Hired for Romano's Pleasure Page 2

  No, she was not going to think about the past, she ordered herself. She was finally free from David, and in many ways her disastrous marriage had made her stronger. Never again would she allow a man to control her as her ex-husband had done.

  She strolled across the drive, inexplicably drawn towards the sports car. For the first time she understood how a car could be described as sexy. The sleek lines and scarlet bodywork demanded attention and the black leather interior was rampantly masculine. The car promised excitement and danger, and no doubt its owner would promise the same. But she did not want excitement, Orla reminded herself as she ran her hand over the sensuous curves of the vehicle.

  She had thought that her marriage to David would give her the security she had craved all her life, but she had felt vulnerable and sometimes even afraid for her safety when he had been at the red wine. His mood could change in an instant, and for a long time she had thought she’d done something wrong that had triggered his outbursts of temper.

  A flash of pain crossed her face and she instinctively lifted her hand and traced her fingers over the slightly raised three-inch scar that ran from the edge of her eyebrow up to her hairline. She wore her hair parted on one side so that it covered the scar, and make-up disguised its redness. But it would always be there, an ugly reminder of why she dared not trust her own judgement and would never trust a man again.

  She had never told anyone about the mental and physical abuse she had been subjected to during her short, unhappy marriage to an English professional cricket player. David Keegan was popular with fans and the media for his affable nature on the cricket pitch and during post-match interviews. Orla was sure no one would believe that David had a drink problem, or that alcohol turned him into an aggressive monster.

  The press had accused her of callously breaking David’s heart and ruining his career when she had left him days before he had captained the England cricket team against Australia in the famous Ashes series. England had lost the series and David had lost his captaincy. In an interview he had blamed his heartbreak over his wife’s desertion for his dire performance on the cricket pitch.

  It had been easy to blame herself for the problems in their relationship when David had constantly undermined her confidence and made her believe she was as useless as he told her she was. It had taken a physical assault by him to bring her to her senses. She’d stopped pretending that everything was all right in her marriage and acknowledged that David had killed her feelings for him. If she had stayed with him, she’d been scared that the next time he hit her, he might kill her.

  Taking back control of her life had been a hard process but Orla had discovered that she possessed a strong will and a gritty determination to survive. Returning to Villa Romano when she knew that Torre would be here was another step away from the girl with a head full of romantic dreams she had once been to the independent woman she was now.

  ‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’

  The voice from behind Orla was rich and dark like bitter-sweet chocolate laced with a hint of sardonic amusement that made her nerves jangle. She had heard the voice in her dreams countless times, but now it was real and her stomach lurched. She snatched her hand away from the car.

  It was said that some men bought high-powered, piston-throbbing cars to compensate for their own inadequacies. The last time she had seen Torre he had been twenty-four or -five, but now he was in his early thirties, and he was probably losing his hair and gaining a paunch, she told herself.

  Heartened by the thought, she spun round to face him and her heart slammed into her ribs as her eyes collided with his glittering grey gaze. She had an odd feeling that he had been staring at her rather than the car.

  Eight years ago Torre had been impossibly handsome. With his perfectly symmetrical features and impeccably groomed image he could have been a male model in a glossy magazine. Now he was even more devastating than Orla’s memories of him and his raw masculinity and smouldering sensuality evoked an incandescent heat in her blood.

  Too late she realised that she should have heeded her instincts on the journey to Villa Romano and asked Jules to turn the car around. But she was not the awestruck girl who had once believed in fairy-tales and seen Torre as her Prince Charming who would rescue her and keep her safe. She had learned the hard way that the only person who could protect her was herself and she was pleased that her voice sounded cool and crisp when she spoke.

  ‘Hello, Torre. Jules said it was you who overtook us on the Amalfi road, driving like a lunatic.’

