have reacted to the news, knowing they would be furious with her, particularly when they had already warned her to be cautious around their mother. But only Odette had had the power to tell Topsy who her father really was and, hurt and bewildered by the discovery that the man she had always believed was her father was not, Topsy would have done almost anything for that knowledge.
‘But maybe you are, gioia mia,’ Dante breathed soft and low in continuance, gazing down at her with an intensity that burned.
‘I always try to think the best of people,’ Topsy declared, her breath shortening in her throat, the undertones in the atmosphere beginning to make her skin prickle with awareness.
‘That’s asking for trouble.’
‘I don’t want to look at the world that way!’ Topsy protested vehemently.
A sardonic smile slashed Dante’s stubborn mouth. ‘But to protect yourself, you must,’ he told her drily.
Looking up at his handsome features, Topsy was suddenly swamped by such a powerful tide of longing that she felt dizzy. He was gorgeous but so different from her in every way that she could not comprehend the terrifying strength of his appeal. It’s just sexual attraction, a little voice said in the back of her head and for once that little voice was a comfort to her, for ‘just sex’ she could handle while the prospect of experiencing anything deeper unnerved her.
‘You shouldn’t be in here with me late at night,’ Topsy said abruptly, recognising the danger of being alone with him in her bedroom, instinctively trying to protect herself. ‘It’ll give the staff the wrong idea about us.’
A surprisingly boyish grin slanted his beautifully shaped mouth. ‘Non importa, bellissima mia. I don’t care about other people’s opinions—’
‘I’m not beautiful,’ she told him thinly, questioning that endearment. ‘But of course you’re an Italian male and fully living up to the stereotype with your compliments.’
‘I do think you’re beautiful and I’m no stereotype.’ Dante cradled her cheekbone, tilting her face up to better appraise eyes the colour of warm melted honey and the succulent pink mouth that haunted his dreams.
Topsy could feel her heart accelerating like an express train on a downhill run and, even worse, the instant leap of anticipation that he alone could summon. ‘Dante...go,’ she urged hoarsely.
Instead Dante bent down and pulled her up against him. ‘I want you.’
A tiny pulse flickered below her collarbone, her face taut with strain as she fought an urgent need to respond in kind. ‘Put me down,’ she told him stiffly.
‘I’m not a rabid dog. I don’t bite,’ Dante teased, burying his mouth in the soft silky tangle of dark hair between her shoulder and neck and nuzzling her skin to kiss a trail up her slender throat, which made her writhe and gasp. ‘Dio mio! I ache for you!’
Her arms linked across his broad shoulders to steady herself. ‘You only ache because I said no. If I’d said yes, you would already have lost interest,’ she condemned.
Taken aback by that condemnation, Dante tumbled her down slowly on the bed. ‘I’m not a teenager with a score card and I don’t do one-night stands.’
‘You’re not my type,’ Topsy argued shakily, looking up at him with wide, accusing eyes.
One knee on the bed, Dante bent down to mould a possessive hand to the swell of her breast, fingers withdrawing only to expertly massage the protuberant bud of her nipple through the fine covering of the silk. ‘Your body says otherwise. As for the suits you don’t like,’ Dante mused lazily. ‘Guess what? They come off!’
Her eyes softened at the teasing note in his voice, her attention arrested by the compelling smile he now wore. ‘This isn’t a game, Dante.’
‘Isn’t it?’ A doubting ebony brow rose. ‘What else can it be between us?’
And the spell of his charismatic presence broke in that same moment because what he said opposed her every thought and feeling and the shock of her recoil gave her the strength to muster her defences. In an abrupt movement, Topsy pulled away and rolled off the other side of the bed, standing up and folding her arms defensively. ‘I don’t play games, Dante. Please go.’
Dante studied her, taking in the wilful tilt of her chin, the blazing determination in her dark eyes, and wondered if that strength of character and continued resistance was what made her so powerfully attractive. When it came to women Dante very rarely met with a challenge. His clever brain coolly assessed the situation. He decided that on balance even if he hadn’t got her into bed and gratified his lust, he was content that he had redressed the damage of their confrontation earlier. He might be back almost where he had started, but at least communication channels were open again.
* * *
Topsy got into bed, weak as a twig blown down in a storm: mentally and physically, he exhausted her. In the back of her mind she had been thinking that they could have an affair. He had worn her down, weakened her into thinking such a development could be acceptable. While it was true that she had come to Italy ready to extend her experience of men if the right opportunity offered, Dante Leonetti was so far off her scale of what was acceptable in a lover that he made her think more of disaster than opportunity.
An affair wasn’t a game to her and she didn’t want to get hurt. Instinct was already warning her that the confusion of emotions she experienced around Dante went dangerously beyond basic attraction. Possibly it was infatuation, she reasoned uneasily, but only children played with fire without fear of getting burned and Topsy didn’t want to suffer so much as a scorch mark. So, on that score, Dante was strictly off limits.
VITTORE TOOK A last dissatisfied glance at the gold pendant. ‘It’s so plain,’ he lamented, clearly longing for a more bold and sparkly design.
‘I think Sofia will like it,’ Topsy told him firmly.
Vittore nodded and proffered his credit card. ‘We’ll go for coffee before I head into the office,’ he said, casting her a glance. ‘My first appointment isn’t until ten-thirty. What are you going to do?’
‘My plans are fairly loose but I think I’ll do the Uffizi again. My last visit felt rushed,’ she confided.
‘Do you get homesick for London?’ Vittore asked her, having ordered coffee at a pavement café opposite the office he used.
‘No, I’m enjoying the change of scene.’ Topsy hesitated, seeing her opening, moving to grab it. ‘When were you last in London?’
‘More than twenty years ago,’ Vittore told her, looking reflective.
‘Was it a holiday?’ she prompted, sipping at her cappuccino.
‘No. I moved to London to start up a business but it all went pear-shaped,’ he volunteered wryly.
‘What happened?’ Topsy asked quietly.
‘I fell in love with the wrong woman and she emptied my bank account,’ Vittore admitted, giving her a rueful look
