Passion and the Prince (7 page)

Until now, until Marco, for her safety had been her own determined separation of herself from her sexuality, her sacrifice of it in order to protect herself from the danger of repeating the errors of her parents’ hedonistic lifestyles. Until now and Marco
she
had been the one who was in charge of her security. Now without her being able to do a thing about it, control of her sexuality and her security had transferred itself from her into the hold of a man who despised and disliked her. How could that be? Lily didn’t know. What she did know, though, was that she was not likely to be in any danger from her growing sensual and sexual responsiveness to Marco—at least not from him. She might not have known him for very long, but she knew instinctively that he would not allow himself to give in to any desire he felt for a woman he did not like.

She looked out of the window and down at the land beneath them. It was too dark for her to see anything other than the lights from the homes and roads below them.

‘Soon be there now.’ The co-pilot’s voice was kind, but it lacked Marco’s note of authority and safety which struck such a strong deep chord inside her. Just being held by him, even when he was angry with her, made
her feel. Lily could feel her face beginning to burn as she felt a sudden fierce ache of pure female sexual desire stab through her. She wanted Marco. Oh, the irony of that! An irony that only she would ever know and understand.

They were coming in to land. Lily had imposed a steel band of rejection over what she was feeling, but it melted like snow in the full glare of a midsummer sun when Marco turned round to look at her. If only things were different. If only they were coming here as lovers. If only …

How could such preposterously foolish thoughts have managed to put down roots inside her emotions? Lily didn’t know. She was just thankful that Marco di Lucchesi couldn’t see them. Very thankful indeed.

T
HEIR
flight had been smooth and uneventful—and, given both that and the nature of his perfectly understandable feelings of distrust and contempt for Lily Wrightington, Marco was at a loss to explain to himself just why he found it necessary to hang back now that they could disembark from the helicopter, just so that he could keep a watch over her. Just as hard to explain was the concern he had felt for her during the short flight—to the point where he had had to actively restrain himself from turning round in his seat to check that she was all right.

She
wasn’t
a vulnerable child, no matter what emotive mental images his head had produced to that effect. She was a fully grown woman. A deceitful, amoral, not-to-be trusted woman, who preyed on the vulnerabilities of others. But still he descended from the helicopter behind her, silently checking her safety. It was because of the mess it would make of all his carefully constructed plans should she for any reason become unable to complete her part in their planned tour. This concern for her welfare had nothing whatsoever to do with her in any personal sense. Nothing at all.

A chauffeur-driven car was waiting to drive them
the short distance from the helicopter landing pad to the hotel.

Naturally Lily had read up on the place, knowing that they would be staying there, but there were no words or photographs that could do real justice to the sparkling elegance of the rich interior of the hotel foyer, with its crystal chandelier, smooth marble surfaces and gilt furniture that seemed to give everything within it a rich golden glow.

There was no necessity for them to check in. An immaculately dressed receptionist wearing a uniform that looked to Lily as though it might have been tailored by one of Italy’s foremost designers asked them to follow her, whisking them upwards and then along several corridors, faithfully decorated in keeping with the villa’s history, before coming to a halt outside one of several doors in the corridor.

‘We have given your guest a suite overlooking the lake, just as you requested, Your Highness,’ the receptionist told Marco, opening the door and then turning back to him to ask, ‘If you would like to see the suite.’

Marco shook his head, and then told Lily, ‘I’ll meet you downstairs in the bar in half an hour. We can run through tomorrow’s schedule over dinner.’

Lily nodded her head.

‘The porter will be here shortly with your luggage,’ the receptionist informed Lily. ‘If you require any information about anything, please ask him.’

‘Thank you.’ The girl had switched on the lights in the room, and although she stepped into it, Lily stayed in the open doorway, watching as the receptionist led
Marco to another door at the far end of the corridor. It was crazy of her to feel so alone and abandoned—as though for some reason she needed to know where Marco di Lucchesi was in case she needed him.

