The Italian Doctor’s Mistress Read online

  The lassitude fled her limbs. A butterfly cartwheeled in the pit of her stomach. Her entire torso twitched convulsively. She clutched a handful of his hair, breathed his name on a quivering exclamation of surprise. Begged him to stop, pleaded with him not to, and when she was so mindless with pleasure that she didn’t know what she was saying, he abandoned her navel and again sank his mouth between her legs. Legs that, this time, opened willingly, eagerly, shamelessly, for him.

  Unerringly his tongue found just the right spot. Flicked once, twice. No more than that, but it was more than enough. Without warning, the explosion tore through her, so ferocious in its strength that her cry echoed shrill and desperate, like that of a wild creature dying in the night.

  Boneless as a rag doll flung carelessly aside, she sprawled before him in the grip of a lethargy so complete that, even if the house had caught fire and threatened to burn her alive, she could not have drummed up the energy to save herself.

  Yet despite the debilitation seeping through every other part of her, one area remained unsatisfied. There between her thighs, where his tongue had probed with such telling results mere seconds before, her one-time impervious core of femininity throbbed without mercy.

  She reached for him. “Come into me, Carlo,” she begged. “Fill me again…please…!”

  “Give me a moment,” he replied hoarsely.

  She waited in a fever of impatience, knowing he was right to take precautions, but hating that it was necessary. To feel him spill hotly inside her, to curl up and hoard his sperm safe in her womb, that was how it should be between them.

  But then he was with her again, crowding her senses. Pushing aside everything but the touch of his hands, his mouth, his body. All she had to do was follow where he led. Let him give her another miracle to cherish. When she convulsed around him, all she had to do was ride the rapture—and stem the words echoing the pulsing of her body. I love you, Carlo! I love you, I love you…!

  He awoke, chilled and disoriented, to a room filled with early sunlight, and the gray ashes of a long-dead fire in the hearth.

  Dismayed, he raised his left wrist, squinted at the hands of his watch. It was half-past six. In less than an hour, he was scheduled to perform surgery. Calandria would be serving his breakfast momentarily. And he was lying on the rug in his library, with his right arm numb, a crick in his neck, and Danielle curled up next to him with her silky robe draped half over her legs.

  Porca miseria! How could he have allowed this to happen? “Danielle,” he said urgently. “Wake up! It is morning!”

  Mumbling sleepily, she burrowed deeper against his side. She smelled of soap and shampoo—and sex. Enough that, despite the hour, and the incident that eventually had cast a pall on an otherwise perfect evening, he grew hard and hungry for her, all over again.

  Annoyed, he eased his arm from beneath her head so that it lolled onto the rug with just enough of a thump to bring her awake. For a moment she stared at him, her eyes a soft, sleepy green, then she scrambled to a sitting position and clutched the caftan to her, to cover her nakedness.

  Too late, Danielle. Much too late. I’ve already seen, tasted, taken, and risked, more than is good for my peace of mind. “I must get you back to your room,” he said, stepping into his clothes. “Quickly, before anyone realizes you’re missing.”

  She climbed awkwardly to her feet, tried to put on her caftan, then lowered her arms, her face pinched into a grimace of pain.

  Noticing, he said, “Your ribs?”

  “Among other things,” she muttered, coloring. “If you must know, I hurt all over.”

  Small wonder. She’d been tight as a virgin, and they’d made love three times in all. Would have done so a fourth time, if she’d had her way. In the heat of passion, neither of them had shown much consideration for her injuries from the accident. Now every ache, every sore spot, was letting her know about it.

  Taking the garment from her, he said, “Allow me.”

  He slipped it over her head and tugged it into place on her shoulders. Guiding her feet into soft-soled slippers took but another few seconds. Within ten minutes of his awaking, they were making their stealthy way to the main part of the house.

