“Your vanity’s showing, Ty.”
She stared at him for a moment, her face completely expressionless, and then slid off the bed gracefully. With the total calm that generally heralded a storm, and a very sweet smile, she said, “Either you badly need a cup of coffee, or else you’re determined to pick a fight. As I said before, glad to oblige if you want to fight, but you’ll have to tell me what we’re fighting about. In the meantime, I’m going to take a shower and go shopping.”
Kane remained where he was until he heard the shower, then pushed himself up off the bed. What he felt for Tyler, the helpless love and fiery desire as well as the grinding uncertainty, was making him as edgy as a bear fresh out of hibernation; all his senses were quivering, and he was hungry, impatient. He wanted. He wanted Tyler, all of her, and the only hold he had on her was so damnably unsure it was driving him crazy.
He shed his pants and briefs, then joined her in the shower. She turned to him, her eyes glittering, and as he pulled her wet body into his arms she might have whispered, “Bastard.” Kane didn’t care what she called him, because her arms were around him, her hard-tipped breasts rubbing against his chest, her soft belly and loins yielding. He didn’t care what she called him because his mind was fixed on the compulsion to make her his so utterly that she could never leave him.
TYLER WAS STILL feeling a bit shaken by the interlude in the shower late that afternoon as their rented car left Venice behind. Shaken and confused, and fighting not to hope too much. If Kane’s desire for her was going to burn itself out, she thought, it would have to do so with the fury of a nova, because it certainly hadn’t diminished. In fact, with every day that passed he seemed to want her more, his hunger urgent and unhidden.
But he was . . . different. Always before, Kane’s temper had been fierce but, like a storm, soon over and forgotten. He’d never been a man to brood, and if he was mad she always knew why. Yet for the last few days, he had been moody, unusually terse. And unusually volatile, cheerful one moment, inexplicably angry or darkly passionate the next.
She wanted to hope that his brittle temper meant something, but she was afraid that what it meant was that he was growing restless or uneasy. That despite all her efforts not to cling, he was beginning to feel trapped by her—and his own desire.
“You’re very quiet,” he said suddenly.
They were heading north where, about twenty miles away, lay the small town of Treviso and the Palladian villa belonging to the Montegro family.
“Just thinking,” she responded. Tyler hadn’t had much time to think since the morning. Shopping for clothes and the like had taken time, even though she and Kane had separated and met back at their hotel with their purchases.
“The contessa dresses for dinner,” she’d warned him as they were about to split up.
“Black tie?” he’d muttered with all the reluctance of a man who viewed formal dress as the social equivalent of a straitjacket.
“There’s no time to be fitted—and you’d have to be,” she had said, eyeing his broad, powerful shoulders. Kane had given her a look she couldn’t interpret to save her life, but had merely said that he’d meet her back at the hotel in two hours.
Now, watching his profile as he handled the car expertly, Tyler had the feeling that he’d managed to acquire a dinner jacket despite the scant time, just as she had expected. He had looked mildly satisfied with himself, and had been carrying a garment bag in addition to a large suitcase. Like Tyler, he had found and bought used bags, and like her he had packed everything as it had been purchased.
Remembering the shopkeepers that had bemusedly watched her filling her own garment bag and suitcase, Tyler found herself acknowledging, for the first time, that she and Kane were really somewhat unorthodox. They had wandered around Venice wearing denim and khaki, even in the best restaurants and their fine hotel, and neither of them had thought about it. Nor had they been denied entry anywhere at all, no matter what the dress code.
Tyler looked at Kane’s big, powerful body, relaxed behind the wheel of the car, and wasn’t terribly surprised that no snooty head waiter had challenged them. Even now, wearing dark slacks and a white shirt instead of the rougher attire she was accustomed to, Kane possessed an aura of primitive strength that didn’t invite careless confrontations, especially over unimportant things like dress codes.
“How did the contessa strike you?” he asked suddenly, sounding restless. Tyler had called her just after lunch.
