was her turn to smile. ‘I’m famished.’ She turned her head away, forced herself to move, clumsily at first, awkward in making her body move away from where it most wanted to be, before sinking gratefully into a chair. ‘What’s for dinner?’
Rafe watched her go, bemused by her sudden change of mood. Seconds ago she’d been his for the taking. Seconds ago the meal had been all but forgotten and promised to be long cold before they returned to it.
She wanted him, she’d made that more than plain with her parted lips and hitched breathing. She had wanted him then and she still wanted him, if the flame-red cheeks and the way she studiously refused to meet his eyes were any indication. She was just determined not to give in to it. Just like the last time, when she’d played hard to get.
But just like last time she would capitulate. And just like last time it would be worth the wait.
It wouldn’t take long. He’d give her until the end of tonight’s meal. And then he’d soon change her mind about leaving any time soon. One night had not been enough; he couldn’t imagine it being enough again. And, after the last few frenetic weeks, he deserved a little relaxation. What better way to get it?
Rafe sighed as he joined her at the table, pulling a chilled bottle from the antique silver ice bucket before reaching over to pour her a glass of the local wine, already looking forward to the next few nights. He needed a distraction from worries about casinos and international financing and rebuilding the world’s trust in Montvelatte. He needed something to persuade Sebastiano to ease off on the wife hunt. Just for a while.
‘No,’ she said, holding up one hand. ‘No wine, please.’
He held up the bottle so that she could see the label. ‘Are you sure? It’s a vintage San Margarita Superiore, the island’s pride and joy.’
She was shaking her head, the internationally acclaimed wine label with its clutch of gold-medal stickers from a dozen different wine shows clearly making no impression.
He moved the bottle and poured some of the straw-coloured liquid into his own glass. ‘Are you worried I might get you drunk and try to seduce you?’
For the first time since he’d sat down, her eyes flicked up to meet his. ‘Not at all. I’m worried I have to fly a helicopter tomorrow morning and I’m being professional. But if my caution stops me from doing something unwise into the deal, so much the better.’
He raised his eyebrows at her words, and at the opening she’d given him. ‘And would this thing you might otherwise do be so unwise?’
She flicked a napkin in her fingers, unfolding it before letting it settle on her lap. ‘I think so.’
‘Even though it might also be very pleasurable?’
Her chin set, she turned those deep honey-coloured eyes up to his once again, any intended coolness belied by the twin slashes of red adorning her cheeks, and he knew she was remembering, as was he, just how pleasurable that night had been.
‘It would be a mistake,’ she said, her tone defiant, ‘and wherever possible, I try to avoid making the same mistake twice.’
The words grated on his senses, as did her ability to turn defensiveness into attack. He replaced the bottle in the ice bucket with a satisfying crunch, half tempted to tell her she wasn’t going anywhere tomorrow or any time soon until he was good and finished with her.
But as he’d seen before, that would merely fuel her resistance. And he didn’t want resistance. He wanted her warm and willing and begging him to fill her. And he wanted it all tonight.
Rafe forced a smile to his lips as he raised his glass to her in a toast. ‘Then we must ensure you are not tempted to repeat any of the so-called mistakes of the past. Please, eat up.’
Sienna did eat up, as course after course of the most amazing food was delivered steaming-hot to her door. And she knew it must be amazing from the descriptions he gave her along the way, though she never tasted a thing, not the crayfish-filled ravioli or the lightly dusted tender calamari. Even the most succulent quail was completely wasted on her. The fine textures she could appreciate, but nothing of the taste.
Not with him sitting there, so close, so larger than life.
A man she had slept with once before.
A man who had made it plain that he wanted to sleep with her again.
And, if she were true to herself, a man who, despite everything, tempted her more than she cared to admit.
‘Why did Signorina Genevieve come today?’ she asked, as she contemplated the stunning dessert that had been placed before her. Fresh berries and cream lay sandwiched between wafers of meringue, creating a tower of colour and summer delights circled with a raspberry coulis and sprinkled with icing sugar, and she honestly wished she could appreciate it more, but the question had been circling through Sienna’s thoughts for some time. That and the reason for the woman’s sudden departure from the island so soon after arriving. The young woman had been in good spirits during their flight, and, even though she hadn’t spoken a word to Sienna, it had been clear through her animated conversation with her mother how excited she had been to be travelling to Montvelatte. Sienna had figured her own reason for the visit, but given her sudden departure, now she wasn’t so sure. ‘Surely she would have stayed longer.’
Across the table Rafe leaned back, dragging in a breath. He crossed fingers in his lap, even though she could tell by the tightness of his shoulders that he wasn’t as relaxed as he made out. ‘She came for an interview, that’s all.’
‘She was applying for a job?’
This time he gave an ironic laugh. ‘You could say that. My adviser seems to be obsessed with finding Montvelatte a princess. Which unfortunately involves finding me a wife.’
‘A wife?’ Sienna dragged in her own breath and fiddled with the placement of her napkin. Rafe was getting married?
She should have seen it coming. It wasn’t a constant supply of high-class mistresses he’d had ferried to the island over the last couple of weeks—since when did they take their mothers with them?—it was potential brides.
And somehow that was no relief at all.
She did her best to inject some amusement into her voice. ‘And this is how princes of Montvelatte find their wives, is it? By interview? How very romantic.’
Rafe reached for his wine glass and swirled the white wine in lazy circles, but he didn’t take a sip. ‘Romance doesn’t enter the equation. A direct Lombardi descendant must take the throne, or the principality loses its right to exist. This is all about ensuring that doesn’t happen.’
‘That sounds very melodramatic.’
‘Simply fact. Montvelatte’s right to exist is predicated on the continuation of the line.’
‘So that’s where you came in.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Even bastards have a purpose, it seems.’
His self-deprecating manner didn’t fool her for a second. ‘That’s what was happening—that night—when the news broke on the television and they carted away your two half-brothers. You knew then, didn’t you? You knew