  He smiled, revealing a flash of white teeth in his darkly tanned face. Orla felt heat unfurl in the pit of her stomach and with a sense of shock she recognised the coiling sensation low in her pelvis as desire. It had been so long since she had felt the heady sensation of sexual attraction. She’d believed that David had destroyed those feelings in the same way he had destroyed her pride and self-respect. It was disconcerting to discover that her libido was alive and fully functioning, and a disaster that it was Torre who had set her pulse hammering.

  Memories pushed into her mind of his mouth on hers. The wild sweetness of their first kiss was etched indelibly on her soul. Eight years ago he had taken everything that she had offered him with a naivety that—looking back—made her want to weep. He had taken her innocence and then he’d crushed her as if she were an insect that he had ground beneath his heel.

  ‘I admit I was driving fast but I know every twist and bend of the Amalfi road like the back of my hand,’ Torre drawled as he strolled towards her. ‘Besides, everyone needs a little danger to add spice to their life.’ His grey eyes gleamed like polished steel. He halted in front of her, so close that Orla was afraid he would notice the erratic thud of the pulse at the base of her throat, and she instinctively lifted her hand and played nervously with the gold chain she wore around her neck.

  ‘I don’t. I think it’s stupid to take unnecessary risks.’ She raised her chin so that she could look directly at his face and discovered that he was taller than she had remembered. Even though she was wearing three-inch heels, Torre towered over her. She wondered why she felt a need to challenge him when to do so was dangerous. It would be far more sensible to walk away from him. But she couldn’t seem to move. Her feet refused to follow the command sent by her brain and she was so utterly mesmerised by him that she froze when he stretched his hand towards her and took off her sunglasses.

  ‘Your eyes are the exact colour I remember them. Hazel, with flecks of olive-green,’ he murmured.

  She heard the uneven sound of her shallow breaths and was sure he must hear the loud thunder of her heart. For the past month, since she had accepted the invitation to Giuseppe’s birthday party, Orla had prepared herself for the inevitable meeting with Torre. In her mind the scene had played out with her being cool and dismissive, while Torre was contrite and regretful that he had rejected her years ago.

  But her body wasn’t following the script. She felt dizzy and light-headed—which could be a reaction to the heat, she hastened to assure herself. More difficult to explain was the heaviness in her breasts and the tingling sensation of her nipples tightening into hard peaks that she prayed were not visible beneath her dress.

  ‘Do you mind?’ She welcomed her flare of temper as she snatched her sunglasses from his hand and slipped them back on. She felt safer with her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. ‘I’m surprised you remember the colour of my eyes. I remember very little about you from eight years ago.’

  To her annoyance he did not appear to be bothered by her sharp retort and his smile widened into a grin that made Orla catch her breath. ‘Then it is fortunate that we have this opportunity to become reacquainted,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why?’ she asked bluntly. ‘I do remember that you couldn’t wait to see the back of me after we had spent the night together.’

  Torre did not seem to hear her, and the dark intensity of his stare caused the coiling sensation inside her to tug harder, sharper so that she wanted
to give in to a crazy impulse to step closer to him and press her pelvis up against his.

  She licked her dry lips and the darting movement of her tongue seemed to fascinate him. His smile faded and something almost feral sharpened his features. ‘You were lovely when you were eighteen,’ he said in a harsh tone. ‘But now... Dio—’ his voice thickened ‘—you are astonishingly beautiful.’

  Orla stared right back at him, unable to move, barely able to breathe. He filled her vision and she was as blinded by him as if she had looked directly at the sun. He looked like a fallen angel or maybe the devil incarnate. Either way, he exuded a simmering sex appeal that made her tremble deep inside.

  In the years since she had last seen Torre, his so-perfect-he-could-have-been-airbrushed features had become harder and more rugged. The sculpted angles and planes of his face were softened slightly by the sensual curve of his lips. Orla guessed that the dark stubble on his square jaw would feel abrasive beneath her fingertips, but his almost black hair would, she was sure, feel like silk if she ran her hands through its thickness.

