CHAPTER FOUR

      EMILY WAS almost glad to be away from Anton, just grateful for the moment to gather her thoughts. It was as if the soft contact of their mouths had bruised her, for she could still feel him on her lips, and now she gave in and ran her tongue over them. She looked out to the sultry Palermo night. The moon was glittering on the ocean and the boats were bobbing in the gentle breeze. It all looked so tranquil and calm, unlike the busy restaurant behind her.

      Unlike herself.

      No man had ever affected Emily so.

      She tried to think of one that had even come close but no-one ever had. As she stood there, every thought, every safe assumption, was fast coming undone. Emily didn’t believe in lightning bolts or attractions so intense that she might consider going to bed with a man whose surname she didn’t even know.

      Yet here she was considering it.

      More than that, she was picturing it.

      Right here, right now her mind was trying to delete images, because just the memory of his mouth on her ear had her neck arching to one side with sinful imaginings.

      It was then she heard the door open and close behind her as a couple stepped onto the balcony, and she remembered the reason Anton had sent her out here. She smiled briefly to the woman but the man’s eyes did not wander to her, so she turned back to the view. But so devastating was the impact of Anton that Emily had to remind herself she was here to eavesdrop on the couple, and she was surprised to hear that they were speaking in English.

      When the conversation became heated and to stay would appear intrusive, Emily headed inside to find their mains had been served.

      They chatted about the stunning view as the waiters did the cheese-and-pepper thing, and after a suitable pause Anton asked what she had heard.

      ‘She was telling him to slow down his drinking. That he needed to be sober.’

      ‘You speak Italian?’

      ‘No, they were speaking in English.’

      ‘Okay.’ He gave a slight impatient shake to his head. ‘I do not know her, but that is nothing new. No-one can keep up with the women he dates. That is Santo. Tomorrow he is best man.’

      It was the strangest night. She was acting, yet she was surrounded by glamour, by beauty, and there was just this thrum between them, and the laughter and conversation came from a more natural place than the woman she was portraying.

      He watched as she struggled to finish her pasta.

      ‘It is the best in Sicily,’ he said as she put her cutlery down and pushed her half-finished plate aside.

      ‘It’s divine.’ It was, except her hand did not want to be swirling strings of pasta around a fork when it could be held by his, and her mouth did not want to be eating when she could be speaking with him. The restaurant was suddenly too noisy, too busy, all distractions unwelcome. Emily shook her head when the waiter came over with champagne but he ignored her protest and poured two glasses.

      ‘Tonight, we celebrate,’ Anton said, still holding her hand, and even though he’d prewarned her, Emily’s surprise was genuine when, with his free hand, he went into his pocket and he pulled out a ring. For a while there she had forgotten they were acting, just completely caught up in the moment, enjoying being with this stunning man, and she took a breath to steady herself as he took her hand and slipped on the ring.

      It was exquisite, Italian gold with yellow diamonds and tiny seed pearls in an antique setting, and there was no question it was real.

      ‘Where...?’ She did not understand. They’d only been apart an hour.

      ‘It was my mother’s.’

      Of course they were acting, Emily thought, out-of-place tears suddenly filling her eyes, for lucky was the woman this night belonged to.

      ‘Is that a yes?’ Anton asked.

      She heard the murmur from a few tables. It was just so overwhelming. Her face was burning as she nodded, and as she did, the patrons in the restaurant started tapping their glasses, urging the couple to seal things with a kiss.

      ‘Anton...’ As his hands held her cheeks, she was petrified to kiss him, not because he was a stranger but because there could then be no denying her pleasure and want.

      ‘The things you have to suffer for your craft.’ Anton smiled as his mouth moved in.

      Yes, she could be in Wales now, was her last thought as his mouth met hers and the tension from brief kiss that had teased was both relieved and inflamed with much-needed pressure. A five-star kiss in a five-star restaurant, his mouth soft yet suggestive on her lips, his scent, the feel of his warm hands on her burning cheeks. There was a moment where he increased the pressure, where he shifted just a little and she felt as if they were both lost, not in the moment or in the couple they were pretending to be but in each other.

      Anton was.

      He tasted her lips and he wanted more; he felt them part and he wanted inside. He wanted her head on his pillow and her legs wrapped around him, but more than that he wanted the morning.

      He pulled his mouth back, jolted by private admissions, fighting the urge to reclaim her mouth and lose himself again.

      ‘You make tonight possible.’ His forehead was resting on hers and both were breathless. ‘They do not even glance over,’ Anton said. ‘They know we are turned on.’

      ‘We’re good actors,’ Emily attempted.

      ‘Some things you cannot fake,’ Anton said, and it would be pointless to deny. They both fought to remember then the real reason that they were here. ‘What is happening?’

      Emily glanced over. ‘The old lady looks as if she is about to go.’

      Anton called for the bill.

      ‘I’m getting this.’ Emily reached for her bag but he simply ignored her and she let him. It had long ago stopped being simply work. His hand was completely steady as he put his card in the heavy velvet folder.

      ‘They will stay about two minutes after she has gone. They are here only for her sake.’ Anton’s face was close. ‘Soon I’ll kiss you again,’ he warned. ‘Soon we give the bodyguards our reason to leave.’

      ‘She’s standing.’ His thumb was playing with Emily’s bottom lip.

      ‘So are her bodyguards,’ Anton said, and she saw in her peripheral vision that two men at another table had stood.

      The credit card was back.

      ‘Don’t look,’ Anton warned. ‘Not once.’

      He didn’t have to worry. The second his mouth touched hers, Emily forgot all about the Correttis. His lips were warm. His hands moved to the back of her head, pressing her into him, and she struggled to stop her lips from parting until, as if remembering where they were, he stood.

      ‘Come.’

      They walked through the restaurant and down the steps that led to the entrance but he halted her on the bend midway, kissed her hard against the wall, and her mouth stopped fighting instinct then, simply opened up and let him in, his tongue repeating his thumb’s motions in her mouth—circling, pressing, probing. Emily was kissing him back for dear life, tasting him as if she recognised him, absolutely forgetting where she was as she gave in to the thunderbolt that had struck. He cupped her buttocks and kissed her senseless. Her hands moved to his chest, into his jacket, and suddenly the kiss halted, his hand catching hers, stopping hers, but not before she felt the cool metal of a gun.

      ‘Keep kissing.’ The doors were opening, people were coming out and she was in terror. He was kissing her thoroughly.