Mediterranean Men & Marriage: The Italian's Forgotten Baby / The Sicilian's Bride / Hired: The Italian's Bride. Raye MorganЧитать онлайн книгу.
they both grinned, and suddenly there was a bond between them that hadn’t been there before. She glanced at his mouth, remembered how sweet and silky his kiss had been, and felt herself flushing. Just thinking of it made her ache with a dusky longing that she knew she had to suppress as quickly as possible.
“So you’ve decided to come clean, have you?” he said, not noticing her discomfort. “I have to admire your courage.”
“Admire away, big boy,” she said tartly. “I deserve it.”
“You most certainly do,” he agreed.
She laughed softly, abandoning the playacting at last. “Don’t you sometimes wish you’d lived in the first half of the last century?” she said. “They seemed to have so much more heart in those days.”
“It only looks that way from a distance,” he responded cynically. “They had the same problems then that we do now.”
The waiter appeared to take their order.
“Hey, Shayna,” he whispered, giving her the eye as he presented himself. “Lookin’ good, girl.”
“Thanks, Bobby,” she said casually.
Marco narrowly avoided rolling his eyes before ordering her a soft drink and himself another whiskey. His natural male flare for competition kicked in without delay.
“An admirer of yours?” he asked once Bobby had withdrawn.
Shayna looked up, surprised. “Not really. He’s just a kid.”
“Have you ever dated him?” he asked, watching her reaction.
She gave him a look he might have considered scathing under other circumstances. “I don’t date anyone,” she said coolly.
But Marco knew she’d time to spend with him when he was here before; at least, that was the picture he got from what others told him. A strong sense of possession rose in him. He fought it back. Where in hell had he got the idea that she was supposed to be his?
An image formed in his head. A memory? Soft skin that smelled of orange blossoms, a pristine sculptured hairline, a whisper that lingered, his lips on the long curve of a neck, a warm hand sliding inside his shirt. Just as quickly as it came to him, it faded again, but it left behind a tingle of excitement. He drew in a sharp breath and steadied himself. He had to avoid this sort of thing. He was here to find his plans, not to reignite what he assumed must have been a romance.
“I take it you’ve decided to help me after all?” he noted, looking at her.
“I’ve decided to try,” she said. “I figure two heads are better than one.”
He nodded. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
She smiled, glancing at him and then away again. If he knew her motivation for changing her mind, would he still appreciate it? Maybe not. But that didn’t really matter. She was only here to make sure he left the island as soon as possible—and before he remembered who she was or why he’d been here in the first place.
“Okay Mr. Marco Smith,” she said with a quick smirk. “What do we do first?”
“The first thing I want you to do,” Marco said, gazing at her levelly, “is to tell me who you really are.”
Shayna looked up, her eyes wide and startled. “Wh-what do you mean?” she asked quickly.
Her overreaction surprised him and made him wonder, for just a moment, what she was expecting. But he went on and very soon forgot about it.
“I’ve been sitting here enjoying the sunset and musing over this strange situation.”
Bobby brought the drinks and she reached for hers as though it were a lifeline.
“What strange situation?” she murmured, wishing he would change the subject.
“Your strange situation.”
“Oh.” She took a sip of her drink put it down again, back in control. “Why don’t you explain what you mean?” she asked him, using a steady look to cover up her unease.
He sat back and studied her from under lowered lashes. “I want to know why a woman like you would be here on her own in these islands, so far from the hope of finding…oh, say a high-end department store or a five-star restaurant. It occurred to me that it just doesn’t make any sense.” He raised one dark eyebrow cynically. “What’s the story, Shayna?”
Funny, but he’d never asked her that question before. But then, he’d known who she was then—and probably guessed why she was here. He hadn’t felt the need to probe for information. Far be it from her to help him out with his personal questions. She met his gaze steadily and answered with calm deliberation.
“Here in the islands it’s okay to ask a question like that. Some people are happy to tell you all about their background. But if someone doesn’t respond, well, right away, you leave them alone. You don’t push.”
His face changed as he realized she was challenging him. “You’re telling me to back off.”
She blinked at him calmly. “Exactly.”
He set his jaw. “I don’t want to.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, gazes locked. She knew she couldn’t do this for long. Her own feelings were going to show.
Breaking away from his hard dark eyes, she made an elaborate show of sighing. “I can understand that you might feel that way, Marco. However, I came here to talk about you and your missing plans. My unusual choices in life aren’t under consideration at the moment. Let’s just leave me out of it.”
He stared at her for a few more beats before he shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, but his gaze sharpened as he looked at her and she could tell that her avoidance only increased his interest.
“Okay,” she countered. “Here’s what I want to know from you.” She leaned forward. “What’s so special about these design plans? Why can’t you just re-create what you did before?”
He half laughed, scoffing at the question. “If I can’t remember what I did, how can I re-create anything?”
She threw out her hands. “But if you can’t remember that, how do you know you produced something of genius in the first place?”
He stared at her for a moment, said something rude in Italian, then gave an extravagant shrug. “I just know.”
She shook her head, as though despairing of him, and his face lost some of its hardness as he smiled at her. “And anyway, if I could remember what was on those plans, I wouldn’t need them so badly, now would I?”
“You are maddening,” she pronounced, taking a long sip of her drink and giving him a mock glare over the rim of the glass. “But then, they do say genius is a form of insanity, don’t they?”
He shook his head as though she were a trial, but a cute one. “All right, Shayna, I’ll try to explain to you. I’ve been designing sailing ships all my life. It is my life. But I’ve only been getting major international recognition over the last few years.”
She nodded. “I’m sure you deserve it,” she murmured.
“I do,” he said boldly. “I’ve made some important innovations. The people I work for are very rich and they don’t throw their money away on useless developments. They want to win races. They hire me to help them do that.”
“I understand.”
“But I’m not the only one. There are a hundred designers who would like to take my place. Many of them work night and day, trying to beat me to the punch on new ideas, trying to win. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“And some even cheat.”
She