An aching need to hold her and make it all better squeezed through him. What was this crazy combination of lust and tenderness? What was happening to him?

Her smile was distant and forced. “You’re right of course,” she mocked. “I’ll stay out of things from now on. But I’m not telling her she can’t go.”

She tried to back away, but he slid his arms around her back and tugged her toward his chest. “I’m sorry, cara,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to say such a nasty thing. You bring out the beast in me sometimes.”

Surprise flickered over her face, but she remained unyielding against him. “Accepted. Now let me go.”

Instinct made him draw her closer. She arched upward as if to get away, then hit against his rock-hard erection. She gasped, then immediately stilled. “Seems like the beast side is pretty happy to see me. Insulting me turns you on?”

He laughed. Her razor-sharp wit never bored him, but lately he learned to push past her comedy routine and glimpse a hidden vulnerability that intrigued him. After all this time, was he finally spotting the real Maggie? He remembered the American expression “all bark and no bite” and wondered if he’d get to test his new theory. “No, cara, you seem to turn me on. As you are well aware. What I need from you now is just to hold you.”

Her body froze and her voice lashed at him in the need to draw blood. “Trust me, Count, I’ve heard much worse and was never bothered. I don’t need you to hold me.”

“No, I need you to hold me,” he whispered. “You deserved more than that cheap shot and I need to feel better.”

She fought as if terrified of a little comfort.

“Shhh, just for a moment, I promise it won’t hurt much.”

Michael lifted her up, wrapped his arms tight, and tucked her head against his chest. Her breath came out choppy and uneven, as if she was almost on the verge of panic, but he kept his patience and slowly, she relaxed against him. Her body molded perfectly to his. The taut thrust of her nipples told him of her own arousal, and he bet if he slid his fingers to the pulse by the base of her neck, her heartbeat would thunder like a racing thoroughbred. Still, he made no move to deepen the embrace. He breathed in the exotic scent of coconut from her hair and savored the moment. For a little while, he ached to hold her and remove the pain he caused by his thoughtless remark.

He didn’t know when the moment slid from warmth to fire. He swore to push her away before anything sexual occurred. His gut told him Maggie rarely experienced the tenderness of an embrace without ties or the culmination of sex. Sadness leaked through him at the thought, and he cursed her parents for raising her in an icebox with a goal to avoid emotions. He wanted to prove he was trustworthy. But once again, she broke his self-control, and in a mad rush of heat, she practically shimmered with sexual electricity.

He held his breath. Slowly, he slid her back down his body so her toes reached the ground. The hard nub of her nipples dragged across his chest, and his palm settled perfectly on the full curve of her ass.

Ah, merda.

His penis ignored his prayers and stiffened to an almost painful length. Michael gritted his teeth and held on.

Then she looked up.

Stormy emerald eyes filled with fire. Passion. And stark demand. She shook in his arms as she fought her reaction, but Michael was past politeness and damned himself to hell. At least the road was paved in gold.

He lowered his head and captured her mouth.

Her little catchy moan urged him on. He swallowed the sound and plunged his tongue through the seam of her lips. She opened immediately, meeting him thrust for thrust as she hung on to his shoulders and dug her nails in hard. The tiny bite of pain made him nip at her lower lip, the plump, ripe flesh reminding him of a sweet, juicy peach, and then he was lost.

Somehow, he backed her against the wall and lifted her up. Wrapped her legs high around his waist. Fit his throbbing erection into the notch between her thighs. Then dove back in.

He slipped one hand under her pajama top. His fingers closed around her breast, the silky skin a delicious contrast to her stiff nipple. She moaned again and arched upward for more. Crazed for the taste of her, he ripped open her buttons and lowered his head.

He sucked and bit until one of the tips was ruby red and glistening. She panted, but managed to move her hands to grip into the length of his hair, yanking his head up. Through misty shimmers of want, he stared at her, waiting for her to tell him to stop.

“More,” she demanded. “Give me more.”

He bent his head again and gave the same treatment to her other breast, teasing her on the fine line between pleasure and pain. She twisted and moaned in his arms, her open response like a drug injected in his veins. Her musky scent rose to his nostrils and taunted him, and with one quick movement, his hand dove beneath the waistband of her pants. The damp curls tickled the tips of his fingers. She sucked in a breath and he moved his hand downward, ready to plunge in deep and—

“Michael!” The pounding on the door slammed through his brain. His hand paused in its travels, trying to fight the fog. A giggle. “Are you guys doing anything naughty in there?” Venezia called out. “If so, save it for later. I need you downstairs for a minute.” Another pause. “Michael, Maggie? Are you there?”

He fought for breath. Fought for normalcy. And wondered if he’d ever be normal again.

“I’m here. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Grazie.”

Footsteps echoed. The heat turned lukewarm between them and kept dropping. By the time he’d removed his hand and Maggie had rebuttoned her pajama top, he felt as if he were in Antarctica instead of Italy.

Michael realized he’d lost some of the fragile trust between them. If he’d stepped away without being intimate, she might have respected him.

“Next time you want to cop a feel, just be honest. I’m not one of these women who needs to wrap sex up in a warm, fluffy cocoon of emotions.”

“Maggie—”

“Don’t!” She ducked her head, but not before he caught the sheer vulnerability in her face. Her hand shook slightly as she pulled back the covers. “Please. Not tonight. Go talk to your sister.”