  Around them the air was hot and still, thick with a fierce tension that threatened Orla’s composure. She could not look away from Torre, from his mouth that was somehow much too close to hers, although she hadn’t noticed him move.

  ‘People can change,’ he muttered half under his breath.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She wondered if she had misheard him or misunderstood what he’d said. Her brain wasn’t functioning properly.

  He stepped closer to her and her senses were immediately swamped by the heat that emanated from him. The spicy scent of his aftershave was evocatively familiar and she felt dizzy and strangely disconnected from reality.

  ‘Orla,’ Torre said in a low, urgent voice that rolled through her like thunder and created a storm inside her. Nothing had prepared her for the lightning bolt of sexual awareness that flared between them. She felt drawn to him as if there was an invisible cord around them that wound tighter and tighter, and her heart pounded as Torre angled his mouth over hers and his warm breath grazed her lips.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I THOUGHT YOU were going to meet me inside, Orla.’

  The sound of Jules’s voice catapulted Orla back to her senses and with a gasp she jerked away from Torre. So much for her plan to act cool around him, she thought derisively. Within moments of meeting him again she had practically thrown herself at him. Thankfully Jules’s interruption had stopped her from making a fool of herself.

  ‘I couldn’t find the housekeeper to ask where we will be sleeping so I left our cases in the guest cloakroom for now,’ Jules said. ‘Hello, Torre.’ He shook hands with his stepbrother. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  To Orla’s surprise, Jules draped his arm around her shoulders. She knew it was nothing more than a friendly gesture, yet there was something oddly possessive about the way he drew her close against his side. She glanced at Torre and saw that his eyes had narrowed and his mouth had flattened into a thin line. For a few seconds his expression was unguarded, but perhaps she imagined that he looked furious because he smiled at Jules.

  ‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Torre said evenly. ‘Cousin Claudio and his family have arrived on a surprise visit, and as the other guest rooms at Villa Romano are being used, I told Giuseppe that you and Orla can stay at my house in Ravello.’

  ‘No.’ Orla flushed when she realised that she had spoken out loud. ‘What I meant is thank you for your offer, but there won’t be room for both of us to stay at your little cottage. I’ll go to a local hotel.’

  The idea of returning to the place where she had lost her virginity to Torre was unbearable. She did not want to be reminded of how he had undressed her in the moonlight before laying her down on his bed. The night she had spent in his arms had felt like a beautiful dream but the next morning it had turned into a nightmare.

  In her mind she heard the icy condemnation in his voice as he had demanded to know why she hadn’t told him that she was the daughter of his father’s whore. ‘Were you hoping to persuade me to marry you, in the same way that Kimberly connived to get my father to take leave of his good sense and marry her? I can see the attraction of mother and daughter both getting their greedy hands on the Romano fortune.’ His cold contempt had sliced through Orla’s heart.

  He had looked cynical when she’d frantically denied that she had deliberately kept her identity a secret from him. Her stumbling explanation that she had her father’s surname, Brogan, but Kimberly used the name of another of her ex-husbands had made Torre even more furious. He had ripped away the sheet that she had wrapped around her, and his eyes had blazed with fury as he’d stared at her naked body and the tell-tale red marks on her breasts and thighs caused by the rough stubble of his beard.

  ‘You sacrificed your innocence in vain, cara,’ he had told her. ‘My father has made himself a laughing stock by marrying an obvious gold-digger, but I have no intention of making the same mistake.’

  Orla was jolted from her painful memories when Torre spoke again. ‘I demolished the old cottage a few years ago and built a much larger house in its place. There is plenty of room at Casa Elisabetta. I doubt you’ll find that any of the hotels on the Amalfi Coast have vacant rooms at the height of the summer season.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Jules said. ‘It’s always busy here at this time of year.’ He smiled at Orla. ‘You’ll like Ravello. It’s a pretty little town and the views over the bay are fantastic.’

