He had wanted her—wanted her totally, consumingly, urgently…
He reached the end of the pool again, dived down to execute another tumble turn, twisting and propelling himself against the wall of the pool to force himself forward again, surfacing to take a gulp of air. Air that might suffocate the memory he must not allow. Cold water all around him that might quench the desire he must never allow himself to feel for her again.
Because if he did—
No!His negation came again. For Matteo’s sake, and that alone, he’d agreed to pander to the desperate fantasy of a dying man. But that wasallhe’d agreed to. From now on, whatever it took, what had happened last night must never happen again.
His time with Bianca was over—six long years over. He would keep it that way.
* * *
There was no question of her uncle being anywhere near well enough to leave his room that evening. Which meant, Bianca thought bleakly, she was going to have to face dining alone with Luca. She wished she could take the cowardly way out and ask for a simple supper tray to be brought to her bedroom, but then her spine stiffened. She wasn’t going to hide or run from Luca. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Instead, she’d do the complete opposite.
With an expression on her face that she did not like, but which was impossible to remove, she sat down at the antique dressing table and started on her make-up. War paint—that was what it was going to be. Giving herself courage and taunting Luca at the same time.
Her eyes darkened. Once upon a time—a long, long time ago, when she was a different person altogether—she’d have put on as much make-up as she could, wanting to look a total knock-out. Wanting Luca to take one look at her and instantly sweep her off to bed…
Her mouth thinned. Now she was a little more subtle about it. Her touch lighter…but just as provocative…
‘Yeah? Well, you can want, sunshine, but you ain’t touchin’!’
The echo of her old, rough, ungrammatical speech pattern was raucous in her head, and she welcomed it. It reminded her of the image he’d had of her—had looked down on her for.
As she had so bitterly, painfully discovered.
She dropped the lipstick back onto an embossed silver vanity tray, reaching for her perfume. It wasn’t the one he’d have been familiar with before—that had been overpowering, as she now realised, one of those cheap, knock-off copies of expensive names. This was a whole lot classier—the real thing and a lot more sophisticated. A quick spritz either side of her throat and on her wrists and she was done.
She got to her feet, looking at her reflection.
Tonight she’d thrown together an ensemble of jade-green evening trousers in a soft, silky material, worn with low-heeled sandals and a top in a lighter shade of green, made of similar silky material, with elbow-length sleeves. A jade pendent and matching bracelet—both her own, not gifts from her uncle—were her only jewellery. Her hair was loosely confined with a pale green scarf looped at the back of her neck.
For one long second she went on looking at her reflection. She could feel her heart thudding her chest. She was going to have to face Luca again, on her own, and somehow come to terms with what they’d done. Work out just what this insane decision to let her uncle think they really were going along with his dying dream was going to involve.
Her expression hardened again. Well, one thing it wasnotgoing to involve was anyrepetition of what had happened out on the terrace. She was never…ever…going to let Luca pull a stunt like that on her again.
For a moment—hot, humid and disastrous—she was there again. Feeling that complete paralysis of her will, of her body, as his mouth had lowered to hers, as her body had pressed against his, as he had swept her back into the past—
She rasped an indrawn breath, breaking the moment. Last night had been a warning—a warning she would heed from now on. She wasn’t letting the past come back.
Deliberately, as she strode to the door, braced herself to go downstairs to face him, she replayed his parting words to her.
‘It’s over, Bianca. Over! Accept it.’
She would keep it that way.
* * *
‘Thank you.’
Luca’s nod towards Giuseppe was both a thank-you and a dismissal, and the butler inclined his own head in stately acknowledgement and withdrew, along with the rest of the staff, leaving Luca to face Bianca across the dining table.
She’d murmured a thank-you too, as their plates had been placed in front of them and the vegetables served, their wine glasses topped up. But she had said not another word. Not aword to himself, either, since entering the dining room and taking her place opposite his. The place at the head of the table—Matteo’s—was conspicuously empty.
Luca lifted his knife and fork, made a start on his food. Across the table Bianca was doing likewise. Her face was a study. As for the rest of her…
Yet again, as she had last night, she looked nothing like the way she’d used to look in London. There—back then—she’d dressed revealingly, provocatively, flauntingly. That had been her image then—and for what he’d wanted of her it had worked. Appealed.