“Luca, what are you talking about? You’re a nice guy. You’re speaking as though you’re a closet serial killer or something.”
“What do you know about me, Bronte?”
She flinched at his tone.
“Not enough to say that I’m ‘nice’.”
“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I’ve known you for years. I’d know –,”
“You’ve seen me in the office from time to time. That’s not the same thing.”
She sucked in a breath, shocked, shaking. He was right – hadn’t she been thinking the same thing only the day before? Of all the Montebellos, he and Gabe were the two she barely knew.
But Luca wasn’t finished. He moved closer, yet it was as though he was talking to Bronte from a long way away, his voice thick with a pain she didn’t comprehend. “I knew someone like you once. Someone beautiful and sweet, someone who only saw good in people. Someone uncomplicated and innocent who belonged in a fairy tale.”
“And?” She prompted, holding her breath, no idea what he was talking about, ashamed that even in this moment her heart could swell with flattery at the praise he’d laid at her feet.
“It doesn’t matter. But don’t look at me like I’m a ‘nice’ guy and don’t think anything about this isn’t complicated. You work for me and I’m doing you a favour. Everything else is just make believe.”
“I don’t believe you. You’ve admitted you feel this chemistry between us.”
“Chemistry is just –,” he shook his head swiftly. “Chemistry is something you could feel for twenty other guys in that room tonight.”
“So why haven’t I? Why don’t I?” She demanded. “Why do I feel more physically attracted to you than I’ve ever been to anyone? Including the man I thought I’d marry?”
His expression tightened, a muscle jerking in his jaw. “Stop it, Bronte. You’re going to regret saying that.”
“To hell with it. I’m sick of regrets. I’m being honest now. I’m a big girl, Luca. I can handle myself. You think you’re going to hurt me? Well, I think the only way you can do that is if you treat me like a kid instead of a woman who can be your equal.”
He glared at her. “Be careful.”
“Oh?”
“You think you want this?” He ground his teeth together. “You think you want me?”
She felt as though she’d awoken a beast, a beast that lurked so deep beneath his outward expression that she had no idea it was there. Far from being scared she was fascinated, compelled. She nodded, her eyes holding a challenge. “Yes.”
He swore, dragging a hand through his hair.
“What are you afraid of?”
He swallowed another curse then acted swiftly, his head dropping, his mouth claiming hers, and this was no chaste kiss of farewell. No, this was a kiss that exploded with passion and dynamite, a kiss that seared her to the centre of her soul, filling her with a thousand rushes of awareness. His lips separated hers, his tongue duelling with Bronte’s hard and fast, dominating her, his body pushing hers backwards, his hands holding her, lifting her, owning her, so she moaned, a muffled plea into his mouth – a plea for more, for everything.
Passion broke around her, fierce and intense, and she whimpered because for the first time in her life she felt as though she was truly awake, being brought to life here in this magical garden by a man who thought himself a dragon.
Her fingers curled into his hair, running through its thick lengths, her body glued to him so she could feel his burgeoning erecti
on, and a rush of power transformed her because he couldn’t fight this anymore, and nor could she.
Holy crap, she wanted him.
He broke his mouth free with a guttural sound, his dark eyes glittering in his head as he looked down at her, an almost feral expression on his angular features.
“What am I afraid of?” He repeated her earlier question. “Your expectations. Your heart. And the knowledge that if I hurt you I’ll never forgive myself.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
“How can you say that?”