Isobel flinched. He was too close now, and she was faced with a besuited wall of taut muscle and towering height. He was messing with her ability to think clearly, to form sensible sentences.
It was true that she had ignored the email he had sent her last week. Well, ignored was hardly the right word—she had stared at it long and hard, trying to formulate a suitable reply, before eventually giving up. In any case, she strongly suspected that after she’d told him her news he would have a severe loss of appetite. She knew she did.
But it seemed that by failing to leap at the chance of spending an evening with him she had ruffled his feathers. In front of the board members he had been polite, professionally charming. Now that politeness had turned to interrogation, and a cold stillness had settled over his handsome features—nothing like the impish devilment and sexy grin of the man she had known on Jacamar. No doubt somewhere there was a dent in that pristine pride of his—not that he would ever let her see it.
‘I didn’t reply to that email because I didn’t think there was any point.’
Orlando’s eyes narrowed further as he took a step closer to her. ‘Go on.’
Isobel swallowed down the knot in her throat. ‘I think that what happened on Jacamar...what we did... I mean...’ She faltered beneath the mocking innocence of his gaze. ‘I think from now on we should keep our relationship strictly professional.’
‘Do you, indeed?’
Another step closer and the small space between them had vanished completely. Isobel felt her knees start to wobble.
‘Yes—yes, I do.’
‘And why is that, Ms Spicer?’
He placed his hands on her shoulders, warm and firm, nailing her to the ground. Now there was no escaping the physical, sexual tidal wave that was Orlando Cassano. No mistaking the raw throb of desire that pulsed between them, nor the answering roar of blood in her ears.
Isobel held herself very still, her arms by her sides, determined to fight the intense feelings that were sweeping through her body. It would be so easy to raise her arms, link them around his neck, let herself be pulled against the taut strength of his body and satisfy the hunger she felt for him. But that way disaster lay—in fact it already had. No, she would take a second to compose herself, and then she would move away, do what she had to do.
But Orlando had other ideas about how to spend that second, and before she knew it his hands had moved to the back of her head, his fingers plundering the softness of her hair as he tipped her face up to his, seeking her lips with his own. His face blurred out of focus as he lowered his head to claim her, and suddenly he was kissing her, wasting no time before increasing the pressure and using the heated, erotic slide of his tongue to open her up to him.
It was a kiss full of heat and possessiveness and deep sexual need. A kiss that left no doubt as to where it would lead, if circumstances would let it. Isobel felt her eyes close against its force, her body instantly surrender to its power.
Orlando altered his position, sliding his leg against her thigh, pressing his arousal to her groin. ‘I’ve missed you, Isobel.’ He pulled his mouth away just far enough to groan the words against her swollen lips before angling his head in order to kiss her more deeply. Then, drawing in a deep breath he continued hoarsely, ‘And I hope you have missed me too.’
‘No!’
That split second of space was enough to bring Isobel to her senses and, bracing her hands against Orlando’s chest, she used its rock-hard strength to push herself away. The look of surprise that flashed in his eyes cut through her like a blade.
‘We have to stop this.’
Taking a step back, and then another, she fought to control the heaving of her chest, to stem the river of lust that was snaking its way to every part of her body.
‘I mean, it’s over—finished...’ Her voice tailed off with the effort of dragging the reluctant words up from her body. From the absurdity of trying to reject the only man she had ever truly desired. ‘We can’t do this any more.’
* * *
Orlando tugged loose the tie that was suddenly unbearably tight around his neck and, shrugging off his jacket, hurled it behind him where it hooked limply over the back of a chair. It seemed nothing was going his way at the moment.
He had been looking forward to seeing Isobel again today—had been surprised, actually, just how much. Reacquainting himself with the lovely Ms Spicer was supposed to have been the one bright spot in what he knew was going to be a frustrating and depressing few days. Now it seemed even that pleasure was going to be denied him.
He’d allowed himself an extra day in London before he had to fly to Italy to sort out his late father’s affairs. His business in the UK could be concluded pretty quickly, and the thought of spending some free time with Isobel had been a very attractive one. But, judging by the look on her face now, it was time that wasn’t going to be needed. He might as well fly to Italy this evening, get it over with, then head back to New York as fast as his private jet would take him.
But it was a grim prospect. If he had his way he would never set foot in his home town of Trevente ever again. The ancient Italian town, sited between the turquoise waters of the Adriatic and the snow-capped Sibillini Mountains, had all the picture-postcard beauty you could ask for, but it certainly held no charm for Orlando. And as for the castello that looked down on the town, and the estate and the wretched title that went with it—Marchese di Trevente—well, he wanted none of it. Even if it was his rightful inheritance.
Some inheritance. Orlando felt a fresh wave of anger roll over him. Passed to him on the recent death of the miserable lowlife of a creature who had called himself his father, the once noble and profitable estate that had been in the Cassano family for countless generations had been brought to its knees, the vineyards neglected, the farms uncared for and the many properties virtually in ruins. And that included the majestic Castello Trevente.
This was his father’s legacy—a legacy Orlando couldn’t wait to get shot of. Finding out that he had to go to Trevente in person to do just that had only fuelled his rage. But despite putting his legal team on to it there appeared to be no way of circumnavigating the ancient Italian laws—no getting out of climbing the twisty stairs to the stuffy office of the family solicitor, shaking hands with notary, or the mayor, or whoever else had to witness his signature in this archaic system.
Only then would he be able to arrange for the sale of the whole damned place and finally walk away—wash his hands of his heritage for ever.
Now Orlando’s eyes scanned the defiant figure who stood before him. So he was being dumped. There was a novelty value there, to be sure, but that didn’t compensate for the sharp sting of rejection, the virtual slap on the cheek. Not to mention his disappointment that he was going to be denied a brief period of escapism with this lovely young woman.
The sensible thing would be to take Isobel’s words at face value. Shake her hand and say goodbye. But his body was far from sensible where Ms Spicer was concerned. It had been from the very first moment he had seen her arrive on his Caribbean island, wobbling to stand up in the motor launch. Even now it was refusing to accept what he had been told, and the tightness in his groin was showing no sign of abating. He realised he wanted answers, needed answers, before he could walk away.
Isobel had retreated further from him now, deeper into the room, and she stared at him with something like mutinous rebellion. He watched as she pushed back her shoulders, tucking her glossy chestnut hair behind one ear. Her cheeks were stained with twin streaks of colour, her wide green eyes unnaturally bright. Something was going on here. And she wasn’t leaving until he had damned well found out what it was.
Forcing himself to find some of the legendary calm that he was so famed for, Orlando moved over to the table and pulled out two chairs.
‘Sit down, Isobel.’
Isobel hesitated, then did as she was told, crossing her legs and smoothing