Cathy Williams - Summer Loving

His jaw tightened against the helplessness that dogged him and he had the feeling Fate wasn’t done with him yet.

Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his head but there was no erasing his mind’s fixation on a particular woman. A woman with hair the colour of a glorious Tuscany sunset, peach-perfect skin dusted with freckles as countless as the stars. Emerald-green eyes that sucked him into seductive pools in which he wanted to happily drown.

The arousal that had plagued him since she returned throbbed to life, an insistent beat of desire that pounded through his system like a relentless drumbeat.

It would all go away. He just needed the right focus. One call on Monday to his lawyers to set divorce proceedings underway and this feeling would go away.

Satisfied that he’d regained some control, he left the study.

Lucia was laying out the breakfast things and turned at his approach. The usually stern face of the woman who’d been part of his household for longer than he could remember relaxed into a smile as she regaled him with Annabelle’s antics of the day before.

Cesare had noted the change in his household since his daughter’s return. The household staff who normally went out of their way to avoid him now smiled openly and even exchanged greetings instead of hurrying away when they saw him coming.

As he poured himself a coffee, he admitted to the lightness in his own heart since Annabelle’s return. But there was also a stab of pain so acute his hand shook. He’d almost lost her once. He had no intention of doing so again.

She was the only child he would bear; she would one day inherit the di Goia fortune. Which meant she had to be prepared. And, for starters, a daughter who spoke more English than Italian was simply unacceptable.

‘You look like you’re plotting world domination.’

Ava stood framed in the terrace doorway, dressed in a short white sundress. The sight of her long bare legs sent volcanic heat surging through his veins.

Sunlight flamed hair brightened by the Balinese sun. Her fair skin never browned enough to tan, but it glowed with a healthy hue and shimmered as if she’d smoothed a special lotion over it.

He watched her glide on bare feet towards him. In all the time he’d known Ava, he’d only seen her wear shoes when they went out and, even then, at the earliest opportunity she kicked them off. Instruments of torture, she called them. He’d never objected because he found her unadorned feet extremely sexy. He’d never have imagined he had a foot fetish before he met her.

But then he was equally fascinated with her fingers, with her lips, with the delicate bones of her clavicle and the sweet temptation of her round, supple breasts.

Madre di Dio! he cursed as his insane desire for her rose to torment him again.

Hips swaying beneath the soft, clingy material, she reached the table, chose the chair next to him and folded herself into it. Immediately the subtle scent of her perfume hit his nostrils, sending desire surging higher.

‘Should I be afraid?’ Her voice was a husky rasp in his ears. He had to concentrate hard to remember what she’d said.

He forced a smile. ‘I am plotting, cara, but not world domination. What I desire is much smaller, but no less important.’

Unease entered her eyes but she tried to mask it. When she looked away and poured her tea, he couldn’t resist the irrational urge to tease her, to pay her back for the suffering he endured. Hell, he knew it wasn’t her fault that he found her so alluring, so damned beautiful that all he wanted to do was bury the stiff, pulsing part of himself inside her, but he felt rattled enough not to heed caution’s voice.

‘Don’t you want to know what it is?’ he asked softly.

The teapot shook and she set it down. That small betrayal was quickly masked because when she glanced at him the deep endless pools of her eyes were clear and calm. But they still drew him in like a siren’s call.

‘Not particularly, but I get the feeling you’re in a sharing mood.’

He smiled. ‘I am indeed. Annabelle doesn’t speak any Italian.’

Her eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘My daughter does not speak Italian.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘And whose fault is that? English is my first language, not Italian.’

‘But you have a great handle on Italian. Or at least you did when we were together.’

She shrugged and he cursed himself for being distracted by the delicate movement of her shoulder. ‘Since I seem to have misinterpreted so much of what you said to me in Italian, maybe I didn’t have as great a handle on the language as I thought.’

He deserved that but it didn’t make him seethe any less. ‘I want her to learn my language.’

To his surprise, she nodded. ‘I don’t have any objection. Lucia is already teaching her. She’s a very quick study. I’m sure she’ll pick it up easily enough.’

Her easy capitulation unsettled him even further. Seeing his reaction, she shrugged again. ‘I’m determined to be hysteria-free from now on, Cesare. Deal with it.’

‘Deal with it?’ He wasn’t sure why that particular statement made him angrier.

‘Do you mind taking care of Annabelle this morning? I know we’re supposed to spend weekends with her but I need to check out the lighting for the blessing in the church and the caretaker can only make today.’

‘Where is this church?’ he bit out.

‘The Duomo in Amalfi.’

‘I’ll drive you there.’

‘There’s no need.’

He set his coffee down. ‘Sì, there’s every need. If we all go together then we don’t break the agreement to spend time with our daughter. Where is she, by the way?’

‘She took a detour to the kitchen to ask Lucia to put blueberries in her pancakes. But—’

Before she could protest further about his decision to drive into Amalfi with her, Annabelle flew onto the terrace, her hair streaming behind her like a fast-flowing river. His heart caught with joy, then sang with pride when she greeted him in halting Italian.

‘Buon giorno, piccolina,’ he responded, trying to keep his voice steady.

* * *

Ava watched the play of emotion on Cesare’s face as he lifted Annabelle onto his lap for a kiss. Another sliver of unease darted through her. On the surface, Cesare’s request that Annabelle learn Italian had seemed innocuous. But she couldn’t dismiss the anxiety that settled in her stomach like a lead balloon.

Was she blowing everything out of proportion, just like she’d blown her importance to Cesare out of proportion? Maybe Cesare was being exactly what he claimed—an Italian father with the natural urge to speak his language with his child.

Her fingers stilled on the banana she was peeling for Annabelle and she watched father and daughter converse—one voice a deep, gravelly tone, the other a childish but attentive copying that filled her heart with equal measures of pride and pain.

As if sensing her gaze, Cesare glanced up.

The breath left her lungs and her heart careened around her ribcage like a crazed animal seeking freedom.

Even after Annabelle grabbed her banana and settled in her seat to munch on it, he continued to stare at her. Heat arced between them, just like it had from the very first time they’d met.

Once again the stinging betrayal of her need echoed between her legs. A helpless moan escaped her before she quickly disguised it as a cough.

His eyes darkened nevertheless.

‘Stop it,’ she muttered fiercely.

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Can’t help it.’

‘Try harder!’ Or she was scared she’d spontaneously combust the way her pulse was skittering out of control.

Tawny eyes narrowed. ‘Is that an order?’

‘It’s a friendly health warning.’