At the party that evening Orla had stared at Torre Romano and supposed that he was her stepbrother. But that thought along with every other had flown from her mind when Torre had trapped her gaze and she’d felt scalding heat inside her as if an electrical current had shot through her body. She’d watched him stride across the room towards her, and the feral expression on his hard-boned face had warned her to turn and run.
It was a pity she had not listened to her instincts that day, Orla thought grimly. She picked at her plate of ricotta ravioli that had been served for a first course but her appetite was still poor after her recent gastric upset—although she suspected that Torre’s brooding presence opposite her was responsible for the knot of tension in her stomach.
Around the table the conversation was mainly in Italian and Orla was heartened that she could follow most of what was said. She had learned Italian at school and had practised speaking it during her visits to Villa Romano while her mother had lived there. Now she hoped that being fluent in the language might help persuade Giuseppe to give her a job.
‘You’re very quiet, Orla.’ Torre’s deep-timbred voice jolted her from her thoughts and she looked up to find him watching her from beneath his heavy-lidded eyes. Now that she’d had time to get over the initial impact of seeing him again she was able to study him more objectively, but unfortunately he was no less devastating. His cream shirt was open at the throat, and the sight of his darkly tanned skin and a few black chest hairs made the knot in her stomach tighten. He looked relaxed—the exact opposite of how she felt—and when he’d laughed at something Giuseppe had said a few moments ago the sound had made Orla think of molten honey.
He was waiting for her to reply. She quickly glanced at Jules for moral support and saw that he was deep in conversation with Giuseppe. ‘I’m tired after the journey,’ she said diffidently.
Torre’s brows rose. ‘It is a two-and-a-half-hour flight from London to Naples. I can’t imagine you found the journey that arduous.’
His sarcasm stung. ‘I didn’t realise that I’m supposed to entertain you,’ she said tightly. ‘What do you want me to talk about?’
The gleam in his eyes told her that she had fallen straight into the trap he had set. Her temper fizzed and she felt a strong urge to fling the contents of the water jug at his smug face. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, she tried to rationalise her response to him.
It was a long time since she had felt angry. She had learned that the only way to deal with David’s explosive temper had been to remain calm and try to mollify him. On the one occasion when she had attempted to stick up for herself he had physically assaulted her. Unconsciously she lifted her hand and ran her fingers over the scar above her eyebrow where a ring that David had been wearing had cut deep into her skin when he’d hit her. The wound had bled heavily and had required her to visit the accident and emergency department at the local hospital so that it could be stitched. Across the table she saw Torre’s eyes follow the movement of her hand and she quickly lowered it to her lap.
‘Why don’t you start by telling me about yourself? Eight years ago I recall that we did not spend very much time talking,’ he drawled.
Orla silently cursed her fair skin when she felt heat spread across her cheeks. Images flashed into her mind, of Torre sprawled on a bed, his body a symphony of sleek golden skin and honed muscles. When he had pulled her down on top of him, she’d marvelled at how hard his body had felt against her soft, feminine curves. She had never seen a naked man before and the sight of his arousal had made her apprehensive at first, but then he had kissed her and her doubts had been swept away by the onslaught of his fierce passion.
She swallowed hard, determined not to respond to his taunts. ‘What do you want to know?’
He shrugged his wide shoulders but Orla wasn’t fooled by his casual air. His eyes were focused intently on her in the way that a panther might watch its prey before springing to make a kill. ‘What do you do for a living?’
Her heart sank as she wondered if Torre had read the stories that had appeared in some sections of the English press after she’d ended her marriage. She’d had to wait until she had lived apart from David for two years before the divorce proceedings had gone ahead. A month ago the decree absolute had been granted, but her relief that she was finally free from her abusive husband had turned to shocked dismay when the tabloids had labelled her a greedy gold-digger who had demanded and won a huge financial settlement. Public support had been very much for David, while comparisons had been drawn between Orla and her four-times-married mother, who had made a career out of marrying and divorcing rich men.
She stared at Torre and wished she could confound him by telling him that she had a successful career. It had been Giuseppe who had first inspired her interest in engineering, and eight years ago when she had started university she had switched from a maths degree to study civil engineering. She had found that designing and being involved in the construction process of roads, bridges and other vital infrastructure might not be a glamorous job but it allowed her to be creative and innovative with an opportunity to make real changes to people’s lives. A trip to Africa organised by her university to take part in the construction of a fresh water supply and sanitation facilities in a rural area of Sierra Leone had reinforced her decision to become an engineer.
But her greatest regret was that she had not finished her degree. She had met David Keegan halfway through her final year of studying, and part of the course had involved her being sent on placements to civil engineering projects to gain practical experience. David had disliked her working in a predominantly male environment. In hindsight she could see that he had revealed signs of his obsessive and jealous nature before their wedding in Las Vegas three months after they had met in a bar where she had worked as a waitress to supplement her student grant.
She’d been flattered by the attention from a good-looking sports star and her romance with David had been a whirlwind affair. After they had married he had persuaded her to drop out of university so that she could travel with him when he played international matches with the England cricket team.
Orla smiled at the waiter who had replaced her uneaten starter with a plate of seafood risotto. Unfortunately her appetite hadn’t improved and her thoughts were still on the past.
It had always been her intention to go back to university to finish her studies and qualify as a civil engineer but by the end of her marriage her self-confidence had been in tatters. She’d left with nothing but a few of her clothes, none of which had been bought with David’s money. Earning an income had been vital, but her only work experience was bar work or as an office assistant during her gap year after she’d left school.
The additional worry about her mother’s medical bills had prompted her to take an intensive secretarial course, after which she had been offered a job as a secretary with a construction company, Mayall’s. Her knowledge of civil engineering had proved useful and she had quickly been promoted to the role of PA to the company’s director. However, she had been fired from her job when she’d had to take an extended period of time off to rush to her mother’s hospital bedside in America. Since then she had been turned down for every job she’d applied for, and now her financial situation was at crisis point and her self-confidence had taken another battering.
Eight years ago Torre’s rejection had made her feel worthless. He was still waiting now for her to reply to his question. ‘I assume you do work,’ he drawled, ‘unless your living costs are funded by someone else.’
Orla looked across the table at him. He was so handsome that he made her heart clench, so arrogantly self-assured that her brief spurt of determination to stick up for herself withered and died. ‘I don’t have a job currently,’ she said flatly.
His eyes gleamed like cold steel. ‘And yet Giuseppe mentioned that you live in a highly sought-after area of London. How can you afford to live at an address in Chelsea when you do not work?’
‘It’s