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Triumph had tempted him to respond to the lure of her petal-soft lips. They’d fascinated him from the first. Now he knew they were lush, delicious, dangerously enticing.
The kiss had been an error.
It must never happen again.
CHAPTER FOUR
THEY emerged from the building into bright sunlight. Brilliant blue sky mocked Alissa’s foreboding.
‘Mr Parisi! Dario Parisi!’
Alissa faltered as strident voices called out.
‘Hell!’ Beside her, Dario gave vent to a stream of vitriolic Italian under his breath. Bewildered, Alissa saw a mob of photographers crowding close.
Dario turned, his shoulder blocking them from her vision. She read the sizzle of fury in his expression.
‘That’s why you wore the dress? Playing to the media?’ His tone could cut solid ice. ‘Enjoy it while you can, Signora Parisi. Your day in the limelight will be short.’
‘Mr Parisi!’ A shout cut across Alissa’s denial. ‘Have you got a statement about your secret marriage to an Aussie girl?’ Cameras thrust close, their lenses threatening dark voids, the sound of shutter clicks aggressive.
‘No comment,’ Dario said brusquely, keeping her clamped against him as he shouldered his way down the stairs. His arm looped round her in an embrace like the bite of an unyielding iron chain.
‘After you.’ His clipped tone matched his tight hold.
Alissa stared at the limousine. At the door held open by a familiar chauffeur. The same tough-looking character who’d followed her this past month.
‘No, thank you. I have my own car.’ Her ancient red hatchback was a block away.
‘Nevertheless,’ he paused on the word, his emphasis on the sibilant vaguely sinister, ‘we’ll travel together.’
Short of an embarrassing public tussle, she had no choice but to let him sweep her into the limo.
Alissa sat stiffly as he bent to tuck in the train of her dress, apparently oblivious to the clustering Press. She caught again the fresh scent of his skin, so warmly enticing. So unlike the rigid precision of the man himself. His black hair was combed severely, not a lock out of place. His collar whiter than white, the cut of his suit perfection, his visage as grimly beautiful as a stone god.
There was nothing soft about him.
As his eyes lifted under level black brows to meet hers, she was stabbed again by the chill of his disapproval. His distaste. And more. Hatred?
Alissa shrank back, heart fluttering. He had what he wanted, the promise of the old castello. He couldn’t want a more personal form of retribution.
His silence as they sped off did nothing to dispel her unease. Tension built with each wordless kilometre.
‘I didn’t call the Press,’ she finally blurted.
‘Spare me your protestations of innocence.’ He waved a disparaging hand. ‘I have no interest in them.’
‘Even if they’re the truth?’ Indignation sizzled at his presumption of her guilt.
His gaze bored into her, like sharpened steel against her soft flesh. ‘I accept you are many things, but don’t tax my credulity by pretending innocent is one of them.’
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