LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER FIVE

      SHE COULDN’T SLEEP. Sierra lay in the double bed in the guest room Marco had shown her to a few hours ago and stared up at the ceiling. The rain drummed against the roof and the wind battered the shutters. And inside her a tangle of fear and desire left her feeling restless, uncertain.

      She didn’t think she’d been imagining the heightened sense of expectation as Marco had led her from the kitchen and up the sweeping marble staircase to the wing of guest bedrooms. She certainly hadn’t been imagining the pulse of excitement she’d felt low in her belly when he’d taken her hand to guide her down the darkened corridor.

      She hated how immediate and overwhelming her response to him was, and yet she told herself it was natural. Understandable. He was an attractive, virile man, and she’d responded to him before. She couldn’t control the way he made her body feel, but she could certainly control her actions.

      And so with effort she’d pulled her hand from his. The gesture seemed only to amuse him; he’d glanced back at her with a knowing smile, and Sierra had had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking—and feeling.

      But he hadn’t acted on it. He’d shown her into the bedroom and she’d stood there, clearly waiting, while he’d turned on lights and checked that the shutters were bolted.

      For an exquisite, excruciating second Sierra had thought he was going to do something. Kiss her. He’d stood in front of her, the lamplight creating a warm golden pool that bathed them both, and had looked at her. And she’d waited, ready, expectant...

      If he’d kissed her then, she wouldn’t have been able to resist. The realisation should have been shaming but she’d felt too much desire for that.

      But Marco hadn’t kissed her. His features had twisted in some emotion she couldn’t discern, and then he’d simply said goodnight and left her alone. Thank God.

      There was absolutely no reason whatsoever to feel disappointed about that.

      Now Sierra rose from the bed, swinging her legs over so her bare feet hit the cold tiles. Music. Music was what she needed now. Music had always been both her solace and her inspiration. When she was playing the violin, she could soar far above all the petty worries and cruelties of her day-to-day life. But she didn’t have her violin here; she’d left it in London.

      Still, the villa had a music room with a piano. It was better than nothing. And she needed to escape from the din inside her own head, if only for a few minutes. Quietly, she crept from her bedroom and down the long darkened hallway. The house was silent save for the steady patter of rain, the distant rumble of thunder as the storm thankfully moved off.

      Sierra tiptoed down the stairs, feeling her way through the dark, the moonless night not offering even a sliver of light. Finally, she found her way to the small music room with its French windows opening onto the terrace that was now awash in puddles.

      She flicked on a single lamp, its warm glow creating a pool of light across the dusty ebony of grand piano. Gently she eased up the lid; the instrument was no doubt woefully out of tune. She quietly pressed a key and winced at the discordant sound.

      Never mind. She sat at the piano and softly played the opening bars to Debussy’s Sarabande, not wanting to wake Marco in one of the rooms above. Even with the piano out of tune, the music filled her, swept away her worries and regrets and left only light and sound in their wake. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the piece, to the feeling. Forgetting, for a few needful moments, about her parents, her past, Marco.

      She didn’t know when she became aware that she wasn’t alone. A prickling along her scalp, the nape of her neck. A shivery awareness that rippled through her and caused her to open her eyes.

      Marco stood in the doorway of the music room, wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms, his glorious chest bare, his gaze trained on her. Sierra’s fingers stilled on the piano, plunging the room into an expectant silence.

      ‘I didn’t know you played piano.’ His voice was low, husky with sleep, and it wove its sensual threads around her, ensnaring her.

      ‘I don’t, not really.’ She put her hands in her lap, self-conscious and all too aware of Marco standing so near her, so bare and so beautiful. Every muscle of his chest was bronzed and perfectly sculpted; he looked like an ad for cologne or clothes or cars. Looking the way he did, she thought he could sell anyone anything. ‘I had a few lessons,’ Sierra continued stiltedly, ‘but I’m mostly self-taught.’

      ‘That’s impressive.’

      She shrugged, his surprising praise unnerving her. Having Marco standing here, wearing next to nothing, acting almost as if he admired her, sent her senses into hyperdrive and left her speechless.

      ‘I never even knew you were musical.’ He’d taken a step closer to her and she could feel the heat from his body. When she took a breath the musky male scent of him hit her nostrils and made her stomach clench. Hard.

      ‘The violin is actually my chosen instrument, but it’s not something I usually tell people. It’s a private thing.’ She forced herself to meet his sleepy, silvery gaze. She’d been a fool to come out of her bedroom tonight, and yet a distant part of her recognised she’d done it because she’d wanted this. Him. And even though desire was rushing through her in a torrent, both nerves and common sense made her back off. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I must have got carried away.’ She half rose from the piano bench, halting inexplicably, pinned by his gaze.

      ‘It sounded lovely.’

      ‘The piano is out of tune.’

      ‘Even so.’

      He held her gaze, and inwardly Sierra quaked at how intent he looked. How utterly purposeful. So she wasn’t even surprised when he reached a hand out and cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking the softness of her lower lip. Her breath caught in a gasp that lodged in her chest. Her heart started to pound. She’d been waiting for this, and even though she was afraid she knew she still wanted it.

      ‘Almost,’ he said softly, ‘as lovely as you. Do you know how beautiful you are, Sierra? I’ve always thought that. You undid me, with your loveliness. I was caught from the moment I saw you, at your father’s palazzo. Do you remember? You were standing in the drawing room, wearing a pink dress. You looked like a rose.’

      She stared at him, shocked by how much he had admitted, how much he’d felt. ‘I remember,’ she whispered. Of course she remembered. She’d glimpsed him from the window, seen him gently stroke that silly cat, and felt her heart lift in both hope and desire. How quickly she’d fallen for him. How completely. Not in love, no, but in childish hope and longing. He’d overwhelmed her senses, even when she’d thought she’d been acting smart, playing safe.

      ‘Do you remember when I kissed you?’ Marco asked.

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