Though, recalling the way Ida had eaten him up with her eyes earlier, he couldn’t believe it.
Four years of abstinence did, however, explain his response to her. He was a healthy man with a healthy interest in a sexy woman. He didn’t like or approve of Ida, but he couldn’t deny she was sexy. He refused to countenance the idea that he’d been celibate so long because he’d been fixated on her.
She’d opened that shabby raincoat in the warmth of the suite and as she leaned forward he had a view of white breasts that was impossible to ignore. That bustier was cut so low and pushed her bounty so high that it looked like her nipples would burst free of their confinement at any moment.
He had to forcibly drag his gaze up, only to find it snagging on glossy, full red lips that made him think of searing, straight-to-the-groin orgasm.
Heat flared, his body tightening and his throat turning arid.
In one swift movement he rose and made for the bar.
‘Another?’ he asked over his shoulder, his voice grating.
‘No, thanks. One’s my limit.’
Cesare bit back the urge to tell her it was too late to play at inexperience. Not when he’d found her pouring shots in a strip club. But why waste energy?
He took his time pouring the drink. When he turned around the raincoat was open a little more, treating him to a view of long legs clad in fishnet stockings.
If asked, he would have said his taste ran to women whose sensuality was more discreet and refined. Tonight, he realised he was as responsive as the next man to pale flesh in black leather and provocative high heels.
His fingers tightened around the glass, but he refused to swallow the drink in one. He didn’t need alcohol as a prop. He could easily withstand Ida’s obvious attractions.
‘I have the papers.’
He pulled them out and dropped them onto the coffee table before her, then took the seat opposite. Only then did he allow himself a tiny sip of his drink. Its warm bite dragged his attention from his heavy groin.
Ida picked up the papers and scanned them, turning page after page. She really was keen to sign, flipping quickly to the end. Cesare reached in his pocket for a pen but paused as she spoke.
‘I can’t sign these.’
Ah, as he expected. She wouldn’t make this easy. Now came the play for a better financial settlement, despite the watertight prenup they’d signed.
Something like relief settled inside him at the realisation he’d had her pegged right.
‘I’m sure you can.’ With the right incentive. Like knowing he wasn’t going to renegotiate. He placed his pen on the low table before her. ‘You wanted a divorce. Here’s your chance.’
She dropped the papers on the table, her mouth twisting. ‘Much as I’d love to oblige you, it’s not possible. These are in Italian.’
Cesare watched her sit back, folding her arms and pushing her breasts higher.
He swallowed. Such obvious tactics wouldn’t work. ‘And that’s a problem because?’
‘I don’t understand Italian.’
Cesare stared. It was true that before the wedding they’d always spoken English. ‘But the wedding service was all in Italian.’
She shrugged. ‘I practised. My grandfather wanted me word perfect.’
But it wasn’t just the church service. ‘You had no trouble signing the prenuptial contract. You didn’t ask for an English version.’
He and her grandfather had watched her sign the agreement. She’d simply picked up the pen, glanced at the document and signed in her neat, round hand.
‘That was different.’
Cesare raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t see how.’
Those pale green eyes met his, her look haughty. ‘My grandfather and his lawyer had already been through the contract.’