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Caro’s eyes flew open.

  Ultra. Sexy. Voice.

  Those mumbles she’d heard from the prostrate body just moments ago had triggered a memory from earlier. The encounter with those people in the lift on their way up to the room. That ultra sexy voice. Her “never to be seen again” hook-up had spoken in perfect, flawless English.

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 4

  Nick rolled over in the bed and reached for the warm body that was still in his dreams.

  Nothing.

  The sheets felt cool to his touch.

  He creaked open his eyes and blinked at the early morning light seeping into the bedroom. Caroline was gone. He listened for any sounds coming from the bathroom, though the door was shut.

  Nothing.

  Nick twisted his torso around as he stretched to glance at the door to the living room – it was slightly ajar. Throwing back the sheet, he grabbed his boxers and hopped forwards as he pulled them on, walking across the room.

  The living space was empty. Just a faint waft of her perfume lingered in the air. Running a hand through his tousled hair, he sighed deeply. He hadn’t lied when he said he kept this suite for business, he did, but he mostly slept here during the week, as it was often easier than going even the short distance to his apartment overlooking the Villa Borghese. And to be honest, sometimes the apartment felt too cold. A bit . . . lonely.

  The clock showed he was behind time and he realised he’d better shower and dress pretty quickly if he wanted to get a head start on some paperwork in his office down on the second floor. Byrney often came in early, but since she’d worked late last night, maybe he’d have blessed silence for a while. Naomi didn’t chatter away or babble but she’d seen him get into the lift with a beautiful woman last night, and she’d pester him to know who, why, where, when and any other damn questions she’d see fit to bombard him with.

  He didn’t mind, really. Or not usually. Naomi Byrne had been his right hand for about ten years and had moved with him from New York to Rome with many a temporary stop in between. She was a treasure, and knew his business inside and out – both in his previous life and his present. She was equally invaluable with potential and long-term clients and guests, and always offered just the right amount of interference into his personal life. He knew a little about hers and preserved her privacy about what he did know. It was her business and she never let it interfere with work.

  The steaming water in the shower felt good and as he soaped himself, a vision of Caroline came to mind. Damn! she was hot. Her eagerness for his body was refreshing and flattering, and what he did to hers was so provocative he started to harden in his own hand. Twice they’d fucked quickly, intently, thoroughly. And then, unless he’d dreamed it, once more, when they’d turned to each other in a drowsy state, both half asleep, sometime later. And he’d slipped into her body without a word, as if he did it all the time, as if it was something they did all the time, easy, familiar, in a relaxed way, as if they were already accustomed to each other.

  Ridiculous.

  He’d only just met her and he never got accustomed to any woman, ever. It was his rule. It was too complicated even to consider having a long-time partner or girlfriend what with his crazy schedule and even crazier hours. He’d tried it, it hadn’t worked. Now, his female “friends”, of which he had many, knew just where they stood with him. You don’t get to be thirty-eight and single without figuring out how to avoid those kinds of complications.

  But Caroline? She was worth more time – he felt he needed to see her again to prove to himself she couldn’t have been that special. He’d definitely be attending her lecture the following week and would see if he could use her art connections to set up a meet, ostensibly to decorate the new Dublin premises when it materialised. He groaned aloud as her delectable body wouldn’t leave his mind, and he dealt with the “discomfort” efficiently, washed himself again briskly and turned off the water.

  The vibrating phone was driving Caro mad, so she tossed it across the room to land, fortunately, on the couch against the wall. She knew it was either Frankie or Ali, because it had been one or the other texting or phoning on and off all day. She knew the only way to shut them up – granted, they hadn’t actually spoken yet – was to respond to their urgent queries:

  Was it hot?

  Was he hot?

  Are you exhausted ;-) ;-)??

  And so on, till the last text sounded worried: Are you okay? Answer, damn it! That had been Ali . . . probably feeling guilty for encouraging her older sister to behave like any normal adult woman in the twenty-first century.

  And she’d answer. Soon. But not until she could deal with the consequences of her adventure. And there were many. Or at least she expected there would be. Where had her head been last night? Not in evidence, anyway. She hadn’t even questioned Nick on how the room was ready, the champagne, the low music that had played in the background – he must have set it up while she’d been in the bathroom frantically calling her back-up. Very confident of him to assume she would indeed end up there, wasn’t it? Christ! she didn’t even know his last name. And then the incident at the lift doors – did he work with those people? What did he work at? Why had he been at the Accademia last night?

  Where had her brain been? That was pretty obvious, in hindsight. Her brain had been swamped by his lustful body, that’s where – locked up, key discarded.

  Oh well. Caro heaved a huge sigh. No point crying over the bloody spilt milk. She’d acted like most young people she knew – done nothing wrong. Enjoyed herself a bit. Okay, a lot. So why beat herself up about it? She’d never see Nick again and boy! it was just as well.