  Easing open the double doors a crack, he peered through. No sign of Calandria, but he could smell coffee brewing, hear pots clattering in the kitchen. “Come quickly,” he said, taking Danielle’s hand, and pulling her across the foyer and down the hall to her suite. “We’re almost home free, as you say in your country.”

  A moment later, he had her door open and had hustled her into the room with rather more haste than chivalry. “Carlo,” she began. “About last night, and the way I acted—”

  “Not now, Danielle.” He backed away, hands raised. “I have more important things on my mind.”

  Her face fell, although she tried not to let it show. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

  Her hair was mussed, her mouth bee-stung from his kisses. Battling the urge to kiss her again, he said, “I’m already running late.”

  Retiring behind her familiar mask of reserve, she said stonily, “I quite understand.”

  “I don’t think you do, cara. Forty minutes from now, I perform surgery on the twenty-five-year-old father of two young sons. He has a brain tumor the size of a small orange which is pressing on his optical nerve and causing him blindness. I would dearly like to save his vision and his life.”

  Her mouth formed a silent, distressed Oh!

  He finger-combed his hair. “To do that, I must be focused, ready, in control, yet here I am, distracted and ill-prepared. I need to shower, shave. Swallow a cup of espresso and collect myself before I head out.”

  “Go,” she said, her voice now soft with sympathy. “I really do understand.”

  He cupped her cheek briefly. “I have a heavy schedule today, and expect I’ll be late getting home tonight.”

  “I’ll wait up for you.”

  “Not today. But tomorrow afternoon will be just for us. With any luck we’ll be in Milano in time for lunch.”

  “Milano—?”

  “To replace your passport. Have you forgotten?”

  “It’d slipped my mind completely.” She shook her head. “But we don’t have to do it tomorrow. It can wait until another time.”

  “I told you I would take you then, and I will keep my word.” He dropped a swift kiss on her swollen mouth. “Later today, I will send a car to take you to see your father. Bring the opera recordings with you and play some for him. But for this morning, take it easy, cara. You had a busy night.”

  Busy? How about Stupendous? How about Beyond my wildest dreams?

  Closing her door, she leaned against it and surveyed the room: the turned-back covers on the bed that hadn’t been slept in; the fresh towels in the bathroom, visible through the mirror hanging on the wall. A sensible woman would take advantage of both, with a hot shower to dispel the aching soreness that came from a long night of loving, followed by a nap to compensate for the hours of missed sleep.

  But then, a sensible woman probably wouldn’t have let herself be seduced in the first place, and any doubt that Danielle had abandoned common sense along with modesty was evident enough from her reflection in the mirror.

  She looked dreamy and smug and thoroughly…seduced. There was no other word for it. Her mouth bloomed like an overripe strawberry, her skin glowed. And her eyes? Oh, they stared back at her, so heavy-lidded with carnal knowledge that she blushed.

  The glass doors leading to the garden and her small private terrace stood open, just as she’d left them last night. Although this side of the house still lay in shadow, the air was warm with the promise of another sun-filled day.

  Shucking off her slippers, she stepped outside and breathed in the fragrance of roses and lilies. She ought to bathe, but the sun chaise beckoned too invitingly, and if truth be told, she wasn’t ready to wash away all trace of the night before. Instead she sat on the plump cushions with her knees drawn up under her ch
in, and her caftan tucked over her feet, and drank in the scent of love, of Carlo, still clinging to her skin.

  She didn’t care that she ached in places that didn’t bear mention in polite society. She relished the discomfort for what it was: the trophies of passion; the mementoes that bore out the beautiful reality of what she and Carlo had shared in his library. What a pity she’d had to spoil it all with greed.

  Just before midnight, he’d halfheartedly suggested they return to their separate rooms. But she, desperate to hold on to the magic for however long she could, had pushed him down on the rug again and with a boldness that, today, made her blush, had tried to initiate more lovemaking.

  She’d sown featherlight kisses over his face and shoulders. Over the planes of his chest and the washboard-hard plateau of his stomach. She’d swept her hand possessively down his legs. On the return journey, she’d stopped to fondle him, encouraged by the size and strength of his erection.

