He smiled. ‘Talk away.’
‘Will you tell me a little bit about Mardivino, then?’
It was, he admitted grudgingly, exactly the right thing to say. It took his mind off the ache in his groin and the idea—almost unthinkable—that bedding Ella Scott once more was by no means
certain.
‘What do you wish to know?’
‘Everything.’
“‘Everything” is a tall order, cara,’ he mused. But his eyes on the mountain road ahead of him, he started to tell her of Mardivino’s history in a voice that grew unexpectedly dreamy, and then sometimes fiery as he recounted crusades and battles for the prized land. He talked of Spanish Conquistadors and Italian aristocrats and French counts, who had all fought for ownership over the centuries, until at last agreeing to share the spoils of the exquisite island, set like a jewel in the sea.
His passion was infectious, and Ella found herself listening with the rapt attention of a child being told a wonderful story—but it wasn’t just the story that captured her imagination—it was him. You could watch a man closely when you were listening to him—could remind yourself of his passion and his strength and then wish you hadn’t.
But if she pushed that kind of thought away then even more troubling memories hurtled in to replace them—with graphic recall. She could almost see the moist flick of his tongue against his lips, almost feel it on her belly, against her thighs…
But her whirling thoughts were stilled by the sight of what lay before her. She had been so caught up in them that she had taken little notice of the view whizzing by outside the limousine window. But now high, gilded gates were parting and Ella stared ahead, her breath catching in the back of her throat as they opened onto the Rainbow Palace.
Her first impression was that it looked like a stage-set. Something that was real and yet not quite real. She wondered if behind its glittering walls she would find an empty stage and pieces of wood propping it up? Just as she wondered what really lay beneath all the different masks that Nico wore. Was nothing real in his world?
From a distance the palace really did look like a rainbow, with the whole spectrum of vibrant, dazzling colours from violet right through to a rich and royal red. It was only as the car grew closer that Ella could make out the tiny mosaic pieces of stone. It was all an illusion, not substance. Not a rainbow at all.
But as she got out of the car Ella began to get some idea of the perspective of the place, and it was vast. Emerald squares of perfectly manicured grass were edged with velvety dark red roses. There was a formal fountain playing the music of scattering water, and a wonderful statue of a woman that looked so real that Ella felt like reaching out to test whether it was marble-cold or whether real blood coursed through the stone veins.
‘Come,’ said Nico, looking down at her.
‘I’m slightly overwhelmed,’ she said truthfully.
His hard mouth softened by a fraction. When she stopped fighting him, she was really very sweet. ‘Well, don’t be. It’s just the place where I live.’
But how many people in the world lived in places like this one? It would always mark him out as different, because Nico was different. And it would be worthwhile to remember that.
He led her through seemingly endless corridors that were hung with enormous oil-paintings of men and women wearing lavish silk and lace gowns. Dark-haired, autocratic portraits, whose mesmeric and glittering black eyes marked them out as his ancestors.
It was a different world.
Eventually he pushed open a door and Ella found herself in an office—or at least a room that was doing a passable imitation of masquerading as an office—because offices did not usually contain antique desks, nor have drapes that glimmered to the floor in costly folds.
‘You can work from here,’ he said.
Work. Yes, of course.
It was difficult not to be dazzled. He looked so at home in these lavish surroundings—but of course he would—it was his home, for heaven’s sake! But it had the effect of making Nico of the beach hut and Nico the lover seem like mere figments of her imagination.
‘Okay,’ she said, and gave a brisk smile. ‘Can you organise a map of the island for me?’
‘There’s one here.’ He leaned over the desk and Ella caught the faint drift of a musky lemon fragrance. She briefly closed her eyes in despair. Scent was so evocative—it took you to places you would rather not go—and she had headily breathed in that scent when her face had been nuzzled into the warmth of his sleeping neck.
‘Will this do?’ He opened a large book showing a brightly coloured map of Mardivino.
She moved beside him and looked over his shoulder, and he turned his head and their eyes held. She found herself yielding, helpless in the soft, dark light that blazed over her.
‘Gabriella,’ he murmured caressingly.
She shook her head desperately, like a woman who was trying to convince herself. ‘No.’
‘Your lips tell me one thing while your eyes are saying something very different,’ he observed quietly.