“Very American,” she replied dryly.
Kane sent her a glance. “How do you mean?”
Tyler reflected for a moment. “Well, I know she’s lived here in Italy for thirty years, but I’d swear she just left Alabama. Pure Southern drawl. Very gracious and welcoming. She said she was sure we’d find plenty of interesting information in her library, and that she hoped we could stay at least several days, longer if possible.”
He glanced at her again, his eyes probing hers, intent. “Did you happen to mention to her that we wouldn’t need separate bedrooms?”
“I didn’t have to bring up the matter.” Tyler couldn’t help but laugh a little, even though all her senses were straining to read each nuance of his deep voice, searching for the meaning in every glance. “She was very brisk about it. ‘Two bedrooms, my dear, or one?’ I said one, and she said fine.”
“Good,” Kane said.
Tyler hesitated, and her own uncertainty made her blurt, “I wasn’t really sure that’s what you wanted, but—”
“What?” This time, his glance was very readable because it was utterly incredulous.
She shrugged defensively, controlling a leap of hope. “For all I know, you’ve got some stuffy job as a professor back in the States.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, a hotel is one thing and a private home something else. The academic world tends to be fussy about the reputations of its professors. Maybe you wouldn’t want it known that you were shacking up—”
Kane whipped the car violently onto the shoulder of the road and stopped, then turned in the seat to stare at her. His eyes were glittering dangerously, but his voice emerged very quietly. “I have a ranch, Ty. In Montana. I don’t teach. And I don’t give a sweet damn if the whole bloody world knows we’re lovers. Understand?”
She nodded, a bit wary. She would have felt on safer ground if he’d yelled or snapped; that deadly quiet was unnerving. Holding her own voice steady and calm, she said, “I just didn’t want you to feel . . . obligated. I didn’t automatically assume you’d want to share a room, and I wanted you to know that.”
“Assume it from now on.”
Tyler couldn’t discern any emotion in his voice, and so the command did nothing to ease her uncertainty. She managed another shrug. “Everything ends, Kane.” She was trying to tell him she wouldn’t cling, wouldn’t hold on if he wanted to leave her. When. When he wanted to leave her. She tore her eyes away from his hard, compelling face and stared through the windshield. “Shouldn’t we be going? I said we’d be there by four, and—”
His fingers bit into her jaw as he turned her face back to him, and he caught her gasp as his lips covered hers. He kissed her with a slow, dark hunger, a stark possessiveness, sliding his tongue deeply into her mouth, his big hand moving down to hold her throat caressingly. His free hand grasped one of hers and carried it to his thigh, guiding her fingers until she felt the hard ridge straining beneath the fabric of his pants.
A stab of pure heat jolted through Tyler, her entire body reacting wildly to his desire, and she trembled under the force of it.
Kane lifted his head, staring down at her with glittering eyes while his hand held hers firmly against him. “God, you make me crazy,” he muttered thickly, a savage bite in his voice. “Not everything ends, Ty. Some things last forever.”
When he released her hand, she drew it slowly away from him, feeling feverish, fighting the driving urge to go on touching him. She watched dazed
ly as he pulled back onto the road, and when he hauled her to his side she didn’t even try to resist.
For the first time she realized that Kane was caught as surely as she was; the anger in his voice had told her that. And she’d been right in thinking that his desire would burn itself out only with the fiery explosion of a nova.
The flame between them could very easily end in destruction.
chapter nine
THE VILLA ROSA had, astonishingly, survived the World War II air raids that had badly damaged the town of Treviso. It perched on a hill outside the town, with the Alps rising behind it, and the classical Roman temple design of its massive single porch made it look like a place of rest for the gods at the foot of Olympus. It had a low dome at the center of the roof, Roman statuary adorning the porch and the corners of the house, and extensive grounds that were lovely even in their unkempt state.
It was a ruin of a place, worn by its four centuries of existence and yet still standing despite wars and pollution and the constant erosion of nature.
