The Italian's Love-Child. Sharon KendrickЧитать онлайн книгу.
black eyes, the Roman nose and an autocratic mouth which was both luscious and cruel.
He was striking and innately sexy, with a careless confidence which drew the eye and made it stay. In a room full of rich, successful men he stood out like some beautiful, exotic creature—his golden-olive skin gleaming like softly oiled silk, his body all packed, tight muscle. He looked like the kind of man who would command without even trying—an arrogant aristocrat from another age, yet a man who was essentially modern.
Eve was used to assessing people quickly, but her eyes could have lingered on him all evening. He wore his clothes with elegant assurance—a creamy shirt which hinted at a sinewed body beneath and dark, tapered trousers emphasising legs which were long and hard and muscular. He was very still, but that did not mask some indefinable quality he had, some shimmering vibrancy, which made every other man in the room fade into dull insignificance.
He had slanted his head to one side, listening to a tiny blonde creature in a sparkling dress who was chatting to him with the kind of enthusiasm which suggested that Eve wasn’t alone in feeling a gut-wrenching awareness that she was in the presence of someone out of the ordinary. But why should that surprise her? A woman would have to be made out of stone not to have reacted to that package of unmistakable, simmering sensuality.
‘Eve?’
Her reverie punctured, Eve turned her head to see her host standing beside her, holding a bottle of champagne towards her almost-empty glass. ‘Can I tempt you with another drink?’
She hadn’t been planning to stay long and she had intended her first drink to be her last, but she nodded gratefully, welcoming the diversion. ‘Thanks, Michael.’
The drink fizzed into the flute and she glanced around the room. The blinds had been left open, but with a view like that you would never want to draw them. Moonlight and starlight dipped and dazzled off the lapping water outside and the excited chatter, which had reached fever-pitch, gave all the indications of this being a very successful evening indeed.
She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to birthday parties—your wife is a very lucky woman!’
‘Ah, but not everyone likes surprises,’ he said.
Eve’s eyes strayed once more to Luca. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said slowly as her heart began to bang against her ribcage. ‘Great party, anyway.’
Michael smiled. ‘Yeah. And great you could make it. Not everyone can boast that they have a television personality at their party!’
Eve laughed. ‘Michael Gore! You’ve known me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper! You’ve seen me with grazed knees in my school uniform.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘And I hardly think that presenting the breakfast show on provincial television classifies me as anything as grand-sounding as “television personality”.’
Michael smiled back. ‘Ah, but the girl’s done good,’ he said.
Maybe the girl had, but right then she felt as vulnerable as that schoolgirl with grazed knees. And, to her horror, she realised that she had gulped most of the drink down and that Luca—if indeed it was Luca—was still listening to the animated blonde. And that the last thing she needed in her life was the complication of a charismatic, complicated kind of man who was every woman’s dream. Eve had learnt early in life that it was important to have goals, just so long as you kept them realistic.
‘And the girl needs her sleep,’ she sighed. ‘Getting up at three-thirty every morning tends to have a negative effect on your long-term energy reserves. You won’t mind if I slip away in a while, Michael?’
‘I will mind very much,’ he teased. ‘But not if your legion of fans are going to blame us for deep, dark shadows under your eyes! Go when you like—but why not come back for lunch again tomorrow, when the show’s over? There will be stacks of stuff left and Lizzy and I have hardly had a chance to talk to you all evening.’
Eve smiled. It would give her the opportunity to play with her god-daughter who had been tucked up in the Land of Nod all evening. ‘Love to,’ she murmured. ‘About twelve?’
‘See you at twelve.’ He nodded.
She was tempted to ask him what Luca was doing there, but she was not a guileless teenager now—and what could she say, even if she was being her most casual and sophisticated? Who’s the man talking to the blonde? Or, Who’s the tall, dark, handsome hunk? Or even if she plucked up courage to say, Is that Luca Cardelli, by any chance?—all those would make her sound like a simpering wannabe!
But maybe Michael had seen her eyes straying over to the dark, still figure.
‘You know Luca Cardelli, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘Vaguely.’ She gave it just the right amount of consideration and kept her voice casual. ‘He was here one summer, about ten years ago, right?’
‘Right. He sailed on a big white boat,’ said Michael, and sighed. ‘Absolutely beautiful. Wonderful sailor—he put the rest of us to shame.’
Eve nodded. ‘I didn’t know he was a friend of yours?’
Michael shrugged. ‘We were mates that summer and we’ve kept in touch, though I haven’t seen him for years. But he emailed to tell me he was in London on business, and so I invited him down.’
She wondered how long he was staying, but she didn’t ask. It was none of her business and it might send out the wrong message. There would be enough women here tonight fighting to get to know him, if the body language of the blonde was anything to go by.
‘Oh, look—someone’s setting off fireworks!’ she murmured instead as in the distance the sky exploded into fountains of scarlet and blue and golden rain, and luckily Michael went to refuel someone else’s glass, giving her the opportunity to go and stand by the window and watch the display, alone with her thoughts and her memories.
Luca watched her, at the way her bottom swayed against the silky green material of her dress as she walked towards the window. People were covertly watching her and he wondered why. But he had noticed her before that, even before she had started staring at him, and then pretending not to, but then, that was nothing new.
He had grown up used to the lavish attention of women right across the age spectrum ever since he could remember. He didn’t even have to try and sometimes he wondered what it would be like if he did. The most rewarding business deals he had pulled off had been the ones he had really had to fight for—but women weren’t like business deals.
He had been born with something which attracted the opposite sex like bees to honey and, when he had reached the age of noticing women, had quickly discovered that he could have whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted and on whatever terms he wanted. Very early on, he had learned the meaning of the expression, ‘spoiled for choice’.
‘Luca!’
He narrowed his eyes. The tiny blonde was pouting. He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Mmm?’
‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying!’
She was right. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled, gave an expansive shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I feel guilty. I have been monopolising you, when there are so many men here who would wish to speak to you.’
‘You’re the only man I want to talk to!’ she declared shamelessly.
‘But that is unfair,’ he responded softly. ‘Sì?’
The blonde wriggled her shoulders. ‘Oh, I just love it when you speak Italian,’ she confided.
He stared down into the widened blue eyes—deep and blue like a swimming pool and just begging him to dive in. Unconsciously, she snaked the tip of her tongue around her parted lips, so that they gleamed in invitation. It was almost too easy. She could be in his bed within the hour. At twenty-two, he would have been tempted. A decade later and he was simply jaded.
‘Will you excuse me?’ he murmured. ‘I