  There was nothing she could do but agree to the new sleeping arrangements with quiet dignity, even though she wanted to stamp her feet like a toddler having a tantrum and refuse to go within a million miles of Torre’s home. Even if she could find a hotel room, she would not be able to afford it, Orla acknowledged dismally. She was at the top of her overdraft limit and had maxed out her credit cards, paying for flights between London and Chicago to visit her mother.

  ‘Good, that’s settled.’ Torre lifted his wrist to look at his watch and Orla’s eyes were drawn to the black hairs that covered his muscular forearms. He was intensely masculine and so gorgeous that her stomach muscles clenched. She could not help wondering what would have happened if Jules had not interrupted them a few minutes ago. She was sure that Torre had been about to kiss her, and she tried to reassure herself that her common sense would have prevailed, and she would not have let him. Her eyes met his and she felt embarrassed that he had caught her staring at him. He gave her a mocking smile. ‘We should go and find Giuseppe. Lunch is being served on the terrace.’

  He walked behind her and Jules as they made their way along the gravel path that curved around the side of the house. Orla felt Torre’s eyes burning into her back and she was suddenly conscious of how her dress clung to her bottom a little too lovingly. She had never noticed until now how the silky material felt sensuous against her thighs when she moved. Warmth curled through her and she was mortified when she felt a molten sensation between her legs.

  She pulled away from Jules so that his arm fell from her shoulders. ‘I’m not used to this heat,’ she muttered as an excuse. ‘I’m burning up.’

  The path led round to the rear of the villa where a wide terrace was roofed by a wooden pergola covered in vines. The leaves formed a green canopy that provided shade from the fierce heat of the midday sun, and the vines were covered with clusters of green grapes that were starting to turn purple in colour as they began to ripen.

  Orla counted twelve people sitting at the long trestle table. Giuseppe stood up to greet her. ‘Benvenuto, Orla. Welcome to Villa Romano. It has been too long since you last visited,’ he said as he kissed her on both cheeks. He turned to Jules. ‘Why have you waited so long to bring Orla back to Amalfi?’

  Giuseppe began to introduce Orla to the members of his extended family. She smiled politely as she shook hands with his various relatives, but she was puzzled by his comment. Why had he expected Jules to bring her to Villa Romano before now? Giuseppe knew that she and Jules were
friends but she felt an inexplicable sense of disquiet as she recalled the strangely secretive look that had passed between the two men. It was as if a situation was unfolding that she knew nothing about and yet she was in some way involved.

  Her new sunglasses were pinching the bridge of her nose and she took them off and slipped them into her handbag before pulling off her straw hat so that her hair tumbled down her back. From behind her she heard a muffled growl and when she turned her head, her glance crashed into Torre’s hard-as-steel gaze. Once again something tugged in the pit of her stomach. She felt dizzy. But this time she could not blame the bright intensity of the sun for the scalding heat that raced like molten lava through her veins.

  She tore her eyes from him, but not before she’d seen his sardonic expression as he watched Jules put his hand on her waist to usher her over to two vacant seats at the table.

  Forget Torre, Orla commanded herself. But it was impossible when he walked around to the other side of the table and sat down directly opposite her. A waiter offered her a choice of wine to drink with the meal but she opted for water instead. She had picked up an unpleasant vomiting virus a few days before coming to Amalfi and although the sickness had thankfully stopped, her stomach still felt delicate. In fact, she rarely drank alcohol but she ruefully acknowledged that the idea of slipping into a drunken stupor where she would not notice Torre, much less imagine his darkly tanned hands on her body, seemed infinitely preferable to staring at the tablecloth.

  Memories from eight years ago crowded her mind. Her mother had acted like a newly crowned queen following her secret wedding to Giuseppe, Orla remembered. At the party the guest list had mainly comprised Giuseppe’s cosmopolitan friends from across Europe. Most people had spoken English, and Orla had overheard their mocking comments speculating that Kimberly had married one of the richest men in Italy for his money. She had felt embarrassed but thankfully no one had taken any notice of her or seemed aware that she was Kimberly Connaught’s daughter.