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She didn’t want to explain. She didn’t want his pity just yet and certainly not his rejection. That was what she’d have if she told him the whole sordid story. She’d tell him later perhaps if she was desperate. Pity could be a tool, too. Besides, telling the story exposed her hand more than she wanted. They might be drinking tea in their nightwear and he might have saved her from drowning but he was still a stranger. So much lay unknown between them. At the moment, she was operating off nothing more than her assumptions about his character.
‘More brandy?’ she offered. She rose with the decanter in hand to cross the short distance between them, but Nolan waved it away.
‘More answers.’ He set his glass down on the low table, pushing it away from him with a sense of finality. Gianna swallowed hard. Small talk was over.
It was time to be bold. She needed a distraction or he’d drag the entire story out of her. She would tell him when she was ready, when she knew she had him and he wouldn’t send her back. Until then, she needed to give him a reason to let her stay. Gianna put down the decanter and pulled off the stopper. She gave it a long, slow lick of her tongue, her eyes on Nolan, watching his reaction. ‘Perhaps we can think of something else to do with the brandy besides drink it.’ Her voice was husky and provocative, the implication clear.
His grey eyes went black at the fantasy she conjured. ‘What are you suggesting?’ His voice had become a husky growl. It was now or never. Gianna seized her courage. She could do this. She knew in theory what men wanted and how to deliver it, if not in practice. But truly, how hard could it be?
Gianna knelt at his knees in the small place between him and the tea table, careful to keep her eyes on his, never letting him guess the boldness was an act. ‘We can find something better to entertain ourselves with besides talk. After all, you didn’t win my conversation in a card game.’ She ran her hands up the insides of his thighs beneath his banyan, over the rough hair of his legs, and she knew the heady sensation of success.
Already his body was shifting, opening to accommodate her touch, his robe falling away to reveal all of him, his phallus starting its journey to arousal as her thumb met with its head, his tip rubbery and tender. She’d not thought it would feel so...vulnerable...when the rest of his body was so very hard. She closed her hand over the length of his shaft, feeling its heat, its pulsing life as it grew harder. She started to stroke.
His hand came down quick and fierce, shackling her wrist. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Do you prefer something else?’ Gianna fired back, defensive in her doubt. Was she doing it wrong?
‘I’d prefer the truth.’ His grip was hard as he brought both of them to their feet. Standing nose to nose or rather nose to chest, she felt the whole force and strength of his presence. Had she misjudged him? Was there cruelty in him yet? Gianna tensed and waited.
‘You haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re doing, of what you’re playing with,’ he accused, and she felt her cheeks burn with shame. He had roused to her touch, her efforts couldn’t have been that far off the mark. Gianna willed herself not to look away from him as he continued his scold. She would not give him or any man the satisfaction of victory. Nolan’s eyes were hard, near-obsidian shards as he made his case. ‘At the palazzo you were not the least interested in sleeping with me. I believe your words were “take your hand off me”. That seems to have changed in a rather short time. Frankly, I find your about-face unbelievable. Perhaps we should try your resolve before this goes any further.’
It was all the warning she had. He seized her mouth in a bruising kiss that left her breathless and reeling from its onslaught, but there was no mistaking this kiss for anything other than what it was—a punishment, a proving ground.
Nolan dragged his mouth away, his eyes narrowed in flinty speculation. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He ran his hand across his mouth, and Gianna knew whatever test he had put to her she had failed. ‘A woman always kisses her truth. Now, why don’t you tell me how it is that a woman who didn’t want to be wagered turns down her freedom when it’s offered to her, especially when she’s not particularly interested in sleeping with me?’
Gianna gathered her dignity and looked him in the eye. She was losing him, not because she lacked competence in the arts of seduction, but because he saw through her, he knew her game and it dulled her one weapon. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Before you oh, so conveniently fell into the canal you were about to say “this is where I stay”,’ he prompted, not believing her feint of ignorance. ‘Somewhere between the ballroom and the canal incident, you decided you didn’t want to be free of me.’
