* * *
She had found the door with the lion’s head handle. Thank goodness. This place was like a city. The door was heavy, silky cream, and as she closed her hand around the lion’s head it was a surprising degree of pleasure. Would everything be so tactile here? Including the count?
Stop with the fantasies. She had around fifteen minutes to shower, change and meet him downstairs. All of which might have been fine if she could only stop gazing round like a country yokel. She had opened a door onto a wonderland of art and luxury, functionality and extravagance combined. Like the rest of the palazzo, the decor was discreet yet obviously expensive. Taupe, ecru, ivory and chalky-white, with a couple of showpiece ornaments and a huge unframed painting, picked up the tints of the throw on the bed—
Okay...that unframed piece? The homage to Picasso? On closer inspection she discovered it was a Picasso. The last time she’d seen the painting it had been hanging in a gallery in Stockholm, labelled ‘on loan’ from an unnamed benefactor.
Roman Quisvada lived in quite some style. And grudgingly, she had to admit she liked it. It did surprise her that such a powerful brute of a man lived like this in the home of a discerning connoisseur. The count was an interesting man—in more ways than one.
Dropping her backpack on what was probably an extremely expensive rug, she tried not to draw unnecessary comparisons between the count’s seductive lifestyle and the seductive count. She scrunched her toes appreciatively in the soft wool as she crossed the room to inspect the balcony overlooking the placid azure sea. The scent of blossom was heavy and intoxicating, and she wished she could remain dreaming a little longer as she leaned over the stone balustrades, but the clock was ticking and she still had to shower and dress.
Four doors faced her in the room. The first turned out to be a dressing room, for the guest who had everything, and who was only used to the best. Not Eva Skavanga, that was for sure. The second door revealed a gym. The third, a marble-lined bathroom. Her jaw dropped. And stuck. With its sunken bath and shower big enough for two, the bathroom could best be described as sumptuous. There were enough white fluffy towels for an army, and the water pressure was fierce enough to fill a lake. She wandered back into the bedroom, where she couldn’t resist a few bounces on the mega-sized bed where inviting crisp white sheets still held the faint scent of sunshine, and the throw, with its tints echoing those of the fabulous painting on the wall, reminded her of a fading summer sky. How was she ever going to drag herself away from this?
A sharp rap on the door gave her that answer.
‘Eva?’
She hadn’t even showered yet! ‘Five minutes?’ she yelled back.
‘Not a minute more.’ Roman sounded less than amused.
How would he punish her if she was late?
She absolutely had to stop thinking like that. Even as a joke! She might forget herself and come on to him. She could act tough back in Skavanga, but she was playing well out of her league here.
Drying off after her shower, she twisted her hair into a messy up-do on top of her head, securing it with the single hairclip she had retrieved from the bottom of her pack. It was just a boring old plastic thing that came in a pack of six, but there was no time to dry her hair properly. And right on cue the hammering on the door started again. If she left Roman hanging much longer he’d crash the room.
She was a campaigner not a stylist, so what was she worried about? Eva thought as she viewed her reflection in the cheval mirror in the bedroom. So what if Roman was clad in the finest couture, while the best that could be said for her was that she was clad? He’d asked for this. She wasn’t a fashion guru, either.
‘Ready.’ Buoyed with renewed confidence, she flung the door wide.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ he repeated flatly.
She had been on the point of apologising for her casual appearance, but now she was stoked. Her cheeks blazed red as he stared at her.
‘You can’t go to the wedding dressed like that.’
‘Well, what do you suggest?’
What made things worse was the sight of Roman dressed for the wedding. Wearing chinos, cinched with a beautifully tooled leather belt, he had a pale linen jacket slung over his shoulders and a dark shirt underneath. He looked even more amazing than before if such a thing were possible. His thick dark hair was still damp from the shower, and stubble was already shading his disapproving face. It should be illegal to look so hot. If every ruthless entrepreneur looked like Roman Quisvada, it was no wonder they could strip assets faster than Eva could throw a spanner in their works.
‘Well?’ she prompted as he continued to narrow his eyes and ponder. ‘I didn’t come here planning to attend a wedding. I don’t even want to go. You suggested it—’
‘Yes, I did,’ he admitted thoughtfully.
‘Are you ashamed of me?’
He seemed to come round, as if this genuinely hadn’t occurred to him.
‘I have no feelings regarding you at all. I just think you might feel more comfortable if you were dressed differently, that’s all.’
‘That settles it,’ she flashed, backing into the room. ‘I’ll wait for you in the village—’
With whip-fast reactions, he held the door firm.
‘Wait for me where?’ He stood belligerently in her way. ‘You’ll come with me—and you’ll come with me now. This isn’t a multiple-choice, Eva. The decision has already been made.’
‘DO YOU SERIOUSLY think anyone will notice what I’m wearing?’ she said, starting to worry.
‘Everyone will notice what you’re wearing.’
‘Because I’m with you,’ she scoffed.
‘They’ll be curious,’ Roman admitted with a shrug.
I bet they will. ‘Why don’t you just say I’m an employee who turned up unexpectedly?’
For the first time he seemed amused. ‘No one will believe that, Eva. They know me too well to think I could be surprised that way.’
‘Because all your employees do what you tell them, I suppose.’
He gave her a sleepy look that suggested everyone did as he told them—with one notable exception. ‘Maybe they’ll think I’m a roadie with the band?’ Lifting her shoulders, she let them drop again.
‘Is that what you want people to think?’ Roman’s lips pressed down attractively.
‘I don’t care what they think—’
‘But I think you do,’ he said. ‘These are good people, Eva. I think you’ll want them to like you.’
That was the one answer she hadn’t expected—the one answer she didn’t have a smart retort for. Concern from Roman was so unexpected that, quite inappropriately, her eyes filled with tears. She wasn’t used to people other than her sisters showing concern for her. They were generally afraid to in case she bit their head off. She had never been so wrong-footed before. And had never felt quite so out of place.
‘I’m