her fingers pressed to her temples. Think about the pages and all they mean to you. And she would, she promised herself, just as soon as she’d caught her breath. Being with the Count was like being caught in a whirlwind and spun in circles until she was spat out again, dizzy and confused.
Difficult? The man was turning out to be her worst nightmare.
A sharp rap on the door and she jumped, instantly alert, but it was only Bruno, bearing a tray.
‘Something to eat,’ he grunted, placing the tray on a side table.
Grace blinked and caught a whiff of something warm and savoury. Frittata, she realised as she approached, feeling suddenly hungry and remembering she hadn’t eaten for hours. And, if she was not mistaken, a pot of tea. She lifted the lid and took a sniff. English breakfast. Maybe he really was psychic. ‘How did you know I’d prefer tea to coffee?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re inglese, no?’
‘Australian,’ she corrected. And he shrugged again, as if it were the same thing, and disappeared.
Lucky guess, she figured, and poured herself a cup, enthusiasm once again building inside her. A quick meal and she could get to work. Strange, though, given how excited she’d been at getting this opportunity, that something could distract her to such an extent that at times she almost forgot the book completely.
Well, not something—someone. And maybe he was difficult and dangerous and tortured and gave her heated glances that made her squirm—still, it wasn’t like her at all.
He paced his office, walking past windows rattling with the wind and splattered with raindrops from the first of the coming squalls. Clouds obliterated what was left of the sun until day turned almost to night.
He paced the room uncaring. He saw nothing but the expression on her face when she’d turned that cursed page. It had been bad enough when she’d thought they were close. She’d looked so alive with hope and anticipation. He hadn’t thought it could get any worse, that she could look any more alive than she had in that moment.
And then she’d turned that cover page and her eyes had widened, her face had lit up and her whole body had damned near ignited.
He’d damned near combusted watching her. He’d been rock-hard with need and so hot it was a wonder he hadn’t turned to a column of ash right there and then. And all he’d been able to wonder since then was if that was the way she looked when she was looking at some piece of ancient parchment, how good might she look when she came apart in his arms?
He wanted to find out.
He burned to find out.
What was wrong with him? She was a scientist, with scraped-back hair and a passion for ancient relics, and he was lusting after her? Damn! What on earth had possessed him to let her stay?
Alessandro threw himself into his chair and then spun straight out of it, reaching for his phone. God, he didn’t need this!
Bruno answered on the second ring.
‘Fetch the woman from the village,’ he growled.
There was hesitation at the end of the phone and he could almost hear Bruno’s mind working out that it was not quite a month since her last visit. But instead he said, ‘The boat will not come with the storm brewing.’
‘Offer them double,’ he ordered, and hung up.
Five minutes later Bruno called back. ‘The captain says it’s too rough. He will bring her tomorrow.’
‘I don’t want her tomorrow!’ This time he slammed the phone down, turning his gaze out through the windows to where the waves were wearing white caps from which the wind whipped spray metres into the air. And then rain lashed the windows until they were running like a river and the sea beyond blurred to grey.
Curse the damned weather! How dared it confound him when he needed a woman?
But there was already a woman on the island.
He wheeled away, trying hard to lose that thought. He could see her even now, poring over her precious pages as if they were the Holy Grail. In that moment he’d seen inside her. He’d seen beyond the scientist who made out she had no desires. He’d seen the woman beneath—a woman born for passion.
And she was waiting for you to kiss her.
He strode down the passageway, raking hands through his hair, not knowing where he was going, refusing to give credence to the sly voice in his head that refused to shut up.