His meaning was evident. Anger surged. ‘You think I planned this? You think I wanted to fall into the canal?’
Her own accusation didn’t appear to stoke his temper. His gaze remained steady. He let go of her wrist and crossed his arms over his chest, entrenching. She recognised the signs. ‘There are those who would say you’ve done well for yourself tonight. You’re here, after all, in this sumptuous room. The question is why?’ His voice was a sensuous caution, reminding her that she toyed with a dangerous man in spite of the kindnesses he’d shown her. ‘What do you want so badly, Gianna, you’re willing to put your hand and no doubt eventually your mouth on a stranger’s cock?’
It would have been better to have simply called her a whore. His crass description of her efforts to bribe him into compliance put her over the edge. Whatever restraint she had left fled in the wake of her temper at full boil. She raised her hand and struck him hard across the face, across that beautifully curved sweeping cheekbone.
‘How dare you!’ But she knew how he dared. He dared because it was true. She’d been willing to do that much and more if need be and it shamed her. In those moments she’d become like her mother, the very life she was trying so hard to avoid—a life dependent on a man’s reactions to her charms.
Nolan stepped away from her, his body coiled but controlled. He didn’t even raise a hand to touch the red stain she’d left on his face. She envied him that reserve he could conjure at will. ‘I’m sorry if the truth stings, signorina,’ he said coldly. ‘Please excuse me. I find I’m not good company this evening. I’m going to find a nice stiff drink or two. Make free of the room. I will not be back tonight.’
He couldn’t leave! She was already regretting her actions. Didn’t she know by now violence solved nothing, it only made things worse? How quickly she’d sunk to the very depths she despised in the count. ‘You’re not dressed,’ she asserted hastily. In her anger she might have ruined everything. She couldn’t let him go with things like this. What had she been thinking to strike him? What if he sent for the count? She couldn’t go back.
Nolan’s hand stalled on the doorknob, and he gave her a wry smile. ‘For what I pay here, princess, they’d let me drink naked.’ Then he was gone, leaving her alone with a bed and a half-full decanter of brandy. It should be enough to numb the pain. Things would look brighter in the morning. They had to, because they looked impossibly dark right now.
Chapter Six
Oh, the agony! Nolan groaned, but the noise of it, the effort of it, only made the pain worse. His head was splitting like Zeus about to birth Athena. With a blind hand, he groped for the bedside table and the morning remedy he left there for occasions like this. His hand came up empty—no furniture, no magic morning. Why was that?
Nolan hazarded a peep out of the slit of one cautious eye. Ow! He shut it quickly and cursed. Who the hell had left the curtains open? The morning was not off to a good start and it was only sixty seconds old. If this was how the day was going to progress, he would stay in bed. Then he remembered why he couldn’t. For starters, he wasn’t even in a bed, but a chair and a deuced uncomfortable one at that. Second, this wasn’t his room. This was Hotel Danieli’s private club, with its large bay of windows looking out on to the canal. He was here because she was there—there being his perfectly appointed room with night-dark curtains the staff knew to keep drawn until noon and his miracle remedy against all nature of hangovers on his bedside table.
Nolan shifted, his body conflicted in its priorities. Did it stay still, to dull the ache in his head, or give in to the urge to stretch and relieve the stiffness of having passed out in a club chair hours ago? His body opted to move. That was a mistake. He regretted moving instantly, then regretted having drunk so much brandy. Well, it hadn’t entirely been brandy. There’d been some wine, too. This was all her fault, every aching, throbbing body part of it. The evening in its entirety flooded back in head-splitting flashes; the card game, the gondola, the canal—oh, Lord, the canal—he still carried a faint whiff of it on his skin—and the girl who had ruined everything, even his solution to save them both from further complication.
