Roman Holiday Page 3

  Interesting.

  Maybe he made her clumsy and awkward. Very interesting.

  Nick moved to take a seat and settle in to listen to the presentations, and he wondered what it was she was bringing to the Accademia and if he could make use of it.

  For the hotel, of course.

  Speeches over, the guests mingled with the presenters, asking questions and seeking clarification on when each series of lectures was being offered and how they might apply. Caro’s presentation had gone perfectly. She was on a high and delighted with the response she’d received both immediately after and now as she did the “meet and greet”. So many were thrilled about her speciality and she happily directed them to the sign-up table. Caro’s passion was history of art, any period, any style, any country. But she simply adored modern Irish art, and was determined to introduce it to Rome.

  Her idea was to persuade buyers, through her lectures, to take up sponsorship of the young, talented crew just out of college – along with the more established artists, both alive and long dead – who still struggled to get international recognition. She’d be teaching a semester on Irish art and its Italian influences to the day students of the Accademia, but her twice-weekly evening series was open to the public and it was this that she hoped would garner interest in the young hopefuls she felt she represented. She was pretty damn good with a pencil herself and could draw anything that was put in front of her, but she didn’t eat and sleep it the way, in her opinion, a “real” artist should.

  She loved the research and exploration that her History of Art degree gave her and she loved to impart that knowledge to her students. Her classes in UCD, the Dublin university where she worked, were always fully subscribed, regardless of whether they focused on medieval Italian, French impressionism, American abstract expressionism or early Irish. Her joy and enthusiasm shone through and her students lapped it up, finding interests they didn’t know they had. Her job was tough, demanding, and took up a lot of hours with research and correcting of papers, but that was her passion – the passing of knowledge and seeing the opening of virgin eyes to sights never before seen or maybe just not understood.

  She laughed delightedly at something an elderly gentleman was saying as he gallantly kissed her fingers in an old-fashioned gesture. He was introduced as Count Enrico della Rossi, and was apparently as rich as Croesus and just as wily. According to himself, at any rate. Caro caught a movement out the side of her eye and was intrigued when the hunk she’d bumped into approached.

  “Signorina Fitzgerald, may I say your talk was excellent. Most informative.”

  Gosh! he sounded so formal.

  He tried a smile, presumably to lessen the seriousness of his words. She turned towards him, taking back her hand from the Lothario, Enrico. She was relieved someone was there to extricate her and took the glass he offered from his long fingers, brushing his lightly as she did so. Her eyes flew to his and instantly turned away.

  Had he felt that tingle? She certainly had. What the hell?

  The Count, as well-mannered as his type were, began to make introductions, but the interloper was ahead of him. He politely told the Count that Caro was needed elsewhere and, taking hold of her upper arm, guided her away.

  “It seems I owe you more thanks,” Caro stage whispered to the man beside her. “First smelly cheese and now, well, a cheesy man.” She stopped and looked up at him enquiringly. “Huh, I’m not sure calling someone cheesy in Italian is the same as it is in English, but I’m sure you get my drift.”

  “I got it.” He sounded amused. “Count Della Rossi is a charmer, a flirt and, although not dangerous in any meaningful way, can be a handful.”

  “You know him?” she asked, unsure about how small a city like Rome was.

  In Dublin, you can be sure someone will know someone who knows someone who will be related directly to the person you are speaking to. Was Rome the same? If it was, she needed to learn to keep her mouth shut.

  “Our families go way back. And we may even be related,” he answered. “May I introduce myself?” he asked formally.

  How quaint, Caro thought and took his outstretched hand. Long fingers curled around hers, his grip firm, dry, holding for slightly longer than necessary.

  “I’m Nick,” he said. “Would you like to dance?”

  Caro became aware that music had indeed started up and several couples were moving gracefully about the floor.

  “Oh, I wasn’t expecting dancing,” Caro said with delight. “I’d love to.”

  She turned to move towards him and he adeptly took the glass from her hand and, reaching back, left it on a nearby table.

  “You seem to make a habit of that, too.” She indicated the drink.

  “At your service, Caroline,” he said, quietly taking her into his arms.

  He was solid. She could feel the heat from his body and as he pulled her a little closer, she could smell him, too. Something lemony, perhaps. Light and delicious, anyway, she thought as she rested one hand on his shoulder and gave her other into his palm

  He moved with grace and elegance, and even though Caro was indeed sometimes clumsy, she loved to dance and had excellent rhythm on the dance floor. He was gorgeous. Caro didn’t think she’d ever seen such a beautiful man, up close and personal like this. She could see his skin, taut over high cheekbones, and the dark sweep of his lashes as he looked down at her. He raised an eyebrow quizzically at her.

  “You’re tall,” she blurted, feeling left-footed by his intense stare.

  His mouth quirked. “Yes,” he agreed solemnly, “is that a problem?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  Jeekers, when had she lost the ability to hold a conversation? Where was the intelligent, well-spoken woman who’d held the audience in the palm of her hand not twenty minutes ago?

  “You remind me of my brother Flynn.”

  Oh, God. That was even worse. He’ll think I’m a total weirdo now, Caro thought.

