The Italians: Luca, Marco and Alessandro: Between the Italian's Sheets / The Moretti Heir / Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny

The

Italians Luca, Marco & Alessandro

Between the

Italian’s Sheets

Natalie Anderson

The Moretti Heir

Katherine Garbera

Alessandro and

the Cheery Nanny

Amy Andrews

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Between the Italian’s Sheets

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Moretti Heir

About the Author

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Endpage

Copyright

Between the Italian’s Sheets

Natalie Anderson

NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy ending, which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings, she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.

If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on Facebook, www.facebook.com/authornataliea, and on Twitter, @authornataliea, or her website/blog, www.natalie-anderson.com.

For Rosie and Simon.

You two have the most incredible generosity, kindness and sheer zest for life. Our holiday in London at Casa King-Currie was amazing—every moment fun and relaxing and memorable. Luca and Emily’s story would never have come out into the light if it hadn’t been for the break you enabled us to have, and for that I really, really thank you.

CHAPTER ONE

ARROGANCE personified. Emily stared at him, her temper going from sizzling to spitting hot. He stood right in front of her, with the height of a basketball star, and shoulders the breadth of a rugby prop. A man mountain, a mighty example of the male in physical prime. Totally obscuring her view. Totally commanding attention.

Typical.

Worse than that, he had one of those fancy phone gadgets that did everything—not merely phone calls, but music, web connection, camera—the works. And every time he pushed the buttons they beeped. Loudly. The overture was about to begin, Emily found the rapid succession of beeps incredibly annoying.

Pointedly, she cleared her throat.

She had not spent the last year working crazy hours, scrimping and saving every last cent to get her sister and herself all the way to Italy and to this fabulous opera only for the moment to be ruined by some selfish jerk who thought his social life was more important than the live performance about to unfold. More important than showing some respect to the other people there who wanted to appreciate the evening.

She cleared her throat again.

Fractionally he turned, threw a quick glance her way, but the beeping didn’t stop. Rather it was the cacophony of trills and fragments of well-known phrases that ceased as under the direction of the lead violinist the orchestra stilled. Then came the lone note from the oboe to which the other instruments would tune. But did that stop him? No. The purity of the sound was shattered by the relentless beeping.

Any minute now the conductor would walk out and applause would greet him. Beeps didn’t constitute applause. Beeps were annoying. And she couldn’t see through him.

She glared at his back now as well as clearing her throat once more. A tailored jacket hung from those doorframe-wide shoulders, one hand on his hip pulling the jacket back, emphasising the narrowing of his torso to a slim waist and hips. She knew there were serious muscles under the white shirt and dark trousers. She’d watched as he’d walked up from the super-expensive seats. He was hard not to notice, taller than almost all the people there. From the front she’d seen the way his shirt neatly tucked into his trousers with not an ounce of anything unnecessary—like fat—rippling the smooth, straight stretch of white cotton. Well dressed, good-looking, so sophisticated and cool in this hot and crowded space. She figured he’d come up so as not to disturb those in his own elite strata—no, he’d conduct his business and bother the plebs up in the cheap seats.

One of the waiters came past, singing his way through the crowd for one final time before he’d quieten for the spectacle, tormenting her with his cry.

‘Bebite! Acqua! Cola! Vino bianca! Vino rosso! Bebite…’

She’d go for all those drinks right now. She was hot. She was thirsty. She was irritated.

This time she coughed.

Where on earth was Kate? What was taking her so long? Only her little sister could need the bathroom right as the opera was about to start. And as far as Emily could tell, the toilets in the ancient arena were few and far between and had queues centuries long. Meanwhile her mouth was dry and she wanted the six-foot-plus pillar blocking her view of centre stage to move. And then he did, turning right round as he held the gadget up in front of him. The flash of his grin was more blinding than the sudden flash of bright light.

‘What—’ she asked tartly ‘—you’re taking photos now?’

‘Sì.’ He nodded, smiling like the Cheshire cat. ‘I need a new wallpaper photo for my phone. And this is such a spectacular view, don’t you think?’

‘I think the “view” is behind you. You know, the stage, the set, the orchestra.’

‘Oh, no, you’re wrong. The beauty of the night is right in front of me.’ As he put the phone thing in his pocket he held her gaze with a long, lazy, unmistakably challenging stare that she felt from the top of her head to her fingertips and all the way to her toes. And in all the secret spaces in between she burned. Spitting hot became unbearable—she was melting, literally melting at his feet. And stupidly she wished she were wearing something a little more glam than her cheap cotton skirt and tee combo. Why couldn’t she have a gorgeous black gown, some serious bling and ice-queen sophistication to set it off?

