guided by Mamma in this respect. Over the last years I have had a whole host of such daughters paraded before me by hopeful matrons who probably know to the last euro what I am worth. And of course there have been other women—socialites and so on—who thought they would like to become Signora Carella and continue to live in the manner to which they were accustomed. A few have even said this outright.’
She stared at him. ‘Are you saying women only want you for your money?’ Had he looked in the mirror lately?
He laughed—a throaty chuckle. ‘Not only my money, no. If there was a choice between a rich old man and a rich young one most red-blooded females would prefer the latter, I have no doubt. But wealth and position are powerful aphrodisiacs.’
Cherry thought he was doing himself—and probably the vast majority of the women he’d spoken of—a grave injustice. Vittorio Carella was the epitome of a man with everything, and she didn’t doubt women would find it easy to fall in love with him. She found the thought uncomfortable, and because of this her voice was uncharacteristically sharp when she said, ‘Something tells me you have been mixing with the wrong type of woman. Or maybe it’s a case of “live by the sword, die by the sword”?’
‘An interesting suggestion.’ His voice was smooth, silky, but there was the slightest of inflexion in the cool foreign voice that hinted he wasn’t as relaxed and nonchalant as he’d have her believe. ‘You are intimating I get what I deserve, signorina?’
‘My father always used to say that water finds its own level.’ She smiled, determined not to be intimidated by this arrogant individual who had put womankind into a box. ‘And I happen to have lots of female friends who couldn’t care less about the balance of a man’s bank account but put a high price on faithfulness and commitment.’
‘And you, Cherry? Do you put a high price on faithfulness?’
For a second she wondered if Sophia had told him about Liam and Angela, but almost immediately dismissed the thought. Brother and sister weren’t into cosy conversations just at the moment. She took a deep breath and spoke from the heart. ‘It’s priceless.’
The grey eyes narrowed before he raked back his wet hair with bronzed fingers. Changing the subject with an abruptness which was unnerving, he said, ‘I saw Sophia talking to you earlier.’ He gestured towards the house. ‘From the window. The conversation appeared… intense.’
Cherry’s chin tilted upwards. To anyone who knew her it was a warning signal, but her voice was controlled and without heat when she said calmly, ‘I have no intention of repeating my conversation with your sister, Signor Carella.’
‘I didn’t think you would, Miss Cherry Gibbs from England. Not for a moment. You think Sophia is hard done by?’
The overt mockery was galling. He was galling, with his to-die-for body and filmstar good-looks. Horrified such a thought had entered her mind, Cherry said crisply, ‘I would just say that I consider your treatment of your sister archaic at best and stupid at worst.’
The smile hovering about his mouth disappeared. ‘Stupid?’ he ground out. Clearly ‘archaic’ was permissible, but ‘stupid’ had most definitely touched a nerve.
He sat up on the sun-bed, the subtle sensual odour of his brown skin overlaid with the tang of the swimmingpool water filling her senses as he leant closer. ‘Why stupid?’ he murmured, his eyes like cold steel. ‘Explain yourself.’
He had asked. ‘I happen to think Sophia is far more emotionally mature than you intimated,’ she said carefully, ‘but when all is said and done she is still a sixteen-year-old girl. I’ve been that age, and if there is one thing absolutely set in concrete it’s that you do whatever the older generation says it’s foolish to do. Call it rebellion, finding your own feet, whatever, but it’s guaranteed you’ll go against the grain. And that is what Sophia is doing.’
‘Santo?’ he said flatly.
‘Santo.’ Cherry nodded. ‘You are driving her into his arms by trying to keep them apart.’
‘The problema romantico?’ The hard, autocratic face was thoughtful. ‘Si, maybe. Perhaps you have a point.’
‘Yes, definitely.’ Her voice was cool. ‘It’s Romeo and Juliet all over again.’
‘An exaggeration, but I get your drift,’ he drawled mockingly.
Hateful man. ‘Of course it’s none of my business,’ she said crisply, sliding out of the hammock and walking towards the swimming pool. ‘And I’m sure a man as well acquainted with the female sex as you obviously are knows exactly what he’s doing.’
She dived into the cool water before he could reply, needing to put some space between them. It didn’t work. When she surfaced he was right there beside her, grey eyes glinting in the baking hot sunlight.