A curse exploded from him as he scraped his chair back and stalked to the window. He stared down at Rome, his chest moving rapidly with the rise and fall of his breathing, something uncomfortable shifting through him as he accepted that this was different from what he’d anticipated, that it was at risk of getting out of hand.
Oh, it was just sex. He knew that. There were myriad reasons it could never—would never—in a billion years be anything else. Not least of all was her aristocratic birth, her air of being to the manor born, which was something he could never tolerate long term. Not having seen what people like her were capable of, or the way they viewed the world.
But more than that, Jemima was dangerous. She was like a drug—something else Cesare had never indulged in. He had legendary self-control; he refused to be tempted by anything that might prove detrimental to his life, his career, his business, his one-eyed focus.
And yet somehow, he’d willingly become hooked on Jemima Woodcroft. It was all the more reason for him to be firm in his routine, to stick to his schedule, not to let her influence him or affect his life in any way. No woman had ever shaken his convictions, no woman had ever so much as tempted him to blow off work and stay in bed for days at a time, as he wanted to with her.
Jemima was a first.
And why?
Va bene, she was beautiful, but that wasn’t exactly a novelty—there were many beautiful women in the world, and in any event he wasn’t the kind of man to value looks above chemistry and spark. No, it wasn’t a looks thing. So what else could it be? Surely her innocence played a part? She’d been a virgin when they’d met and there was a novelty in that, a curiosity, because it made as little sense to him now as it had that night.
A dark emotion burst through him and he pushed away the dark intrusion on his thoughts—the idea of her having bounced from his bed into someone else’s, the knowledge that some other man had made love to her after him.
Curiosity was natural. It was hardly a crime for her to have decided to experiment with her awakened sensuality.
And yet Cesare felt a sharp burst of rage that didn’t bear examining. It didn’t matter. She was his now, and at the end of the agreed upon two weeks he’d let her go and never think of her again.
It seemed impossible to contemplate, in that moment, when Jemima had been all he could think about all day for many days, but he didn’t doubt even for a second that he’d succeed.
Because he was Cesare Durante and he hadn’t met anyone or anything in his life that he hadn’t had the mental fortitude to conquer. Jemima, ultimately, would prove to be no different.
* * *
The bobbing of yachts on the water was a mesmerising sight—hypnotic, almost—and Jemima found, as the days wore on, that it hadn’t become less so. She sat at the table now, her hands clasped in her lap, staring at the boats as they moved gently with the water’s pull, not fighting it, surrendering to the tidal ebbs and flows, the enthusiasm of the water to meet the shore and recede once more to its oceanic depths, and she felt a strange affinity to the water. The currents of this body were stirred by a power beyond their comprehension but simply obeyed an ancient, cosmic call.
Jemima was not an ocean, but her pull towards Cesare was no less marked than if he’d been the moon, drawing her towards him each night. Five nights in Cannes and she had begun to understand a few vital and key aspects of this man’s personality.
He was punctual to a fault. She could set her watch by his arrival back at the hotel and by the time he left each morning. Every day it was exactly the same, almost to the minute. From this it was easy to infer that he liked order and control, that he was driven to tame every aspect of his environment.
And, just as Jemima’s career had led to her making an art form out of being charming without divulging anything she truly thought or felt, she began to suspect Cesare operated on a similar principle. Oh, he was significantly less charming. He was definitely not a man who cared what people thought and therefore he didn’t waste time trying to curry good favour. But there was something firm within him, some kind of w
all or blockage, something that stopped her from ever feeling that she truly understood him.
That was a good thing. Understanding him, knowing him too well, felt like it would be a slippery slope to danger.
And yet, despite that, she’d arranged all this—a table set on the balcony overlooking the bay, candles dotted around the floor and hanging from the ceiling and a three-course meal already in the kitchen so they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Not only that, a lick of nervousness was making her fingers quiver a little, so she poured herself a half glass of the fine champagne she’d added to the order, wondering if it might ease her energetic nerves.
Her eyes flicked to her phone, and at the precise moment she expected him the door pushed inwards and she smiled to herself, glad his punctuality hadn’t failed him. Her nerves were already stretched to breaking point. She stood, focussing on controlling her outward response, pretending she was at a shoot, assuming a look of cool calm that she definitely didn’t feel.
She saw his eyes as they ran over her body—she’d deliberately chosen this dress, the same one she’d worn to the restaurant the first night they’d met, the dress he’d pulled from her body the first time they’d made love. She felt the hunger in his eyes, the need in his body, and her own body trilled in response.
She was actually looking forward to this. Looking forward to sharing a meal with him—not grabbed from the kitchen when hunger finally drove them out of bed but a proper meal, across a table, with conversation and...
And what?
She understood the need for caution. In the back of her mind, she remembered every sentence he’d uttered that told her how temporary this was, how determined he was to resume his normal life as soon as their allotted two weeks were up.
And yet, they were sleeping together. It might not mean anything, in the sense of romance and a future, but it still felt strange to know his body intimately when she knew so little of his mind, his stories, his history and life.
‘What’s this?’ He removed his tie as he crossed the room, hanging it over the back of the chair before stepping on to the terrace. The sun was low in the sky, casting the world in shades of violet and gold, and they bounced off his face so that she had to bite back a gasp at the sheer magnificence of him.
‘A table,’ she quipped, her voice a little raspy, waving a hand towards it. ‘Somewhere you sit when you eat a meal.’
‘You don’t like it when I feed you in bed?’ There was a growl to his words as he pulled her body. Heat burst inside her veins.