The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB by Diana Fraser Page B

pocket and let one finger drift down her cheek and around her chin, holding it there briefly before tilting it up so that she had no choice but to look him in the eye. “Not yet. You want me to touch you, well I am touching you. How does that make you feel?”
    There was no way in this world she was about to tell him of the electrical storm his touch ignited in her body.
    She shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant way. “OK I suppose.”
    His beautiful lips quirked briefly into a smile.
    “OK? I will have to work on that, obviously.”
    “Don’t worry about it.” She tried to shake her head free.
    “But I do.”
    “You haven’t up to now. We’ve been together for three weeks now and nothing—no sign of interest. What’s changed?”
    “Simple cara. You’ve just answered my second question.”
    He dropped his hand from her face, smiled at her obvious confusion and walked away.
    “What question? What was it?”
    “Don’t be late. We’re leaving in one hour.”
    He didn’t even bother to turn around.
    She followed him out of the room and watched him retreat to his suite of rooms.

CHAPTER SIX

    It was still possible.
    It was all she could think as, in a daze, she walked to her room and flicked on the shower and undressed automatically. As she stepped out of her clothes, a cool evening breeze, fresh from the mountains, blew through the open window and a blast of air hit her skin, sensitizing her body.  
    It was still possible that he wanted her.
    Whatever question she’d inadvertently answered had triggered a response she’d feared was dead.
    As she stepped into the shower, the harsh spray of water stung her body and the kaleidoscope of her memories collapsed, flashing one after another, forming a new image.
    His no holds barred passion during their brief marriage together; his choice of words when he found her again in New Zealand—“you are mine still”—after he kissed her; and his constant presence over the previous few weeks.
    They added up to a picture of someone whose formidable pride had forced him to bury his feelings for her deep, but not so deep that she couldn’t unearth them again.  
    She had to leave in a few weeks anyway, before Alberto returned. She needed Giovanni to know what she felt for him, she wanted to experience his love before she left. Besides there was always the possibility that Alberto might disappear, might simply go away—seduced by a young brunette, or an older one—go far away, where Giovanni’s rage at what Alberto had done to Rose wouldn’t have the fatal consequences she feared.
    If he still wanted her—even a little—there was still hope. And hope was a potent thing: it extended boundaries, knocked down walls, protected and nurtured the tiniest of seeds.
    As if reinforcing the power of her emotional shift she was slammed back physically into her life by the sensory force of the shower, registering each touch, sight, smell with abnormal vividness. Hope blossomed further in this sensory overdrive where sensation layered upon sensation, awaking memories of Giovanni touching her, making love to her.  
    Hope and sensation—it was a heady mix.
    She felt the steamy velvetiness of the glass doors, soaked in steam, upon her palms and breathed in deeply the scents from the cosmetics on the shelf and from the flowers that filled the window box on her balcony, letting the power of the water blast away the shadows that haunted her. Shadows that had to be forced into the light. Because only there would they do no harm.
    She had to tell Giovanni the truth. Had to tell him everything.
    She lathered her hands and ran them down the length of her body, relishing the feel of her skin under the silky soap. She closed her eyes and saw Giovanni, his eyes, looking into hers as he explored her body. Heat shimmered deep inside her.
    She turned the shower to cold and let the fierce shock slam into her gnawing need for him. She had to have him once more.
    She smiled as her thoughts