  She slapped her hand to her forehead, remembering the coup de grâce – he spoke fluent English, the bastard! And not just fluent in an “I studied hard at school way” but with the fluency of a native. Granted, he had some kind of accent, but it wasn’t that of a foreigner speaking English – it was maybe mid-Atlantic, as some people referred to a nondescript American. She couldn’t be sure, as the brief conversation at the hotel with the people getting out of the lift was hazy in her head. But he’d definitely mumbled in English as he lay tousled in the bed earlier, and surely sleepy talk would be in your native tongue?

  Damn and double damn.

  That wasn’t supposed to have been how her one-night stand played out. She’d wanted anonymous, discreet and brief. Now, for some reason, knowing he wasn’t actually Italian made it all seem very complicated.

  Caro stood up and blew out a tightly held breath. She refused to regret last night – it had been most satisfying in so many ways. Her body felt well used and a bit stiff in a good way. She was a normal full-blooded woman and could have as many one-night stands as she wanted – she knew that – it was just so new to her. So not her. Not really. But the sex had been so damn good she may just have to do something like this again. But not straight away, not in Rome and absolutely not with a random hunk of gorgeousness named Nick who wasn’t what he was supposed to be, that’s for bloody sure. She reached for her phone, saw a Now I’m worried . . . text and prepared herself for the inquest as she dialled Ali’s number.

  Naomi smirked as she handed Nick his second cup of strong black coffee. He mumbled his thanks and her lips twitched.

  “Stop smirking,” he grated to her back as she walked to the office door.

  “Me?” She turned and gestured with her small hand towards her chest. “Smirk? I wouldn’t dare.”

  She spun on her heel again and continued through to her own office space, where she sat at her desk and began typing a letter to the estate agents in Dublin regarding the property that interested Nick. A bing of the arriving lift alerted her and Vito Maloney walked into the open area looking impeccable. And huge. As always. Perfect grey suit, grey shirt and grey tie, though all slightly different shades. He’s so enormous he looks like a moving rain cloud, Naomi thought as she watched him from beneath her quickly lowered lashes.

  “Miss Byrne,” his quiet
voice acknowledged her as he walked past.

  “Mr Maloney,” she replied, refusing to lift her eyes in case she met his gaze.

  Stupid woman, she admonished herself. Why would he be looking at you? And why would you want him to? I don’t, she hastily answered herself internally – I really and truly don’t. Protesting too much, the other voice in her head, the one who wanted her to get out and live a little, said.

  Argh!

  “Pardon me?” Vito asked.

  Oh, God.She’d said the “Argh” out loud.What a blithering idiot.

  “Nothing. I just . . . I just said . . . nothing,” she repeated.

  Could she sound any more insane? A blush rose from her neck, flooding her cheeks, and she ducked her head lower behind her computer.

  Nick must have motioned him in, because he moved inside and gently closed the door behind him. Naomi sighed. She’d heard Vito sigh, too, and wondered, did her inability to converse like an intelligent human being bother him? She’d been so good with Nick’s old clients and now with the hotel staff and guests when the need arose, but something about the big, grey man made her tense and awkward, and that alone bothered her.

  Years of blasted therapy down the drain in one fell swoop – just because a large, athletically built man crowded her thoughts. She’d tried not to notice him when they’d originally met years ago, but it had been easier then. He’d stayed in New York with Nick’s business interests there when she and the boss had travelled, and Vito had only recently joined the team here in Rome, throwing him into her path once more.

  She thought back to the early days and wondered why he hadn’t troubled her then. He’d been distant and stand-offish, she remembered, polite but never actually friendly. And she’d been ensconced in work and trying to deal with her own relationship fallout, with the sessions that followed and the basic picking up of her life, thanks in no small part to this very position.

  After getting up from her desk, she filed away some paperwork, moving a bit stiffly as her back still bothered her now and again. She remembered her job interview with Nick, her nerves, her insecurity and her gaucheness, for want of a better word. He’d somehow seen through all that and hired her anyway, despite her lack of experience – and neither of them had regretted it since.

  She absently rubbed her lower back, more out of habit than for relief, and winced from memory rather than pain at the look in Nick’s eyes when he realised she’d been walking in a stilted manner because of old bruising and discomfort rather than simple panic at the job interview. How he discerned that she never knew, but a funny look had come over his face and his tone had gentled as he outlined her job description. And before she knew it, she was his PA at the architecture firm, and she thanked God daily for it.

  The door to Nick’s office opened and Vito came out. He smiled crookedly at her and walked to the espresso machine, where he busied himself making a cup of coffee. Without turning, he spoke quietly.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, Miss Naomi?”

  She was startled. He usually called her Miss Byrne and she was addled for a moment. Taking the cue from him, she decided to be brave.

  “Thank you, Vito, that would be lovely. Just a milky coffee should do the trick.” She smiled, pleased with herself, as she sat back at her desk.

  He worked with the machine for another few moments before bringing her the little cup, which looked even smaller in his massive hand. She tilted her head to look directly at him this time. Then she reached out, took the coffee and smiled directly into his eyes.

  “Perfect,” she murmured and inwardly high-fived herself for being so calm.

