Christmas in Da Conti's Bed

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‘And let Niccolò have his own way? I don’t think so. You’ve been the best of friends to me, Alannah—and I want you there. In fact, it’ll probably do Niccolò good on all kinds of levels. I’ve never heard anyone speak to him the way you do.’ She smirked. ‘Nobody else would dare.’

Alannah wondered what Michela would say if she realised how much of her reaction to her powerful brother was bravado. That her feelings for him were…complicated. Would she be shocked if she knew the truth? That she only had to look at him to want to rip the shirt from his body and feast her eyes on all that silken olive flesh? That somehow he brought out a wildness in her which frightened her. Which she knew was wrong. And not only wrong…she knew only too well that those supposedly seamless sexual fantasies were nothing but an illusion.

She forced a smile. ‘Okay, if you insist…it’ll be business as usual. In which case, we’d better get going. I know it’s traditional for the bride to keep her groom waiting on the big day, but not on the eve-of-wedding dinner!’

They took the elevator down to the iconic Midnight Room, where a large clock was set permanently at the witching hour. It was a spectacular party room designed by Emma Constantinides, the hotel owner’s wife—and had won countless industry prizes since its opening. Circular tables had been set for dinner and the dark velvet ceiling was punctured with tiny lights, so that it resembled a star-filled sky. In the silvery light from hundreds of candles, people in evening dress stood drinking champagne as the scent of dark blue hyacinths wafted through the air.

A roar of delight greeted the bride-to-be’s appearance and Alannah leaned forward to whisper in Michela’s ear as people began to surge towards them. ‘You go and sparkle,’ she said. ‘Anything you need me to check?’

Michela shook her head. She had already spotted Lucas on the opposite side of the room, talking to his mother. ‘No. You go and sparkle too,’ she said. ‘And for goodness’ sake, have a very large cocktail before we sit down to dinner. You look completely washed out, Alannah.’

But Alannah refused a drink. A drink on an empty stomach was a recipe for disaster and hers was already in knots. All she had to do was to get through the next thirty-six hours without crumbling, and surely she could do that.

And then she looked around the room and saw Niccolò—and every empowering thought flew straight from her mind as her gaze focused on him.

He was standing talking to a blonde whose sequined dress left little to the imagination and Alannah found herself thinking that he didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The woman was gazing up at him and nodding intently, as if nothing but pearls of wisdom were falling from those cruel and kissable lips. There were other women clustering nearby, too—as if he were a dark shark and they were all hungry little pilot fish, just waiting for whatever scraps he cared to leave for them.

He lifted his head as if he had sensed her watching him—glancing across the room to where she stood. And suddenly it was too late to look away. His gaze captured hers and held it and it felt as if some fierce dark light were piercing through her skin. She felt sensitive. Exposed and raw. Terrified he would see through to the dark mass of insecurities hidden beneath her cool exterior, she tried to look away, but she couldn’t. Shecouldn’t. He seemed to be drawing her in by the force of his formidable will.

Desperately, she tried to compose herself. To concentrate on something other than how beautifully the dark suit caressed his hard body, but she failed at that, too. Instead she found herself staring at the snowy edge of his dinner-shirt and the way his olive skin gleamed like burnished gold above it.

He bent his head to say something to the blonde, who turned to look at her, and Alannah thought she saw faint surprise clouding the other woman’s eyes. Had her uncomfortable stance given her away—making the woman guess that she was the outsider here?

She forced herself to turn away to talk to some of the other guests, who seemed genuinely charmed by her English accent, and for a while she allowed herself to relax before the bell rang for dinner. But a glance at the seating plan showed her that she was next to Niccolò—of course she was, for hadn’t Michela made it clear that she wanted the two of them to get along better? She wondered when her friend was going to realise that it simply wasn’t going to happen. Or at least, not in this lifetime. Her heart began thumping painfully as she made her way towards the top table.

She felt his presence behind her even before his shadow fell over the table. The palms of her hands were clammy and the race of her heart was thready, but somehow she managed to fix a wide smile to her lips as she turned to look at him.

‘Niccolò!’ she said brightly.

‘Just the person you wanted to sit beside, right?’

‘How did you guess?’ Solely for the benefit of the other guests, she maintained that brittle rictus of a smile. ‘You were right at the top of my list.’