  “I mean,” she added, sounding even more inane, “he’s tall, too.”

  She let her head fall forwards for a second, but peeping up from under her lashes she saw his lips twitch.

  Hopefully, that was amusement not terror.

  “Can we start again? I’m not usually so lacking in social skills, I promise you. Maybe it’s the language, although my tutor said I was pretty good.”

  “Your Italian is excellent, Caroline, and your accent almost flawless. Your tutor must be very good. How long have you been studying?” he asked.

  “Italian? Oh, years, really, but more intently in the last twelve months when I started to feel I wanted to take on this challenge.”

  Nick asked her a few more questions, keeping the conversation general at first and then probing more about the course of lectures she was offering. She lit up as she told him about her work and he studied her as she got lost in her subject. Her eyes flashed and her brows furrowed as she spoke earnestly about young artists looking for a break. She was beautiful when happily animated. His hand was placed gently but firmly against her lower back and he was aware of every movement her body made. She was lithe and fit and looked to be glowing with health.

  Nick stopped himself.

  He sounded, even to his own ears, like he was categorising a horse. He was doing it again. Separating himself from emotion to a place of detachment. It’s what he did when he was uncertain, which in fairness wasn’t that often. He listed things in his head and put them in imaginary columns, clinically managing virtually what couldn’t be managed in reality. But why now? This was a normal situation, wasn’t it? He was dancing with a lovely young woman and they were having a relatively normal conversation. He was attracted to her. No question about that. And he would sleep with her if the chance arose – no question about that, either. So why had his mind done his escaping trick without him even being aware of it?

  Mentally, Nick shook himself and returned his attention to his dance partner. She had her head tilted to one side and was wat
ching him.

  In silence. Shit. He hadn’t noticed she’d stopped speaking, yet he’d swear he’d heard every word.

  “Would you like to go somewhere quiet for a drink?” Nick asked, staring straight into her eyes, the thumb of the hand that held hers moving slowly back and forth across her knuckles.

  Caro could feel every feather-light touch his thumb was making and her stomach was starting to feel a bit uneasy – in a not unpleasant way. Should she? Could she?Go somewhere with this man, this virtual stranger, just because he asked? Well – and because he was the most handsome man she had ever seen, of course. The only man in over a decade to make her lady bits sit up and take notice. And the best part?

  She need never see him again.

  She wasn’t so behind the times not to realise that him asking her for a “quiet drink” didn’t necessarily include beverages, at all. She needed help and she needed it fast.

  “If you’d just excuse me for a moment, I’ll be back directly,” Caro said, and she escaped to the ladies’ room, searching in her bag for her phone as she locked the door behind her.

  Nick whipped out his phone and called the hotel. He spoke to the concierge on duty, Alexi, and briefly made some arrangements. He walked across to the sign-up sheet and added his name to Caroline’s lecture series. It might be good to see what was available from the younger art set and all of his hotels used original art whenever feasible.

  There were talks under way for a boutique hotel in Dublin and this could be just what he needed to use as a push for some of the less eager partners. A way to show a mentor programme and internships that could be a good buy-in for the local community in Dublin – especially if there were any planning objections.

  Nick had his heart set on a Georgian building just south of the city, within walking distance to the centre, and had been looking at makeover plans only last week. He didn’t know where this encounter with Caroline would go but he knew, viscerally, that he wanted her – any way he could get her – and for now, he’d take one night.

  “So, should I?” Caro waited with bated breath for Frankie to advise her.

  Francesca Jones had been a part of the Fitzgerald family since she was an orphaned ten-year-old. Jo was Frankie’s godmother and Frankie was considered one of the siblings by all the Fitzgerald children. All except Devlin, that was. Frankie had gone through a terrible trauma the summer just past, having been stalked and then almost murdered, but Dev had stepped up and really shown her how much he cared. The two were stupidly in love and had got engaged the week Caro left for Rome. Caro was absolutely thrilled for her friend and her brother – it felt so right that they were together. But right now she needed Frankie’s girlfriend advice.

  “Tell me what to do!” she wailed down the phone.

  “God, Caro, I’m crap at this kind of advice, you know that. I’d be analysing it to death and then probably find some way to back out. But now that I have Dev doing the nasty with me regularly? Well, I’d have to say go for it – it is sooo worth it!”

  “Jesus, Frankie, too much information,” Caro sputtered, laughing into the phone. “But seriously, though? Should I just have sex with him? I never have sex with people. I mean, I can’t remember the last time I did have sex – God, that’s so lame, I’m ashamed of myself. I mean, it’s not as if he is an axe murderer, is it? He couldn’t be an axe murderer who just happened to like art, could he?”

  Caro realised she was babbling out of sheer nerves and drew a breath.

  “Well, do you actually fancy . . . Hey!”

  Frankie let out a shriek on the other end of the phone and Caro could hear a kerfuffle going on.

  Oh no, I hope Dev hasn’t been listening to this conversation. Shit, Caro thought, I’ll never live it down. She slapped her hand against her forehead in frustration.

  “There’s only one question you need to ask yourself.”