  He, however, didn’t appear quite so in control – she would swear he actually blushed as she smiled at him. Before she could confirm such an anomaly, he turned quickly on his heel, walked straight back to the machine and prepared his own cup, effectively putting his back to her. Interesting. Hmm, Naomi thought, this could get very interesting. And for the first time in a very long time, she relaxed at the thought of being in the company of such a large man.

  Vito, on the other hand, was virtually thumping his head against a wall. Stupid! Stupid!Shouldn’t have called her by her first name – so forward, he thought, but he couldn’t help it. She looked so appealing as he came from the office and Nick had casually said to ask her if she’d like a coffee, as she rarely treated herself.

  Of course Nick called her Byrney, but there was no way she’d ever be that to Vito. Naomi was such a perfect name, feminine, old-fashioned and gentle, just like her. His massive hand had trembled as he held out the cup and he fervently hoped she hadn’t noticed. He could feel himself blushing – blushing! for fuck’s sake – when she smiled at him. What was he – fifteen?

  What he was, in fact, was doomed. He hadn’t looked at another woman since his beloved Lucy had died over seven years ago and now, suddenly, this little sprite of a woman filled his brain when he least wanted her to. He needed to get it together. And she needed to be off-limits, as there was no way on God’s earth she would ever, ever, look at a brute like him in that way.

  He downed the sharp, strong black liquid some would call espresso and left the office space as quickly as he could.

  He didn’t look back.

  Caro’s fingers flew back and forth over her laptop as she opened one page after another in her internet browser. She’d been sitting for over an hour, the time just slipping by, as she followed trails and new avenues of pursuit. She was determined to get to the bottom of the “where is he?” puzzle, but so far no real luck. She’d emailed the old convent before even coming to Rome and had finally got a reply when she fired up her computer just a while ago. Yes, she could come and discuss her colleagues with them, but owing to data protection, et cetera, et cetera, they may not be able to help.

  Thank goodness their records were all saved on disc and not in mountains of paper as she’d suspected. It was only fourteen years ago, but Italy had been a little slow to convert to all things virtual, or so she’d been led to believe, and she was just grateful for small mercies.

  She pulled back from the screen, took a long drink of water and heaved a sigh. She glanced at her phone and swished her finger across the small space. There he was. Her darling boy. His cheeky grin, wavy chestnut brown hair and dark, dark eyes. So like his father’s, or least what she remembered of his father’s.

  What kind of mother couldn’t even remember clearly the face of her child’s father?

  A bad one, that’s who, she grimaced and took another swallow of water.

  The only face cropping up in her mind was the chisel-boned, scrumptious-mouthed one from the madness that was last night. Oh, God. She stretched, aching in muscles she hadn’t known could ache. Pining in places she hadn’t known needed attention.

  Damn, but he was fine.

  Ali and Frankie had both begged for details when she’d finally got around to speaking to them and she’d hedged, holding back on specifics. She’d felt it had been such a private thing for her to do, so unusual for her that she even regretted telling them about it in the first place. No, that was daft. If they hadn’t voiced their vote of confidence in her and what she’d been about to do last night, she probably would have scarpered and missed out on the most sensual night of her life.

  So she’d said yes, it was hot. And that yes, he was hot. And that they’d had fun. And no, it wouldn’t happen again, and no, she didn’t give him her number. They didn’t need to know that a) he hadn’t asked for it, and b) he could find her anyway if he wanted to via the Accademia. Nor had she mentioned the “Oh, by the way, he wasn’t actually the Italian stallion I thought he was” – well, not Italian, anyway, because, well, she didn’t know why, just that it didn’t feel like part of the story they needed to hear.

  With promises to keep them posted, she’d hung up: the call was so exhausting with both of them grabbing the phone from each other all the time. Still, it was nice that Ali and Frankie were hanging out, as theirs hadn’t always been th
e closest relationship of their combined family.

  Right, back to important issues, like finding the father of her boy and, if possible, meeting up with him.

  She wiggled her fingers a little to relax herself.

  “Well, here goes nothing,” she said and attacked her keyboard again.

  By late afternoon she’d gathered several pieces of information that she thought could be useful. With a “no time like the present” attitude, she headed out of her apartment at about four thirty and chose to walk the several streets to the old convent, where she’d attended class all those years ago.

  It was a large, gloomy building, she remembered, but the students and teachers alike had given it a glow of its own. A language school during the summer months, the convent was a girl’s private educational institution during term time and smelled like the convent Caro had attended back in Dublin. Mind you, her religious education had been short-lived, her parents quickly realising that repeat visits to the head nun to discuss her many misdemeanours were a complete waste of everyone’s time. Caro hadn’t been a bad student, just an overly inquisitive one and one with a bit of a “mouth” on her. A “challenge” was the description Sister Jude had said.

  Repeatedly.

  Caro finished her secondary education at a mixed state school, along with Ali and Molly coming up behind her. And it had been fun. Italian was on the curriculum, but since she was only there for the last two years and desperately wanted to study History of Art and Italian at Trinity College, as soon as she finished her state exams her parents enrolled her in the language school in Rome. She’d begged and begged, because she knew her grade wouldn’t be great and absolutely had to be up to scratch before college started at the end of September.