was weightless, pure plastic to be moulded and re-formed as he wished, conscious of the fierce body heat he was generating, the need to press closer to the male hardness of his thighs.
When he released her it was like losing part of herself, and incredibly Saffron knew that if he had suggested there and then that they make love she wouldn’t have made the slightest protest. She wanted him to make love to her, had wanted it, she now acknowledged, from the first moment she saw him. Nico wasn’t like a stranger. In some compulsive way it was as though she had known him before; as though she had been searching through a millenium of time to find him; her senses recognised and welcomed him in a way her mind couldn’t come to terms with. She wanted to tell him about it to ask him if he felt the same, but she was too shy.
He released her, steadying her and gravely handing her her things.
‘Ciao,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t forget, breakfast tomorrow. Something tells me you always look extremely attractive dispensing orange juice and coffee.’
There was a hint of mockery in his voice and Saffron wondered if he thought she was in the habit of breakfasting with men—with lovers, but surely if that was the case he would not have demurred about staying at the villa. Saffron knew he wanted her; and she also knew Italian men—very male, aggressively macho, and yet Nico was treating her with all the delicacy he might afford a piece of exquisite china; and she was enjoying it. She loved his reticence almost as much as she loved the sleek masculinity of him; the passion she suspected slumbered beneath the outward control. She obviously meant more to him than a mere one-night stand.
She longed to be able to communicate to him her joy that this should be so; the dizzying pleasure of knowing that he saw her as a person, not simply her father’s daughter. But then he already knew how she felt, she thought on a soft sigh; how could he fail to do so? She had seen it in the quizzical smile he had given her, had felt it in the pressure of his mouth against hers.
Her heart full of dreams, she turned towards the villa, already looking forward to the morning.
WHEN she woke up, for the first time since her arrival at the villa Saffron felt a brief tingle of excitement; of anticipation for the coming day.
She showered swiftly, donning a white tee-shirt and a pair of khaki jeans, finding a clean bikini and matching towelling cover-up which she rolled into a towel and placed in the canvas rollbag that matched her jeans.
She had no idea what Nico’s plans for the day might include, but she was not going to be caught out if he suggested stopping somewhere for a swim. She was aware that a less inhibited girl would probably not have worried about a bikini—certainly she couldn’t think of anyone among her old crowd who would have been anything other than delighted to display their bodies in front of Nico Doranti.
With impeccable timing he arrived just as Maria was carrying breakfast out on to the terrace. Saffron heard the car and walked through the villa to the front door. As she opened it Nico was emerging from the driver’s seat of a scarlet Mercedes convertible. In those moments before he saw her he looked almost withdrawn, the black knit shirt he was wearing stretching to mould his body as he bent to retrieve the car keys. Black jeans moulded the contours of his thighs—a casual outfit, not specifically designed to attract, and yet she was intensely aware of him; of the bronzed vee of flesh in the opening of his shirt, the gold medallion nestling against his chest, the rugged power of the indolently lean male body as he came towards her, checking suddenly as he became aware of her presence. His expression was immediately transformed, the grimness banished and purely male appreciation taking its place.
‘If I’d known you look so good in the morning, nothing would have persuaded me to return to my hotel last night,’ he drawled as he caught up with her, curving an arm round her shoulders and bending his head to obliterate the morning sun as he kissed her lightly. Saffron wondered if he was as intensely aware of the scent of her perfume as she was of his cologne. He smelled clean and masculine, and she had an overwhelming desire to place her lips against the tanned column of his throat.
‘Breakfast is ready,’ she told him huskily, her lips still tingling from the brief contact with his. ‘You timed it just right.’
‘That depends.’ He gave her a stunningly comprehensive oblique glance that sent her pulses racing. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t have minded at all arriving a little too early, and discovering you like Sleeping Beauty still slumbering, awaiting the Prince’s kiss.’
It was ridiculous to be so affected by his verbal lovemaking. She had experienced it often enough in the past without response, why should Nico be so different? She didn’t know. All she did know was that the thought of him in her bedroom was creating the most erotic pictures in her mind, and she hurriedly tried to dispel them as she led him through the villa and out on to the terrace.
She was glad she had taken such trouble with the breakfast table when she saw him glance at it. The newly warmed rolls lay in a golden heap in the basket; the small dish of apricot jam in the pretty green dish she had bought to match the pale green cabbage rose pottery they used in the villa making an attractive splash of colour against the buttercup yellow tablecloth.
They might almost have been a placidly married couple of longstanding, Saffron reflected half an hour later as she poured Nico a second cup of coffee. He was leaning back, relaxing in his chair as he studied the view from the terrace.
‘What exactly are your plans for the day?’ Saffron questioned, colouring faintly as she saw the way he studied her. ‘I mean, should I make up some lunch for us or…’
‘By all means, if it isn’t too much trouble, although I must confess that right now, food is the last thing on my mind.’
Excusing herself to clear away their breakfast things and stack them in the dishwasher, Saffron left him alone in the main sala.
‘Saffron.’
She hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen and she nearly dropped the knife she was using to slice through rolls before she buttered them.
When she glanced up the expression in his eyes puzzled her. He looked preoccupied, as though he had far more on his mind than a day out.
‘Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea.’
He had his back to her, for which she was grateful, because it meant that he couldn’t see the humiliated pain in her eyes. What did he mean? Was he having second thoughts about wanting to spend the day with her? Had he discovered that she wasn’t after all the girl he had thought her in Rome?
‘If you say so.’ She managed to make her voice sound calm and indifferent. ‘Although somehow I wouldn’t have thought last-minute doubts were your style.’
Suddenly they were strangers and her last few words were designed to taunt and hurt. She saw his face change and knew with a shock that they were on the verge of a quarrel; a sudden black cloud in a hitherto blue sky.
‘Obviously they aren’t yours.’ There was a hardness about the words that chilled her. ‘Do you always make up your mind so impulsively about people—or is it only men?’
He had hit to hurt and had succeeded. How could she tell him now that she had never responded to anyone as instinctively as she had to him?
He walked back into the sala and Saffron followed him, knowing
