a moment—just a moment—she was motionless, as if all the shimmering pleasure he’d aroused in her with only a single kiss had made it impossible for her to move. She could do nothing except meet that amused, lidded gaze resting on her like a tangible pressure.
Then, with a little jolt, she pushed open the car door. Swallowed. In a daze she got out, fumbled for her keys, found them and shakily inserted them into the lock of the outer door of her apartment building. Then she made herself turn to look back at him. Bade him goodnight in a voice that was no longer bright and crisp.
He said nothing, merely inclining his head as she turned away, let herself into the cobbled inner courtyard, shut the heavy outer door behind her.
She heard the throaty growl of his car as he moved off. On shaky legs she went up to her apartment, and only when inside its sanctuary did she feel able to breathe again.
* * *
Cesare strolled to the window of his Rome apartment and gazed unseeing out over the familiar roofline. The large plate glass window of the modern designed space was glaringly different from the richly historical interiors of his other properties, and it gave a wide view over the city even at this midnight hour. He did not step out onto the large adjoining balcony; instead he merely continued to stand, hands thrust into his trouser pockets, legs slightly astride.
Was he being wise? That was the question that was imposing itself upon him. Was it wise to pursue what had been, after all, only the impulse of a moment—following through on a momentary glimpse of the woman who had caught his eye? Following through sufficiently to decide that it was worth spending an evening of his life in her company. Worth considering, as he was now considering, whether to pursue a liaison with her.
There were many reasons to do so. Uppermost, of course, was the intensity of his physical response to her. Unconsciously he shifted position restlessly, his body aware that a single kiss had only whetted the appetite that he could feel coursing through his blood. It was an intensity that had, he acknowledged, taken him by surprise. But was that reason enough to do what he knew his body wanted him to do?
Before he could answer, he knew from long experience that there was another question he must answer first.
Will she understand the terms of our liaison?
The terms that governed his life just as they’d governed all who had borne his ancient name and title. Had been hammered into him by his own dictatorial father who’d constantly impressed upon him his heritage, and yet who’d regarded him as favouring too much the mother whose outward serenity Cesare was sure had concealed an unvoiced regret.
Her husband had objected to her having any interests outside her responsibilities as his contessa, and she had confined her life to being the perfect chatelaine, the mother of his heir. His father had taken his son’s sympathy for his mother as a reluctance to respect the demands of his heritage, and after his mother’s premature death from heart disease, when Cesare was only nineteen, the rift between them had widened without her presence as peacemaker.
But when his father had died, some eight years later, he’d been determined not to neglect any aspect of his inheritance, dedicating himself to its preservation. If his father could see him now, half a dozen years on, perhaps his harsh judgement would be set aside.
The words that he had uttered only that evening, in front of the Luciezo painting of his sixteenth-century forebear, floated in his head.
‘Pride in his family, his lineage, his honour—all that he owes his house...’
With the echo of those words his thoughts came full circle back to the woman to whom he had spoken them. Did she understand why he had said what he had about his ancestor—about himself? It was essential that she did. Essential that she understood that, for him, one thing could never change.
In his mind’s eye two images formed—the other portraits in the triptych, the Count’s wife and his mistress. Separate for ever, coming from different worlds that could never meet.
Four centuries and more might distance him from Count Alessandro and the women who made up the triptych, but for himself, too, his countess would need to share his own background. Not because of any heraldic quarterings she possessed, but because only a woman from the same heritage as himself could truly understand the responsibilities of such a heritage. That was what his father had instilled into him. He had even identified for him the very woman who would make him the perfect next Contessa...
His expression changed and he stared out over the roofs of this most ancient city into whose roots his own ancestry reached. The lineage of a patrician of Ancient Rome was still traceable in his bloodline.
The woman who would be his Countess was well known to him—and she was not, nor ever could be, a woman such as the one he had embraced a brief hour ago, fuelling in him a desire for satiation that he must not yield to.
Not unless—until—he could be sure she accepted what could be between them. And what could not.
As, too, must he. That, also, was essential...
CARLA STARED AT her screen. She still had six hundred more words to write for her article, and she was making heavy weather of it. She knew exactly why.
Cesare di Mondave.
He was in her headspace—had been totally dominating it, consuming every last morsel of it, since she’d made it into her apartment the night before, senses firing, aflame.
All through her sleepless night she’d replayed every moment of the evening over and over again—right up to that final devastating moment.
Cesare kissing her...
No! She must not let herself remember it again! Must not replay it sensuously, seductively, in her head. Must instead force herself to finish her article, send it into the impatiently waiting sub-editor at her office.
But even when she had she was unbearably restless, her heart beating agitatedly.
Will he phone me? Ask me out again? Or—a little chill went through her—has he decided he does not want me after all?
Face set, she made herself some coffee. She should not be like this—waiting for a man to phone her! She should be above such vulnerability. She was a strong-minded, independent woman of twenty-seven, with a good career, as many dates as she cared to go on should she want to, and there was no reason—no good reason!—for her to be straining to hear the phone ring. To hear the dark, aristocratic tones of Cesare di Mondave’s deep voice.
And yet that was just what she was doing.
The expression in her eyes changed. As she sipped her coffee, leaning moodily against the marble work surface in her immaculate kitchen, more thoughts entered her head. If last night’s dinner with Cesare was all there was to be between them she should be relieved. A man like that—so overwhelming to her senses—it was not wise to become involved with. She’d known that from the moment he’d first spoken to her, declared his interest.
But where was wisdom, caution, when she needed them? She felt her pulse quicken again as the memory of that kiss replayed itself yet again.
With a groan, she pulled her memory away. She shouldn’t