He stood beside the bed, torn between his need to tell her the truth and his need to save his family. Dear God, what had happened? He had to convince her he wasn’t in love with Alexa; this was getting way too sticky. But what if it was too late and she didn’t believe him? And if she did, would she walk away, pissed off he’d deceived her?

No, his blood must have rushed to his other head. He needed to keep it together, get through six more days, and get back to New York. He’d keep his bargain and stay out of Alexa’s life and never see Maggie again. Everything would go back to normal. In six days.

He remained silent and walked out the door, leaving her in bed, alone, in the darkness.

* * *

“So who are we meeting again?”

Michael led her toward the Piazza Vecchia as the sun sank and bathed the square in golden light. She caught her stiletto heel on the broken pavement and he gripped her around the waist. Firmly ignoring the blast of electricity between them, he lingered over the warmth of her skin under rose silk before releasing her. He figured she’d put up a fuss about the long walk and business dinner, but her enthusiasm to accompany him caught him off guard.

Of course, she’d just gotten back from bridesmaid dress shopping with his sisters, so maybe she was desperate.

“Signore Ballini. He owns many restaurants and may be open to partnering with La Dolce Famiglia.” He paused and tried to roll his tongue over the word without a stumble. “He has heard about my marriage and insists on meeting my wife.”

She snickered and stopped by a stand to linger over the taleggio, which was a soft, fragrant cheese, and an array of salty cold meats. Her quick conversation with the vendor in rapid Italian surprised him, but then again, Maggie Ryan seemed full of surprises lately. Every time he seemed to figure her out, she threw him a slider. Or whatever that American expression was.

“Need me to help close the deal, Count?” She batted her eyelashes in mock admiration. “Want me to sing your praises and play the doting wife?”

He held his patience. He’d been tempted to make an excuse to the older man, but the opportunity was too great. Still, he prayed Maggie played her part. “I’ll pass. Signore Ballini is a bit conservative, and I’m looking to make an impression. Perhaps you can play the part of the doting, silent wife?”

“Dare to dream.”

The hem of her dress flirted with her knees as she strolled leisurely through the square, seemingly enjoying the character of the ancient city he called home. The elaborate water fountain rose from the center of the square and set off the majestic columns and breezy, open spaces, accentuating the classic architecture.

As if sensing his thoughts, Maggie spoke. “Nick would go crazy here. The balance of nature with man-made objects always calls to him. Bergamo has such deep character. I can see how happy you were here growing up.”

He smiled. “Si. I adore living in America but must admit I’d never give up my childhood. Alexa would love it here, too. We host a very famous poetry event each year called Bergamo Poesia. Perhaps we can arrange a trip for them one day?”

Maggie stiffened and he cursed his mention of Alexa. Did she honestly think he lusted after her married friend? “Hm, convenient. Get her on your home turf with the lure of poetry. Just remember our deal, Count.”

He had no time to answer. They reached the Taverna del Colleoni & Dell’Angelo and after a brief chat with the waiter were led inside. The medieval-looking decor with the high vaulted ceilings elicited a murmur of approval from Maggie, and then they were seated in a cozy corner while Michael made the introductions.

Signore Ballini emitted the old-fashioned demeanor of an Italian gentleman. He enjoyed culture, travel, good food and wine, and beautiful women. He’d aged well, with a stylish salt-and-pepper cut, and he couldn’t resist flirting a bit with Maggie, who seemed to not only accept his compliments but genuinely enjoy them.

Michael’s breath loosened a bit as he straightened the knot on his royal-blue tie. Perhaps the evening would play out smoothly after all. They chatted about nonsensical items as the waiter discreetly served platters of food with an explosive array of textures and tastes. Grilled radicchio with earthy Gorgonzola, firm noodles flavored with porcini and blueberries, and shrimp sitting on a bed of polenta with saffron. The Valcalepio Rosso was a local wine rich and blunt on the tongue, and two bottles were quickly consumed over conversation.

“Signora, since you are from America, I am sure you have a career. Tell me what you do besides make Michael a happy man?”

The square-cut bodice of the rose dress slipped an inch and showed off just a hint of firm, high breasts. Her hair glimmered red under the play of light as the silky strands brushed her shoulders. “I’m a photographer,” she answered. “I’ve loved being behind the camera since I was young.”

The older man nodded with approval. “Do you shoot landscapes? Babies? Weddings?”

“Underwear for Calvin Klein, Cavalli, and many other well-known stylists. I fly to Milan often on business, so it was a wonderful opportunity to combine both business and pleasure on this trip.”

Michael held his breath, but Signore Ballini laughed in delight. “How refreshing. It is good to make your husband a bit jealous, no?”

She laughed with him and redirected the conversation back to business as she lustily groaned over the food. Neatly led into the dessert menu, she mentioned La Dolce Famiglia and its raging success, and like she planned it that way, Michael was able to go smoothly into his pitch.

Before long, espresso steamed hot and rich from tiny cups and he’d secured another meeting, in Milan. He was about to end the evening on a strong note when the careful building blocks shook in their foundation.

“I am trying to arrange a skiing trip in Aspen and having a terrible time with a villa,” Signore Ballini commented. “That awful American actress who owns a home there won’t return my calls. I read she will rent out her home to only the best. I guess an Italian is not good enough for her.”

Maggie razored in on the conversation. “Are you talking about Shelly Rikers?” she asked.