Cocooned against him, she absorbed the strength of his muscled back. He felt so sure and solid and unyielding, as if he were a Roman god and she were being kidnapped on the back of his winged horse.
Reaching the top of the cliff, the bike rumbled along a secluded path, fragrant with the heady scent of bougainvillea. The ethereal white of a Romanesque villa appeared.
Katie tried to deepen her breathing and focus on the horizon and the cluster of lights along the Sorrentine coastline in the distance—rather than the waves of hair brushing the back of Caine’s shirt collar, the subtle flex of his abdominal muscles beneath her palms or that delicious scent.
But her breathing remained choppy and shallow—because it wasn’t the serene beauty of the Tyrrhenian sea, the craggy magnificence of Capri’s limestone coves or even the hazy bulk of the peninsula in the distance that was making her light-headed.
It was the bossy, enigmatic and overwhelming man she was currently clinging on to.
CHAPTER THREE
KATIE AWOKE THE next morning in a tangle of bedclothes—her body still throbbing from a kaleidoscope of erotic dreams driven by the feel of Jared’s abs, warm and resilient beneath her fingertips, the scent of his hair in the breeze, the dropping sensation in her stomach as they’d climbed the switchbacks in the darkness.
She blinked at the sun shining through open doors on the far side of the luxurious room, bringing with it the aroma of honeysuckle and sea air.
The room was dominated by a four-poster draped with swathes of white linen. She vaguely remembered collapsing into the bed the night before, after sleepwalking through a shower in the lavishly tiled bathroom.
She spied a breakfast tray on a wrought-iron table on the balcony laden with exotic fruit and delicate pastries, steam rising from a pot of fresh coffee.
Her stomach growled in protest. Ignoring the subtle ache in her limbs and the sting in her feet, she hauled herself out of bed. Unable to find the dusty clothes she had folded on top of the dresser the night before, she dragged on the bathrobe she remembered discarding after last night’s shower.
She would have to face Caine eventually, but first she needed sustenance. And clothing.
Tearing off a corner of a flaky croissant, she took in the view from the room’s private balcony. A sparkling infinity pool nestled into a grove of lemon trees dominated the terraced gardens below. Trellised walkways covered with wisteria and bougainvillea vines bisected lawns edged with palm trees and wildflowers. The estate’s panoramic aspect was stunning, the vista of towering cliffs—the limestone crags accented with bursts of wildflowers and shrubs—perfectly juxtaposed with the deep, iridescent blue of the sea. Katie poured herself a cup of coffee and loaded it with cream and sugar, itching to capture the scene in watercolor. Or maybe gouache. How else could she do justice to all the textures and tones? The bright, vivid colors?
She tucked into her breakfast, contemplating the play of light, and wondering if she could simply hide away in the villa’s gardens and paint until her passport arrived.
But as the sun rose overhead, she let go of the dream. She would have to speak to Caine first, find her clothing and also contact her insurance company. Painting in the nude probably wasn’t a good idea, given the disturbing dreams that had kept her tossing and turning during the night.
A knock sounded on the bedroom door and her heart jumped into her throat.
“Come in,” she said, yanking the robe closed.
A maid appeared, and Katie’s heart settled back into her chest.
“Signorina Whittaker, you are finished with your breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you.” Katie forced a smile as the young woman walked onto the balcony. “Is Mr. Caine here?”
The woman smiled back as she cleared the breakfast dishes. “Signor Caine, he is at the resort.” Before Katie could assess the odd combination of relief and disappointment at the news, the maid added, “But the styllista, she waits for you.”
Styllista? “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.”
The maid nodded enthusiastically and gestured to the robe. “She is for your nuovi vestiti and pantaloni.”
New dresses and pants? Was she talking about a stylist? But she couldn’t afford a stylist. Or new clothes, yet.
“But I haven’t spoken to my insurance company?” Katie said to no one in particular because the maid simply ushered her off the balcony and toward the door of the suite.
“She waits, yes, you must go,” the girl said.
Grasping the robe tightly around her neck, Katie forced herself to leave the sanctuary of the bedroom.
The villa’s communal living area had been shrouded in darkness the night before as Katie had made her excuses to Caine and rushed to her room. Now flooded with midmorning light, the airy open-plan room made much more of an impression. As lavish but as simply furnished as the bedroom, a stylish seating area of dark leather couches surrounded a cavernous fireplace filled with a vase of fresh flowers. Marble floors led out onto a terrace framed by archways fashioned in white stucco. At one end of the terrace stood a large area obviously made for al fresco dining, the canopy draped in white linen which fluttered in the sea breeze.
Three women stood in the center of it, surrounded by rails of clothing and fabrics draped over the chairs and tables. It looked like an explosion in a designer boutique.
Before Katie could figure out what this all meant, one of the women spotted her and dashed over to greet her.