The Mediterranean Prince's Passion

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With an effort he hid the little flicker of irritation and shrugged. ‘Sure. So…when? Tomorrow night—or will you be busy then, too?’

She heard the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Tomorrow will be fine,’ she said steadily, but the small victory of holding out only increased her sense of apprehension.

She wasn’t dealing with the kind of man she normally came into contact with—Nico was different, and not just because he was foreign and heartstoppingly gorgeous. He flew planes and plucked women to safety from lost boats. He was, she recognised, a true alpha male, with the corresponding appetites, and she hadn’t run into enough of them to be quite sure of how to deal with him…

‘Give me your address,’ he said. ‘I’ll come and pick you up around eight. We’ll go somewhere local—unless you’d rather meet up in London?’

Ella’s mind raced. London would throw up its own problems—like getting back late after dinner and him suggesting a hotel. And she had never been the kind of woman to fall into bed with a man on a first date. Slightly appalled at the progression of her thoughts, Ella shook her head. ‘We have a lovely restaurant, close to where I live. I’ll take you there.’

At just after eight Nico jammed his finger on the doorbell, the scent of flowers drifting in the warm, heavy air towards him. Summer roses flowered in profusion around the door of her cottage—which looked as pretty as a picture you might see on an old-fashioned box of chocolates.

He felt a sense of vague detachment, as if he couldn’t quite believe where he was or what he was doing—a million miles away from his usual world and all its restraints and rules.

The door opened and suddenly he could barely think straight, for she looked utterly sensational, wearing a clinging black dress that made her body look as if it was coated in liquorice. And he could lick it all off…

A slow smile curved his mouth. ‘Ciao, Ella,’ he said softly.

Ella stared at him and words just refused to come—because…Oh, he really was gorgeous.

On Mardivino she had been captivated by his powerful strength and his spell-bindingly good looks, but now those qualities were somehow increased a thousandfold. Maybe it was seeing him away from his natural habitat—like plucking an exotic flower and placing it in a suburban garden.

His height made the proportions of her rose-covered porch resemble a doll’s house, and next to him even the softly brilliant colours of the garden flowers faded into insignificance. His skin gleamed faintly olive, and he was wearing soft, cool linen through which the hard, muscular power of his body was startlingly evident. His dark eyes gleamed with brilliance, and here, under a gentler English sun, he looked almost indecently alive—as though any other man in the world would look like only half a man next to him.

Her heart began to thunder erratically and her mouth dried to sawdust. ‘Hello, Nico.’

It occurred to him that she might have been doing her homework on Mardivino and that things might already have irrevocably changed. Did she know? He stared at her closely but her eyes showed no indication that she found out. He raised his eyebrows in lazy question. ‘Hungry?’

She felt as if food would choke her—but that was hardly the most diplomatic thing to say before a dinner date. ‘I…I hope you like the restaurant,’ she said breathlessly, for his warm, virile scent seemed to be running heated fingertips over her skin.

He smiled with satisfaction, enjoying her response. The unspoken question was already answered in his mind—for the wide-eyed look of pleasure that made her green eyes sparkle like emeralds convinced him that to her he was still just ‘Nico’.

‘You look very beautiful,’ he said softly.

Oddly enough, his flattery had the reverse effect to the one she suspected he wanted. It brought her to her senses. Made her see things for what they really were, and not how she would like them to be. She was not beautiful—she was reasonably attractive on a good day.

‘Mediterranean men are always better at giving compliments than their English counterparts,’ she observed coolly.

‘Which might explain why Mediterranean women are more gracious at accepting them,’ he countered wryly.

Oh, if only she could rewind the clock and play that scene again! Was she going to ruin the evening before it had even started? She gave him an apologetic smile. ‘You’re right.’

‘Shall we try again?’ he mocked, curving his lips into a smile. ‘You look very beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Her heart pounded. When he looked at her like that she wished…She wished he would pull her into his arms and kiss her. She wanted to touch her fingertips to his cheek, as if to assure herself that he was flesh and blood and not some figment of her imagination. But she stopped herself.

‘Would you…um, would you like a drink first?’ she asked. ‘Or shall we just get going?’

She was like a lioness protecting her den, thought Nico, and clearly nervous about letting him set foot over the threshold! He had never had to play by the rules of other men before, and now he was beginning to see the disadvantages.

He shook his dark head, recognising the need to get her on neutral territory. ‘No. Let’s go and eat,’ he said.

It was too warm for her to need a coat or wrap, and they walked side by side down the village street, which was washed amber with the light of the sun. An old man was in his front garden, dead-heading his roses, and he smiled at them as they passed.

‘Beautiful evening, isn’t it?’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Ella, stealing a look at Nico’s hard, dark profile.

The restaurant was nestled into a crook of the high street, right next to the church. It was small, and run by an enthusiastic amateur, but word had spread about its fresh, seasonal food, and in high season it was nearly always full and notoriously hard to get a booking. But on fine nights they put more tables out on the terrace and down onto the lawn beyond, and tonight was one of them.

Ella saw a couple of women turn their heads and stare hard at them as they wended their way to a table beneath a chestnut tree. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised—Nico was exceptionally good-looking, and he really did stand out in a crowd. And there weren’t exactly many Latin hunks strolling round the streets of Greenhampton!

‘You must order for me, cara,’ he said firmly once they had sat down, handing his menu straight back to the waitress.

‘What do you like?’

‘Everything. I like everything.’ His eyes were steady as they rested on her face. ‘I have very catholic tastes.’

Oh, heavens…Ella was aware of a sudden wave of helpless longing as she was caught in the soft ebony light from his eyes. It was as if a man had never looked at her before—though when she stopped to think about it no man had—not with such an undeniable message of sensuality. Yet his silent flirting did nothing to detract from his cool air of self-possession, which seemed so at odds with his warmly Latin exterior.

She ordered asparagus and prawns and chilled Montrachet, unable to miss the unmistakably flirtatious glance the waitress slanted at him—though to his credit he didn’t react in any way.

The sky was a pale Wedgwood blue, softened with apricot edges from the sun. In the distance could be heard the sporadic sound of birdsong and the occasional rattling brush of crickets. Nico had deliberately sat with his back to the other diners, and now he drank a glass of wine and expelled a long, low sigh as he felt all the tension leave his body.

‘That’s good wine,’ he murmured.

She looked up. ‘I know it is.’

He laughed, and captured her eyes. ‘So, have you lived here a long time?’

‘About three years. I went to university nearby and liked it a lot—but it wasn’t until I knew what I wanted to do that I put down roots.’

He ran the tips of his fingers reflectively around his chilled glass. ‘I don’t really know anything about you,’ he observed.

‘No.’ Ella laughed. ‘Maybe it’s because of the peculiar way we met.’

Her phrase had the slight resonance of permanence about it, and made him slightly wary—until he reminded himself that women had a habit of making every new encounter sound as though it was a contender for the Romeo and Juliet stakes. And if he wanted her—which he did—then surely he should indulge her?

He sipped his wine. ‘So tell me about yourself.’

‘Well, I studied History at university.’ She drew a deep breath, then told him about leap-frogging from job to job, about never quite feeling any real satisfaction in her work and being unable to settle to anything, until one day an American cousin of hers had complained that it was impossible to discover the ‘real’ England—that everywhere was just a plastic Ye Olde Teashoppe-type experience. Foreign visitors wanted to see places off the beaten track, places of historic interest and wonderful gardens that weren’t completely overrun by day-trippers with cameras.