* * *
After the opera had finished Alix took Leila out of the palazzo and along the Grand Canal in his boat, to a small rustic Italian restaurant where he was greeted like an old friend by the owner. They ate a selection of small starters and drank wine, and to Leila’s surprise the conversation flowed as easily as if they’d known each other for months, not days.
Something had happened—either as soon as she’d agreed to this date or on the plane, when events had become a dizzying spectacle. Or maybe it had been when she’d chosen a different perfume for herself...
She’d stepped over a line—irrevocably. She felt as if she was a different person, inhabiting the same skin. As if she’d thrown off some kind of shackle holding her to the past. She was a little drunk. She knew that. But she’d never felt so light, so...effervescent. So open to new possibilities, experiences.
She wasn’t naive enough to think that it would be anything more than transient. Especially with a man like Alix. And that was okay. If anything it was a form of protection. He was practically emblazoned with Warning! And Hazardous! signs.
She must have giggled a little, because Alix said dryly, ‘Something I said was funny?’
Leila shook her head and looked at him, all of a sudden stone-cold sober again. He was beautiful. Their mingled scents wrapped around her. Leila imagined them curling around her brain’s synapses, rendering them weak. Making her want what he was offering with those slate-grey eyes—hot with a decadent promise she could only imagine.
Leila realised with a sense of desperation that she wanted whatever he was offering. She wanted to lose herself and be broken apart. She wanted to know what it was like. She wanted to taste the forbidden.
She didn’t want to go back to her small poky apartment above her failing shop and be the same person. Looking at life passing by across the square. She wanted life to be happening to her. She’d never felt it this strongly before. It was his persistent seduction, the perfume, the wine, the opera...leaving her country for the first time. It was his kiss. It was him.
Impetuously she leaned forward. ‘Do we have to go back to Paris tonight?’
Immediately his gaze narrowed on her. She was acutely conscious of the fact that his jacket and bow tie were gone and his shirt was open at the throat, revealing the strong bronzed column of his neck.
‘What are you suggesting?’
Feeling bold for the first time in her life, Leila said, ‘I’m suggesting...not going back to Paris. Staying here...in Venice.’
‘For the night?’
She nodded. The enormity of what she was doing was dizzying, but she couldn’t turn back now. Her heart was thumping.
Alix cocked his head slightly. ‘I think you might be a little drunk, Miss Verughese.’
‘Perhaps,’ she agreed huskily. ‘But I know what I’m saying.’
‘Do you now...?’ Alix looked at her consideringly.
For a second something cold touched Leila’s spine. Maybe she had this all wrong. Maybe Alix was just toying with this gauche girl from a shop until a more suitable woman came along? No doubt he was getting a kick out of her untutored reactions to flying and seeing the opera.
And now this... Maybe the thought of bedding a virgin wasn’t palatable to a man of his undoubted experience and sophisticated tastes? She thought of how that woman had undressed in front of him and her insides contracted painfully. She could never do that.
She looked away, searching for her bag and wrap. ‘Forget I said anything. I’m sure you have meetings—’
Suddenly her hand was clasped in his and reluctantly she looked at him. He was intense.
‘Are you saying you want to stay in Venice for the night to share my bed, Leila?’
She hated it that he was making her spell it out, but she lifted her chin and said, ‘If you’re not interested—’
His hand tightened on hers. ‘Oh, I’m interested. I just want to make sure you’re not going to regret this in the morning and blame it on too much wine.’
Leila stared back, suppressing an urge to say I’m blaming it on much more than that. He wouldn’t understand. ‘I want this—even if it’s just one night.’
Alix interlaced his fingers with hers. It felt like a shockingly intimate caress.
‘It won’t be one night, Leila, I can guarantee that.’
She shivered lightly. The way he said that sounded like a vow. Or a promise.
‘Signor Alix...?’
He didn’t even look at his friend. He just said, ‘We’re finished, Giorgio, thank you.’
But it was a long moment before Alix broke his gaze from hers and let go of her hand to stand up.
Leila couldn’t remember much of leaving the restaurant, or of the boat ride along the magical Grand Canal at night. She was only aware of Alix’s strong thighs beside hers on the seat, his arm tight around her shoulders, his hand resting disturbingly close to the curve of her breast.
She was only aware that she was finally leaving a part of her life behind and stepping into the unknown.
She couldn’t believe she’d been so forward, and yet she knew that even if given a choice she wouldn’t turn back now. This man had unlocked some deep secret part of her and she wanted to explore it. She didn’t care about the fact that Alix Saint Croix was famous or rich or royalty. She was interested in the man. He called to her on a very basic level that no one had ever touched before.
And as the boat scythed through the choppy waters she reassured herself that she was going into this with eyes wide open. No romantic illusions. She was not starry-eyed any more. Pierre had seen to that when she’d let him woo her. That had been just after the death of her mother, when she’d been at her most vulnerable. She wasn’t vulnerable any more. And Leila had no intention of shutting herself away like a nun for the rest of her life.
They were approaching a building now—another grand palazzo. A man stood on the small landing dock and threw a rope to the driver. They came alongside the wooden jetty and Alix jumped nimbly out of the boat before turning back to lift Leila out as easily as if she weighed nothing.
As he let her down on the jetty he kept her close to his body, and her eyes widened when she felt her belly brush against a very hard part of him. Her pulse quickened and between her legs she felt damp.
Then he turned, and held her hand as he strode through the open doors. Leila had to almost run to keep up and she tugged at his hand. He looked back, something stark etched onto his face. She refused to let it intimidate her.
‘What is this place?’
‘It belongs to a friend—he’s away.’
‘Oh...’
A petite older woman dressed in black approached them and Alix exchanged some words with her in fluent Italian. It was only then that Leila looked around and took in the grandeur of the reception hall. The floor was marble, and there were massive stone columns stretching all the way up to a ceiling that was covered in very old-looking frescoes.
Then Alix was tugging her hand again and they were following the woman up the main staircase. The eyes from numerous huge stern portraits followed their progress and Leila superstitiously avoided looking at them, sensing a judgment she wasn’t really blasé enough to ignore in spite of her bravado.
The corridor they walked into had thick carpet, muffling their footsteps. Massive ornate wooden doors were closed on each side. At the end of the corridor the woman came to some double