You call us old men?’ Giuseppe demanded, a split second ahead of Luigi’s query,
‘What are you doing going home? It’s early.’
‘Why do you think they’re going home?’ Gianna disputed. ‘They’re young. They want to, make love.’
‘Perhaps we should fool them and stay,’ Aysha suggested in an audible aside, and Carlo shook his head.
‘It wouldn’t make any difference.’
‘But I haven’t had my coffee.’
‘You don’t need the caffeine.’
‘Making decisions for me?’
‘Looking out for you,’ Carlo corrected gently. ‘A few hours ago you had a headache. Unless I’m wrong, you’re still nursing one.’
So he deserved full marks for observation. Without a further word she turned towards Luigi and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then she followed suit with her father before crossing to Teresa and Gianna.
Saying goodbye stretched out to ten minutes, then they made it to the car, and seconds later Carlo eased the Mercedes through the gates and out onto the road.
‘YOU threw me to the lions.’
‘Wrong century, cara,’ he informed her wryly. ‘And the so-called lions are pussy cats at heart.’
‘Teresa doesn’t always sheath her claws.’ It was an observation, not a condemnation. ‘There are occasions when being the only chick in the nest is a tremendous burden.’
‘Only if you allow it to be.’
The headache seemed to intensify, and she closed her eyes. ‘Intent on playing amateur psychologist, Carlo?’
‘Friend.’
Ah, now there’s a descriptive allocation, Aysha reflected. Friend. It had a affectionate feel to it, but affection was a poor substitute for love. The all-encompassing kind that prompted men to kill and die for it.
She lapsed into silence as the car headed down towards Double Bay.
‘How’s the headache?’
It had become a persistent ache behind one eye that held the promise of flaring into a migraine unless she took painkillers very soon. ‘There,’ she informed succinctly, and closed her eyes against the glare of oncoming headlights.
Carlo didn’t offer another word during the drive to Clontarf, for which she was grateful, and she reached for the door-clasp as soon as the car drew to a halt outside the main entrance to the house.
Aysha turned to thank him, only to have the words die in her throat at his bleak expression.
‘Don’t even think about uttering a word,’ he warned.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she dismissed wearily. ‘You’re intent on playing nurse.’
His silence was an eloquent testament of his intention, and she slid from the car and mounted the few steps to the front door.
Within minutes he’d located painkillers and was handing them to her together with a tumbler of water.
‘Take them.’
She swallowed both tablets, then spared him a dark glance. ‘Yessir.’
‘Don’t be sassy,’ he said gently.
Damn him. She didn’t need for him to be considerate. Macho she could handle. His gentleness simply undid her completely.
Aysha knew she should object as he took hold of her hand and led her to one of the cushioned sofas, then pulled her down onto his lap, but it felt so good her murmur of protest never found voice.
Just close your eyes and enjoy, a tiny imp prompted.
It would take ten minutes for the tablets to begin to work, and when they did she’d get to her feet, thank him, see him out of the door, then lock up and go to bed.
In a gesture of temporary capitulation she tucked her head into the curve of his neck and rested her cheek against his chest. His arms tightened fractionally, and she listened to the steady beat of his heart.
She’d lain against him like this many times before. As a young child, friend, then as a lover.
Memories ran like a Technicolor film through her head. A fall and scraped knees as a first-grade kid in school. When she’d excelled at ballet, achieved first place at a piano recital. But nothing compared with the intimacy they’d shared for the past three months. That was truly magical. So mesmeric it had no equal.
She felt the drift of his lips against her hair, and her breathing deepened to a steady rise and fall.
When Aysha woke daylight was filtering into the room.
The main bedroom. And she was lying on one side of the queen-size bed; the bedcovers were thrown back on the other. She conducted a quick investigation, and discovered all that separated her from complete nudity was a pair of lacy briefs.
Memory was instant, and she blinked slowly, aware that the last remnants of her headache had disappeared.
The bedroom door opened and Carlo’s tall frame filled the aperture. ‘You’re awake.’ His eyes met hers, their expression inscrutable. ‘Headache gone?’
‘You stayed.’ Was that her voice? It sounded breathless and vaguely unsteady.
He looked as if he’d just come from the shower. His hair was tousled and damp, and a towel was hitched at his waist.
‘You were reluctant to let me go.’
Oh, God. Her eyes flew to the pillow next to her own, then swept to meet his steady gaze. Her lips parted, then closed again. Had they...? No, of course they hadn’t. She’d remember... wouldn’t she?
‘Carlo—’
Her voice died in her throat as he discarded the towel and pulled on briefs, then thrust on a pair of trousers and slid home the zip.
Each movement was highlighted by smooth rippling muscle and sinew, and she watched wordlessly as he shrugged his arms into a cotton shirt and fastened the buttons.
He looked up and caught her watching him. His mouth curved into a smile, and his eyes were warm, much too warm for someone she’d chosen to be at odds with.
‘Mind if I use a comb?’
Her lips parted, but no sound came out, and with a defenceless gesture she indicated the en suite bathroom. ‘Go ahead.’
She followed his passage as he crossed the room, and she conducted a