  But he was stubborn. Indestructible. However hard she tried to overwhelm him as he’d so easily overwhelmed her, he refused to succumb. Only his tortured breathing and the sheen of sweat on his bronzed skin betrayed how dearly he paid to lie there unmoving, but by no means unmoved.

  By that point, tiny electric spasms laying claim to her own body were making demands that wouldn’t go ignored. So having exhausted everything else in her limited repertoire as a seductress, she knelt astride him. Positioned herself so that the tip of his penis skimmed against her heated flesh—close, but not close enough.

  His breath whistling between his parted lips, he watched her through slitted eyes. Mistaking it for an invitation, she lowered herself just enough to give him entry.

  He let out a smothered groan, grabbed her bottom in ungentle hands, and held her immobile. “Keep that up,” he ground out, “and I won’t care that I’m not wearing a condom.”

  “I already don’t care,” she sighed, rocking forward so that her words spilled into his mouth.

  Oh, to be able to take back the words! But regret came too late. With a wrenching jolt that left her ribs screaming for mercy, he hauled her clear and deposited her unceremoniously on the rug. “We play by my rules, Danielle, remember?”

  He’d been furious—and she so humiliated and ashamed that she cringed. “I wanted to please you,” she’d whimpered. “I wanted to love you as unselfishly as you loved me.”

  Harshly he said, “There are other ways to do it.”

  “I couldn’t…” She stopped, swallowed nervously, and decided that since she’d already ruined everything, she had nothing to lose by being blunt. “Oral sex is new to me. I’m not quite ready to…experiment with it.”

  “As I said, there are other ways to please a man, without risking an unplanned pregnancy.”

  “I don’t know how.” She blinked, trying to stem a sudden rush of tears. “I’m not as experienced as you, Carlo.”

  At first, he’d watched her from eyes as gray and cold as a rainy Washington winter. But after a while, he’d sighed and pulled her into the curve of his arm. “Forget it. I’m the one to blame. I should have stopped you sooner, instead of thinking you’d have the good sense to stop yourself.”

  “But—”

  “Enough, Danielle.” He’d smothered a yawn. “It’s over, with no harm done. Just rest quietly beside me and enjoy the fire a few minutes longer, then I’ll take you back to your room.”

  It hadn’t worked out quite like that because almost immediately, he’d fallen asleep. Not surprising, really. He’d put in a very long day. And, as he had once told her, A doctor learns early on in the game to nap whenever the opportunity presents itself.

  He’d snap awake soon enough, or so she’d believed. Then she’d apologize for her behavior without stammering over every word. Explain, lucidly and calmly, that it was gratitude for how generously he’d given to her, that had prompted her to act so rashly. Before the evening ended, she’d make things right with him again.

  Covering him with her caftan, she glanced around the darkened room. The fire spat and crackled in the hearth. Reflections of its flames danced on the glass fronts of the bookcases. But they’d held her attention only briefly. For however long those few stolen minutes might last, she wanted to look at him.

  His lashes lay thick and inky on his cheeks, with the dark parenthesis of his brows curving above them. Sleep erased the angry line of his mouth and lent his face a more youthful cast. His hair, normally neatly brushed, lay in disarray over his forehead.

  Barely breathing for fear she’d disturb him, she feasted her eyes on him, thinking to hoard every tiny detail of his face in her memory against the time when she left Italy and went back to her normal life. Instead, she’d squandered her chance by falling asleep herself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THEIR afternoon in Milan marked a new phase in Danielle and Carlo’s relationship. Once the business at the Consulate was taken care of, they were free to spend the rest of the day any way they wished.

  After a quick lunch, Carlo said, “What would you most like to see, cara?”

  “Everything!” she promptly replied. “And if we can’t do that, then as much as possible.”

