A Royal Wedding. Trish Morey
given her space. ‘If I need him?’
‘Bruno will find you. He has a way of anticipating one’s needs.’
A psychic henchman? But of course a count would need one of those, along with his secret tunnels and his crumbling castle. It was just what she needed to improve her mood. ‘Excellent,’ she rejoined, with exaggerated enthusiasm and a smile designed to get right under his skin. ‘Then it appears I’m all set. I’d better get to work.’
And with a glower and a nod he was gone and she could breathe again.
She slumped into the nearest chair. The pages, she thought, her fingers pressed to her temples. Think about the pages and all they mean to you. And she would, she promised herself, just as soon as she’d caught her breath. Being with the Count was like being caught in a whirlwind and spun in circles until she was spat out again, dizzy and confused.
Difficult? The man was turning out to be her worst nightmare.
A sharp rap on the door and she jumped, instantly alert, but it was only Bruno, bearing a tray.
‘Something to eat,’ he grunted, placing the tray on a side table.
Grace blinked and caught a whiff of something warm and savoury. Frittata, she realised as she approached, feeling suddenly hungry and remembering she hadn’t eaten for hours. And, if she was not mistaken, a pot of tea. She lifted the lid and took a sniff. English breakfast. Maybe he really was psychic. ‘How did you know I’d prefer tea to coffee?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re inglese, no?’
‘Australian,’ she corrected. And he shrugged again, as if it were the same thing, and disappeared.
Lucky guess, she figured, and poured herself a cup, enthusiasm once again building inside her. A quick meal and she could get to work. Strange, though, given how excited she’d been at getting this opportunity, that something could distract her to such an extent that at times she almost forgot the book completely.
Well, not something—someone. And maybe he was difficult and dangerous and tortured and gave her heated glances that made her squirm—still, it wasn’t like her at all.
He paced his office, walking past windows rattling with the wind and splattered with raindrops from the first of the coming squalls. Clouds obliterated what was left of the sun until day turned almost to night.
He paced the room uncaring. He saw nothing but the expression on her face when she’d turned that cursed page. It had been bad enough when she’d thought they were close. She’d looked so alive with hope and anticipation. He hadn’t thought it could get any worse, that she could look any more alive than she had in that moment.
And then she’d turned that cover page and her eyes had widened, her face had lit up and her whole body had damned near ignited.
He’d damned near combusted watching her. He’d been rock-hard with need and so hot it was a wonder he hadn’t turned to a column of ash right there and then. And all he’d been able to wonder since then was if that was the way she looked when she was looking at some piece of ancient parchment, how good might she look when she came apart in his arms?
He wanted to find out.
He burned to find out.
What was wrong with him? She was a scientist, with scraped-back hair and a passion for ancient relics, and he was lusting after her? Damn! What on earth had possessed him to let her stay?
Alessandro threw himself into his chair and then spun straight out of it, reaching for his phone. God, he didn’t need this!
Bruno answered on the second ring.
‘Fetch the woman from the village,’ he growled.
There was hesitation at the end of the phone and he could almost hear Bruno’s mind working out that it was not quite a month since her last visit. But instead he said, ‘The boat will not come with the storm brewing.’
‘Offer them double,’ he ordered, and hung up.
Five minutes later Bruno called back. ‘The captain says it’s too rough. He will bring her tomorrow.’
‘I don’t want her tomorrow!’ This time he slammed the phone down, turning his gaze out through the windows to where the waves were wearing white caps from which the wind whipped spray metres into the air. And then rain lashed the windows until they were running like a river and the sea beyond blurred to grey.
Curse the damned weather! How dared it confound him when he needed a woman?
But there was already a woman on the island.
He wheeled away, trying hard to lose that thought. He could see her even now, poring over her precious pages as if they were the Holy Grail. In that moment he’d seen inside her. He’d seen beyond the scientist who made out she had no desires. He’d seen the woman beneath—a woman born for passion.
And she was waiting for you to kiss her.
He strode down the passageway, raking hands through his hair, not knowing where he was going, refusing to give credence to the sly voice in his head that refused to shut up.
She baited you.
She didn’t know what she was asking.
She wants you.
No. No. And no! She did not want him. She was a fool. She had no idea.
But you want her …
He found himself outside her room, the sliver of light under the door telling him she was still working, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Would she welcome his visit?
Would she welcome being spread over that wide desk, scattering her precious papers, while he buried himself in her depths? Would her eyes light up for him the way they had in the cave? Would her entire body shimmer with desire and explode with light?
Blood pounded in his ears. His fingers were on the doorknob.
Or would she close her eyes and turn away?
He could not bear it if she turned away.
Blackness, thick and viscous, oozed up from the depths. His fingers screwed into a ball as he forced it down.
Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she was different. She didn’t shy away from him. She didn’t recoil in horror. She treated him as if he was almost normal—as if his scars didn’t exist.
But you’re not normal, the dark voices said. You can never be normal again.
The blackness welled up like a rolling wave. What had he been thinking? Why was he doing this to himself?
He should have made her leave when he’d had the chance!
He pushed away from the door, forced his feet to walk, but he’d gone no more than a few paces when he heard the door open behind him.
‘Count Volta?’
He dragged in air, turned and nodded stiffly. ‘Dr Hunter.’
She had a hand on her chest, as if she’d been frightened of who or what she might find in the passageway. ‘I was just about to go to bed. I thought I heard a noise. Did you want something?’
God, yes.
‘No. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’ He didn’t want to think about Dr Hunter and bed. And then, because he should be interested, ‘How does your investigation progress?’
Her eyes lit up that way they did until he would swear they almost shimmered with excitement. ‘The pages are wonderful. Do you want to have a look before I put them away?’
On that same desk, when all he wanted was to spread her limbs