He was not to be seen anyway, and she told herself she was glad. Relieved. Because to further her acquaintance with Cesare di Mondave would not be good sense at all.
Involuntarily her eyes went to the portrait of his ancestor—Count Alessandro, regarding the world in all his High Renaissance splendour, his dark gaze compelling, arrogant. In her mind’s eye she saw his wife and his mistress. Two women, rivals for ever, their destinies yoked to the man who had commissioned their portraits.
Had they both loved him? Or neither?
The question hovered in her head, its answer long consumed by the centuries that had passed. All she could know, with a kind of ironic certainty, was that it would not be wise for any woman to have anything to do with the man in whose veins ran the blood of Luciezo’s Count Alessandro.
It didn’t matter that his descendant could have an impact on her that she had never encountered before. That his dark lidded eyes could raise her pulse in an instant...that her eyes had wanted only to cling helplessly, hopelessly, to his sculpted, powerful features, that her hand had yearned to reach towards him, graze the tanned skin of his jaw, brush the sensual swell of his mouth... It didn’t matter at all.
Because letting herself get embroiled with the arrogant, oh-so-aristocratic Count of Mantegna would be folly indeed!
She was not, and never would be, like the lush beauty in the Caradino portrait, haplessly dependent upon the Count’s continuing desire for her, fearing its demise. Her lips thinned slightly. Nor could she ever be like the woman in the other portrait—oh, she might move in Roman high society, but the Viscaris were hoteliers: rich, but with no trace of aristocratic blood. Carla knew without flinching that when il Conte chose a wife, it would be a woman from his own background, with an ancestry to match his.
I would be nothing more than an...an interlude for him.
She walked out onto the pavement and into the warm evening air of Rome in late summer. A low, lean, open-topped car was hovering at the kerb, blatantly ignoring the road signs forbidding such parking. Its powerful engine was throbbing with a throaty husk, its scarlet paintwork was gleaming, and the rearing stallion on the long bonnet caught the light, glinting gold like the crested signet ring on the hand curved around the wheel.
The man at the wheel turned his head. Let his dark, lidded gaze rest on Carla.
‘What kept you?’ asked Cesare di Mondave, Conte di Mantegna.
CESARE’S HAND RESTED on the leather curve of the steering wheel. Impatience was humming in him. He appreciated that she had a job to do—this woman his eyes had lit upon, drawn without conscious intent to her dramatic beauty, her voluptuous figure, the extraordinarily dark blue eyes that had a hint of violet in them—but for all that he did not care to be kept waiting.
He’d known who she was before he’d made the decision to approach her—he’d seen her about previously in society, even though the aristocratic circles he moved in overlapped only loosely with those of the Viscaris. The Viscaris were, to him, ‘new money’—it was a mere handful of generations since the global hotel group that bore the family name had been founded at the end of the nineteenth century. They were newcomers compared to the immense antiquity of his family—and Cesare felt the weight of that antiquity upon him each and every day.
It was a weight that both upheld him and imposed upon him responsibilities to his ancestry that others could not understand. A duty that reached far back into the Middle Ages, stretching across all his estates from the high Apennine lands leased as a national park, to forests and vineyards, agricultural land and olive groves, and across all his many properties. Every palazzo was a historic monument, including the magnificent baroque Palazzo Mantegna here in Rome, now on loan to the nation and housing a museum of antiquities. And all those estates and properties came with tenants and employees whose livelihood he guaranteed—just as his ancestors had.
Yet at the heart of it all was the ancient Castello Mantegna, the heart of his patrimony. Within its mighty walls, built to withstand medieval warfare, he had spent his childhood, roaming the forests and pasturelands that one day would be his.
Was that something anyone not born to such a heritage could truly understand? The weight of inheritance upon him?
Or did they merely see il Conte—a wealthy, titled man who moved in the uppermost echelons of society, with a cachet that many would only envy? And which women would eagerly seek to bask in...
His dark eyes glinted. There had been no such eagerness in Carla Charteris, though he’d made clear his interest in her. He was glad of it—but not deterred by it. For his long experience of woman had told him immediately that the first flare of her violet-hued eyes as he’d addressed her had showed that she was responsive to him. That was all he’d needed to know—their barbed exchange thereafter had merely confirmed it. All that was required now was for her to acknowledge it.
He leant across to open the passenger side door. ‘Prego,’ he invited in a pleasant voice.
He’d surprised her—he could tell. Had she really believed that walking away from him would discourage him?
He went on in a dry voice, ‘It would gratify me if you complied without delay, for the traffic warden over there—’ he nodded carelessly along the street to where such an individual had recently turned the corner ‘—would so very much enjoy booking me.’ He gave a brief sigh. ‘I find that officials take particular pleasure in exercising their petty authority when their target is driving a car like this one.’
He smiled. He could see the conflict in her eyes—in those amazingly dark violet-blue eyes of hers—but above all he could see that same flare of awareness, of desire, which had been in them when he’d first approached her. That told him all he needed to know.
His expression changed again. ‘Carpe diem,’ he said softly. His eyes held hers. Tellingly, unambiguously. ‘Let us seize all that we may have of this fleeting life,’ he murmured, ‘before we are dust ourselves.’
His casual reference to her own comment in front of the Luciezo was accompanied by an exaggerated gesture of his hand as he again indicated the seat beside him.
His lashes dipped over his eyes. ‘What is so difficult,’ he murmured, ‘about accepting an invitation to dinner?’ His gaze lifted to hers again, and in his eyes was everything that was not in his words.
Carla, her expression immediately urgently schooled, stopped in her tracks on the pavement, felt again that incredible frisson go through her whole body—that shimmer of glittering awareness of the physical impact he made on her.
All around her the city of Rome buzzed with its familiar vitality. The warmth of the early evening enveloped her, and she could hear the noise of the traffic, the buzz of endless Vespas scooting past. The pavement was hot beneath the thin soles of her high heels. While in front of her, in that outrageously expensive car—as exclusive and prestigious as its driver so undoubtedly considered himself to be—the oh-so-aristocratic Conte invited her to join him.
As she had before, in the gallery, she felt the overwhelming impact of the man. Felt even more powerfully the impulse within her to give him the answer that he was waiting for.
Thoughts—fragmented, incoherent—raced through her.
What is happening to me? Why now—why this man of all men? This arrogant, lordly man who is scooping me up as if I were no more than that woman in the portrait—scooping me up to serve his pleasure...
Yet it would be for her pleasure too—she knew that with every shimmer in her body as she stood, poised on the pavement, feeling the weight of his lidded gaze upon her. That was the devil of it—that was the allure. That was the reason, Carla knew with a kind of sinking in her heart, that was keeping her here, hovering, just as he was keeping that monstrous, powerful car of his hovering, its power leashed, but ready to be let