For Lucy the night took on a magic all of its own as Lorenzo, holding her to his side, took her to gather with all the other guests in the garden to watch the fireworks display on the stroke of midnight.
How had she ever thought she disliked him without knowing him? So Lorenzo had lost his temper with Damien after the inquest? In fairness, it had to have been a traumatic time for him, and she could not really blame Lorenzo for Damien going off the rails afterwards. Lucy had sacrificed a lot for Damien, given him much more help than most sisters ever did, and yet his reckless behaviour had negated her help and ultimately led to his tragic death.
And how had she ever thought Lorenzo was boring? she wondered as he laughed and joked with the other guests as they said their goodbyes. She was totally captivated, her eyes shining like stars as she looked up at him as he turned back to her.
‘The party is almost over, Lucy. Can I take you home now?’ he asked, and the question in the glittering dark eyes said so much more.
‘I am staying here tonight—to help with the clearing up,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Do you have to?’ His long fingers curled about her wrist, his thumb carelessly caressing the soft underside, sending shivers of awareness through her body. ‘I could tell our hostess you are too tired and I’m taking you home for some much needed rest.’
Her eyes locked with his, and the sexual tension that had sparked between them all evening heightened almost to breaking point. They both knew it was not a rest he was suggesting. Lucy’s pounding heart wanted to say yes, but her head and her conscience was telling her to say no. She couldn’t—she had promised. And then Samantha’s mum interrupted them.
‘There you are, Lucy. I was looking for you.’
Ten minutes later Lucy was seated in the passenger seat of Lorenzo’s car on the way home, not sure how it had happened.
Lorenzo walked around the bonnet of the top-of-the-range BMW he’d rented and opened the passenger door. Reaching for her hand, he helped her out of the vehicle. He had sensed Lucy mentally pulling away from him as they had made the short journey to the outskirts of the town, and he needed to keep physical contact with her.
He wasn’t about to strike out now. It had occurred to him, as the evening wore on and he’d watched her dance, smile and flirt with a variety of men, that far from being too young and not possessing the traits he looked for in a lover—as he had thought when they’d met in Verona—the opposite was true. She was the perfect sexual partner for a weekend.
Lucy Steadman was no ordinary little small-town girl but an artist, accustomed to a bohemian lifestyle from her years at art college in London, and now living in Cornwall—the most popular county in England for artists and latter-day hippies. She was a free spirit and, judging by her response when he held and kissed her, and her body that oozed sex appeal, she had to be a woman well-versed in the pleasures of the flesh.
‘Here—let me take the key.’ He took the key she had taken from her purse and opened the door.
Lucy turned to close the door and found Lorenzo doing it for her. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked, glancing up at him.
Slowly he shook his head and reached out one long finger, stroking her cheek in an intimate gesture.
‘You know what I want—what we both want—and it isn’t coffee,’ he husked. ‘I’ve been aching to do this again for hours.’ And his arm wrapped around her waist, his mouth found hers, and she was lost in the wonder of his kiss.
Her mouth was warm and eager for his, and it never occurred to Lucy to resist. Her purse fell unnoticed to the floor as she reached for him, her hands clinging to his broad shoulders, her lips parting to the probing demand of his tongue, and she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the exciting sensations rioting around her body.
‘The bedroom,’ he groaned, and she indicated the stairs with her hand. He swept her up in his arms and with unerring accuracy found her bedroom.
He lowered her down onto the white coverlet of the queen-sized bed and straightened up, swiftly shrugging off his jacket and removing something from the pocket. He dropped it on the side table as his jacket fell to the floor, followed by the rest of his clothes.
Lucy’s eyes widened in awe as, lit by the light of the moon shining through the window, she saw his magnificent body naked.
She had seen naked men before, in life class at college, but the models had been mostly grey-haired elderly men, carefully posed. And she had made love once with a boy—Philip, who had shared an apartment with her and two other girls at college. It had been the same night that she’d seen a newsflash on the television about two climbers in an accident on Mont Blanc, giving Damien and Antonio’s names. One had been thought seriously injured but it hadn’t been stipulated which. She had been terrified for both of them. Philip had tried to find out more, without any success, and then taken her in his arms to soothe her fears. They had ended up making love. With hindsight it had been comfort sex, with both of them half clothed and he as inexperienced as her. She had been thoroughly ashamed afterwards, and wary of men ever since.
But nothing had prepared her for Lorenzo, standing boldly in the flesh … She could not take her eyes off him. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, with a shadow of black body hair that tapered down to a narrow waist, flat stomach, lean hips and long legs. He was also mightily aroused, and she swallowed hard suddenly, slightly afraid.
‘Are you waiting for me to undress you or admiring the view?’ he asked, with the confident grin of a man totally at ease in his naked masculinity. Not waiting for an answer, he knelt on the bed and pressed fervent little kisses on her face, her throat, while his hands, with a deftness she could only wonder at, removed her dress.
Beneath, she was wearing only white lace briefs, and a thousand nerve-endings sprang to life as he hooked his fingers in the lace and slowly pulled them down her legs.
‘You are beautiful—so beautiful, Lucy.’ He dropped a kiss on her stomach and she trembled in helpless response as his hands palmed her breasts, his thumbs gently grazing the burgeoning nipples, bringing them to rigid points of aching pleasure.
Lucy’s response was a low moan as quivering arrows of sensation shot from her breasts to her pelvis.
‘Perfect,’ he murmured, and his mouth closed over a pert nipple, his tongue licking and suckling.
Her back arched involuntarily, and little whimpering sounds of pleasure escaped her as with frightening expertise Lorenzo delivered the same erotic torment to the other breast, before he found her mouth again and kissed her long and deep as his hands caressed her skin, shaping her waist, her hips, her thighs …
She reached for him, her small hands clasping his shoulders, stroking around his neck, holding him closer, her fingers raking through the thick black hair of his head, desperate for more.
Suddenly he reared back. ‘I want you, Lucy. Dio, how I want you.’ He groaned and nudged her legs apart, to settle between her thighs, and she could feel the hard pressure of his erection against her pelvis as he pinned her to the bed, kissing her with a deep, demanding passion that aroused an answering passion in her—a need, a longing that banished any faint doubt from her mind.
The rough hair of his chest rubbed against her swollen breasts, and her body felt electrified by the heat, the power of him. He kissed her throat, her shoulders, his mouth hard, and one hand curved under her hips to lift her slightly.
His mouth found the rigid tips of her breasts again, suckling first one and then the other, while his other hand dipped between her thighs, his long fingers exploring the hot moist centre of her with devastating skill.
She