She choked for real then—half giggling, half spluttering on a speck of something in her throat.

Eyes watering, she heard his call to the passing waiter. He spoke rapidly in Italian. She didn’t catch a word of it. Only glimpsed the smile pass between the two men and then the money. He took the step separating where he stood and she sat, and handed her the bottle of water he’d just bought.

‘For your throat.’ Dry amusement was all obvious and all aggravating. ‘Please.’ He held the bottle a little closer, right in her face, and she knew he wasn’t going to remove it.

What could she do? Act the totally irritated diva? She couldn’t, not when the opera hadn’t actually started, and he’d put the phone away and was suddenly smiling. It was some smile.

‘Thank you,’ she said, mentally blaming the breathiness of her reply on the awkward angle of her neck as she craned it right back to look at him.

He sat in the gap next to her. ‘You’re looking forward to the opera?’

‘Yes.’ Where was Kate? Where was the conductor? But time was playing tricks and the tiniest of moments became eons.

He nodded. ‘It is a good one. They perform it every year here.’

‘I know.’ She’d read it in the tourist books she’d devoured from the library. Right now her eyes were devouring something else. Up close he wasn’t just good-looking, he was incredible-looking. While his physical presence had been noticeable from a distance, nearer it was his expression that arrested her attention.

He was tall, he was dark, he was handsome. So far, so cliché. Like almost every man she’d seen in this city he was immaculately groomed. But there was so much more. There was the strong, angled jaw and the faint shadow of stubble. And in the heart of that was his mouth—wide and full—contrasting with the steep planes of his cheekbones. That mouth raised questions that Emily wanted to answer—was it as smooth as it looked? Warm or cool? It was certainly infinitely touchable. Utterly inviting.

Vying for first place with his lips were his eyes. Deep chocolate-brown, they were set off by the requisite thick, long lashes. But the chocolate didn’t have the dull, matte quality of a solid block. It was warm and glossy and liquid, the dark variety—there was no diluting milky sweetness. And at the very centre there was a hardness—a ‘don’t go there’ dangerous quality that totally aroused the curiosity of Pandora in Emily. It was like the bitterness at the bottom of a strong coffee or the darkest of dark chocolate that her taste buds both desired and recoiled from.

‘Aren’t you going to have your drink?’ He didn’t seem fazed by her scrutiny, instead seemed quite content to sit and study her right back. Closely.

She remembered the bottle and marvelled that steam wasn’t rising from it. Surely the water should be boiling from the red-hot elements that were her hands?

‘I think you should,’ he spoke easily. ‘You seem thirsty.’

That smile had broken the arrogant set to his features once more. A wide, sensual slash, his lips were surprisingly soft-looking, and framed white, straight, strong teeth. Oh, he had it all, didn’t he? The height and body of a champion athlete, and the full features of a sensuous lover.

He glanced at the cheap cloth bag beside her, so obviously empty. ‘You have no picnic? No lover to share the music and the magic of the night with you?’ He gestured around them where many in the audience were snacking on treats stored in small baskets. Most were paired off, couples sitting close, the scent of romance heavy in the atmosphere.

‘I’m here with my sister. She’s just gone to get something.’ Emily’s defence mounted.

‘Ah, your sister.’ He nodded, tone cryptic.

For want of something, anything to stop her staring at him, she flipped the lid on the water bottle.

‘Where are you from?’

It was obvious to him that she was foreign. He’d spoken in English to her from the off. She figured it was the travel garb, the ancient clothes that had left that budget chain store many seasons ago and hadn’t ever seen an iron. She was no fabulous Italian fashionista.

‘New Zealand.’ She tossed her head, scraping for some pride.

A hint of surprise lifted his expression. ‘You’ve come a long way. No wonder you’re looking forward to the music.’

‘Yes. I’ve wanted to come here for years.’ It had been her fantasy escape. Now she wanted to know if Italy was as warm and flavoursome a country as she’d always imagined. The opera had been the way to convince Kate to stop here en route to London.

If Emily had both the choice and the money, she’d travel on to Venice, Florence, Rome…everywhere. Countless times she’d watched every Italian movie they had at the DVD store where she’d worked. She even had a few phrases to try out on friendly looking faces. She looked down at the stage, where the lights were gleaming and the orchestra was now waiting quietly. It was the realisation of a dream.

Her irritation melted away and she drank from the water bottle—a long, deep swig that ended with an unstoppable sigh of satisfaction.

Light, cool, strong fingers took her chin, and he turned her face back towards his. Stunned, she let him, silently absorbing the intensity of his expression, feeling it draw her even closer to him. And then it was only his index finger touching her, carefully sliding with gentle but firm pressure along her lower lip, rubbing the droplets of water into her dry lips.

