Sharon Kendrik - Mistress Material

He almost flung the robe over her and swiftly knotted the belt around her narrow waist, and then he knelt at her feet, his hands moving inside the robe until they were on her bare hips. Suzanna held her breath with dazed and exultant shock as she felt the heat of his fingers on her cool flesh, but he kept his eyes averted as he peeled the damp bottoms off all the way down the slender length of her thighs, and her cold and discomfort vanished completely as she felt the brief slide of his hand against her inner thigh.

Something hot and potent and powerful bubbled its way into life in her veins as rapidly as bush-fire, and Suzanna was racked with an uncontrollable shudder as she became sexually aware of her body for the first time in her life.

Had he seen her automatic response to his touch? Was that why his mouth had twisted into that harsh, almost frightening line? Why the hard glittering of his dark eyes now transformed him into some unforgettable but slightly forbidding stranger?

‘Now get in the bath,’ he said roughly, and he tossed the bikini away from him as though it had been contaminated. He rose to his feet and moved towards the door, but without his customary elegance and fluidity of motion. ‘And be out of there in twenty minutes—no longer,’ he ordered, but then a wry note which bordered on amusement entered his voice and, thankfully, removed some of the awful tension from the air. ‘No falling asleep is permitted! Understand?’ he finished softly.

‘Yes, Pasquale,’ she answered meekly.

‘Good. I’ll be downstairs making you some coffee.’

She wandered into the bathroom in a heady daze, wrapped in the thickness of his robe, reluctant to remove it because the scent of it—of him—was just too heavenly for words. She hugged her arms against her breasts, then wiped away some of the steam from the mirror and stared into it, mesmerised by the heightened colour of her cheeks and the strange, almost feverish glitter in her eyes.

But what was she imagining? That he had been as affected by that brief encounter as she had? Pasquale Caliandro, the toast of Rome, bothered by a schoolgirl?

No way! she thought with honest reluctance as she pulled off the robe and stepped into the fragrant, steamy water.

The bath made her feel almost normal again. She washed her hair and left it hanging loose, dressing in a pair of white jeans and a loose white cotton sweater before going downstairs to find Pasquale, and the coffee.

She stood in the doorway watching him, enjoying the sight of such a very masculine man looking so thoroughly at ease in the domestic domain of the kitchen.

His dark eyes flicked over her impassively. ‘Feeling better?’ he enquired.

Physically, yes, certainly. But there was still that tingling awareness fizzing around her veins which his touch had brought to life. ‘Much better,’ she answered politely, and then her gratitude came out in a rush. ‘I wanted to thank you, Pasquale—for...’ it sounded a bit over the top to say it, but say it she must ‘... saving my life,’ she gulped.

He shook his head and smiled gently. ‘Let’s forget it.’

But she would never forget it, she knew that, and the burgeoning, almost schoolgirlish attraction she had felt towards Pasquale suddenly flowered and blossomed into mature life.

I’m in love with him, she thought, with a calm certainty.

‘Sit down,’ he offered, and she drew up one of the tall stools he’d indicated and sat, leaning her elbows on the counter as she struggled to say something which didn’t involve the fact that he’d seen her half-naked just minutes ago. Sitting there, with her still damp hair and her face completely bare of make-up, she suddenly felt very young and very boring.

‘You look very efficient in the kitchen!’ she remarked brightly. ‘I’m surprised!’

He raised his dark eyebrows fractionally, but didn’t comment on the sexism inherent in her remark; instead he began to pour the fragrant brew into a large porcelain cup. ‘The Italian male is renowned for many things, but not, I think, for his prowess in the kitchen,’ he said as he pushed the cup towards her.

She knew that. She knew, too, exactly what they were renowned for... For being wonderful... lovers... She gulped, and took a deep breath. ‘So you decided to break with tradition?’ she joked.

A sudden bleakness dulled the magnificent eyes as he added sugar to his own cup. ‘Unhappily, yes. One cannot have servants on hand every minute of the day, and when my mother died...’ He hesitated. ‘Well, Papà was in a state of shock for such a long time, and Francesca was too young...’

Suzanna could have kicked herself for her blundering insensitivity. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she groaned softly. ‘I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.’

He gave a small smile. ‘Time gives a certain immunity against pain, Suzanna.’ And his accent deepened. ‘Didn’t your own father die very suddenly?’

Suzanna went very quiet. ‘Francesca told you?’

‘Yes.’ He paused, and the dark eyes were very direct. ‘It was a car crash, I believe?’

If it had been anyone else but him, she suspected that she would have found the question a gross intrusion, but Pasquale asking it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. ‘Yes,’ she said, and swallowed.

‘You were thinking of him by the pool—when you began to cry?’

His perception quite took her breath away. ‘How on earth could you know that?’

‘I know quite well the difference between shock and grief. And bottling it up won’t help, you know.’ He gave her a gentle smile. ‘Now drink your coffee and I will take you out for lunch. Will that cheer you up?’

‘Lunch?’ She felt like Cinderella. ‘Are you sure?’

His mouth moved in an enigmatic smile. ‘Quite sure,’ he said drily. ‘You see, another characteristic of Italian men is their enjoyment of being seen with an exceptionally beautiful young lady.’

She knew that he had deliberately emphasised the young bit, but she didn’t care. Pasquale was taking her for lunch and that was all that mattered.

In the event, that lunch ruined her for every future meal of her life. He took her to a lovely restaurant, and he was charm personified. The food was delicious and the half-glass of wine he allowed her incomparable. He seemed so at home in the discreetly elegant surroundings, and she tried to emulate his cool confidence. The down side was that at least three women came over to greet him—women with stacks more experience and poise than Suzanna—and she found herself wishing that they might totter and trip on the ridiculously high heels they all seemed to be wearing!

It was past three when they drove back, and she felt warm and contented and wondered what he would suggest doing that afternoon. But he did not get out of the car.

‘I will leave you to amuse yourself,’ he told her, and he gave her a stern look. ‘But pleaseno more swimming—not today!’

She found it hard to hide the disappointment. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To work. Be so kind as to tell Papa and Francesca that I shall be late—and that I shall not be in for supper.’

Suzanna felt as flat as a pancake as she walked slowly back into the flower-covered villa. She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to write a letter, but it was difficult, because outside a wind was insidiously whipping up, while in the distance she heard the ominous rumble of thunder.

She began to long for the return of the others, but no one came back. No Francesca or Signor Caliandro. The villa suddenly seemed awfully big and awfully empty with just her and the cook, who was busy in the kitchen.

Francesca rang at six to say that she would be staying at her godmother’s. ‘The storm is very bad here,’ she explained. ‘And it’s moving down towards your part of the city. Will you be all right? Is Pasquale or Papà back yet?’