The Sicilian's Passion. Sharon Kendrick

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СКАЧАТЬ skin, an aquiline nose and a hard, sensual mouth. Combine those attributes with a body which was tall and lithe and didn’t possess even the tiniest bit of excess flesh, and you had a man who was most women’s fantasy come true in living, breathing form.

      ‘Delighted to meet you, too,’ she murmured, tempted to echo his own lack of enthusiasm, but good manners brought her up short and she gave him a polite smile. ‘You’re Italian, are you?’

      ‘Italian?’ His mouth twisted with a derision which made it look very sexy indeed, and Kate felt her heart race again. What on earth had she said to make him glare at her so?

      ‘Diu Mio!’ he uttered softly, a warning glitter lighting up the depths of his blue eyes, as if she had inflicted some silent blow on him. ‘I am a Sicilian, not an Italian!’

      He made the claim as if he owned the world itself! ‘You mean there’s a difference?’ she questioned lightly and batted her eyelashes playfully at him.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ murmured Lady St John.

      Giovanni felt his muscles tense once more as he met the flirtatious challenge which had suddenly made her eyes look very green indeed. Eyes which were almost on a level with his own. It was a new and unsettling sensation not to be looking down on a woman—from a purely physical point of view. Disturbingly, he found himself wondering how their bodies would feel if they were touching head to toe, horizontal. Naked. He swallowed the thought down and sublimated his desire, preferring instead to dwell on her ignorance.

      ‘You mean you don’t know the difference between Sicily and Italy?’ he demanded.

      ‘I wouldn’t have to ask if I knew, would I?’ she returned, though his rudeness was doing nothing to dampen down the heat in her blood.

      Giovanni bit back his irritation, for why should this pale and unknown Englishwoman know anything about the deep, secret place which was his home? The place in love with its own silence, which shaped the impenetrable character of all Sicilians.

      ‘The difference is almost incalculable,’ he told her coldly. ‘And would take far more time to explain than I have at my disposal.’

      ‘I see,’ said Kate faintly, thinking how well he spoke English—whilst at the same time acknowledging that she could not ever remember anyone being quite so rude to her!

      ‘Giovanni!’ said Lady St John, with a mild air of reproval. ‘Much more of that severity and you’ll have Kate leaving!’

      He turned then, and a sudden brief flash of warmth transformed the chilly face as he looked down at his godmother. ‘Forgive me,’ he murmured, ‘but it has been a very long week. You must make allowances for me if I am not up to giving a history of Sicily this close to lunch!’

      Kate was furious. Was he going out of his way to make her feel as though she was something he had found squashed beneath the sole of his delicious, handmade shoe?

      ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, Lady St John,’ she declared airily. ‘It would take a lot more than that to make me cut and run!’

      Giovanni observed the fire which was spitting from eyes as perfectly shaped as bay leaves. For a brief moment he wondered what it would be like to see those same eyes sleepy and satiated in the aftermath of passion, and then hardened his heart against their emerald appeal, astonished to find his body stubbornly attempting to disobey his will.

      And yet he had had a lifetime’s practice of seeing beautiful, intelligent women looking at him with open invitation in their eyes. It happened with such monotonous regularity that he was nothing more than bored by it. Usually.

      He told himself that she was a predator—that she must put out for every man she wanted, in just this way—and thankfully the fire began to leave his loins.

      Confused, Kate turned away from that beautiful, condemning face and tried to pretend that he wasn’t there. ‘I have the curtains in the van, Lady St John,’ she said, gleaming a small smile of pleasure at her client. ‘And I’d like to begin hanging them, if I may.’

      ‘I can’t wait to see them!’ enthused Lady St John. ‘Shall we ask Giovanni to help you carry them in? They must be very heavy indeed.’

      Ask for help from the cold-faced man who had been so rude to her? Like hell! Kate shook her head, and the red hair shimmered like a windblown wheat-field all the way down her back. ‘That won’t be necessary!’ She gave him a defiant smile. ‘I’m used to managing on my own!’

      ‘How admirably independent!’ His blue eyes mocked her as did the smile which hovered around his lips. ‘But I am afraid that consideration for the weaker sex is inborn in all Sicilian men. I insist on helping you.’

      Had he deliberately said that just to inflame her? The weaker sex indeed! And how could he insist against her wishes? Kate opened her mouth to snap back some suitable retort, until she realised that it wouldn’t make very good business sense to be rude to her client’s godson. Even if he did need a few lessons in manners! And the curtains really were very heavy.

      ‘How terribly sweet of you,’ she emphasised deliberately.

      Giovanni silently registered the affront, with another stab of heat to his belly. Sweet was not a description which most red-blooded men strove for. Was she hoping to goad him into some kind of reaction, perhaps? His smile grew even colder. Women were notoriously predictable and he was in grave danger of giving her back just the response she wanted. ‘Why, you are much too kind!’ he murmured back.

      Kate felt more than a little out of her depth as she led the way out of the house towards her van. Not a feeling she was used to—and certainly not one with which she was comfortable.

      She was sunny and enthusiastic—qualities which were normally contagious. When you worked closely alongside people in their own homes, you had to get along with them. And normally she didn’t have a problem getting along with anyone.

      So what was the problem here? Or was Giovanni the problem?

      It’s not his home, she reminded herself as she pointed to her van. It belongs to his godmother. He’s obviously just into all that macho stuff—maybe he thinks it turns women on. Well, she should let him know loud and clear that it didn’t! ‘All the stuff’s in there!’ she said, pointing rather frustratedly at the van.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, narrowing his eyes to look at her as she unlocked the back of a van only a little more flamboyant than she was, and began to climb inside.

      She wore a pair of slim-fitting trousers in a soft green as vibrant as the newest buds of spring—stretched closely over a bottom which was high and taut. She half turned, and Giovanni swallowed as his eyes flickered over a tangerine Lycra T-shirt which clung to the lush swell of her breasts.

      Most redheads would never have worn a shirt that orange, he decided. But, then, hair that thick and bright was rare indeed. It hung almost to her waist, clipped back from her pale, freckled face with two clips of glittering pink plastic which matched the bangles that jangled around her narrow wrists.

      Giovanni had been brought up to believe that a woman should only ever wear gold. Or diamonds. That their bodies should only ever be clothed in silk or cashmere, or the lightest of cottons. Pure, natural fabrics to enhance feminine beauty—not these clinging, man-made clothes. He wondered if her underwear was just as garish and his СКАЧАТЬ