Happy Mother's Day!

chapter TWO


‘YOU look wonderful, Aisling.’

Aisling forced a smile. ‘You don’t have to say that, Jason.’

‘No, I know I don’t—but you do! Honestly—you look completely, well. different!’

Understatement of the year, thought Aisling as she sat upright against the soft-leather comfort of the car and watched as the lush green hills of Tuscany sped by. She felt different, too—and it wasn’t just the unaccustomed weight of her heavy dark hair falling about her shoulders or the large silver hoops which dangled from her ears. Nor even the sooty sweep of mascara which made her blue eyes look so enormous.

Where was the cool and calm Aisling she normally liked to present to the world? Gone. That was where. Left behind in some crazy little shop off the Via del Corso!

She turned to look at her strapping assistant who was lolling on the back seat of the fancy car, his legs sprawled out in front of him, as if to the manner born. ‘I hope you didn’t mind coming all the way out here, Jason—I know I said we’d eat in the city tonight.’

‘Mind?’ Jason pulled a comical face and gestured to the picture-postcard countryside which was zooming past the window. ‘Are you kidding? I have friends who would die to go to Umbria! To visit a real-live vineyard at the invitation of its world-famous owner!’

In spite of her reservations about the evening ahead, Aisling laughed. As well as tip-top college grades, Jason’s enthusiasm was one of the reasons she’d employed him straight after graduating—even though it was sometimes a bit over-the-top. Still, she guessed that was youth for you—and surely it wasn’t so long that she’d forgotten her own? ‘It’s a long way to go for one evening,’ she observed.

‘In an air-conditioned chauffeur-driven car? Bring it on! Anyway, we’ve just left the main road, so we must be nearly there.’

Aisling peered out of the window and her heart began to thud. ‘So we are.’

It had been an amazing drive. With the backdrop of a big, fat red sun sinking down over the horizon, they had driven past fields full of grazing cows which were the colour of pale fudge. The car had slowed to take in small villages along the way—where the tall, dark spears of cypress-trees made the landscape look so typically Italianate.

Now they were bumping their way up a winding gravel lane which led up a hillside—with row upon row of vines on either side. At the top of the hill was a building lit by the setting sun, so that it looked almost as if it were on fire.

Like a sacrifice, thought Aisling suddenly.

‘Hey, it’s beautiful,’ breathed Jason.

Yes, it was beautiful, but Aisling couldn’t rid herself of an overwhelming feeling of nerves—and she was terrified that Jason would notice her strange mood and start asking her what was the matter. And how on earth could she put it into words?

Wouldn’t it sound ridiculous that the casual clothes she was wearing made her feel somehow vulnerable? Like a little girl who had wandered by mistake into the wrong party and wasn’t sure just how to behave any more.

She could cope with Gianluca in the relatively safe environment of work, but here, on his luscious estate, with the setting sun making the evening look like the last reel in a corny film—how safe would she be from her own hopeless longings?

As the car grew closer Jason clicked the button so that the electric window slid down and Aisling could hear the sound of music playing and glasses chinking and the rise and fall of laughter and conversation. Driving through an imposing set of electric gates, they drew to a halt in a large courtyard, where a fountain played and a dog jumped to its feet and came running to greet them.

Aisling got out and bent down to stroke the dog, pressing his silky ear between thumb and forefinger, wondering what time she could reasonably slip away, when her thoughts were interrupted by the throaty roar of a powerful engine.

Straightening up, she turned to see a long, low sports car blasting its way up the hillside, spitting up clouds of dust behind it, and Aisling didn’t need to see the coalblack hair or lean body to know the identity of the driver. It was evident from that hard, autocratic profile and the tanned forearm which rested on the steering wheel and the sheer, physical presence of the man.

Gianluca turned the engine off, took off his dark glasses and for a moment his eyes deceived him.

‘Aisling?’ His black eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘Aisling?’

Aisling wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t enjoyed seeing him looking so nonplussed—but the compliment held a sting in its tail. Did she normally look so unremarkable, then? ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she responded coolly. ‘Hello, Gianluca.’