He’d offered her freedom from the agreement. She was supposed to have taken it and left him at the pier—dry and ready to move forward with the next step of his plans. It was a nice expedient option that should have satisfied them both. Apparently she had a different option in mind—one that involved falling into the canal. Even now, he wasn’t sure if she’d done it on purpose. It had been an enormous chance to take on her part in a dress weighted down by pearls.
That wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t sure about. Was she really a virgin or had the count lied about that, too? It was rather hard to believe and yet he couldn’t rule it out as truth. Nolan groaned again, this time from the realisation of what he’d done based on accepting the count’s word at face value. What if he’d been wrong to trust her? If she had manipulated everything, it meant he’d just left a very experienced con artist alone in his room with all of his winnings. Nolan forced himself into an upright position, fighting hard to ignore the spinning room and the stab of pain. He had to get upstairs.
It was an absolute labour of Hercules to pull himself up the grand staircase in his dressing gown in front of bright-eyed tourists heading out to see the sights. It wasn’t the dressing gown that bothered him. If he’d been in better spirits, he’d have made a game out of it, bowing and nodding to the ladies as if he were fully clothed. But he was in no mood for games. His head ached, his stomach roiled on the verge of nausea and it was suitable punishment for what he’d done. Had he let her manipulate him or was she simply that good and he hadn’t seen it coming, he who prided himself on being a student of human nature?
Nolan ran through the progression of events. She’d been trying to seduce him, which had been an obvious if enjoyable ploy. He recalled with clarity the feel of her warm hand on his very responsive cock. If she’d been a different sort of woman in different circumstances, he would have taken her generous offer. But he’d been wary of her motives. When seduction had failed, she’d opted for a quarrel. In hindsight, he could see how that would work to her advantage. Perhaps she had intended to blind him with anger, knowing he’d storm out, maybe knowing, too, that a man who had bothered to drag her out of the canal, run her a hot bath and find her a nightgown wasn’t going to throw her out after all that trouble.
Nolan fumbled for the key in his dressing-robe pocket and fitted it to the lock. He held his breath. This was the moment of truth. He opened the door to his room. The front room was empty except for the abandoned tea set and his stomach dropped. He strode into the bedroom, fearing the worst—that she was gone and his money with her. He stopped in the doorway and smiled, a big, wide smile that hurt his head. Right now, he didn’t care. The pain was worth it.
Gianna Minotti lay sprawled face down on his bed, the silk nightgown bunched up high on her thighs, revealing long, slim legs and a glimpse of rounded buttock. Her hair was a glorious tangled mop over her face. Was that a small trail of drool at her mouth? One hand trailed limply over the bed. Nolan followed it down to the empty glass on the floor just beyond her fingertips.
His eyes darted to the nightstand and the nearly empty decanter. She’d had the same idea as he. Chances were, she’d get the same results. His magic morning was still at the bedside, too. He grabbed up the glass and drank, making sure to save some for her. She was going to need it. Nolan fought back the urge to laugh as he headed for the bath. It was true. Misery loved company. He was feeling better already.
* * *
There was a man singing in the bathroom and she just wanted him to stop! Gianna moaned and rolled over. It was a bad idea, but obviously just one of many, the brandy having been the first bad idea. What had possessed her to imbibe like that? Then she remembered. Him. This was all his fault. Sort of. At the moment, she couldn’t remember exactly why it was his fault. Oh, yes, he’d won her in a card game. Not her specifically, but her maidenhead. Which he hadn’t claimed, yet, proving the brandy hadn’t accomplished anything except for giving her a monstrous headache.
The door to the bathing room opened, and she cracked one eye, then two. If she had to wake up with a pounding head there were worse sights to wake up to. Nolan Gray emerged from the steam, wrapping a white towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair. His singing stopped when he saw her but he didn’t stop smiling. ‘Buongiorno, signorina. How is your head?’