But Alannah tensed as he leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks, just as he would have done to any other female guest. She wondered if any other female guest would have reacted the way she did, with a pulse which was threatening to rocket out of control and a desire to tip her head up so that his mouth would meet hers, instead of grazing the innocent surface of her cheek. She found herself longing to reach up to touch that hard, chiselled jaw and to feel it scrape against her fingertips. She wanted to press her lips against his ear and kiss it. And how crazy was that? How could you want a man so much when you didn’t even like him?

Stop it, she told herself as he pulled out her chair with an exaggerated courtesy, which seemed to be at odds with the mockery gleaming from his eyes. Did he know what kind of effect he had on her? Did he realise that her legs were weak and her breasts growing heavy? He sat down next to her and she could smell his warm, male flesh—as subtle and spicy as sandalwood—and all she wanted to do was to breathe it in. Reaching out, she picked up her champagne flute and took a gulp.

She could feel him watching as she drank the cold, fizzy wine but the champagne tasted as sour as a remedy you might take for an upset stomach. She put down her glass and looked at him, because they couldn’t go on like this. Not with a whole day and a half to get through.

‘I think Michela has sat us together deliberately,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Because?’

‘I think she’s hoping that we’re going to declare some sort of truce.’

‘Why—are we engaged in some sort of battle?’

‘Please don’t be disingenuous, Niccolò. You know we are. We’ve done nothing but argue since we reconnected.’ She shrugged. ‘And while that seems to be what you seem to want—I’d prefer it, and your sister would prefer it, if we could manage to be non-confrontational. At least, in public.’

Niccolò met her denim-blue eyes and gave a small dissenting shake of his head—thinking how wrong she’d got it. Because battle was the last thing he wanted. His needs around Alannah Collins were much more fundamental. He might even have contemplated a more conventional route by asking her out on a date, if she hadn’t been the kind of woman he despised.

Yet there was nothing of the precocious teenager or sexy glamour model about her tonight. The image she presented was almost demure. Her navy silk dress was high-necked and the hemline showed nothing more than an couple of inches of slender knee. A small, glittering brooch in the shape of a fluttering moth was her only jewellery. Her most magnificent assets—the breasts which had once so captured the imagination of the British public—were only hinted at and certainly not on show. All he could see was the occasional glimpse of a soft curve as the material brushed against them. He swallowed. Was she aware that it was just as provocative to conceal something, as to reveal it?

Of course she was.

Trading on her own sexuality had been her stock-in-trade, hadn’t it? She knew everything there was to know about how to pull in the punters and leave them slavering for more.

Shaking out his napkin, he placed it in his lap and scowled, recalling the first time he’d seen her at his godson’s birthday party.

He remembered looking in amazement at the silver dress, which had clung to her curvy body like melted butter, and thinking that he’d never seen anyone looking quite so alluring. Had he been frustrated? Too long without a woman? Unlikely. All he knew was that he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from her.

The look which had passed between them had been timeless. The lust which had overwhelmed him had been almost tangible. He had never experienced anything like it in his life—not before, nor since. The hardness at his groin had been almost unbearable as he had danced with her. Something elemental had caught him in its grip and he’d felt almost…lost. The dance had been simply a formality—paving the way for their first kiss. He had kissed her for a long time, tempted by a need to pull her into a dark and anonymous corner and just take her. And even though he detested being out of control…even though his own history had warned him this was not the way to go—it hadn’t been enough to deter him from acting on it.

He had been just about to drive her back to his hotel, when there had been some sort of commotion by the door. He remembered turning to see Michela giggling as she’d entered the room, accompanied by a group of boys. His sister. Large flakes of snow had been melting on her raven hair and her look of guilt when she had seen him had told its own story.

And that was when Niccolò had discovered that Alannah Collins wasn’t some twenty-something party guest, but the teenage best friend of his only sister. A wild-child who had been threatening to ruin Michela’s reputation and bring shame on the da Conti name, after he’d spent years meticulously dragging it from the mud.

Was it any wonder that he despised her?

Was it any wonder that he despised himself, knowing what he had nearly done to her?

What he still wanted to do to her.

He leaned back in his chair, paying little attention to the plates of smoked salmon which were being placed in front of them. ‘Did you ever tell Michela what happened between us?’ he questioned suddenly.

She stiffened a little before turning to look at him, her eyes narrowing warily. ‘But nothing did happen.’

