But as she went to follow him Nick took her wrist and she jerked to a stop. ‘We’re together. I want her in the room next to mine.’
What?
Heat raged up her neck and burned her scalp. She twisted her hand free.
‘I don’t think that’s entirely necessary,’ she said to Eduardo, who was already redirecting the footman up the stairs with her case, the mortification on his face plain. ‘Anywhere you want to put me is absolutely—’
But before she could say any more, Nick began talking over her to Eduardo in his supposedly rusty Italian. From the look of concern on Eduardo’s face and the way he was practically genuflecting to Nick it was clear her protests would be futile.
The Prodigal Grandson had spoken and that was that.
Within minutes, she was being ushered up the wide, sweeping central staircase of the mansion right behind her suitcase, her wishes having been ignored as Nick continued to converse in Italian with the butler.
Not fluent, my butt.
She fumed every step of the way up the stairs to the first floor and then down a long corridor, shock and embarrassment warring with indignation. The footman opened a large door leading onto an enormous room, dominated by a four-poster bed on a dais. Laying her rather worn-looking suitcase on a dressing table, he whipped back the drapes and opened terrace doors onto a wrought-iron balcony that looked out over the lake. Sunlight flooded the room, but the awe-inspiring view did little to calm her rising temper.
Nick had made her sound like his lover.
The footman paused as he crossed back to the door, gave a quick bow. ‘Your bathroom is shared with Signor Delisantro,’ he said and she was sure she could detect a little Italian smirk of approval. ‘This was the room of the contessa.’
Which one? Eva wondered as the footman left, assuming he was referring to one of Conte Leonardo De Rossi’s four wives, the last of whom he’d divorced two months before his death. From the grandiose furnishings and the deluxe silken bedspread, she would have guessed the last contessa. A French supermodel who had been under half of Leonardo De Rossi’s sixty-five years of age when they had married during a spur-of-the-moment ceremony in San Moritz.
But she wasn’t Signor Delisantro’s wife. Or his mistress. In fact she wasn’t even his girlfriend. Despite what he’d implied. And she didn’t want an adjoining room. Her role here had become completely redundant as soon as the duca had set eyes on Nick. She doubted he would even want to see the PowerPoint lecture she’d worked a week on to explain her research and how she had come to identify Nick’s mother as the heartbroken girl Leonardo’s journal referred to only as ‘il frutto proibito’—the forbidden fruit.
Roots Registry would get their commission without her having to prove the validity of her research. And as if her situation weren’t already untenable enough, Nick had now made her look like a convenient bit of totty rather than a certified genealogical research fellow. Which was probably all part of the nasty little game he was playing with her.
She unzipped her case and swore under her breath. A word she hadn’t used since her teens. Her eyes landed on the bathroom door as she heard the muffled voices of Nick and Eduardo from the hallway. Dumping her treasured collection of lace lingerie into the polished maple-wood dresser, she slammed the drawer closed.
The time for playing games was over. She stalked to the bathroom door and sailed through it. Barely sparing a glance for the magnificent marble bath, and the gilded fixtures and fittings, as she headed for the connecting door to Nick’s suite. Her hand tightened on the handle.
Forget professionalism. Forget demure, efficient and composed. Forget being a damn conciliator and worrying about stepping out of her comfort zone. She didn’t need to put up with Nick’s arrogant behaviour a moment longer. She was going to throttle the man.
CHAPTER TEN
EVA gave a quick rap on the door, then marched into Nick’s room without waiting for a reply.
She was a rational, level-headed woman who would do pretty much anything to avoid an argument. But she’d never had to deal with anyone as hard-headed, self-absorbed and insensitive as Nick Delisantro before. And there was a fine line between being diplomatic and being a doormat.
And whatever he might believe her role here to be, it wasn’t as his doormat… Or as his personal punching bag.
‘I want a word with you,’ she announced as she stepped onto the thick silk carpeting, and took in the palatial splendour of the master bedroom, which was even bigger than her own suite next door. He stood by the large casement window, with his back to her and his hands dug into the rear pockets of his jeans.
He twisted round, but didn’t say anything.
She wrapped her arms round her waist, her temper stuttering slightly under that intimidating gaze. The piercing look in his eyes had little tingles of electricity sizzling across her skin. ‘You totally undermined my credibility, my professional integrity and my position here as a representative of Roots Registry by insisting we be roomed together.’
He turned fully towards her. ‘Did I?’ It was the amused twist of his lips that did it. She felt something inside her crack, and her temper boiled like molten lava flooding through a volcanic fissure.
She strode across the room. ‘You know perfectly well you did.’ She stabbed her index finger into the centre of the motorbike logo on his T-shirt. ‘You made me sound like your mistress. In front of Eduardo and the footman. It was humiliating.’
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and glanced at her finger. She whipped it back, too aware of the unyielding chest muscles beneath.
‘And you did it deliberately,’ she added, struggling to focus on the lava. ‘You… You…’ She sputtered, trying to think of a suitable name to call him. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a particularly wide vocabulary to hand. She never called people names. ‘You…’ She racked her brains. ‘You berk.’
He gave a rough chuckle and the molten lava burned. ‘Berk? Seriously? You need to work on your insults, sweetheart.’
Heat pounded into her cheeks. ‘Don’t call me that.’