The Italian's Love-Child. Emma Darcy
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together.
‘I’m hungry and Daddy said I could have it here,’ Matt informed her between bites. ‘He’s just gone to have a shower. There’s a whole lot of stuff in the kitchen,’ he added in case she was hungry, too, and couldn’t wait.
‘I’ll check it out.’
Matt’s attention was already glued to the screen again, happily engrossed in watching more antics from the Looney Tunes characters.
Skye moved into the kitchen, expecting to find other pizza boxes. All the ingredients for a very tasty salad were sitting on the sink—lettuce, tomato, capsicum, avocado, cucumber, a bottle of Italian dressing. A loaf of twisted bread, made with cheese and spinach, sat on an oven tray ready to be heated up. Slabs of rump steak were being marinaded on a meat plate, and a covered plastic dish containing ten little chat potatoes with butter and parsley was waiting to be put into the microwave oven. Pizza was clearly not on their menu tonight.
‘Thought we’d have a proper meal instead,’ Luc said, breezing into the kitchen, barefoot like herself, and wearing a fresh pair of white shorts with a brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt he hadn’t bothered to button up.
The air was sucked straight out of Skye’s lungs. The mental cage flew open and the wild beast of desire flexed its muscles and ran riot through her entire body. Muscles quivered or contracted. Her pulse-rate hopped, skipped and jumped. Heat zoomed through her bloodstream. Her skin tingled. Even her scalp tingled. And her breasts tightened and strained against the cups of cotton that kept them contained.
The blast of virile masculinity was so strong it took an act of will to stop staring, turn her back on it and find enough presence of mind to say, ‘I’ll wash the lettuce.’
‘I’ll go set the table out on the balcony,’ Luc said cheerfully, busying himself collecting plates and cutlery. ‘Best to eat there where we can chat over dinner without the noise and distraction of Matt’s cartoons.’
Chat… Skye clung to that word as her hands automatically went to work, tearing off lettuce leaves, running the water in the sink.
Luc had stopped her from retreating into her bedroom the first evening they were here, pleading that he knew nothing of the years he’d missed with Matt and asking her to fill him in on them—such a reasonable request it was only fair to oblige him.
Last night he had drawn her out about her own life since they’d been parted—her mother’s death, the move from Caringbah to Brighton-Le-Sands, building up a clientele for her massage business. Only when he’d asked about future plans had she felt it was time to excuse herself and retire, conscious that he now dominated any thinking about the future, making it too slippery a subject. She didn’t want to fall into the dangerous trap of discussing marriage with him.
What did Luc have planned for tonight?
Should she plead a headache and escape?
The brief breathing space while he was out on the balcony was not long enough to get the panic at her own vulnerability to him under control. On returning, he headed straight to the refrigerator, just as she was lifting a salad bowl out of the kitchen cupboard next to it, and it felt like a whirlwind coming at her, intent on catching her up in it.
But he didn’t touch her. He grinned as he opened the refrigerator door, tossing nothing but companionable words at her. ‘Managed to buy a fine bottle of Chardonnay as well, already chilled. Might as well pour us a drink now. It won’t take me long to grill the steaks.’
Wine!
Adding an intoxicant to the chaos in her head was not a good idea, but Skye had accepted a glass of wine on the flight up here, and at the restaurants where they’d dined the past two evenings. Refusing one now might alert Luc to a difference in her mood—one she didn’t want to explain. Besides, she could sip sparingly. Better not to make an issue of it.
‘Thanks,’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘I remembered how you liked cheesecake, too,’ he went on, his eyes dancing with pleasure in his planning. ‘Bought two slices with a mango topping and a jar of cream to have for sweets.’
He was remembering more than cheesecake, Skye thought, and making her remember, too. ‘You have been busy,’ she said dryly, moving back to the sink with the bowl, ready to attack the other vegetables to put in the salad. ‘I thought you were getting us pizzas.’
‘Impulsive change of mind,’ he excused.
With a lot more impulses involved!
‘Hope you approve,’ he added, his voice loaded with persuasive appeal.
‘It’s fine, Luc,’ she obliged, recognising there was no reasonable argument against what he’d done. Normal politeness forced her to say, ‘And special thanks for the cheesecake. I’ll enjoy it.’
He set her glass of wine on the bench beside the sink. Still no attempt at touching. There was absolutely nothing Skye could object to in his behaviour. Nor in his dress which she had to admit was as appropriate as her own for an evening at home on the Gold Coast—cool, casual, relaxed.
And Luc did appear to be completely relaxed as he went about cooking what had to be cooked, meat under the griller, bread in the oven, potatoes in the microwave, chatting to her about the day they’d just spent together, acting like a happy father who’d given his son a special treat, acting like a happy husband sharing it all with his wife… before they shared a lot more in bed.
Skye couldn’t get that last thought out of her head.
The buzz of anticipation was in the air, charged with so much sexual electricity she was amazed to find she had actually prepared the salad and tossed the dressing through it, which gave her the chance to escape from the highly charged intimacy of working in the kitchen with Luc. She carried the bowl out to the balcony and paused there long enough to take several deep breaths of fresh sea air.
Nothing was going to happen unless she let it happen.
Skye fixed this maxim firmly in her mind in a desperate effort to counteract the rampant desires that were clamouring to sneak right past it, whispering their tempting promises of pleasure, insidiously urging her to satisfy more than a weakness for cheesecake, demanding to know why shouldn’t she take what was on offer? It didn’t commit her to marriage.
‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’
Her heart jolted at the realisation Luc was just behind her. She whipped around from the balcony railing, gearing up to fight off any move on her, only to find him standing on the other side of the table, setting down an ice bucket containing the bottle of wine.
‘Yes, it is,’ she choked out, hoping she didn’t look alarmed.
Was it all in her mind?
He smiled, watching the light sea breeze gently lifting the silky fan of her hair around her shoulders.
No, it wasn’t just her.
The smile was very sensual. And satisfaction glinted in his eyes as he said, ‘Matt’s fallen asleep on the floor. Shall I carry him in to bed?’
Out of the way. No possible distraction from a little boy who was totally worn out from the day’s excitement, too exhausted to care where he slept. Had that been planned, too?
‘I’ll do it while you finish up in the kitchen,’ Skye answered, wanting the activity, anything to put space between her and Luc.
‘Okay.’ He shrugged and retreated.
Skye followed him inside. Matt had simply toppled over beside the pizza box, not even a cushion under his head. He didn’t stir when she gathered him up in her arms and remained a dead weight as he was carried into his bedroom, head lolling on her shoulder, arms and legs limp. She laid him down on the pillow, manouevred his body in between the sheets, tucked him in and dropped a kiss on his forehead.
There was not so much as a flutter of consciousness