Hired For Romano's Pleasure. Chantelle Shaw

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       CHAPTER THREE

      TORRE WAS AWARE of the moment Orla entered the library even though his back was facing the door and she made no sound. His skin tightened as he discerned the subtle scent of her perfume; a light, floral fragrance with notes of jasmine and something elusive that reminded him of a sultry, summer’s night a long time ago.

      Once, when his father had still been married to Kimberly, he’d arrived at Villa Romano from a business trip and learned that he had missed Orla by an hour. She had been in Amalfi to visit her mother but had left to catch a flight back to England. Torre had assured himself that he had no desire to meet Orla again. But when he had walked into the library—where, according to his father, Orla had preferred to spend most of her time, instead of lying on a sunbed by the pool and flicking through gossip magazines, which invariably was how her mother had occupied herself—he had inhaled the faint, lingering scent of her perfume and his body had clenched hard.

      Now, years after that incident, he was once again standing in the library and his senses were tantalised by Orla’s perfume. Thank God he hadn’t kissed her earlier, Torre thought grimly. He could not rationalise the crazy impulse he’d felt to bundle her into his car and whisk her away to his house in Ravello.

      He had admitted to himself that he had been mildly curious to see her again after so many years. But when he had found her standing next to his car he’d been unprepared for the fierce hunger that had clawed like a wild beast inside him as she’d turned around, a slender figure in a muted green dress made of a silky material that had caressed her small, high breasts and the soft curves of her hips. Her wide-brimmed hat had shaded her face, and her eyes had been hidden behind her sunglasses. The overall effect had been one of understated elegance, and in the sultry heat of an Italian summer’s day she had looked as deliciously cool and refined as gin and tonic with ice, and as fragrant as an English rose.

      Torre’s breath had been knocked from his body by the force of his heart slamming against his ribs. In that instant he had forgotten who she was, or rather what she was. But in reality he knew that Orla had had her own agenda when she’d slept with him years ago and he was certain that she had traded her virginity in the expectation that he had been as gullible as his father, who had married her parasite of a mother.

      It was fortunate that Jules had walked down the drive. His timely appearance had saved Torre from repeating the mistake he’d made in the past, when passion had overruled his good sense. He frowned as he thought of his stepbrother. He liked Jules, even though their personalities were diametrically opposite. Jules was far kinder than Torre would ever be and had inherited his unassuming nature from his mother.

      Sandrine had become Torre’s stepmother when he was ten, and she had to a large degree filled the gaping void inside him left by his mother’s death when he was six years old. He had been unable to comprehend why his father had replaced gentle and gracious Sandrine with the avaricious trollop that was Kimberly Connaught. So, when Orla had revealed after he had spent the night with her that she was Kimberly’s daughter, he had angrily accused her of duping him. He had been even more furious with himself because he’d fallen into the same honey trap as his father and allowed himself to be seduced by feminine wiles. Worst of all, Torre had felt a sense of guilt that he had in some way betrayed his stepmother’s kindness by sleeping in the enemy’s camp.

      ‘Torre.’

      He jerked his mind back to the present. Orla had obviously grown tired of waiting for him to notice her and he heard a faint click as she closed the library door. Her voice was clear and soft like a mountain stream and Torre felt as though a velvet-gloved hand had wrapped around his body. All through that damned lunch he had been unable to take his eyes off her and his stomach had rebelled at the idea of food when he’d wanted to assuage a different kind of hunger.

      But he was not a callow youth riding high on a surfeit of hormones, he reminded himself. He did not allow anyone to threaten his self-control, especially not a woman who, according to press reports, was as mercenary as her mother. Torre breathed deeply before he swung round from the window to face Orla and scowled. Her cool composure infuriated him and made him want to disturb her the way she disturbed him.

      How did she manage to look so goddamned innocent when he had definitive proof that she was not? he thought bitterly. He was halfway across the room before he could help himself, and it occurred to him that it was unwise to get close to her when he felt crazily out of control. But now it was too late and he halted in front of her, close enough that he saw a flicker of wariness, and something else—a startled awareness—in her eyes before her long lashes swept down and hid her expression.

      He remembered how in the throes of passion the green flecks in her hazel eyes had darkened to olive. Her long, straight hair streamed down her back like a curtain of silk. Torre knew he should not feel inordinately pleased that she hadn’t gone platinum blonde and her hair was its natural shade of rose-gold—the same colour as the sprinkling of tiny freckles on nose and cheeks that were noticeable against her porcelain skin. Quite simply he had never seen anything so lovely. She was a work of art, as fragile as a rare orchid and as exquisite as a precious jewel.

      Thick, black anger clogged his throat as he acknowledged that he had never wanted any other woman as much as he wanted Orla. He hated himself for his inherent weakness that caused his blood to thunder through his veins and made him so hard it hurt.

      ‘Why are you here?’ he said harshly.

      She looked genuinely puzzled. ‘You told me to meet you in the library to discuss my CV.’

      ‘I meant why have you come to Villa Romano?’

      ‘You know why. Giuseppe invited me to his birthday celebrations.’

      ‘He invited you to his last three birthdays. What made you accept an invitation to this one?’

      ‘Seventy is a landmark birthday.’ She shrugged. ‘When Jules suggested that we could travel to Amalfi together it seemed like a good idea.’

      ‘I bet it did.’

      She frowned. ‘What do you mean? Why did you say it in that sarcastic way? I don’t understand.’ Frustration edged into her voice and her eyes flashed with angry fire. Good, Torre thought. He wanted to ruffle her. Eight years ago she had been refreshingly unsophisticated—in fact, she’d been several years younger than he’d assumed, and he had been shocked when he’d learned that she had been eighteen. He had only discovered how СКАЧАТЬ