The smiling, singing bastard knew exactly how her head felt—she could see the mischief in his eyes. Gianna reached for a pillow, intending to throw it at him. The effort was too much for her body. Her stomach rebelled, the world swam and spun in front of her abruptly upright head. She went hot, then cold, entirely out of control of her body. Oh, no! She couldn’t stop it. Her throat made a panicked sound. Nolan was there, kneeling beside her, a chamber pot at the ready, his hand sweeping back her hair just in time.
She retched most thoroughly not once but twice, her stomach spilling its contents into the chamber pot. It was humiliating and healing all at once. Realising that somehow made it even more mortifying because, when the wave of nausea passed, she was glad she’d done it. Casting up accounts had been exactly what she’d needed.
‘Better?’ Nolan brought a wet washcloth and helped her with her face. The cold water felt refreshing on her skin. She lay back against the bed pillows, feeling drained, but immensely improved. ‘If I could get rid of the pounding in my head, I would be at a hundred per cent.’ She managed a smile, but it was hard considering she’d just thrown up in front of a man dressed in a towel—a man who had already fished her out of the canal and tried to save her from the count’s reckless wager.
He had an answer for that, too. ‘Drink this. It will help your head.’ He passed her a half-filled glass filled with a greenish liquid.
She sniffed and wrinkled her brow. ‘What is it?’
‘My secret recipe for mornings like these.’ He chuckled at her reticence. ‘You can live with the headache or you can try it. I’ve already had mine and look at me.’ He held his arms wide. Look at him indeed. It was hard not to. He was as well made as the glimpses last night had purported. Lean muscles defined his arms and chest beneath the lingering tan of his skin. It was not a deep tan, of course, they were too far into the winter for that, but he had been tan at one point. It made her wonder what he’d been doing. Cards were usually an indoor pursuit, in her experience. It was nice to think he might be more than a gambler.
Gianna gave him a dubious look and downed the glass. She cringed at the taste and swallowed. ‘This had better work.’
‘It will work. It tastes too awful not to.’ He laughed and rummaged in the drawers of the bureau and tossed her a shirt. ‘You can put this on until we can find you something better to wear. I’ll dress in the other room. Come out when you’re decent. Breakfast will be here soon. I have it delivered every day at noon.’
Breakfast? Decent? She was sceptical of both ideas, but Nolan merely laughed at her frown as he gathered up clothes. ‘Nothing fancy, just toast and coffee,’ he assured her. ‘It will help, too, you’ll see.’
Gianna held the shirt against her. She was sceptical of more than breakfast. They had not parted on good terms last night. He’d accused her of deliberately falling into the canal, and she had slapped him. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you being so nice?’
Nolan shrugged. ‘Does there have to be a reason? Maybe I’m feeling grateful that my hangover is behind me. It is a glorious feeling to be restored to health, don’t you agree?’ The last was added rather pointedly.
Gianna blushed, but she was not diverted. ‘Maybe it’s more than that.’
‘Maybe,’ Nolan drawled, letting his eyes roam over her. ‘I’m just glad to find you’re still here and that you haven’t robbed me blind. You knew exactly how much I’d won and where it was at.’
‘You insult me.’ She must be feeling better. Her temper stirred a little, a sure sign she was recovering her spirit. It stung that he still didn’t believe she was innocent in all this, that she’d had no part in the wager, no designs to steal from him and return to the count.
‘No,’ Nolan corrected, tossing the words over his shoulder as he exited to the other room. ‘I honour you with the truth. In cases like this, I find it’s best to know where we stand with one another.’
Ah, they were not so dissimilar. They both believed one caught more flies with sugar than vinegar. He was flattering her. Not with words, necessarily. In fact, he was purposely using his words to do the exact opposite in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice. But she’d been in the world of men too long. She knew better. He was flattering her with actions, luring her trust with nightgowns and shirts; hot baths and tea trays; miracle headache cures and timely placement of chamber pots. Do not like him, she admonished, slipping out of the nightgown and folding it carefully before placing it in a drawer.