Gianluca got out of the car slowly, as if expecting the bright apparition to disappear—like a butterfly suddenly taking flight. He had told her to go shopping and buy herself a pair of jeans, sì—but he had not been expecting such a … transformation in the process.

Gone was the boring suit and instead she was wearing denim—cut close to the leg and low on the hip and caressing a remarkably pert bottom. Who would have ever believed that her legs would look like that? As if they could go on and on … he swallowed … for ever?

With the jeans she wore some sort of filmy blouse, in swirls of bright, deep colours—hinting at a pair of lush and beautiful breasts beneath. And her hair was down—he’d never seen her wear it like that before. Nor realised it was so thick, or long, or dark.

The tight chignon which usually constrained it was actually hiding a midnight fall of glossy hair which shimmered all the way down to a surprisingly tiny waist. She looked, not exactly beautiful, no, but like someone you would want to explore with your lips and your hands.

‘Madonna mia,’ he murmured, an unfamiliar note of bemusement creeping into his voice. It was like finding that the onion you were holding in the palm of your hand had suddenly become the most succulent pomegranate. She was, he realised with a jerk of desire heavy enough to startle even him, the gleaming pearl within the oyster shell.

And despite every instinct in her body telling her not to, Aisling found herself responding to that unmistakable approval on his face, found her body glowing as if it were heated from the hot black fire which was blazing so unexpectedly from his eyes.

Quickly, she glanced over in the direction of the sports car to distract herself. ‘That was some entrance you made.’

He studied her, his eyes narrowed. ‘Parimenti. I could say the same about you,’ he said drily. ‘This is what I believe they call the Cinderella effect, sì?’

‘Well, hardly. She arrived at the ball in a glass carriage, didn’t she? While I’ve been slumming it in a chauffeurdriven limo,’ she said with irony.

He laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said softly.

‘Isn’t it?’ Her own voice was equally soft, as if they were sharing some kind of secret. Stop it, she thought. Stop constructing fantasy around an unrealistic desire. Stop flirting.

There was a heartbeat of a pause.

‘Looks good, doesn’t she?’ asked Jason chattily, and to Aisling’s horror she realised that he might as well have been invisible for all the notice they’d been taking of him.

‘Good?’ Black eyes were slanted in Jason’s direction and Gianluca’s mouth hardened. Why didn’t this underling disappear instead of making pronouncements on his boss which were inappropriate given his youth and status?

‘How you Englishmen are given to understatement!’ he said damningly. ‘Tonight, Aisling looks nothing less than spectacular. Now come inside and have a drink.’

Aisling felt disoriented—as if she’d just woken up from a long sleep—and it was nothing to do with the car-ride or the warm and balmy evening. Because her host also seemed to have undergone a transformation, she thought—and this was Gianluca looking more approachable than she could have ever imagined.

He, too, was wearing jeans. Faded blue denim which clung lovingly to the hard muscular shafts of his legs in a way that his elegant suits never did. His shirt was made of some fine, silky material and several buttons were open at the neck, so that a dark sprinkle of hair was visible as it tapered downwards. The city-slicker had given way to elemental and earthy man and it was taking some getting used to.

There was something about the way he was looking at her which was different, too—and a million miles away from how he had been in the office earlier. Then he had seemed as if he was trying to tease her into some kind of reaction, but tonight it was as if he wanted …

What?

What do you think he wants, Aisling? she asked herself. A stupidly vulnerable woman all too ready to read something into his actions which he had not intended? What do you think that this stud of an Italian heart-breaker wants from little old you?

In the warm Italian night air, she shook her head and felt the shimmer of hair over her bare shoulders as she reasoned with herself. You are going to stop this right now. You are going to take control of yourself and your emotions the way you always do. After all, it wasn’t really such a big deal to socialise with someone who employed you. Unless you let it be.

‘Come now, you must taste my wine,’ said Gianluca with a glittering smile.

Aisling began to despair. Did that question sound deliberately erotic, or had her senses just gone haywire in the warm, scented air of the evening? ‘That would be wonderful,’ she agreed neutrally, as if he had just suggested reading through a stack of dry legal documents.

‘And, Jason—it is Jason, isn’t it?’ continued Gianluca softly, with a faint frown. ‘You must let me introduce you to some people.’

