The Virgin's Sicilian Protector. Chantelle Shaw
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had prepared her for the devastation he wrought on her mouth or on her soul as he forced her lips apart with the bold flick of his tongue. The heat of his body was dangerously addictive and, when his arms closed around her like bands of steel, trapping her against him, she melted in the inferno.
His kiss was all her fantasies rolled into one. Masterful and merciless, he demanded a response that she was powerless to deny him. She closed her eyes and her senses sang to the slide of his lips over hers and the taste of him on the tip of her tongue. He made her ache everywhere.
Needing to be even closer to him, she pressed her pelvis against his. They fitted together like two pieces of a jigsaw. But, before she had time properly to register the shockingly hard bulge of his arousal beneath his jeans, he lifted his mouth from hers at the same time as he withdrew his arms from around her waist and returned his hands to her shoulders.
This time he did push her away from him, so forcefully that she would have stumbled if he had not tightened his grip on her shoulders, and she feared her bones might snap.
‘So, what is your plan, Arianna?’ he drawled, no sign in his voice or his sardonic smile of the tumultuous passion that had exploded between them seconds earlier. ‘I suppose you think you can accuse me of sexual harassment to give you a legitimate reason to fire me? But it won’t wash, princess. It will be your word against mine.’
She sensed the suggestion in his scathing tone that his testimony would hold more credence than hers. After all, she was the darling of the tabloids, renowned for her outrageous behaviour with a string of celebrity lovers. It took every ounce of her willpower not to let him see how much his jibe had hurt, or how vulnerable she felt, still reeling from the kiss that patently had not affected him.
‘Of course I wouldn’t make a false allegation,’ she said stiffly. ‘It would be a terrible thing to do when too many women genuinely suffer sexual harassment.’
He looked at her curiously, as if she had surprised him, but then he shrugged. ‘So why did you come on to me? I am under no illusions about you, Arianna. I warned you not to play games and I meant it. Your father hired me to be your bodyguard and I will not allow you to distract me. Nor, I should make it clear, do my duties include keeping you entertained with sex. So, if that is what you were hoping for when you kissed me, you’re out of luck.’
Arianna wished that the ground would open up and swallow her, but pride came to her rescue and she gave a tinkling laugh as brittle as thin ice on a frozen pond. ‘I can hardly bear the disappointment,’ she said with a theatrical pout. ‘At least you don’t need to worry about drowning in the pool, Mr Vasari. That over-inflated ego of yours should help to keep you afloat.’
* * *
Santino dropped his hands down to his sides and clenched them into fists as Arianna spun away from him and marched across the terrace. Well done, he congratulated himself sarcastically. It was crucial that he gained her trust but all he had succeeded in doing was alienating her.
If he had any sense he would tear his gaze away from the perfect, peachy roundness of her bottom cheeks sassily displayed by her daring choice of swimwear. But his common sense, like his self-control, had gone up in flames when she had put her mouth on his. It occurred to him as he stared at her delectable derriere that it was unlikely she would actually swim in that miniscule bikini and that its purpose instead was to allow her to flaunt her incredible body.
She stepped through the open glass doors into the house and only when she had disappeared from view did he realise that he had been holding his breath. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, but even though she was no longer standing in front of him the lingering scent of her perfume—an intriguing blend of exotic floral notes and something spicier and boldly sensual—inflamed his senses.
Why the hell had he kissed her? Telling himself that technically she had kissed him first did nothing to appease his conscience. He should have pulled his mouth away from hers, but there had been something curiously innocent about the tentative brush of her lips over his that had surprised him. Because he knew all about Arianna Fitzgerald—and ‘innocent’ was not a word ever associated with her.
The truth, Santino acknowledged grimly, was that his usual, logical thought process had deserted him the instant he’d set eyes on her and he’d felt a jolt of lust in his groin so intense that it had hurt. It had felt like a punch, as though he’d been winded and he couldn’t catch his breath.
His reaction puzzled him. He was no stranger to beautiful women and he enjoyed an active sex life uncomplicated by emotional entanglements. The women he dated were intelligent professionals—elegant, discreet and unlikely to be plastered over the gutter press half-undressed, he thought, glancing with distaste at the picture of Arianna on the front of the newspaper.
Everything he had heard about her reinforced his belief that she had been over-indulged by her long-suffering father. Every picture of her when she was actually dressed showed that she had expensive tastes in designer clothes, shoes, handbags and fabulous jewellery—presumably all paid for by her doting daddy. In short, Arianna was the kind of woman he despised, but frustratingly his libido did not care that she was a spoilt socialite and his erection was uncomfortably hard pressing against the zip of his jeans.
The turquoise pool looked inviting with sun glinting on the surface. Earlier he’d pulled on a pair of swim-shorts beneath his clothes, thinking there would be time for him to swim while he waited for Arianna to wake up. His jaw clenched as he remembered her remark that she liked to sunbathe naked. Knowing that Arianna was a flirtatious tease did nothing to ease the throb of his arousal. Cursing himself for his weakness, he stripped off his clothes and dived into the pool. He swam as if his life depended on it—thirty lengths, fifty—until his shoulders ached and his chest burned and his rampant libido was subdued.
* * *
Later he made a detailed check of the villa’s grounds and was concerned by the lack of security. The butler had explained that he locked the front door at night but that Arianna liked to leave her bedroom window open while she slept. The easy access to Villa Cadenza from the private beach was another problem. It would be feasible for kidnappers to climb over the wall and jump down onto the terrace. They could take Arianna at gunpoint through a door in the wall that led to the beach and force her onto a waiting boat without any of the villa’s staff noticing or raising the alarm.
As Santino walked into the house he heard the sound of a car’s engine. Hurrying back outside, he glimpsed the tail lights of the sports car that he’d seen parked in the garage disappear out of the courtyard. He knew the car belonged to Arianna. Damn her! Her insubordination was infuriating, but he was more furious with himself for not keeping a closer eye on her.
‘Did Arianna say where she was going?’ he asked Filippo.
The butler shook his head. ‘No, but she often visits the beauty salon in the town, and Giovanni’s Bar next to the beach is a popular venue where she meets her friends.’
There was also a four-by-four parked in the garage and fortunately the keys were in the ignition. Santino jumped in and fired the engine. The road outside the villa was not overlooked by any other houses for part of the way down the mountain and he was worried that the kidnappers could be waiting to ambush Arianna as she drove away from Villa Cadenza. Moments later he drove out of the gates and was soon hurtling around the hairpin bends, speeding along the road that wound down to the coast.
Despite his simmering temper he could not fail to appreciate the spectacular scenery. The towering grey cliffs were covered with lemon groves that sloped down to the coast. Dominating the skyline was the azure Tyrrhenian Sea sparkling in the bright summer sunshine. The coastline here was similar to his birthplace and the place he thought of as home, Sicily. The difference was that Positano, the same as most of the other towns on the Amalfi coast, had become a chic and expensive tourist destination favoured by the glitterati.
Rounding another bend, the town was revealed in all its picturesque beauty. Pink, peach and terracotta-coloured houses clung perilously to the cliffs and looked as though they were in danger of tumbling into the sea. At the heart