A Sicilian Husband - Kate Walker [37]
Gio seemed to consider, dark eyes locking with her interrogative gaze.
‘I think I owe you one,’ he conceded at last.
Which was so totally unexpected that it actually rocked Terrie back on her heels, depriving her of the ability to speak.
Was this the same Giovanni Cardella she had met in the hotel a week ago? Or had some alien body snatcher taken over his body and replaced him with a very different sort of personality?
‘An—an apology for what?’ she managed at last when her tongue finally loosened enough to allow her to speak, no longer feeling like a lifeless block of wood in her mouth.
‘For not telling you the full truth. Look…’
Gio’s tone changed abruptly, the contrition, if that was what it had truly been, vanishing swiftly to be replaced by a note of controlled impatience that was one Terrie recognised much more easily. This was the Gio she knew and recognised only too well.
‘Don’t you think it would be easier to talk inside? Less public—more private? Anyone might come past here and—’
‘You’ve got a nerve!’
Thankfully Terrie welcomed the rush of irritation, the saving heat of temper that pushed the words from her mouth. Taken aback by the shock of his appearance, the unexpected softness of his words, the nicely calculated humour of his gift, she had come close to a perilous weakness that had left her frighteningly vulnerable to his approaches. She had actually even taken a step backwards, preparing to do just as he suggested, and let him into the flat.
Let him into the privacy of her flat—into the intimate surroundings of her home.
And privacy and intimacy were two words she didn’t want to consider in connection with Giovanni Cardella. Not if she valued her peace of mind and her emotional safety.
‘Turning up here like this—letting yourself into my h…How did you get in here?’ she demanded when the question she should have asked from the start returned to nag at her brain, this time refusing to be distracted into going away.
‘A lady I met at the front door let me in. She said she lived here—flat number two…’
Barbara, Terrie reflected wryly. Of course. It would be. At forty-three and twice divorced, Barbara Roberts was definitely still a sucker for a handsome male face—and she would have been totally unable to resist Gio. If he had turned on the charm—and she had no doubt at all that he had done just that—then the older woman would have been putty in his hands from the moment that he had first switched on that wide, bone-melting smile. And if he had treated her to the low-toned, seductive intonation of his wonderful accent, then she would practically have lain down right there on the doorstep and let him walk right over her in order to get what he wanted.
But she wasn’t so easily won over, she resolved, pushing aside her momentary weakness of a few minutes before.
‘Well, you can just turn right round and walk out again,’ she told Gio tartly, mentally promising herself that she would tell Barbara exactly what she thought of her weakness the next time they met. ‘I have nothing to say to you—and there is nothing I want to hear—’
‘My wife is dead,’ Gio broke in on her in a raw-voiced rush. ‘Lucia is no longer alive. She died.’
‘She…’
For a dreadful moment the room swung around Terrie sickeningly so that she closed her eyes against the sensation, reaching out and clutching at what she believed was the door for support. But instead of the hardness of wood, her fingers closed over the fine silk of his jacket, clenching over the bone and sinew beneath. And that was every bit as hard as the door, she admitted. Hard, but not cold and unyielding as the wooden panels would have been. She could feel the warmth of his skin, and the flex and play of firm muscle under her grip as he adjusted to her hold, took the full weight of her body and supported it effortlessly.
With a struggle Terrie forced her eyes open again, trying to focus on the hard planes and angles of his stunning