Far From Perfect Read Free Page B

carved as ever, but now completely opaque to her.
    “Yes…right.” She felt herself starting to flounder. How could he send her into a flat spin in just a few seconds and with a few innocuous words?
    “Did you have a good flight? Where are you staying? When did you arrive?”
    She flung questions at him, not really seeking answers, but just for something, anything, to say.
    His eyes narrowed and she knew she’d made a mistake. Or at least she thought she had. A moment later, amusement softened the harder lines of his face and his mouth, always his most sensuous, almost voluptuous feature, curved in a way that made her heart skip and gallop and her knees turn to paper.
    “Is this an interrogation?”
    Staring down at her, he laced his fingers in front of him, lights dancing in those marvelous, magical eyes.
    “No! Of course not. I’m just making small talk.” The words were quick and flustered, and emotion rioted inside, making her rash. “As we always do.”
    His dark blond brows lifted, and if a man as composed as Nick could be said to flinch, he appeared to. He mimed the word, touché then went on smoothly as if the small moment of conflict and real communication as opposed to play-acting had never existed. “Well then, I arrived around two, and I’m staying at the Savoy. And I didn’t fly. I drove from Italy.”
    That stood to reason. Industria Lisitano was a huge conglomerate with diverse holdings, but the automotive division, especially the high-performance sports cars, had always been Nick’s baby. And he never missed a chance to get behind the wheel of their latest offering.
    “That’s some drive.” Hyper-awareness of him created the image of the interior of a supercar, cramped and intimate, herself beside him, and only inches between their bodies, their thighs. The relative spaciousness of the hall seemed to close in on them. “May I take your coat,” she added quickly, reaching out.
    This is the first time we’ve actually been completely alone together since…
    It dawned on her like a thunderbolt, and her hands stilled and dropped to her sides.
    No! We don’t go there.
    But it was too late. The interior of some fast car or other morphed into that of a darkened bedroom, an envelope of Mediterranean heat, with the scents of pine and lemon groves and aroused man flooding her senses.
    “Is something wrong?”
    The question sounded genuine and concerned, yet the low, almost purring note in his voice played across her strung-out nerves.
    “No… Nothing at all,” she claimed, feigning a calm, untroubled cheerfulness she didn’t feel.
    Yes! Everything, an inner, disorientated voice cried. Please go back to Italy, Nick, and don’t make things complicated. Flashing him a twinkling smile to match his own, she finally reached for his coat.
    Nick’s face was a picture. His smile was the most amazing she’d ever seen, yet somehow she could feel a frown in there too, and complex feelings playing out behind his mask of glamour. Automatically, she worried for him, as she always did, despite everything. Then the darkness was gone again, and for half a second she got the distinct impression that he intended to turn around, stretch out his arms and let her relieve him of the coat like some kind of dutiful parlor maid. But instead he shrugged elegantly out of the long, dark garment himself and caught it behind him before shaking it free of raindrops and handing it to her.
    Hanging the coat up gave Anna a moment breathing space when she wasn’t forced to look directly into Nick’s face and be subject to that bamboozled, sideswiped feeling he induced in her. She had to think straight, and as she did a wash of guilt gripped her. Dear God, she hadn’t even asked about Carlo.
    “How is your father doing? Is he feeling better?” As she turned back towards him she caught the pain crossing his face, and her heart turned over in sympathy. The relationship between Italian sons and their fathers was often