They walked out to a big, old barn, which seemed to be full of guests—a high, galleried building with tall ceilings and whitewashed walls, oak mangers and stonepaved floors. There was a split-second pause as the three of them walked in. The small band stopped playing and everyone began clapping as Aisling heard Gianluca’s name being shouted.

She saw him shake his dark head and say something expressive in Italian and then there was cheering—and the violin player burst into a little jig as he guided them through the hoards who stood to one side to let him pass. Men’s hands slapped him on the shoulder—which, to Aisling’s surprise, he didn’t seem to mind at all.

She could hear grazie being said over and over again. ‘Thank you?’ she translated, on a question.

‘They are thanking me for the good harvest!’ he laughed. ‘As though I am personally responsible for the lack of frost and rain and the long, hot summer in between which has meant that our grapes were as succulent as they could be!’

How relaxed he was, she thought as she looked on the unfamiliar gleam of laughter on his mouth. As if someone had peeled away an urban layer of sophistication to find an earthy man of the land beneath.

Somewhere along the way, he delivered Jason into a group of young people and handed her a glass of wine before introducing her to a dizzying array of people including the estate manager, his old nanny, two godsons and even the local mayor!

It was not what she had been expecting and more than a little intoxicating. The genuine affection with which he was greeted by his estate workers didn’t fit with her hard and driven image of him, and Aisling was slightly relieved when someone came to claim him. Much more of this and she would be signing up to his fan-club!

He gave her an expansive shrug before being borne away, leaving her with Fedele, a charming man in his fifties, who was Gianluca’s lawyer.

‘Well, I am his local lawyer,’ he emphasised slowly, in perfect though heavily accented English. ‘He uses a different one in the city. A specialist for every need at Il Tigre’s fingertips.’ The lawyer’s eyes were curious. ‘And you? You are his latest woman, sì?’

Aisling found herself blushing. ‘Oh, good heavens, no—it’s nothing like that!’

Fedele laughed. ‘Most women would not find that such a horrifying proposition!’

‘I work for him, that’s all.’

‘Ah! And what do you do?’

‘I’m a head-hunter.’

‘Cacciatore di teste?’ Fedele translated. Aisling had heard the phrase before and she smiled. ‘That’s right—somehow it sounds much better in Italian.’

‘That is because everything sounds better in Italian!’ came a soft, arrogant boast from behind her, and Aisling turned to find Gianluca’s mocking black eyes on her. ‘And do you know why that is, cara?’

Like a snake hypnotised by the charmer’s pipe, Aisling found herself shaking her head. ‘No. Why?’

‘Because we Italians are better at everything.’

‘That’s … outrageous,’ she protested.

He shrugged. ‘Ah, but it is also true!’

And try as she might—Aisling couldn’t do anything to stop smiling or prevent the slow, unfurling of desire in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, she felt like a non-swimmer who was out of her depth—and that was a very precarious place to be.

‘Your glass is empty,’ he observed. ‘Come, let us find you another drink.’

Had she really drunk a whole glass without noticing?

Gianluca took her to the far end of the room where wine was being served and poured them both a couple of glasses, watching her as he raised his glass. This morning he had idly been wondering whether a real woman lay beneath the outer armour of her unimaginative suit—but the contrast between what she had been and what she had now become was blowing his mind. His senses were shocked and his body was aroused and he wanted her.

Now.

‘So,’ he said huskily as he touched his glass to hers in a toast. ‘Salute.’

‘Salute,’ Aisling echoed as she manoeuvred the drink to her lips.

‘You like it?’ he queried softly.

‘It’s … wonderful.’

‘Ah, Aisling—but you find everything wonderful tonight,’ he teased.

‘You’d rather I objected?’

His lips curved. ‘Now that is more like it.’

‘Oh? And what’s that supposed to mean?’

Gianluca heard the defensiveness in her voice. Did she have an Achilles heel like other mortals? Was the icemaiden seeking his approval? ‘One of the reasons you are so good at your job is because you have a critical and discerning eye—but it seems to be absent tonight. And that is no bad thing.’ He smiled. ‘Relax, cara. Don’t look so tense. Tell me what you know about wine.’