‘Oh, come on.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It might as well have done. It would have done, if my sister hadn’t arrived. I’ve never had a dance quite so erotic as the one I had with you. It was a dance which was headed straight for the bedroom.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake—’

‘Does Michela realise that you would have spent the night with me if she hadn’t turned up when she did?’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘Yes, I can. And so can you. Why don’t you try being honest with yourself for once, Alannah?’ He leaned forward and his voice roughened. ‘I know enough about women to realise when they want a man to make love to them—and you were screaming out to have me do it to you that night.’

‘Really?’ She took a nervous sip of her drink.

‘And you’ve avoided answering my question,’ he persisted. ‘What exactly did you tell Michela?’

There was a pause. ‘I didn’t tell her anything.’

‘Why not?’

Alannah shrugged, reluctant to admit the truth—that she’d been too ashamed of her own reaction to want to acknowledge it to anyone and certainly not to her best friend. That she’d felt dirty and cheap. Michela had warned her that her big brother was a ‘player’. That he changed his women nearly as often as he changed his shirts. She remembered the two of them agreeing that any woman who went out with a man like him was sad. But she’d nearly been one of those women, hadn’t she? Because he was right. If Michela hadn’t walked in right then, she would have…

Briefly, she let her eyes close. She’d been so in thrall to him that he probably could have taken her outside and taken her virginity pressed up against a cold and snowy tree. She had certainly been up for going back to his hotel with him.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Why not? Because even though Michela has always thought you a total control freak, she absolutely idolised you—and I knew you were the only family she had. It wasn’t for me to disillusion her by telling her that you’d been hitting on her best friend.’

‘Hitting on her best friend?’ He gave a cynical smile. ‘Oh, please. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise I was dealing with jailbait at the time. You kept that one crucial fact to yourself.’

‘Is that why you got me expelled?’ she said, without missing a beat.

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mention your name when I withdrew Michela from the school.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you serious?’

He shrugged. ‘There was no need. I thought I was removing Michela from your bad example—what I didn’t realise was that you were going to continue the friendship behind my back.’

Alannah ran her fingertip down over her champagne glass, leaving behind a transparent stripe in the condensation. ‘But all that happened a long time ago,’ she said slowly.

‘I guess it did.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘And since your role seems to be non-negotiable, I guess I’m just going to have to be nice to you.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Me being nice?’ He watched the golden flicker of candlelight playing on her pale skin. ‘You don’t think so?’

‘Not really. I think it would be like someone hand-rearing a baby tiger and then expecting it to lap contentedly from a saucer of milk when it reaches adulthood. Naïve and unrealistic.’

‘And nobody could ever accuse you of that.’

‘Certainly not someone with as cutting a tongue as you, Niccolò.’

He laughed, his gaze drifting over fingers which he noticed were bare of rings. ‘So what has been happening to you in the last ten years? Bring me up to speed.’

Alannah didn’t answer for a moment. He didn’t want to know that her life had imploded like a dark star when her mother had died and that for a long time she had felt completely empty. Men like Niccolò weren’t interested in other people’s sadness or ambition. They asked polite questions at dinner parties because that was what they had been taught to do—and all they required was something fairly meaningless in response.

She shook her head at the waitress who was offering her a basket heaped with different breads. ‘I’m an interior designer these days.’

‘Oh?’ He waited while the pretty waitress stood close to him for slightly longer than was necessary, before reluctantly moving away. ‘How did that happen? Did you wake up one morning and decide you were an expert on soft furnishings?’

‘That’s a very patronising comment.’

‘I have experience of interior designers,’ he said wryly. ‘And of rich, bored women who decide to set themselves up as experts.’

‘Well, I’m neither rich, nor bored. And I think you’ll find there’s more to the job than that. I studied fashion at art school and was planning to make dresses, but the fashion world is notoriously tough—and it’s difficult to get funding.’ Especially when you had the kind of past which meant that people formed negative judgements about you.

‘So what did you do?’

‘I worked for a big fashion chain for a while,’ she continued, pushing her fork aimlessly around her plate. ‘Before I realised that what I was best at was putting together a “look”. I liked putting colours and fabrics together and creating interesting interiors. I spent a few years working for a large interiors company to gain experience and recently I took the plunge and set up on my own.’

‘And are you any good?’ he questioned. ‘How come I’ve never heard of you?’

‘I think I’m good—have a look at my website and decide for yourself,’ she said. ‘And the reason you haven’t heard of me is because there are a million other designers out there. I’m still waiting for my big break.’

‘And your topless modelling career?’ he questioned idly. ‘Did that fall by the wayside?’