‘Very thirsty,’ he said softly.

As his fingers caressed sensations surged within her—the sparks of bliss in her nerve endings, the devilish desire to flick out her tongue and taste him.

The audience of thousands was silent with expectation but it was nothing compared to the anticipation enthralling her. She didn’t want him to break the delightful contact. Rather the wish for more rocketed. This was crazy. She couldn’t want a complete stranger to kiss her, could she? To touch his lips to the spot where his finger now stroked?

But yes. Emily, who had never been one for flings, let alone one-night stands, was almost overcome by the urge to lie back and let him do as he pleased—right here, right now, in an amphitheatre filled to capacity. The water bottle slid from her weak grasp to the stone seat beside her as she mumbled, ‘You realise it’s about to start?’

His gaze lowered, lids almost closing right over his eyes, hiding the sharpening gleam in the even darker chocolate. ‘What makes you think it hasn’t started already?’

Oh, my. His fingers left her mouth but brushed her thigh as he picked up the small candle that she’d completely forgotten. Instinctively every deep internal muscle within her tensed, wanted to squirm. The onward rush of sensation was heady and new and delightful. His eyes flipped back to hers, and she knew he was aware of the waves that were crashing over her, drowning her in unaccustomed, unexpected desire.

‘Let’s light this, sì?’ He pulled a lighter from his pocket. There was a metallic click and the flicker sent a warm glow into his face. She couldn’t look away—she was fascinated by the tension in his jaw, the firm curve of his mouth, the brilliance in his dark eyes. Inside and out, she adored his searing attention.

Luca made himself break free of her mesmerising stare and concentrated stupidly hard on lighting the candle. But when he held it out for her she didn’t move and he just had to look close again. Like a statue she sat, still gazing at him with those sky-wide, sea-green eyes. He couldn’t help grinning as he transferred the candle to his other hand, using his nearest to capture hers. God, she was gorgeous. Honey-coloured hair and a softly curved figure in a pale green tee that brought out the depths in those eyes. He’d noticed her on his way up to get better reception for his phone and then he’d been entertained by her less than subtle methods of showing her displeasure at where he was standing. He’d strung out sending his text just to feel her reaction. And then he’d had to capture it—the sultry glare, the long legs bent beneath her.

Irresistible.

He felt her quiver, tightened his own fingers instinctively, and made her take the burning candle. For a nanosecond that felt like for ever, they held the flame together, his fist encompassing hers. He liked the feel of her in his hand. He’d like to feel more of her in his hand.

‘You should have a lover to sit with at the opera.’ If it were him he’d slide his arm around her and pull her in snug against his chest.

‘So should you.’ Her gaze was direct.

‘True. Unfortunately I have other guests to entertain.’ Helplessly he shrugged. ‘But in a parallel universe I’d be here with you.’

‘A total stranger?’ Coy mockery flavoured her tone and her glance.

‘We wouldn’t be strangers for long.’

The green in her eyes deepened again and her mouth parted with the faintest of gasps. Yes, he did mean exactly that—they would be close and physical and fulfilled. And, yes, it was crazy. Since when did he sit holding the hand of a strange woman and fantasise about holding her in his arms? Since when did he think he could ever be fulfilled? Not like that—not by connecting with another person. People—relationships—were beyond him. It was only from work that he sought satisfaction now.

Her colour steadily rose but still she held his gaze. ‘What a shame there’s no such thing as parallel universes.’

‘Yes.’ This fantasy was the strongest temptation—and he searched for a way to sustain it, just for a moment more. ‘But there’s always tomorrow.’

She smiled at that. ‘Tomorrow.’

The burst of applause was deafening. He blinked and the bubble was burst. A quick glance down showed the conductor at the podium, his baton raised. He’d better get back to his seat—he did have guests to entertain. Damn. But he sent her a smile as he let go of her hand and stood. ‘Ciao, bella.’

CHAPTER TWO

EMILY spent the next moment of eternity trying to remember how to breathe. Then she shook her head and laughed weakly—puffing away the lingering intensity with a self-prescribed dose of sarcasm. What a flirt. He’d transformed her heat of anger into the heat of attraction, totally overcoming her annoyance and leaving her practically panting.

She watched as he descended the steps and re-entered the exclusive zone. He didn’t look back. He’d already forgotten her. He must do it all the time—gaze at an unsuspecting female with his deep brown, dangerous eyes; lay a single finger on her person—of course she’d say yes in a heartbeat. No wonder he wore that mantle of lazy arrogance. He was the kind of guy for whom everything came easy—especially women.

