Read Online The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB by Diana Fraser - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diana Fraser
Tags: Contemporary Romance
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learn how to say goodbye nicely, Giovanni. It’s only polite.”
He angled his body to hers and hooked one arm across the back seat, grazing her hair with his hand.
“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
She looked at him sharply. “That was different.”
“Ah yes, it’s always different, always a special case when it comes to yourself, isn’t it?”
“It certainly appears to be. I don’t know many people whose husbands rob them of their company and money and force them to return to them against their will, despite the fact they have no future together.
“Their men must be weak.”
“Their men are normal.”
He laughed, harsh and short.
“If you’d wanted normal you should have stayed in London amongst your own people.” He lifted his hands and pulled back a shaft of hair that fell over her shoulder. “But you didn’t, did you? You wanted more.”
“You’re wrong. I want what every woman wants.”
“And that is?”
She grimaced. She wasn’t going to admit what she wanted to him. What was the point?
“You don’t need to tell me,” he continued. “You want a man of passion when it suits you—in the bedroom—and a man without the inconvenience of passion outside the bedroom.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Ah, but the catch is that you cannot have both. Which do you want most, I wonder?”
He brought his finger to her lips before she could reply. “Don’t worry. It will be the latter. Our bedrooms are separate; there will be no inconvenient passion to disturb your days—or nights.”
She closed her eyes briefly against the frustration. He must know that she wanted his passion more than anything. His jealousies and controlling behavior seemed nothing to her now.
“I see the thought that I do not insist you lie with me relieves you.”
“As if you could insist.”
He leaned in to her. “You know I could, dolce cuore. And not by insisting. Rather by persuasion. But I choose not to.”
“So why are you chauffeuring me from the office to the Palazzo? Think your wife might be led astray by an amorous Italian?”
She could see the barb found its mark but he recovered quickly. “It is always wise to protect one’s investment,” he smiled lightly. “Otherwise it ceases to have value.”
She glared at him.
“And what exactly is it that you want from your investment at this moment?”
“I want your assurance that your work remains completely confidential. I don’t want names mentioned to your team; I don’t want specific findings revealed. They must only ever know a small piece of the whole. It will be only you who knows the full picture. I need your assurance on this.”
Surprised, she nodded. “That’s standard. Why the secrecy?”
“The ‘why’ is not your concern. Simply do your job, fulfill your contract and then you will be free once more. Just as you wish to be.”
“Fine.”
As they pulled up outside the Palazzo, Rose didn’t wait for Simon and turned to let herself out of the car.
“And, Rose, don’t wait up, I doubt I’ll be home for dinner.”
She jumped out without a backward glance.
Rose looked down the length of the rosewood table at the antique grandfather clock that mournfully chimed two long strokes—wrong, as usual—and sipped her glass of wine.
Apart from those last few months, she couldn’t remember a time when Giovanni had not spent the evening with her. More often than not, business had to be mixed with pleasure, but it had never taken precedence before.
Times had changed, obviously. She would be dining alone.
She shook out her napkin, helped herself to dinner and looked around the oppressive room.
Alone, surrounded by the ornate paintings of his ancestors, Rose felt suffocated by the weight of his family’s history. Her eyes ranged from the older paintings depicting grim-faced ancestors to the modern-day paintings of Giovanni’s own family.
The artist had caught Giovanni’s strength and pride but not his
He angled his body to hers and hooked one arm across the back seat, grazing her hair with his hand.
“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
She looked at him sharply. “That was different.”
“Ah yes, it’s always different, always a special case when it comes to yourself, isn’t it?”
“It certainly appears to be. I don’t know many people whose husbands rob them of their company and money and force them to return to them against their will, despite the fact they have no future together.
“Their men must be weak.”
“Their men are normal.”
He laughed, harsh and short.
“If you’d wanted normal you should have stayed in London amongst your own people.” He lifted his hands and pulled back a shaft of hair that fell over her shoulder. “But you didn’t, did you? You wanted more.”
“You’re wrong. I want what every woman wants.”
“And that is?”
She grimaced. She wasn’t going to admit what she wanted to him. What was the point?
“You don’t need to tell me,” he continued. “You want a man of passion when it suits you—in the bedroom—and a man without the inconvenience of passion outside the bedroom.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Ah, but the catch is that you cannot have both. Which do you want most, I wonder?”
He brought his finger to her lips before she could reply. “Don’t worry. It will be the latter. Our bedrooms are separate; there will be no inconvenient passion to disturb your days—or nights.”
She closed her eyes briefly against the frustration. He must know that she wanted his passion more than anything. His jealousies and controlling behavior seemed nothing to her now.
“I see the thought that I do not insist you lie with me relieves you.”
“As if you could insist.”
He leaned in to her. “You know I could, dolce cuore. And not by insisting. Rather by persuasion. But I choose not to.”
“So why are you chauffeuring me from the office to the Palazzo? Think your wife might be led astray by an amorous Italian?”
She could see the barb found its mark but he recovered quickly. “It is always wise to protect one’s investment,” he smiled lightly. “Otherwise it ceases to have value.”
She glared at him.
“And what exactly is it that you want from your investment at this moment?”
“I want your assurance that your work remains completely confidential. I don’t want names mentioned to your team; I don’t want specific findings revealed. They must only ever know a small piece of the whole. It will be only you who knows the full picture. I need your assurance on this.”
Surprised, she nodded. “That’s standard. Why the secrecy?”
“The ‘why’ is not your concern. Simply do your job, fulfill your contract and then you will be free once more. Just as you wish to be.”
“Fine.”
As they pulled up outside the Palazzo, Rose didn’t wait for Simon and turned to let herself out of the car.
“And, Rose, don’t wait up, I doubt I’ll be home for dinner.”
She jumped out without a backward glance.
Rose looked down the length of the rosewood table at the antique grandfather clock that mournfully chimed two long strokes—wrong, as usual—and sipped her glass of wine.
Apart from those last few months, she couldn’t remember a time when Giovanni had not spent the evening with her. More often than not, business had to be mixed with pleasure, but it had never taken precedence before.
Times had changed, obviously. She would be dining alone.
She shook out her napkin, helped herself to dinner and looked around the oppressive room.
Alone, surrounded by the ornate paintings of his ancestors, Rose felt suffocated by the weight of his family’s history. Her eyes ranged from the older paintings depicting grim-faced ancestors to the modern-day paintings of Giovanni’s own family.
The artist had caught Giovanni’s strength and pride but not his
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