‘Well, nothing really,’ she said quickly. ‘Except how to drink it.’

‘Then perhaps I should educate you. What do you think—would you like me to teach you everything I know?’

Aisling bit her lip. Everything he knew. How much would that be? As she met the sensual question in his eyes she found herself wanting far more than being taught about wine appreciation. Gazing at the perfection of his hard body, she found herself wondering what it must be like to be made love to by him. Had he meant her to think that? You work for him, she reminded herself—but it didn’t seem to alter her chaotic thoughts.

‘Education is never wasted,’ she said primly.

Gianluca gave a soft, low laugh at the repressive note in her voice and felt the ache in his groin increase. Ah, sì. This was novel indeed. A woman who was keeping him guessing about whether she would let him make love to her. ‘Then let me be your teacher,’ he murmured.

She wanted to tell him not to be so provocative—but what if that was simply her interpretation of his behaviour? A repressed single woman’s wildest fantasies. What if he was just being an affable host, out to give her an enjoyable time after the successful completion of a job? Who was to say that he wouldn’t have been behaving this way if she had been a man?

But if she’d been a man, surely he wouldn’t have been standing quite so close to her, so close that she could smell his subtle scent—evocative of sandalwood and citrus and something else which seemed to symbolise everything that was masculine. From this near she could feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame, and see a tendril of dark hair which curled onto the olive sheen of his skin, so that at that moment she found herself wanting to curl that errant lock around her finger.

‘You know how to drink it—to best enjoy it? No? Then I shall show you. First, we look at it.’ Gianluca held his wine up, swirling the claret-coloured liquid around the bowl of the glass, so that it left sticky little trickles running down the side. ‘See its beauty? Like the richest rubies, sì?’

‘Y-yes.’

He shot her a look before briefly lowering his nose to inhale deeply, his dark lashes arcing downwards to shield the dancing dark light in his eyes. ‘And then we breathe it in. We inhale its bouquet. We engage the senses before at last we feel it on our tongue to taste it, and then, at last, we savour it.’ His eyes captured hers over the rim of the glass before taking a slow mouthful of the dark red wine and moving it around his mouth in a gesture which was sheer eroticism.

‘You see, the anticipation of pleasure only adds to the eventual enjoyment—as it does with all the pleasures in life,’ he finished and waited for her to bristle with her very English disapproval. But to his surprise, she did no such thing.

‘I see,’ said Aisling faintly, completely mesmerised by the silken caress of his voice. She wondered what spell he had cast to root her feet to the spot like this, to make her want to carry on looking at that beautiful, rugged face until the end of time. To want to touch her fingertips to its glowing skin and trace the line of those perfect lips.

Oh, Aisling, Aisling, you’ve started to commit that sad sin of women nearing thirty—who believe that fairy tales really can happen.

At work, she was better equipped to deal with his charisma, yet it was as if by coming here tonight, and putting on these jeans—which were clinging rather suggestively to her bottom—she had removed whatever it was which usually kept her safe. She had put herself at risk, and she needed to do something about it. The question was what.

‘You like this wine?’ he queried.

‘I like it … very much.’

‘Perfetto.’ He took another sip, aware that his heart was pounding with a strangely slow and heavy beat. He could see the swell of her breasts brushing against the fine material of her top and, despite the warmth of the evening, how her nipples were perking in pert points.

He was aware of the sweet pain of his erection, which was pushing against him, and suddenly he felt like a schoolboy, aware that the evening had cast him into a role in which he was unfamiliar. That for once he was playing a game and he didn’t know how it would end—or even which rules to engage. Normally, when he wanted a woman he didn’t even have to try. A glance, a murmur, a hint of sensual promise in his eyes was enough to capture his quarry.

Yet with Aisling, it was different. The unthinkable had happened because he simply didn’t know whether she would be willing to be seduced. Or whether you should be breaking the rule of a lifetime and sleeping with someone with whom you have a professional relationship—someone you employ!

But he ignored the voice of his conscience—for something much more compelling was driving him. He wanted her and he would have her. ‘We should eat something,’ he said suddenly.

