had no idea why Vittorio—Vittorio, of all people, who was so unbearably out of her league—made her feel this way. Made her remember and long for those things. Made her, even now, wonder if his hair felt as crisp as it looked, or if it would be soft in her hands. If she touched his cheek would she feel the flick of stubble against her fingers? Would his lips be soft? Would he taste like her own wine?
Ana nearly choked on a piece of melon, and Vittorio looked up enquiringly. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, all solicitude, and she nodded almost frantically.
‘Yes—yes, fine.’ She could hardly believe the direction her thoughts had taken, or the effect they were having on her body. Her limbs felt heavy and warm, a deep, pleasurable tingling starting low in her belly and then suddenly, mischievously flaring upwards, making her whole being clench with sudden, unexpected spasms of desire.
She’d never thought to feel this way, had thought—hoped, even—she’d buried such desperate longings. For surely they were desperate. This was Vittorio. Vittorio Ralfino, the Count of Cazlevara, and he’d never once looked at her as a woman. He never would.
They ate in near silence, and when they were finished the woman came back to clear the plates and replace them with dishes of homemade ravioli filled with fresh, succulent lobster.
‘Have you missed home?’ Ana asked in an effort to break the strained silence. Or perhaps it wasn’t strained and she only felt it was because her nerves were so fraught, her body still weak with this new desire, desperate for more. Or less. She was torn between the safety of its receding and the need for it to increase. To actually touch. Feel. Know.
Vittorio seemed utterly unaware of her dilemma; he sat sprawled in his chair, cradling his glass of wine between his palms.
‘Yes,’ he replied, taking a sip. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.’
Ana was surprised by the regret in his voice. ‘Why did you?’
He shrugged. ‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Or, at least, the easy thing to do.’ Vittorio took a bite of ravioli. ‘Eat up. These ravioli are made right here at the castle, and the lobster were caught fresh only this morning.’
‘Impressive,’ Ana murmured, and indeed it was delicious, although she barely enjoyed a mouthful for she felt the tension and the need building inside her, tightening her chest and making it hard even to breathe. She wanted to ask him what she was doing here; she wanted to reach across the table and touch him. The need to touch was fast overriding the need to know. Action would replace words and if she had just one more glass of wine she was afraid she would do just what she was thinking—fantasising—about and actually touch him.
She wondered how Vittorio would react. Would he be stunned? Flattered? Repulsed? It was too dangerous to even imagine a scenario, much less to want it—crave it…
She could stand it no more. She set down her fork and gave Vittorio as direct a look as she could. ‘As lovely as this meal is, Vittorio, I feel I have to ask. I must know.’ She took a breath and let it out slowly, laying her hand flat on the table so she didn’t betray herself and reach out to touch him. ‘Just what is this business proposition you are thinking of?’
Vittorio didn’t answer for a long moment. He glanced at the wine in his glass, ruby-red, glinting in the candlelight. He smiled almost lazily—making her insides flare with need once more—and then set his glass down on the table.
‘Well,’ he said with a wry little smile, ‘if you must know, it is simply this. I want you to marry me.’
Chapter Three
THE words seemed to ring in the empty air, filling the room, even though the only sound was the crackle of the fire as the logs settled into the grate, scattering a bit of ash across the carpet.
Ana stared, her mind spinning, her mouth dry. Once again, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She wondered if she’d heard him correctly. Surely she’d imagined the words. Had she wanted him to say such a thing? Was she so ridiculous, pathetic, that she’d dreamed it?
Or had he been joking? Common sense returned. Of course he was joking. She let her lips curve into a little smile, although she knew the silence had gone on too long. She reached for her wine. ‘Really, Vittorio,’ she said, shaking her head a little bit as if she actually shared the joke, ‘I want to know why.’
He leaned forward, all lazy languor gone, replaced with a sudden intentness. ‘I’m serious, Ana. I want to marry you.’
She shook her head again, unable to believe it. Afraid to believe it. He must be joking, even if it was a terrible joke. A cruel one.
She’d known cruel jokes before. Girls hiding her clothes after gym, so she had to walk through the locker rooms in a scrap of a towel while they giggled and whispered behind their hands. The boy who had asked her to dance when she was fifteen—she’d accepted, incredulously, and he’d laughed and run away. She’d seen the money exchange grubby adolescent hands, and realized he’d only asked her as a bet. And of course the one man she’d let into her life, had wanted to give her body to, only to be told he didn’t think of her that way. Roberto had acted affronted, as if she’d misunderstood all the time they’d spent together, the dinners and the late nights studying. Perhaps she had misunderstood; perhaps she was misunderstanding now.
Yet, looking at Vittorio’s calm face, his eyes focused intently on hers, Ana slowly realized she hadn’t misunderstood. He wasn’t joking. He was serious. And yet surely he couldn’t be—surely he could not possibly want to marry her.
‘I told you the proposition was an intriguing one,’ he said, and there was laughter in his voice.
‘That’s one word for it,’ Ana managed, and took a healthy draught of wine. It went down the wrong way and for a few seconds her eyes watered as she tried to suppress a most inelegant cough. A smile lurked in Vittorio’s eyes, in the upward flick of his mouth and he reached out to touch her shoulder, his hand warm even through the thick cloth of her jacket.
‘Just cough, Ana. Better out than in.’
She covered her mouth with her hand, managing a few ladylike coughs before her body took over and she choked and spluttered for several minutes, tears streaming from her eyes, utterly inelegant. Vittorio poured her a glass of water and thrust it into her hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ she finally managed when she had control over herself once more. She wiped her eyes and took a sip of water.
‘Are you all right?’ She nodded, and he leaned back in his chair. ‘I see I’ve surprised you.’
‘You could say that.’ Ana shook her head, still unable to believe Vittorio had actually said what she’d thought he had said. And if he had said it, why? What on earth was he thinking of? None of it made sense. She couldn’t even think.
‘I didn’t intend to speak so plainly, so quickly,’ Vittorio said, ‘but I thought you’d appreciate an honest business proposition.’
Ana blinked, then blinked again. She glanced around the room with its flickering candles and half-drunk glasses of wine, the fire burned down to a few glowing embers; the desire still coiled up inside her, desperate to unfurl. What a fool she was. ‘Ah,’ she said slowly, ‘business.’ Marriage must, for a man like Vittorio, determined and ambitious, be a matter of business. ‘Of course.’ She heard the note of disappointment in her own voice and cringed inside. Why should she feel let down? Everything she’d wanted and felt—that had been in her own head. Her own body. Not Vittorio’s. She turned to gaze at him once more, her expression direct and a little flat. ‘So just how is marriage a business proposition?’
Vittorio felt the natural vibrancy drain from Ana’s body, leaving the room just a little bit colder. Flatter. He’d made a mistake, he realized. Several mistakes. He’d gone about it all wrong, and he’d tried so hard not to. He’d seen her look around the room, watched