  The voice that spoke so directly down the line wasn’t her brother but her sister, Ali. Perfect. If anyone knew how to handle these kinds of situations it was she.

  “What? What question do I have to ask myself, Ali?”

  “Well . . . ” her younger sister paused. “You need to ask yourself if in six months from now you’ll be kicking yourself for not sleeping with a really hot – I assume he is hot – guy.”

  “Scorching hot.”

  “Think about whether you’d be saying, ‘Damn, shoulda done that.’ Or if you’d be saying, ‘Ah yes, I took a chance and had some mind-blowing sex with some random guy who I’ll never see again.’ Which, I hasten to add, for the most part is a good thing. Or perhaps you’ll be saying, ‘Man! that was an experience I’ll never regret.’ Simple.” Ali bit into an apple and munched loudly.

  “That simple, huh?” Caro asked. “Easy for you to say – you do this kind of thing all the time. I never—”

  “Hey, who are you calling slutty? I’ll have . . . Hey!”

  The phone exchanged hands again and Frankie came back on the line.

  “Ignore that bit. I’m sure you weren’t calling your sister’s morals into question, but even I think she has a point. Caro, you never do anything spontaneous. You–”

  “Except that one time she got pregnant!” Ali yelled in the background.

  “Ignore that bit, too,” Frankie continued, undeterred. “Have fun, Caro. You have no responsibilities with you for the first time in over thirteen years – do something for yourself. If this hot Italian is getting you fizzing inside then you should just take a chance and have fun.”

  “Fizzing?”

  Caro considered her insides and realised that’s what had indeed been happening when she was dancing so close to Nick – fizzing inside. A positive sign. Surely?

  “Dev has just come in, would you like me to ask his advice?” Frankie asked innocently.

  “No!” Christ no, Caro thought as she heard Ali shrieking with laughter back in Dublin.

  “Hanging up now,” Caro said decisively. “I’ll figure it out myself. See ya.”

  She pushed the end-call button and propped herself against the vanity unit in the plush bathroom. Looking up, she caught her own reflection and saw the usual Caro furrow between her brows. She straightened and smoothed the line deliberately with her finger.

  It’s just sex, she reasoned. People do it all the time – have random hook-ups and one-night stands.

  It was just, she didn’t. Hadn’t. Ever.

  She’d believed herself in love with Toby’s father and since then there had been one or two attempts at a relationship, but most young men in their twenties didn’t want a small boy tagging along and who could blame them? Caro certainly didn’t. But this was the first time she’d been away for more than a weekend without Toby and she felt . . . free, grown-up, daring. Nick was so damned easy on the eye. And he smelt so . . . sexy. Caro closed her eyes briefly and imagined his divine lips on hers. She squirmed. An actual rush of heat flooded between her thighs.

  God, she was sex-starved, her trusty vibrator notwithstanding, and she laughed out loud, opening her eyes again. She thought of his deep voice, his strong body, smooth-looking skin. His eyes . . . that dark, hooded look. She heaved an emptying sigh. These are probably not the best reasons to go shag a man, or maybe they’re exactly the right ones, but right now, I don’t care. I’ll never see him again, so it won’t matter if I’m lousy at it. And best of all, as an Italian man, he’ll be so intent on his own performance, he won’t mind if I just go along for the ride, so to speak. Grinning at her damnation of all Italian lovers, she shrugged to herself. Decision made!

  “I’m going to get laid,” she informed the empty bathroom.

  Chapter 3

  Naomi Byrne pushed back from her desk. She let out a long sigh and bent to gather her belongings as her computer shut down. God, she was tired. Her boss worked her hard and even though she wouldn’t have it any other way, there were times . . .

  Satisfied all systems were off, she threw her bag over her shoulder, winced at the ache in
her lower back and reached for the bottle of anti-inflammatories that were perched on her desk.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water for those,” a deep, gravelly voice spoke behind her and she jumped in shock, spilling the contents of the open bottle across the floor.

  “Oh, Lord have mercy! You scared me, Mr Maloney.” Naomi pressed her hand to her chest instinctively. “I thought everyone had gone home.”

  “Sorry to startle you, ma’am, but Mr Nick wanted me to stay as otherwise you’d be here by yourself. And you know he doesn’t approve of that.”

  Vito Maloney bent to gather up the scattered pills and carefully tipped his handful back into the bottle opening. He has hands the size of spades, Naomi thought, remembering the term from a visit to her uncle’s farm in County Mayo as a child. The hands matched the size of the rest of the body. She’d never in her life seen such a big man – he must be 6 foot 5 at least, she surmised, and massively broad, too, with a chest the size of a barrel.

  He always wore immaculately tailored suits in a pinstripe with dark shirts and ties. He looked exactly like the henchman she expected he was. His closely cropped hair was greying and the lines on his face were more like creases than simple wrinkles. His eyes always appeared hard and unsmiling, and in fact his mouth rarely smiled, either. And yet, as he delicately handled the fallen tablets and then handed her the final two on his open palm, he seemed so . . . gentle.

  How can a man that large be gentle? Naomi wondered as she took the pills from him.

  “Thank you for picking them up. It’s okay, I have a water bottle here, so no need for a glass.”