Getting out of their car at the foot of the steps leading to the templelike porch, Tyler studied the place, comparing the dignity of this decaying grandeur with the bland modern glass-and-steel highrises now sinking their impersonal roots into the earth and their snouts into the clouds. If any of those monotonous buildings stood in four centuries, she thought, who would care?
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Kane murmured, joining her as he shrugged into a dark jacket.
Tyler nodded, reaching up absently to straighten his collar. “I was just thinking how little original style is left in the world. It all seems to be old and falling into ruin.”
“Not all of it,” Kane said.
Tyler was about to ask him what buildings he was thinking of when the heavy front door opened and a somberly dressed old man peered out at them. Kane took her hand in his and they went up the steps to the door. The old man nodded at them, his blue eyes bird-like with interest but his lined face impassive, and when he spoke it was in the clear, precise tones of an English butler. The kind of butler, Tyler reflected, that, like the villa, was a product of a lost way of life.
“Miss St. James, Mr. Pendleton. Welcome to Villa Rosa. The contessa and Mrs. Grayson are waiting in the drawing room. This way, please.” He stepped back and opened the door wider.
They entered the villa, and both Tyler and Kane felt as if they were stepping back in history. Marble floors worn by countless feet, Veronese frescoes cracked with age, the cool, musty smell of centuries and inexorable decay. Tyler felt Kane’s hand tighten around hers, and again she was conscious of that deep sensation of affinity as they followed the butler past an impressive staircase and across the entrance hall to a set of double doors.
He opened the doors for them, and in the instant before he announced their names they heard a somewhat shrill voice raised in nervous complaint.
“But, strangers, Elizabeth! How you could have invited them here—”
“Miss St. James and Mr. Pendleton,” the butler announced crisply.
A tiny, white-haired lady rose from a brocade chair and came toward them, her smile as welcoming as that other voice had been annoyed. Elizabeth Montegro wore a plain silk dress with such innate dignity and style that Tyler realized only later that it was ten years out of fashion. Her delicate face was almost unlined, her green eyes still beautiful, and her voice was the slow, rich sound of the American South.
“I’m so glad you both could come,” she said, shaking hands briskly with each of them. “I’m Elizabeth Montegro.” Her accent lent the surname a curious cadence that was pleasing.
“Thank you for inviting us, Contessa,” Kane replied, his deep voice holding all the easy charm he could command when he chose to exert himself.
“My pleasure, believe me. Fraser, see that their bags are taken up, please.”
“Immediately, Contessa,” the butler replied before backing out of the room and closing the doors softly.
She smiled at them, then half turned to nod toward the other woman in the room. “My stepson’s wife, Erica Grayson.”
While they murmured polite noises at each other and sat down on old brocade chairs, Tyler studied the other woman and remembered Keith’s swift summation.
The stepson is Simon Grayson; he’s some kind of consultant, Tyler. His wife is a cold fish by the name of Erica. And for “fish” you can read piranha; the woman could devour a man boots, bones and all. They live with the contessa because—according to rumor—Erica enjoys living in style and Simon spends too much on her pretty baubles to be able to afford a mansion for her. Rumor also has it that she’d dump him in a heartbeat if she could find someone as easy to manage with money.
Tyler could believe it, even without seeing Simon Grayson. Erica was a dark woman somewhere in her thirties. She had a predatory gleam in her black eyes, rings encrusting almost every finger, and her ethereal slenderness was burdened with a heavy rope of pearls and at least three gold chains. Her silk dress, unlike the contessa’s, was very much in style, her black hair worn in an elaborate and queenly coronet, and she was quite beautiful in a sulky way.
She had held out a languid hand to Kane, her eyes both speculative and openly hungry; after a single glance at Tyler’s casual skirt, sweater and neat single braid, she had offered a dismissive hello and thereafter focused her sultry attention on Kane.
“Keith Dutton was quite enthusiastic about you two,” the contessa told Tyler as they all sat down. “He said you were researching some of the old Venetian families?”