She heard the click of his door closing as Marco stepped into his own room. The receptionist disappeared through a pair of doors that led to the stairs. There was nothing to keep her standing in the entrance to her own room now.

No, not merely a room, Lily reminded herself as she closed the door and went to explore her surroundings. Her suite was the size of a small apartment, and consisted of a large bedroom, a sitting room and two bathrooms. The furniture was reproduction Georgian, and the suite was decorated in toning shades of dark plum and pale grey-blue, with the bed dressed in the current boutique hotel fashion with neat piles of cushions and a carefully folded deep plum silk throw at the bottom of a padded cream bedcover. Tall glass doors opened from both the bedroom and the sitting room onto a narrow balcony just wide enough for a table and two chairs. Although she couldn’t see it now that it was dark, Lily guessed that the view over the lake would be stupendous. As it was, the sight of the moonlight reflecting on the dark waters, and the myriad dancing lights from craft on the lake and buildings on its banks created an almost magical picture.

A discreet ring on the bell to her room announced the arrival of the porter with her small case. After thanking him and tipping him, Lily lifted her case onto the bed and opened it. She’d packed very carefully for this tour. For the evening she’d brought with her a fine black
jersey tube-shaped skirt, which could be worn long from the waist, ruched up to make a shorter skirt, or worn as a short strapless dress. To go with it she’d brought a matching black jersey body, with three-quarter sleeves and a boat-shaped neckline, a softly draped long-line black cardigan, and a cream silk blouse. Between them she hoped that these items and the costume jewellery she had also brought with her would cover every kind of event she would be expected to attend.

For daytime she had a pair of slimline black Capri pants, a pair of jeans, and several interchangeable tops—along with her trench coat just in case.

For dinner tonight she intended to put the caramel-coloured dress back on and wear it with a black pash-mina. Since her hair had already started to escape from its knot, and given the fact that she only had half an hour before she had to meet Marco, it made sense to simply leave it down on her shoulders.

In the bar Marco was just about to sit down to check through their itinerary for the first day of their tour, when he saw Lily approaching the entrance to the room.

She was wearing the same caramel-coloured dress she had worn for the reception, and a black wrap caught up on one shoulder with a gold Maltese cross that picked out the colour of her dress. She looked effortlessly elegant, Marco acknowledged, her hair framing the delicate bone structure of her face in softly styled natural-looking waves.

He wasn’t surprised to see so many of the other occupants of the bar, both male and female, turning to
give her a second look. What did surprise him, though, was that she seemed oblivious to their admiration, her manner more hesitant than confident—until she saw him, and then she straightened her back and came towards him with her chin tilted challengingly, like someone ready to do battle, he recognised grimly. No one looking at her now would associate her with that seedy studio and her even more dubious reason for being there.

Marco pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Would you like a drink or would you prefer to go straight in for dinner?’

‘Straight in for dinner, please,’ Lily answered him ‘Very well.’ A brief inclination of Marco’s head brought the
maître d’
over to their table to escort them through into the restaurant ‘What do you think of the place?’ Marco asked her, observing the manner in which she was thoughtfully studying their surroundings.

‘The decor is stunning.’ Lily told him truthfully, ‘but a woman coming here for a romantic
tête-à-tête
would have to be very careful about what she wore if she didn’t want to end up competing with so much rich adornment.’

‘To the man who desires her the only clothing a woman needs is her own skin. That is far more erotic to him than anything else could be,’ Marco responded.

Lily could feel her face burning from the heat Marco’s words had aroused inside her. The heat
and
the desire. She was glad to be able to sit down at the table to which the waiter had shown them, glad of the room’s soft lighting
and the large menu she had been handed to conceal her hot face.

Behind his own menu Marco was cursing himself for the rawly sensual images their exchange had produced inside his head. His imagination was laying them out before him in loving detail, as though answering a need within him that had demanded them. Lily lying naked against the silk coverlet of his bed, watching him, wanting him. Her skin would be all shimmering translucent perfection, fine and delicate, her nipples a deep rose-pink, her sex covered by soft blonde hair. Her legs would be long and slender, supple enough to wrap tightly around him.