Alannah tried not to flinch, terrified he would see how much his question had hurt. For a minute back then she’d actually thought they were sticking to their truce and talking to each other like two normal human beings. ‘This is you being “nice”, is it, Niccolò? Behaving as if I was something you’d found on the sole of your shoe?’

His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘All I’m doing is asking a perfectly legitimate question about your former career.’

‘Which you can’t seem to do without that expression of disgust on your face.’

‘Wouldn’t anyone be disgusted?’ he demanded hotly. ‘Isn’t the idea of a woman peddling her flesh to the highest bidder abhorrent to any man with a shred of decency in his bones? Although I suspect the end-product must have been spectacular.’ There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Alannah Collins shaking her booty.’

His last few words were murmured—and Alannah thought how unexpected the colloquialism sounded when spoken in that sexy Sicilian accent of his. But his words reminded her that what you saw wasn’t necessarily what you got. Despite his cosmopolitan appearance and lifestyle, Niccolò da Conti was as traditional as they came. His views and his morals came straight from another age. No wonder his sister had been so terrified of him. No wonder she’d gone off the rails when she had been freed from his claustrophobic presence and judgemental assessment.

‘Those photographs were stills,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I never shook anything.’

‘Ah, but surely you’re just splitting hairs.’ He gave a dangerous smile, his finger idly circling the rim of his untouched champagne glass. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me that cupping your breasts and simulating sexual provocation for the camera while wearing a school uniform is a respectable job for a woman?’

Alannah managed to twist a sliver of smoked salmon onto the end of her fork, but the food never made it to her mouth. ‘Shall I tell you why I did that job?’

‘Easy money, I’m guessing.’

She put the fork back down. Oh, what was the point? she thought tiredly. He didn’t care what had motivated her. He had judged her—he was still judging her—on the person she appeared to be. Someone who had danced too intimately with a stranger at a party. Someone who had gone off the rails with his beloved sister. Someone who had discovered that the only way to keep hope alive had been by taking off her clothes…

Who could blame him for despising her—for not realising that she was so much more than that?

She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think polite interaction is going to be possible after all. There’s actually too much history between us.’

‘Or not enough?’ he challenged and suddenly his voice grew silky. ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea to forge some new memories, Alannah? Something which might cancel out all the frustrations of the past?’

Alannah stiffened. Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? Was he flirting with her? She swallowed. And if he were? If he were, she needed to nip it in the bud. To show him she respected herself and her body.

She slanted him a smile. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. I think we need to avoid each other as much as possible. We’ll support Michela all the way and try not to let our mutual animosity show, but nothing more than that. So why don’t you do me a favour and talk to the woman on your other side? She’s been trying to get your attention since you first sat down and she’s very beautiful.’ She picked up her wine glass and took a sip, her eyes surveying him coolly over the rim. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed that, Niccolò.’

CHAPTER THREE (#uf254b902-496b-597c-8017-34bdf8b76b69)

IT WAS THE worst night he’d had in a long time, or maybe it was just that Niccolò couldn’t remember ever losing sleep over a woman before. He lay tossing and turning in the king-size bed of his hotel room, trying to convince himself that Alannah had been right and the less time they spent together, the better. But every time he thought about distancing himself from those denim-blue eyes and that pouting, provocative mouth he felt an uncomfortable ache deep inside him.

What was the matter with him?

Kicking away the rumpled sheet, he told himself she wasn’t his kind of woman—that she represented everything he despised in a sometimes trashy and disposable society.

Abandoning all further attempts to sleep, he dealt with his emails and spoke to his assistant in London, who informed him that Alekto Sarantos was still unhappy with the interior of the penthouse suite. The Greek billionaire had let it be known that the apartment’s design was too ‘bland’ for his tastes and, despite a close association going back years, he was now considering pulling out of the deal and buying in Paris instead. Niccolò silently cursed his temperamental friend as he terminated the phone-call and wondered how soon he could decently leave after the wedding to return to work.

Pulling on his gym gear, he went for a run in Central Park, where the bare trees were etched dramatically against the winter sky. Despite his restless night and the fact that little was in bloom, his senses seemed unusually receptive to the beauty which surrounded him on this cold winter morning. There were ducks and gulls on the lakes and woodpeckers were tapping in the trees. Other runners were already out pounding the paths and an exquisite-looking blonde smiled hopefully at him, slowing down as he approached. But he didn’t even bother giving her a second look. Her eyes were glacial green, not denim blue—and it was that particular hue which had been haunting his sleep last night.