encounter? Surely not? Surely anything more was out of the question?
And yet even as with her head she knew it must be, with quite a different part of her body she knew—from the heady buzz in her bloodstream and the quickened heart rate—that she was regretful that she must retire to her solitary bedroom.
That sense of restlessness she’d felt earlier filled her again. Cesare had been a long time ago—over a year ago now—and anyway, theirs had never been a physical relationship. That, she knew, would have waited until well into their engagement, or even their actual wedding night, for Cesare was a traditionally-minded Italian male.
Not many would have understood their relationship—understood that, having known each other all their lives, it had made perfect sense for them to marry one day. In the meantime, they had both been single agents, and she was well aware that Cesare—an extremely attractive male, blessed with a high social position and great wealth to boot—had indulged in many a romantic liaison.
He had accepted that such tolerance was two-way, and until they had become formally engaged she had been as free as he to indulge in affairs. She’d had only two what might be called ‘full affairs’ in her life—one with another undergrad at Cambridge, a very boy-girl romance, and one brief liaison with a visiting academic while on her PhD course on the East Coast—and that had amply sufficed.
Her dating had nearly always been with fellow academics, and usually based around concerts, films or theatre outings. Searing passion had not played a role, and its absence had not troubled her. One day, after all, she would be marrying Cesare...
Except that now she wouldn’t, after all.
She was footloose and fancy-free. If she chose to be. Free to move on from Cesare, to seek romance—free to take a break, if she wanted, from the demands of academia.
Free to be chatted up by a muscled hunk with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen in a man, let alone one of Italian origin. A man whose smile was lazy, his speech laconic, and whose expression and long-lashed deep blue eyes were telling her just how very much he appreciated her.
She jabbed at the elevator button, her feeling of restlessness increasing as she stepped inside, feeling it swoop her the couple of floors upwards in this low-rise hotel that blended so gracefully into the desert landscape.
Inside her room, she glanced at the folder with her notes, but did not open it. Instead she stripped off for bed, taking off her make-up, brushing out her hair. Wondering why her heart rate still was not back to normal.
Her dreams, when they came, were full—and unsettling.
THE CONFERENCE WAS wrapping up, with the panel of plenary speakers paying courteous tribute to each other.
Fran flexed her tired fingers, having taken copious notes throughout. Her thoughts were uncertain. She was scheduled to fly back to the West Coast with her colleagues that afternoon, but was conscious that she was reluctant to do so. She’d meant what she’d said about wanting to take advantage of the hotel’s amenities, and why shouldn’t she? She hadn’t taken any holiday time for a year—she was overdue for a break. So why not here and now?
And whether that hunky security guy chatting her up last night had anything to do with her decision, she would not consider. He’d been a catalyst for it, that was all.
The sense of restlessness that had started to well up in her again subsided, her decision made. She said as much to her colleagues, telling them that she would be staying on for a few days at the hotel.
Grinning, they informed her they were off to hit Vegas and see if their luck at the tables was holding out. Fran wished them well and waved them off. Las Vegas was one place she did not want to go to.
No, if she went anywhere it would be to see something of the western desert—maybe even, she pondered, as she headed for the reception desk to keep her room on, take one of the hotel’s tours to the Grand Canyon.
She made enquiries, took away the tour brochure, and headed into the poolside bistro to have a light lunch and go through her notes. Her mind felt wiped out from all the heavy-duty presentations, and she realised she was looking forward to a few days off.
As she tucked into her salad she found herself wondering if she would see that hunky security guy again. But if he’d been on duty the night before maybe he wasn’t around in the daytime? Or if he was maybe he wouldn’t show any further interest in her anyway? Or maybe—
‘Hi—so, conference all finished?’
The deep, gravelled voice sounded behind her, and Fran turned her head. Felt something quiver inside her as she set her eyes on his powerful body again. This time he was not in a tux, but in a dark burgundy polo shirt bearing the hotel’s logo—the words Falcone, Nevada, with a golden falcon, wings outstretched, above—that stretched across his broad, muscled chest in a way that made her want to study the contours minutely.
That internal quiver came again, and a quickening of her heart rate. She felt something lift inside her...a sense of lightness.
‘All done,’ she acknowledged. ‘Just the notes to go through.’ She gestured at the pile of papers in the folder.
He glanced at them, and then at her. ‘May I?’ He indicated the free seat at her table.
He was asking her—courteously—if he could continue their slight acquaintance. Fran saw it and registered the courtesy, the request.
She knew she was entirely free to say something like, Oh, I’m sorry, but I really do need to go through my notes straight away while they’re fresh in my head, and he would simply accept it, give her a regretful smile and stroll away. Accept her rejection.
But those words of polite rejection never came. Instead she heard her voice say, just as courteously, ‘Of course,’ and she smiled.
She felt that lift again inside her—in her body, in her spirits. Seeing him again was reinforcing the extraordinary reaction she’d had to him last night—confirming it for her. Whatever was going on, something different was happening to her.
And she would let it happen. Mentally, the decision had been made. And as he lowered his powerful frame on to the chair, with a grace and ease that she found pleasing to the eye, she knew she would let him continue with his move on her.
For a move it was—that was obvious. Inexperienced she might be, compared with many of her contemporaries, but she knew when a man was making a play for her. And this one was. Quite decidedly.
So his next words came as no surprise.
‘You’ve decided not to check out yet—I’m glad.’
She threw him an old-fashioned look. Clearly he’d had a word with the staff at the reception desk, discovered she’d extended her booking.
Nic returned her look with a bland expression. He was deliberately wearing the staff polo shirt today, to confirm the impression he guessed she had that he was one of his own employees. That suited him fine.
‘Glad?’ she queried. Challenged.
The