“Preliminary research, at the moment,” Tyler replied, smiling at the older woman. “There aren’t many private journals and family papers that haven’t been published or at least cataloged, so we haven’t decided what to focus on yet.”
“What’s your own area of interest?” the contessa asked curiously.
“Heirlooms,” Tyler replied promptly. “You can visualize so much of daily family life, even centuries ago, when you study the valued possessions handed down from each generation to the next. They’re often mentioned in journals, particularly if there’s an interesting story or set of circumstances connected with the object.”
Erica laughed softly, one thin hand playing with her pearls—brushing them and her fingers gently against her breasts—as she eyed Kane. “And your . . . interest, Mr. Pendleton? Do you enjoy dusty journals and interesting stories?” Her tone gave the seemingly innocent question several layers of a very different meaning.
“Certainly.” His tone was lazy, his vivid eyes veiled as he looked at her. “Although Tyler and I tend to be more active in our research than at present—climbing around ancient ruins rather than sitting in private libraries.”
“All over the world, I imagine?” the contessa’s voice was wistful.
“Most of it,” Kane confessed, smiling at her.
“It sounds so exciting,” she said.
Tyler said, “That’s one word for it.” She carefully avoided looking at Kane. “Vilely uncomfortable more often than not, but I wouldn’t trade any of our adventures for tour guides and five-star hotels.”
Erica stirred slightly, and her discontented mouth tightened. “Have you been together long?” she asked throatily, looking only at Kane from under her lashes.
“Years,” he replied, returning her stare with nothing but polite attention.
The contessa sent her stepson’s wife a quick look, then smiled almost apologetically at Tyler and said smoothly, “I’m sure you’d like time to unpack and settle in before dinner. We dine at six, and please don’t feel you have to dress formally. I keep to the old ways, though Simon and Erica tell me I should be more casual and modern. . . .”
Tyler, who was developing an acute dislike for Erica, smiled back at the contessa. “We don’t get many chances to dress up, and I’m looking forward to it.” She and Kane rose as the contessa got up to pull an old tasseled bellrope by the marble fireplace.
“Fraser will show you to your room,” th
e contessa said as the doors opened almost instantly and the butler stood waiting. “Please make yourselves at home.”
“Thank you,” both Tyler and Kane said, and then followed the butler out.
Five minutes later, alone with Kane in their room, Tyler stood gazing around slowly. The villa had been modernized a few decades back to provide adequate plumbing and other necessities, but it was relatively unchanged by modern conveniences. This room was huge and bright, and if the silk hangings of the four-poster bore the fine slits of age and the velvet draperies at the two big windows were faded from sunlight, it was still a splendid room.
The furniture was a blending of heavy bulk and ornate detailing, the woods holding the dull patina of age and care, and the rugs, though threadbare, were still beautiful in their muted colors and artistry. Paneled walls provided some insulation from the cold stone of the exterior, and a brisk fire burned in the grate.
Tyler opened one of the two big wardrobes and began to methodically unpack. “What do you think?” she asked Kane.
“I like the contessa.”
“So do I. And I hate lying to her.”
Kane glanced at her as he hung several shirts in the second wardrobe. “We aren’t lying. We are researching an old Venetian family—the Montegros.”
“We’re looking for the chalice. Don’t split hairs, Kane.” She picked up the airline flight bag that he had found to carry the chalice in and set it in the bottom of the wardrobe. She was frowning.
Kane watched her for a moment in silence. He felt as if there were suddenly a wall between them, as if she were deliberately distancing herself from him—already. As if she saw the end of this “adventure” looming just ahead, and wasn’t prepared to wait to begin saying good-bye to him. Even after the interlude in the car . . .
Was that it? he wondered suddenly. Was it less a matter-of-factness about their relationship than a determination on Tyler’s part to remain fiercely independent? Had his passionate, almost desperate possessiveness in the car served only to make her feel smothered and trapped? She had been very silent afterward.