Andie Brock - Italian Mavericks - Expecting The Italian's Baby

A conversation with her recently engaged friend, Jane, surfaced in her head. A crowd of them had been sitting in a bar drinking shots, except for Lara, the designated driver with a zero tolerance to alcohol, while Jane showed off her ring.

‘It was magic, guys, the moment I saw him I was dizzy with longing—you know what I mean?’

Because it was expected Lara had smiled and nodded her agreement along with everyone else, but she hadn’t known what Jane meant. Not really. And she had actually been happy in her ignorance. Losing your balance, not to mention your grip on reality—Jane’s dream man was not exactly what you’d call irresistible—was not something she envied anyone.

Had she lost her grip on reality now? It wasn’t too late to change her mind.

She halted the inner dialogue and turned her head. Raoul was sitting back, both hands rested on his thighs, as he looked straight ahead. She sensed a darkness in him, and in profile the austere beauty of his face brought a lump of emotion to her throat.

He’s not a sunset, or an ocean view, she reminded herself. He’s a man, a stranger. And you’re in the back of a taxi with him.

‘I can take you to your hotel, if you prefer.’

The offer made her relax. The option was there, although she knew it was one she had no intention of taking. ‘No, I don’t want that. I want you.’

She heard a sharp intake of breath but his only response was a jerky movement of his dark head.

Raoul didn’t trust himself to touch her, because he knew that when he did he wouldn’t be able to let her go. The scent of her, the warmth where their thighs were almost touching, were driving him insane. A woman had not made him feel this way in a long time.

He had never been so relieved for a journey to end.

‘We’re here.’

Standing beside him on the pavement, watching him pay off the cab, Lara wondered where here was. There were no names, numbers or signs on any of the anonymous buildings this side of the street, though she could just make out a plaque on a building opposite. Squinting, she read Embassy, then before she could read the rest of the inscription a big set of gates slid silently open.

He gestured for her to go through, which after a tiny pause she did.

Nothing in the street suggested that this place existed.

‘It’s beautiful.’

Her apprehension gave way to appreciation as the tall gates closed, cutting them off from the street again. The softly lit courtyard they stood in was stone cobbled, uneven and old. The plants that spilled from the massed stone troughs in the central section filled the air with the heady scents of jasmine and lavender, and water spilled from a stone lion’s head set in the wall out into an ornamental pool.

She tilted her head back. The building that enclosed the space on three sides was tall, the first-floor windows arranged symmetrically with wrought-iron Juliet balconies.

‘Is it a hotel?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I live here.’

‘Alone?’ The possibility seemed extraordinary to Lara. It was a massive place for one person...had he got the marital home after the divorce? Assuming there had been a divorce—really she knew nothing about him. She exhaled a measured sigh, starting slightly when he placed a hand between her shoulder blades. The touch of his fingers on her bare skin made her gasp.

‘This way.’

Quivering inside with anticipation that she struggled to hide beneath an air of cheerful insouciance, she let him guide her up a small flight of shallow stone steps, as though she were in the habit of doing this sort of thing every day of the week.

He leaned across her to put a key in the lock of the heavy metal-banded door that was dark with age. Given the traditional, almost historical, external appearance of the building, the inside caused her to gasp in surprise.

Internally it had been opened up—presumably walls had been knocked down to create this one massive ground-floor space, bisected by a staircase that seemed to float in mid-air. The end wall had been taken out and was now glass; several sections of internal wall were exposed stone while others were pale limewashed.

The furniture was eclectic. Big, comfortable-looking sofas, a long, highly polished antique trestle table, and one entire wall lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

They had entered the kitchen area, which boasted every modern appliance set in pale ash units with polished stone work surfaces.

‘This is not what I expected.’ But then, nothing about their encounter had been.

Raoul gave the space a dismissive glance. He felt no emotional connection to it; he’d simply given the architect free rein. The place said nothing about him or his taste in books, except that he liked big spaces. It wasn’t the soundest of financial investments he’d ever made—he’d bought it for its location and size, only to discover it was falling down.

‘The place was riddled with wet rot, dry rot, deathwatch beetle, I could go on... A lesson in the danger of buying without a structural survey. Once the building was made safe I had to decide whether to reinstate the original period features or not.’ His shoulders lifted.

‘And you chose not.’

He nodded.

‘It’s spectacular.’ She clamped her lips together to prevent a gushing response.

He took a step closer and the room got smaller, her heartbeat got faster, and there seemed a strong possibility her shaking knees were going to fold.

‘I always talk a lot when I’m nervous.’ Should she tell him before...?

Oh, yeah, because that worked so well last time.

‘You’re nervous?’

‘Well, this might surprise you,’ she said, forcing a laugh, ‘but this isn’t something I do every day.’

His dark brows lifted. ‘No, it doesn’t surprise me. Why should it?’

‘It’s just—’

‘You don’t have to explain.’

She felt hot as embarrassed colour flew to her cheeks. ‘No...no, of course not.’ The man doesn’t want your life history, Lara, he wants sex.

He watched the blush and recognised the vulnerability it exposed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t want vulnerable, he wanted hot, mind-numbing sex with a beautiful, bold, confident woman who could fearlessly face down a gang of thugs.

Where had she gone?

He heaved a resigned sigh and swallowed his growing frustration. The hot-cold thing was killing him and the prospect of a night of cold showers did not appeal, but in such a matter acceptance was the only recourse.

‘Would you like a coffee...?’

Lara swallowed but didn’t dodge his stare. There was probably something playful she should say but the emotions in her throat made even the basic truth hard to utter.

‘We both know I don’t want a coffee.’

‘I thought I did. What do you want?’ He lifted a strand of her shining hair with one finger and let it fall. ‘Is that real?’

‘Everything about me is real.’ Good line, Lara. Means nothing, but good line! ‘And I want you.’

She didn’t attempt to escape his gleaming stare. She quivered as he cupped her face with one hand, her eyelashes lowered and falling in a dark filigree against her cheek. They lifted a moment later when his free hand curved possessively around her bottom.

A soft moan left her parted lips as with barely leashed violence he pulled her in hard against him.

‘That is real,’ he ground out, his breath warm on her face as he caught the soft flesh of her lower lip between his teeth. ‘What you do to me is real. Everything about you,’ he slurred, bending his head to move his lips over the pulse spot at the base of her throat, ‘is real.’

When was the last time that he had experienced anything close to the primitive need to possess that was pounding through him at that moment? It was madness!