Slinging on a pair of chinos and a clean shirt, he thought about shaving then parked the idea. As an image of Eva’s body flashed into his mind he reached into a cupboard to find a bottle of suncream. This was no godly act on his part. She lived in the Arctic and the sun was strong here. He didn’t want her too sore to have sex with. Giving his thick black hair one final run-through, he glanced in the mirror and imagined Eva’s defiant face glaring back at him. If there was anything he enjoyed more than a tussle with a hot-blooded woman, he couldn’t think what it was. Eva would be his guest at the wedding, and then, just as she had requested, he would give her his undivided attention.
* * *
She had found the door with the lion’s head handle. Thank goodness. This place was like a city. The door was heavy, silky cream, and as she closed her hand around the lion’s head it was a surprising degree of pleasure. Would everything be so tactile here? Including the count?
Stop with the fantasies. She had around fifteen minutes to shower, change and meet him downstairs. All of which might have been fine if she could only stop gazing round like a country yokel. She had opened a door onto a wonderland of art and luxury, functionality and extravagance combined. Like the rest of the palazzo, the decor was discreet yet obviously expensive. Taupe, ecru, ivory and chalky-white, with a couple of showpiece ornaments and a huge unframed painting, picked up the tints of the throw on the bed—
Okay...that unframed piece? The homage to Picasso? On closer inspection she discovered it was a Picasso. The last time she’d seen the painting it had been hanging in a gallery in Stockholm, labelled ‘on loan’ from an unnamed benefactor.
Roman Quisvada lived in quite some style. And grudgingly, she had to admit she liked it. It did surprise her that such a powerful brute of a man lived like this in the home of a discerning connoisseur. The count was an interesting man—in more ways than one.
Dropping her backpack on what was probably an extremely expensive rug, she tried not to draw unnecessary comparisons between the count’s seductive lifestyle and the seductive count. She scrunched her toes appreciatively in the soft wool as she crossed the room to inspect the balcony overlooking the placid azure sea. The scent of blossom was heavy and intoxicating, and she wished she could remain dreaming a little longer as she leaned over the stone balustrades, but the clock was ticking and she still had to shower and dress.
Four doors faced her in the room. The first turned out to be a dressing room, for the guest who had everything, and who was only used to the best. Not Eva Skavanga, that was for sure. The second door revealed a gym. The third, a marble-lined bathroom. Her jaw dropped. And stuck. With its sunken bath and shower big enough for two, the bathroom could best be described as sumptuous. There were enough white fluffy towels for an army, and the water pressure was fierce enough to fill a lake. She wandered back into the bedroom, where she couldn’t resist a few bounces on the mega-sized bed where inviting crisp white sheets still held the faint scent of sunshine, and the throw, with its tints echoing those of the fabulous painting on the wall, reminded her of a fading summer sky. How was she ever going to drag herself away from this?
A sharp rap on the door gave her that answer.
‘Eva?’
She hadn’t even showered yet! ‘Five minutes?’ she yelled back.
‘Not a minute more.’ Roman sounded less than amused.
How would he punish her if she was late?
She absolutely had to stop thinking like that. Even as a joke! She might forget herself and come on to him. She could act tough back in Skavanga, but she was playing well out of her league here.
Drying off after her shower, she twisted her hair into a messy up-do on top of her head, securing it with the single hairclip she had retrieved from the bottom of her pack. It was just a boring old plastic thing that came in a pack of six, but there was no time to dry her hair properly. And right on cue the hammering on the door started again. If she left Roman hanging much longer he’d crash the room.
She was a campaigner not a stylist, so what was she worried about? Eva thought as she viewed her reflection in the cheval mirror in the bedroom. So what if Roman was clad in the finest couture, while the best that could be said for her was that she was clad? He’d asked for this. She wasn’t a fashion guru, either.
‘Ready.’ Buoyed with renewed confidence, she flung the door wide.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ he repeated flatly.
She had been on the point of apologising for her casual appearance, but now she was stoked. Her cheeks blazed red as he stared at her.