Gianna slipped her arms into the sleeves of the shirt. The garment was too big, of course. The sleeves had to be rolled up and it fell nearly to her knees. But it was clean and soft against her skin the way only expensive linen could be. She breathed deeply. The shirt smelled good, like him, she realised. It matched the scent that had trailed out of the bathing room with him; sandalwood with the faintest hints of patchouli. She drew another deep breath and knew she had to be careful.
He was a worthy opponent at a time when she needed a more naïve one. Nolan Gray did nothing without a motive. Even this act of dressing her in his shirt was an act of intimacy designed to draw her closer, designed to create the illusion of a bond between them. He wants you to like him, came the thought. She played a question-and-answer game with herself as she fastened the shirt.
Why? Last night he’d wanted to be rid of her.
Because friends tell one another their secrets.
In his eyes, what was her secret?
Answer: he wanted to know why she didn’t want to leave when she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.
Gianna paused, hesitating before picking up the brush laid out on the dresser. He wouldn’t mind. He’d want her to use it, one more act of kindness to bind her to him. She dragged the brush through her tangles, feeling more in charge with each brushstroke, more like herself. Regardless of what anyone said, appearances mattered, even when one was only wearing a shirt, or perhaps especially when one was wearing only a shirt. It was already noon and the clock was ticking. How much time did she have before her freedom ran out?
There were voices in the other room and the clatter of dishes. Breakfast was here. She couldn’t hide in the bedroom any longer. It was time to go out and beard the proverbial lion in his den. For that she needed a strategy, or, better yet, she’d just borrow his tactics. He wanted her to like him. Was that such a bad idea? Wouldn’t she, too, be served by the concept of liking? Maybe being friends was the preferred strategy here. After all, friends did things for one another and there were things she needed doing before she could leave Venice, before she could truly be free. Who better to do them for her than her new friend, Nolan Gray?
Be careful, her conscience whispered, that you don’t do this because it’s easy. You want to like him and this gives you an excuse. This was your mother’s downfall, she liked attractive men and they all failed her in the end. Nolan Gray might have fished you out of the canal, but he also won you in a card game. How good could a man be who’d entertain such a wager? That was the problem. She didn’t know. But at the moment he was all she had. She did feel a twinge of guilt over what she meant to do. But if he was a gambler, he’d understand. A girl had to use her resources and take her chances where she found them.
The smell of coffee greeted her as she stepped into the other room, feeling conspicuous in Nolan’s shirt when he was fully attired in shirt and waistcoat, breeches and boots. In truth, the shirt covered far more of her than the nightgown had, but then, the playing field had been more equitable when they’d both been in nightwear. But Nolan rose, playing the gentleman, only his eyes betraying his appreciation of her apparel. He was good at hiding his emotions.
‘Coffee?’ He poured her a cup and passed it to her with a smile. ‘There’s toast and butter, a pot of jam, if you like. Help yourself.’ He’d left the sofa empty for her, perhaps anticipating the difficulties of sitting in a shirt. She ended curled up on that sofa, her legs tucked under her, the shirttails tucked modestly about her, and a plate of toast balanced on her lap.
It was a cosy position and she was struck by the domestic tranquillity of their breakfast. Nearby, flames popped occasionally in the fireplace. Nolan sat easy in his chair, one booted leg crossed over the other, his own plate balanced on a knee. Beyond him the light of the grey day filtered through the windows. It was a perfect day for staying inside. If they’d been lovers, perhaps they would have. But Nolan’s attire suggested he at least had other plans.
She took a bite of toast smothered in jam, aware of him studying her. She readied herself. He was going to launch his next salvo. But when it came it wasn’t the question she’d expected.
Nolan took a swallow of coffee and said with all the casualness of someone who was asking about the weather, ‘So, what kind of man sells his daughter’s virginity? And don’t say a desperate one because I already know that.’
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