  “To spend a week here and walk the streets at leisure is the best way, of course,” he said, ushering her to where he’d left his car in the shade of an ancient church, “but in order to hit the highlights, and given that your ankle is still healing, you’ll have to settle for being driven between stops.”

  Danielle would have agreed to ride on a camel, if it meant spending unlimited hours with Carlo in his present frame of mind. Away from the hospital, he was a different man, relaxed, carefree, utterly charming and attentive. Any remaining tension from Monday night melted in the warmth of his smile, in the way he tucked her hand under his arm and laced his fingers in hers.

  He took her to the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where they stood in reverent silence before Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece, The Last Supper, painted in oil and tempera on the plaster walls of the refectory. They spent another hour across the street, in La Scala museum, which contained such diverse exhibits as costumes worn by the famous soprano Maria Callas, and Verdi’s desk, as well as his piano. From there, they made flying visits to the Basilica di Sant’ Ambrogio, the imposing Castello Sforzesco, and ended up spending another hour in the magnificent Duomo, the world’s oldest church.

  “You’re beginning to tire,” he observed afterward, as they crossed the cathedral square.

  “A little,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t mind finding a place to sit for a while and do nothing but watch the world go by.”

  “Then the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele will be our next stop, and it just happens to be close by.”

  The galleria, she shortly discovered, consisted of two intersecting streets lined with shops and cafés, all covered by a spectacular glass and iron roof.

  “It was designed by Giuseppe Mengoni at the end of the nineteenth century,” Carlo explained, as they sipped refreshing, bittersweet campari and soda under the awning of a sidewalk café. “He copied the idea from similar galleries in London and Paris. The dome in the middle of the north and south wings symbolizes the link between church and state. We came from the Piazza della Duomo. At the other end is the Piazza della Scala.”

  “The opera house? Oh, I’d love to see that!”

  “Unfortunately it’s not open to the public at this time, but we can see the exterior.”

  They finished their drinks and strolled the remaining distance to the square, their hands loosely joined. No one spared them a second glance. To passersby, they were just another anonymous couple among thousands.

  “Do you enjoy the opera, Danielle?” he asked, when at last they stood before La Scala’s classic facade.

  “I’m not an opera buff like my father, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You would be, after an evening spent at Teatro degli Arcimboldi, where performances are currently held. If there is time before you return to America, we migh
t take in a performance.”

  She didn’t want to talk about going home, about the future. If she had her way, she’d make the present last forever. “Let’s keep going, Carlo. What else are you going to show me?”

  “Milano’s parks don’t compare to those you see in London or Paris, but at this time of year, before the weather turns them dusty and dry, and so many trees and flowers are still in bloom, the Giardini Pubblici are worth a quick visit. Also, you’ll find walking on grass a little easier on your ankle.”

  The shaded paths made a nice change from the heat and glare of sunlight on pavement, and when Carlo suggested they sit awhile, she was happy to comply.

  “I don’t do this often enough,” he said lazily, leaning on one elbow and watching a group of children playing not far away.

  “Have you ever brought Anita here?” Danielle asked him.

  Simultaneously, he said, “I must bring Anita here someday.”

  Laughing, he turned to look at her. “We wave on the same length, si, cara? But I said that not quite right. What I should say is, we share the same wavelength.”

  “I like it better the other way,” she replied, smiling. “We most definitely wave on the same length—at least, we do where Anita’s concerned.”

  His laughter died. “You are even more beautiful when you smile,” he said. “That is what I shall miss the most, when you leave, Danielle.”

  Turning aside yet another reminder that theirs was but a passing affair, she said lightly, “You’re making me blush again.”

  “It’s the sun that brings such roses to your cheeks.” Lithely, he sprang to his feet. “Come,” he said, offering his hand. “The day grows old and there is still much I want to show you.”

  Within minutes, they were off again, this time to tour the fashion district, an area of streets lined with the ateliers of the most illustrious names in the industry: Armani, Fendi, Dolce & Gabbana, Versace, Gucci.