But the surprising fact was, Emily would quite happily have been one of his women.

Irresistible.

As the opening chords of the overture began Kate flung into the cavernous space beside her.

‘Great, you got some water,’ she said, picking the bottle up from beside Emily and half draining it. ‘Just in time for the show.’

Emily pressed her finger on her needy lips—retracing the path his had taken. As far as she was concerned, the main event was already over.

But the Arena di Verona did not disappoint. Over two hours later as the applause thundered and cries of encore and bravo rang out, pleasure and relief rippled through Emily. It had been so worth it. The warmth, the atmosphere, the music, the spectacle—everything had been as wonderful as she could have wished. Well, almost everything. Somehow that fleeting encounter with a gorgeous stranger had made her miss something she hadn’t had time to want until now—touch, pleasure, a sense of her own desirability. It had been a long time coming. She’d been too busy to date, and the one attempt at a boyfriend really hadn’t been worth it. But suddenly, with one touch from him, that closed door to the sensual part of herself had been swung wide open. And now she was left wondering, wanting to walk through it.

She and Kate moved among the mass of bubbling, happy people, finding their way out of the amphitheatre and into the piazza where the crowd spilled and milled. Emily didn’t want the night to end. She lingered, still feeling the vibrations from the sound of orchestra and voice, but most of all still feeling the touch of a finger on her lips…wanting more.

‘Did you think the soprano was a bit off in that last duet?’

Emily knew Kate was about to dissect the performance note by note, but honestly she hadn’t been listening too close in that one. She’d hadn’t been able to stop her gaze from travelling down to a certain spot in the rich seats where a dark head was slightly elevated above the others. The music had become the soundtrack to the kind of fantasy that she didn’t usually have time to indulge in.

‘Umm, which bit?’ Warmth pervaded her entire body and she smiled, reliving the secret pleasure of that chance meeting. Then she glanced at her sister, saw her mouth open and the deep breath. Her smile disappeared altogether as Kate launched full tilt into the final refrain of the biggest ‘hit’ of the night.

‘Kate!’ Emily whispered—mentally screaming. How embarrassing. But her sister just threw her a naughty glance and kept on going. As people turned to look a moat of space appeared around them and Emily longed for a lifeboat to take her back into the crowd. She scanned it, discomfort prickling as more and more turned their way. Then she saw the group of well-dressed men. He stood in the centre, half a head taller. Striking, and staring right in their direction. There was a woman there too. Of course there was. Standing right beside him—beautiful and elegant, obviously an Italian fashionista and obviously interested in him. A lover to sit with at the opera?

A stupidly strong sense of loss washed through her. They’d only shared a few words on the steps, but it had felt as if a myriad of possibilities had been unveiled. But she wasn’t anything like the woman he was with, so there was no ‘possibility’after all, and her disappointment was bitter.

The second Kate paused for breath Emily grasped her arm, propelling her forwards. ‘Are you done?’

‘No.’ Kate threw a smile in the direction of anyone still looking their way and fell into step. ‘I’ve had a great idea.’

Emily didn’t want to listen. Emily just wanted to get away. But, unlike him, Emily had to look back. She turned her head over her shoulder for one final glimpse. He was staring right at her, smile curling upwards, and as she met his gaze he winked. She didn’t smile, but she kept looking, needing to capture his image in her mind for one final moment before turning away.

They rounded the corner into one of the busy side streets and Kate lurched to a halt. ‘I am not just having bread for the next two days. We’re in Italy. I want pasta, I want pizza. I want a restaurant.’

‘Kate.’ Emily was close to exasperation point. Why couldn’t she understand that they just didn’t have the funds for that?

‘I’m going to get us some more money.’

‘How?’

‘Busking.’

‘Kate.’ Emily’s heart sank. She knew what her sister was like—the attention she’d got would only have whetted her appetite.

‘Come on, Em, you saw the crowd that gathered just then. Three songs and we’ll have enough for the most fabulous meal tomorrow—one of those long, lazy lunches at one of those tables outside, with millions of courses and lots of wine.’

Admittedly Emily’s mouth was watering at the idea but she tried to ignore it. ‘You’re probably supposed to have permits to perform.’

Kate yawned big and fake. ‘Rules, Em?’

‘One of us has to be responsible.’ And she always had been—as a matter of necessity. She’d had sole responsibility for the two of them for years. Mother, father, sister, friend, breadwinner, cook, cleaner, chauffeur—all rolled into one.

‘It’s a shame there’s no piano for you to accompany me. Unless you want to do that duet?’

‘Not on your life.’ Kate could have the limelight. Emily was happy to accompany but centre stage was too bright for her.