Marco cursed himself silently again—and her. If this had been any other woman—if he had not known what she really was—then he could have dealt with the situation by taking her to bed. She was not, after all, the first woman to arouse him, and nor had he ever been short of eager partners to share his bed, but he had never desired any of them with this kind of intensity. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he control and banish the sensual hunger she aroused in him?

The discovery that he wasn’t able to do so was like having a deep, unbridgeable chasm open up at his feet, leaving him vulnerable and desperately trying to cling on to what he had believed to be a perfectly safe landscape. The discovery was demanding answers to questions for which there was no logical answer, stirring up things within him he had not even known were there. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. Marco liked being able to control his responses, not have them controlling him. He liked dealing in facts and logic, not
being forced to endure the uncertainty of illogical emotions. Most of all he hated the fact that Lily confused him by refusing to a stay true to type. He knew what she was, and yet she kept on exhibiting behaviour that suggested she was something else. Or that he had been wrong about her. That was impossible. Wasn’t it?

The only reason he was even being polite to her was for professional reasons—because of the commitment he had made to the trust’s venture. The last thing he wanted to do was spend time in her company. His pride wouldn’t let him back out of accompanying her, though. That would be tantamount to admitting that he was afraid of the way she made him feel.

He put down his menu, meaning to ignore her, but against his will his gaze was drawn to her. The restaurant was full, and there were many beautiful, expensively dressed women amongst the diners, but it seemed to him that Lily had a pure elegance about her that made her stand out head and shoulders above the other women. From out of nowhere the thought formed inside his head that a man would be proud to have such a wife—educated, intelligent, beautiful and elegant. Proud? To be married to a woman he couldn’t trust? A woman who hid what she really was beneath an outward image?

The waiter was hovering, waiting for Lily to give him her order.

‘I’ll have the
missoltini
to start with,’ she told him, referring to the Lake Como speciality of small sundried fish, ‘and then the risotto.’ Rice had been grown in Northern Italy for centuries, and risotto was very much a dish of the area.

‘I’ll have the same,’ Marco agreed.

When the wine waiter arrived, hot on the heels of the waiter who had taken their food order, Marco glanced at the list and asked Lily, ‘How do you feel about the Valtellina? I know it’s a red, and we’re starting with fish, but …’

Lily laughed a natural trill of laughter for the first time since they had met, unable to conceal her amusement. She liked the fact that Marco was consulting her rather than telling her what he thought they should drink, and she knew perfectly well why he had suggested the Valtellina.

‘Leonardo drank Valtellina. If it was good enough for him then it’s good enough for me,’ she told him.

Marco had suspected that would be her response, which was in part why he had suggested the Valtellina in the first place.

Was that actually a small smile she could see on Marco’s face, as though he was enjoying a private joke? Lily wondered. He had a good smile, warm and masculine, revealing a tantalising hint of a manly cleft in his jaw and strong white teeth. Her heart missed a beat of female appreciation of his maleness, followed by a dull, hollow feeling inside her chest. Because his smile was not for her?

She was glad of the arrival of their wine to distract her from the possible meaning behind her emotional reaction to him.

‘So that’s the itinerary. We’ll start off tomorrow morning with a visit to Villa Balbiannello. I’ve arranged a private
tour for you. Most of the villas we’ll be visiting are not fully open to the public, as you know.’

Lily nodded her head. Marco was discussing the arrangements for the morning with her over coffee after their meal, and now he added, ‘Since we’ve got an early start in the morning, and I’ve got some work to do, I’d like to call it a night—unless you want more coffee.’

Was that a stab of disappointment she felt? Of course not. Lily forced herself to shake her head and tell him firmly, ‘I won’t sleep if I have any more coffee.’