The Italian Girl by Lucinda Riley Page B

voluptuous breasts, their fullness barely disguised beneath the robe.
    ‘Follow me.’
    Roberto stepped inside and followed his hostess through the large marbled hall and up a sweeping staircase.
    Donatella pushed open a door and let Roberto into a huge, high-ceilinged bedroom.
    ‘Here, make yourself comfortable while I dress.’ Donatella indicated a sofa by a window and disappeared into another room.
    Roberto walked over to the window and stared out across the perfectly manicured gardens, the vast frontage of which led eventually to the shore of Lake Como itself. After a few minutes, he sat down on the deep sofa and let a small sigh escape his lips. Donatella Bianchi and her husband were obviously rich on an epic scale.
    ‘So, caro , are you well?’ Donatella appeared, clad in a pair of tight white jeans and a black top that accentuated her two best assets.
    ‘I . . . yes, thank you.’
    Donatella sat down next to him, her long legs curled under her. ‘Good. I’m glad you came today. Champagne?’ Donatella reached for the bottle in an ice bucket on the low table. She poured the frothy liquid into two glasses without waiting for a reply.
    ‘Thank you,’ Roberto said as she handed him a glass.
    ‘To you and your future,’ she toasted.
    For the first time in his life, Roberto was at a loss for words. He took a sip of champagne and tried to recover his equilibrium. ‘You have a beautiful home,’ he managed, then blushed, feeling stupid.
    ‘I’m glad you like it. It’s been in my husband’s family for more than a hundred and fifty years. But’ – Donatella sighed – ‘sometimes I feel I live in a museum. We must have a staff of twenty to care for both the palazzo and the grounds.’ One of Donatella’s long legs uncurled itself from under her and a foot inched towards Roberto’s thigh.
    ‘You have no children?’ he asked, trying to maintain the conversation.
    ‘No. I’ve never been the maternal type,’ she shrugged, ‘and besides, it seems my husband and I . . . we could not conceive a child.’
    ‘Your husband, er, where is he?’ Roberto asked nervously as a toe made its way towards his groin.
    Donatella sighed and made a mock pout. ‘He’s in America and has left me all alone again.’
    ‘He travels abroad often?’
    ‘All the time. He’s an art dealer. Much of his time is spent in New York or London. I’m here by myself for weeks on end.’ She lowered her chin and threw him an unmistakably suggestive glance from under her lashes.
    ‘Can’t you go with him?’
    ‘Of course, but I’ve travelled all over the world, seen so many places, and these days I prefer to stay at home. It’s boring to be in a strange city alone while my husband conducts his business. And even I can have enough of shopping. So tell me more about you, Roberto Rossini.’
    ‘There’s little to tell,’ Roberto shrugged.
    ‘I don’t believe that for a second. You have a girlfriend?’
    Donatella fished.
    ‘No, not at the moment.’
    ‘I think you’re too modest. You must have a stream of women going crazy for you.’ With one practised movement, Donatella rose from the sofa and straddled his knees with her legs. ‘I mean, with your beautiful, big voice and your other . . . attractions.’ One of her hands inched down his shirt buttons. ‘You’ve had many lovers, yes?’
    ‘I . . .’ Caught unawares by her boldness, Roberto found it difficult to form the words. ‘A few,’ he gasped, becoming more aroused by the second.
    ‘Older women?’ Donatella’s mouth slid to his neck and kissed it. Her hand, meanwhile, found its target.
    ‘No . . . I . . .’
    ‘Then I will be the first,’ she purred triumphantly.
    Losing his last vestige of self-control, Roberto buried his fingers in her thick hair as Donatella covered his lips with hers.
    Three hours later, the two of them retraced their footsteps to the front door of the palazzo.
    Donatella smiled as she opened the door.
    ‘This morning has been most . . .