The Italian's Future Bride(7)

'I will have that drink now,' she burst out, desperate for him to turn  away so she could pull up the bodice of her dress without him watching.



One of those sleek black eyebrows arched in quizzing mockery at her  abrupt change of mind about the drink. He knew what she was trying to  do. It was scored into his eyes and his body language.



'What would you like?' he asked politely.



'I don't know-anything,' she shook out.



He turned his back. Rachel feathered out a tense breath and hurriedly  rearranged herself. In all her life she had never felt so out of sorts  and out of place as she was feeling right now, sitting on this sofa,  wearing this dress, with that man standing only a few feet away.



She was nobody's luxury appendage-never had been. She'd always left that  kind of thing to the more beautiful and capable Elise. Playing the role  given to her tonight had been tough on her pride, from the moment she'd  donned the whole image. And the only man she'd ever thrown herself at  in her whole life before tonight had been Alonso, and, she recalled with  a grimace, he'd been more or less crawling all over her by then anyway.



And Alonso hadn't been rich. He'd just been a very junior car salesman  with good lines in smart suits and a tiny apartment. He drove flashy  cars but he didn't own them, and he'd earned less money than she had  earned picking fruit on a farm just outside Naples.



A glass appeared in front of her. Glancing up, she un-clipped one of her  hands from her bag and took it with a mumbled, 'Thanks,' then sat  staring at it wondering what the heck was in it?



'Splash of vodka topped up with tonic,' he provided the answer. 'And it  is not spiked with something lethal, if that is what the frown is  about.'



'I wasn't-'



'Then you should,' he intruded curtly. 'You don't know me, Rachel  Carmichael. I might go in for drug-enhanced love-ins. How old are you,  by the way?'



Rachel blinked. 'Twenty-three. Why, what has my age got to do with anything?'



'Just curious.' He sat down right next to her sending her spine arching into a defensive stretch.



Raffaelle saw it happen and smiled. The air circulating around them was  alive with an ever increasing sting of awareness. He could feel it. He  knew that she could feel it. What he could not figure out waswhy it was  there and what he was going to do about it.



Liar, the dry part of his brain fed back.



'Okay … ' Relaxing into the sofa, he stretched out his long legs. 'Now, start talking.'



Talking … Sending her tongue round her dry lips, Rachel looked down at the  bag she was still clutching in one hand and made a small shift of her  wrist so she could see the time on her watch.



It was just coming up to midnight. How long did Mark need to do his  thing with his digital camera, write his accompanying piece, then file  it with the newspaper via the Internet?



She looked at her bag with the comforting feel of her cellphone inside  it, and wondered if she dared take it out and ring him to check?



Great idea, she then thought heavily. As if Raffaelle Villani was going to let her contact anyone until he had his explanation.



'Sit back and relax,' he invited.



What she did was stiffen up all the more. 'I'm perfectly relaxed as I am, thank you.'                       
       
           



       



'No, you are not. There is tension-here … ' A finger arrived in the naked  taut hollow between her shoulders, sending her spine into another muscle  splitting arch as if she'd been stung by an electric shock.



The sensation flung her, gasping to her feet. 'That wasn't-necessary,' she protested.



'You think not?'



'No.' Taking a few shaky steps away from him, she put the glass to her  mouth and sipped while he watched her through half hidden eyes and a  knowing smile on his lips.



'We share chemistry,cara .'



Rachel laughed thickly. 'That of kidnapper and victim.'



'And who do you believe is the victim here-?'



Just like that, with one smooth question, he brought the whole madness  which had made up this evening tumbling down to where it really  belonged.



For which of them was the real victim? Certainly not her, she had to  admit. He had every right to be angry. She had no right to be anything  at all.



On the short sigh that quivered as it left her, Rachel finally took  responsibility for her own misdemeanours. It was no use trying to  pretend she was innocent when she wasn't. Or to wish Raffaelle Villani a  million miles away because he'd ruined all their plans when he had  stopped her from getting away back there at the hotel.



He was right about the chemistry too. Just turning to look at his long,  lean, relaxed sprawl, giving off all kinds of innate sexual messages,  sent her insides into an instant tight spiral spin.



Then-okay, she told herself grimly, let's keep this strictly to business, then maybe the-other-stuff will die a natural death.



On that stern piece of good common sense, she lifted her chin, pushed  her eyes upwards to fix them on his face, then she steadied her  breathing and plunged right in.



'As I just told you, my name is Rachel Carmichael,' she reminded him.  'Elise is my half-sister. W-we had different fathers, hence the  different surnames … '



CHAPTER THREE



HE DIDnot move. He remained relaxed. His eyes told her absolutely nothing and his mouth held on to its smooth flat line.



So why did Rachel get the unnerving impression that he had already worked most of that out?



'Elise has been out of the modelling scene for over five years now since-since she married Leo Savakis-'



'And gave him a son.'



Rachel could only nod, pressing her lips together as she did so, because  she knew without him adding that dry comment, how badly all of this  reflected on Elise.



'Leo is an … awesome guy,' she continued. 'He is the very hands-on head of  the Savakis shipping empire as well as being a respected international  lawyer, expert in British, Greek and American corporate law-'



'Skip the CV. I know about Leo Savakis,' he coolly cut in.



Of course he would know about Leo. Most people who moved in high  business circles would have heard about her brother-in-law's remarkable  career.



'He's a very busy man.'



'Aren't we all?' drawled this high mover-in the business world at least.



'S-sometimes Elise feels-neglected.'



'Ah,' he sighed. 'So I am to get the sob story before you lurch into the ugly part.'



'Don't mock what you have never suffered, Mr Villani!' Rachel flared up  in her sister's defence. 'When you've gone from being the face on every  glossy magazine to a stay-at-home wife and mother with no identity to  call your own, then you might begin to understand!'



He didn't even bother to respond to that heated outburst. 'So she feels-neglected … ' he prompted instead.



'And lonely.' Once again Rachel steadied her breathing. 'When Leo works  abroad he prefers Elise to stay put in London or on his island in  Greece. He says it's all to do with security,' she explained. 'He's made  enemies in his line of work and … '



'Naturally feels the need to protect his wife and his son.'



'Wouldn't you?' Rachel flashed.



He raised a black satin eyebrow. 'Are you working in defence of Mr Savakis here or his poor neglected wife?'



'Both,' Rachel declared loyally. 'Ilike Leo … '



But she wouldn't want him as a husband, she added silently. He was too  overwhelmingly unreadable and dauntingly self-controlled. He adored  Elise though, she was certain of it. It was just that …



'He's been virtually living in Chicago for the last twelve months,  working on a high-profile case that only allows him back home for the  occasional flying visit.'                       
       
           



       



'Hence poor Elise feeling lonely and neglected-'



'If you don't stop being nasty about her, I'm going to leave!'



He shifted his shoulders against the black leather, then moved his legs,  bending them out of their lazy sprawl so he could rest one ankle on the  other knee. Rachel's eyes were drawn to the lean bowl between his  hipbones where the expensive black fabric of his trousers sat easily  against-



Oh, please, someone help me! she thought despairingly and wanted to run away again.



He moved a hand next, lifting it up so he could stroke a long finger  across the flat line of his lips. Above the stroking finger, his  grey-green eyes feathered a ponderous look over her in a way that  further fanned the sexual charge.



Did all Italian men have an ability to seduce just by using body  language, or was it just her misfortune that they affectedher like this?



Disturbed by the whole hectic physical war going on here, Rachel put  some distance between them by walking across the room to stand staring  out of one of the huge plate glass windows. London-the River Thames,  Westminster and Tower Bridge-lay spanned out before her in a familiar  night scene.