Ridiculous! he chided himself. He barely knew the girl, and what he did know wasn’t a particularly good recommendation. What if she began taking narcotics again? How would he feel about that? But deep down he’d already realised that the reason she’d fallen into that trap was because of her desperate need to overcome an inner shyness, a sort of claustrophobia that she couldn’t handle and a lack of experience. If the circumstances were removed, and now she was aware of the true dangers, the problem would probably be resolved. For she was a sensitive, vulnerable woman, not used to the hard, tough atmosphere of the movie business. It wasn’t surprising she’d resorted to alternative measures to help her through the ordeal.
But what about the future? Victoria was scheduled to star in Ed Banes’s next movie, which was due to begin filming in six weeks. If some measure was not taken she could just fall back into the old routine.
He clenched his fist. Not if he had anything to do with it! Whatever happened between him and Victoria had nothing to do with his determination to make certain that she be shielded from the more disagreeable aspects of the movie business. How, he didn’t know yet. But he’d find a way.
VICTORIA SLEPT FOR SOME hours, but awoke feeling revived and ready to join Rodolfo for dinner.
To her surprise, nothing was ready when first she entered the huge drawing room, with its eighteenth-century Italian elegance, and glanced into the formal dining room. She walked out onto the terrace. Evening had fallen and she saw Rodolfo, tall and slim, etched in moonlight, one foot raised on the low stone parapet, looking out over the cliffs to the midnight sea beyond.
‘Good evening,’ she said, moving onto the terrace to join him, a rush of heat surging through her as she watched him—so dark, handsome, sexy and attractive.
‘Ah, Victoria, you are better, cara?’ He moved quickly to her side and took her arm solicitously. ‘Come and sit down over here,’ he said, indicating one of the wrought-iron chairs to his right.
‘I’m fine, really. I feel no after-effects whatsoever.’
‘Good. Then why don’t we go directly to my apartment? I have a surprise for you.’ Looping his arm through hers, he drew her inside. Together they walked through the Great Hall and on towards one of the wings of the castle where Rodolfo had an apartment of his own.
‘It’s lovely,’ Victoria exclaimed as they walked inside the high-ceilinged living room. She was amazed to see how modern the decoration was compared to the rest of the castello, which retained its classical style. In contrast this apartment was dotted with exquisitely designed Italian leather furniture and medieval antiques. Halogen lights played on brightly coloured abstract canvases hanging on the centuries-old walls. Opening straight onto the vast living space was an ultra-modern kitchen.
‘So this is where you make your culinary delights?’ Victoria teased, sitting down on one of the steel bar stools topped with velvet cushions and leaning on the granite counter as Rodolfo moved towards the stove.
‘Here it is,’ he said, raising his hands. ‘I hope you’ll like my pasta. That’s what’s on the menu tonight. We’ll have a drink on the balcony, and then you can lay the table while I prepare the food.’ He leaned over and pulled a bottle of virgin olive oil off the shelf in readiness.
‘What? No servants, no pomp and ceremony?’ she queried mischievously.
‘No. Tonight it’s just you and me, cara, and that full moon out there. A drink?’ Without waiting for her to answer he selected a glass for her and poured from a wine bottle already uncorked on the counter.
‘Thanks.’ Victoria glanced at the glass he handed her, eyeing the rich dark red liquid.
‘To your quick recovery,’ he said, raising his own glass.
‘To a successful dinner,’ she returned, raising her glass.
‘With such a guest, dinner can only be successful,’ he replied gallantly.
‘Your Royal Highness is too kind,’ she murmured, fluttering her eyelashes and bowing her head comically before taking a sip of wine.
‘Come, come, Victoria.’ He laughed. ‘No formal titles, I beg you. I am Rodolfo to you, and that is all. Let’s step out and drink this on the balcony, shall we? The evening is quite fresh. Do you think you’ll be warm enough?’ He came around the counter and, slipping an arm around her, escorted her out onto the wide balcony which overlooked the floodlit gardens of the castello.
‘The garden is divine,’ she murmured, staring down at the manicured parterres, the flowerbeds and trimmed hedges, and listening to the soft sound of water pouring from a fountain. She breathed in the familiar scent that seemed to permeate the whole island, giving it an aura all of its own.
‘No, bella, the garden is pleasant—you are exquisite,’ he said, stopping himself from kissing her, knowing that if he allowed things to get out of hand right now there would be no pasta, no dinner, merely an immediate move into the bedroom.
If she was willing.
The question was an intriguing one: few women had ever refused him. He did not consider himself arrogant, merely self-confident, sure of his own charm and ability to seduce. He’d never been unfair or unjust, and had always acted the gentleman. Simply, he hadn’t allowed his heart to get involved. Victoria was beguiling and lovely, and she reminded him of Giada—but was he really going to stop playing by his rules?
Together they stood leaning against the balustrade of the wide balcony. The moon shone, full and bright, like a huge floodlight, illuminating the sky, the sea and the castle. The water below shimmered, as did the sparkling lights of the large yachts at anchor in the bay. It was magical, enchanting, unreal. And as Victoria sipped her wine she wondered if all this was nothing but a dream.
After a little while they went inside. Rodolfo directed her to a large antique sideboard, where the plates and cutlery were kept, while he busied himself tossing chopped onions and garlic in olive oil, selecting herbs and popping them into a large frying pan while next to it a huge pot of water simmered, awaiting the pasta. Then he switched on some music: a Baroque instrumental. It was soft and soothing, the quality of the sound perfect.
As she laid the table Victoria let out a sigh. How wonderful it must be to live with a man like this, in such an atmosphere, she reflected, to share such joyful and intimate moments. She barely remembered that he was a prince, simply looked at him as a man on whose company she was fast learning to depend.
And what a man.
Out of the corner of her eye she observed him, watched him, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the taut tanned muscles of his forearms, his hair flicked back as he concentrated on his task. He wore an old pair of tight jeans and espadrilles. She swallowed. What, she wondered, would follow the pasta?
Nothing that she didn’t want, she realised ruefully.
For it had become abundantly clear that, however much Rodolfo might want her, he was too much of gentleman to do anything that she might regret or deplore. The thought left her limp with longing. To know that he respected her, that he wanted her yet would be willing to abstain from demonstrating his desire in any way that she might find offensive made him all the more attractive, and left her feeling more vulnerable and tender than she ever had before.
Unconsciously she moved towards the kitchen, came and stood next to him and watched as he stirred the pasta, threw herbs deftly into the pan, added a touch of salt and pepper, then turned and smiled into her eyes.
‘It smells delicious,’ she murmured, taking a deep breath.
‘Wait until you taste it,’ he replied, concentrating again on his undertaking. ‘Here.’ He lifted the wooden spoon and dropped some of the sauce on her hand. ‘Try it.’
‘Mmm.