two of uncertainty, very definitely the moon and not the sun.
Her internal clock was still a mess, even after nearly a week in California, and she only had to lie there a little while before she accepted the reality that she was not going to fall back asleep. Not tonight.
She swung her feet over the side of the tall, canopied bed piled high with soft linens, and dressed quickly in the clothes she’d left draped over her chair, a simple pair of terry lounging trousers and a cashmere hooded top. She twisted her hair back out of her way, tying it in a knot at her nape. She wrapped a long merino wool sweater around her to cut the chill, and then she pushed open the glass doors that led out onto her balcony and stepped outside.
The moon was huge and so bright it lit up the whole of the valley and all Kathryn could see in all directions, pouring over the cypress trees and dancing over the gnarled rows of vines. Making the pockets of night where it didn’t touch even darker, and turning the world a spectral silver. The breeze was high, whipping into her, just cold enough to feel like exhilaration.
She closed her eyes and leaned into it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” asked a low male voice from far too close. “Perhaps it’s your conscience.”
Kathryn looked over, as slowly as possible, as a counterpoint to the sudden clatter of her heart. She’d forgotten that the balconies of these rooms all ran together here at the far end of the château, despite half walls between the rooms that were little more than decorative gestures toward privacy and did nothing to conceal her from Luca. Nothing at all.
He was sprawled on one of the soft loungers, wearing nothing but a pair of exercise trousers very low on his hips, as if he was impervious to the winter air around him.
And the moonlight crawled all over him. Sliding across that vast expanse of his chest, cavorting in the ridges and hollows, licking him and writhing over him, illuminating every inch of his shocking male beauty. And doing nothing at all to temper that stark expression on his face or that dark hunger in his eyes.
“Says the man who’s clearly been out here awhile,” Kathryn replied. Lightly. So very lightly. As if he was nothing to her. As if his voice did nothing to her. As if this was as unremarkable as having any other sort of meeting with him in the broad daylight, surrounded by other people.
But it was as if he knew exactly what she was trying to hide, or perhaps the moon showed him far too much, because he made it worse. He stood.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” he said in a low voice, his gaze still on her. “Something I’m certain I’ll regret. But that is nothing new.”
The clatter of her heart became a deep bass drumming.
Luca raked back that thick fall of hair, the gesture as lazy as his hot eyes were not. Then he started toward her in that low, rolling gait that marked him as exactly the sort of predator she needed most to avoid.
Kathryn knew she shouldn’t try to tough this out. She knew that there was no shame at all in simply turning tail and running, barring herself in her room against a man who looked at her with that much intent. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t let him see how much he affected her. She couldn’t let him know how he got to her. She couldn’t.
More than that, she couldn’t seem to move.
He walked over to the little half wall and then, his eyes never leaving hers, he simply swung himself over it with an offhanded show of male grace that made everything inside Kathryn clench tight. Then run hot, pooling low in her belly and making her think she might simply melt where she stood. Making her think that perhaps she already had.
Luca didn’t stop. He walked straight to her and he sank his hands in her hair and he hauled her close to him. To that mouth of his, dangerous and impossible and lush. To his flashing dark eyes that saw too much and condemned too deeply.
“What are you doing?” she asked again.
But her voice was a whisper, not a protest, and he knew it. She could tell by the way his fingers sank deeper into her hair, holding her that much more immobile.
“Sleepwalking, I think,” he told her in that low voice of his that wound around inside her, making her burn. “It’s a terrible habit. Worse than alcohol. There’s no telling what I’ll do in the middle of the night and then forget come morning.”
“Luca—”
“I’ll show you what I mean.”
His voice was little more than a growl.
And then he slid his mouth over hers.
KATHRYN TOLD HERSELF it was a dream.
The moonlight. This man.
It was a dream, that was all, and so it didn’t matter if she simply opened to him. If she let him sweep her up his bare chest, cool to the touch but still so hard, like steel. If she made no sign of protest.
If all she did was kiss him back as hungrily and greedily as if she’d been the one to go to him.
And everything was heat. Fire. Need and longing made real in the silvery night.
His hands were big and hard, slipping from her hair to cradle her face, holding her where he wanted her.
And he plundered her mouth, using his lips and his teeth and that clever tongue of his, angling his jaw to take the kiss deeper, wilder.
She felt dizzy again—unmoored and lost—and was only dimly aware that he’d hauled her off the ground and up into his arms. She didn’t care. It was a dream, so what did it matter if he was carrying her somewhere, his mouth still fused to hers? He was tall and so very strong, and the feel of him surrounding her made her shake and quiver deep inside.
He walked back through her door and straight to her bed, laying her across the piled-high linens and following her down into the clutch of all that softness, and it was...astonishing. There was no other word for the press of him against her, so male and darkly perfect, so hard and Luca. There was no other way to describe that absurdly sculpted body rubbing all over hers.
Making her feel new. Like a strange creature, red-hot and molten, taking over the body she’d thought until this moment she knew so well.
This is only a dream, she told herself, and so she indulged herself.
He stroked his way deep into her mouth, tasting her deeply, and she met him. She ran her fingers through that thick dark hair of his, crisp and warm to her touch. She traced the magnificent line of his wide, muscled back down to his narrow hips, then worked her way back up those ridges on his abdomen that she could admit, here in this dream where nothing counted, fascinated her to the point of distraction.
Beyond that point, perhaps.
He tore his mouth from hers even as his hands moved. He propped himself up on one forearm and smoothed his other hand over her cashmere top, pausing at the top and then tugging—and it was a measure of how dazed she was that she didn’t comprehend