Aisling looked at the nearby tables, which were completely covered with food. Platters of anchovies and whitebait, and colourful dishes of salad. A whole small roasted pig sat close to pasta with wild boar and truffle sauces and yet another table was stacked with cheeses and figs and ripe peaches, the fruit tumbling over the bowls like a still-life painting.

The whole scene was exquisitely beautiful and yet, more than anything, it seemed to represent the huge differences between them. This was the kind of world Gianluca had grown up in, Aisling realised with a pang. One rich with culture and tradition and wonderful fresh food.

She recalled her own meals of something on toast—meals she’d cobbled together after school—her ear always half cocked for the door, wondering whether her mother would make it home that night.

But there might as well have been sawdust heaped on the table for all the temptation it offered and Aisling had never felt less like eating. ‘I’m just not very hungry,’ she said weakly. ‘It’s too hot to eat.’

‘Yes. Isn’t it?’ Much too hot. He felt the flicker of a pulse at his temple because he had seen her watching him and he wanted to kiss her. Instinctively, he knew that this was the moment to strike, when her lips were half parted in that unconscious invitation, when her whole body had softened—her defences down. He felt the slow, irresistible pulsing of desire.

‘Why don’t we go outside? It will be cooler there and we can look to see if there are any shooting stars. Have you ever seen one before?’ Aisling shook her head.

No? But that is an unspeakable crime!’ He smiled. ‘Don’t you know that the Italian skies are full of them?’

And despite the tension which thrummed between them like the heavy, electric atmosphere before a storm, Aisling laughed. ‘Oh, really?’

‘You don’t believe me? Then come and see for yourself.’

It was one of those life-defining moments. The forkwhich-lay-in-the-path moment. The tantalising difficulty of deciding which direction to take. Play safe like she always did—or live dangerously? The quicksand gave way beneath her feet. Just this once, she thought. just this once.

‘Why not?’ she said lightly, as if it didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter—at least, not to him.

And to her?

Aisling didn’t know. A lifetime of hard work and denial and playing to the rules had been vanquished by the tall, powerful man they called Il Tigre on that scented Italian evening. Something alien and tantalising was driving her and she was being propelled by an instinct she was in no mood to fight. Or maybe it would have taken a stronger woman than her to fight the night and the moonlight and the man. This man.

Her heart was beating very fast as they stepped out into the scented air and walked away from the noise of the party in silence, like two conspirators.

The moon was full and the sky full of stars but they weren’t moving anywhere and Aisling quickly turned her face upwards, as if to reinforce the real reason why they were out here. Except that deep down she knew it was not the real reason. Because who cared about stars?

‘Which shooting stars? I can’t see any,’ she said, in a voice which didn’t sound like her own.

‘It is a little late in the year,’ he conceded, but he wasn’t looking at the sky—his attention was captivated by a cloud of dark hair and the pale profile which looked as if it had been carved from marble—intensely beautiful because it was so unexpected. How could he have been so blind not to have seen her loveliness before?

‘You see them mostly in August,’ he said distractedly. ‘The feast day of St Lorenzo is known as the night of the shooting stars—and then you can see meteors showering the skies like fireworks. People consider them lucky and they make a wish.’

‘Gosh. How … romantic.’

‘You like that?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘And yet this morning you told me you preferred the pragmatic approach,’ he mused.

‘Did I?’ But this morning seemed a lifetime ago. She kept looking upwards towards the heavens, losing her gaze in its star-studded blackness, terrified of what she thought might be about to happen—and yet her heart was beating fast with a mad kind of eagerness because she wanted it to begin. ‘Aisling?’

His soft voice made her stop looking at the sky and turn her gaze instead to the sculpted shadows of his face. In the dim light she could see the glitter of his eyes and the gleam of his lips.

Her voice was tremulous. ‘What?’

‘Do you know what I would wish for, if I saw a star blazing across the night sky right now?’

She shook her head, so that the hair moved like a heavy silken curtain. ‘No.’

His lips curved into a mocking smile. ‘Yes, you do,’ he taunted softly as he pulled her into the shadow of a large tree and into his arms.