Burning For The Italian

BURNING FOR THE ITALIAN

Book 8, Hot Italian Nights

By

ANNIE WEST

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events, businesses, companies, institutions or locations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2018 by Annie West

Cover Design by The Killion Group

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever, including information storage and or retrieval systems, without the express written permission from the author, Annie West, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Smashwords Edition

Licence notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with someone else, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Read Chapter 1 of ‘Back in the Italian’s Bed’

About Annie

Chapter One

Sonia dragged her wheeled suitcase into the foyer of the apartment building’s top floor and stopped dead, gaping at the domed roof, big enough for a cathedral. The soaring surface looked like carved marble. To her right was a grand staircase, wide enough to drive a car down. On the far side of the landing was a single, imposing door.

She ran an unsteady hand through her hair, tousled around her shoulders. If only she’d slept on the twenty-four hour flight from Sydney to Rome maybe she wouldn’t feel so daunted.

This was the right address. The security code to the front door had worked. Yet she hadn’t expected such luxury! The building, tucked into a cobblestoned street between the Piazza Navona and Rome’s Tiber River, had looked venerable and a little grim, as if it might be run-down inside.

Sonia huffed a laugh and hitched her shoulder bag higher. Run-down! Not with the ultra-modern lift that had brought her to the penthouse. The apartment belonged to a friend of her brother-in-law. The owner was probably a wealthy media identity or business mogul.

Grabbing her case, she marched across and fitted the key in the lock. It turned smoothly, with barely a sound.

See? It’s the right place after all.

Relief flooded so hard she swayed. It was one thing to insist she didn’t want to be met at Fiumicino, Rome’s airport. It was another to make her own way, with her almost non-existent Italian, into the city, retrieve the keys of her temporary home and locate it.

But if she didn’t stand her ground, Angela and Matteo, her sister and brother-in-law, would insist she stay with them. Sonia refused to play gooseberry. The pair had reunited after a long separation and were like honeymooners. They needed privacy.

Besides, she didn’t want to face two love-birds daily over breakfast. The idea of romance left a sour tang on her tongue. She shuddered and closed the door behind her, wishing she could so easily shut out her shattered dreams.

Sonia shook her head. She wasn’t going there. Not now. Not ever again.

She’d put all that behind her. She refused to spend her first day in Rome stewing on past mistakes.

Turning from closing the door, Sonia got an impression of warmth, space and light. A mixture of cosiness and chic that the designer in her knew came at a price. Wide, polished floorboards gleamed beneath her feet and a raked ceiling soared high. The walls were lined with bookcases and plump sofas that made you want to stretch out and spend the weekend reading. Except that beyond them, past the ornate fireplace and long dining table, was the most glorious view of Rome.

Sonia put down the suitcase and let her shoulder bag slide to the floor. Ahead a pair of French doors, framed by a flowering vine with blush pink flowers, led to a balcony and a panorama that stole her breath. Rome’s rooftops spread before her.

She blinked and pinched herself.

What strings had her brother-in-law pulled to get her this place for her first two months in Italy? She owed him big time. How she’d repay him she had no idea.

Transfixed by that view, Sonia tugged off her jacket and crumpled shirt, dropping them on a sofa. That was better. She lifted the thick hair from her nape and revelled in the waft of cool air over bare skin. She tried to look good in public, since her job was all about image. But at home... She grinned. For the next eight weeks this was home!

For the first time in ages things were looking up. Her heart lifted and the tension that had bound her tight for so long eased.

Sonia toed off her shoes and headed towards the stunning panorama, nostrils twitching as the heavenly scent of good coffee reached her. Had the owner left a bag of coffee beans in the kitchen by way of welcome? Or—

Thought unravelled as a man sauntered into the room.

Her brain froze, shifting into a series of slow motion freeze frames as she processed what she saw.

There was a lot to see.

One still-reasoning part of her brain noted, That’s where the smell of coffee comes from. For he sipped from a tiny white cup as he strolled across to the French doors. Doors Sonia belatedly realised were open.

But most of her brain was busy taking in the sight of him.

And remembering to breathe.

He was tall, very tall, and he walked with the loose-limbed gait of someone both confident and athletic.

Sonia swallowed. Definitely athletic. He had broad, straight shoulders, narrow hips and long, muscled legs. In fact, he was muscled in all the right places. With his rumpled black hair, pale olive skin and impressive physique he could be a model. Even the light fuzz of chest hair was just right, not a heavy pelt, but enough to make a woman want to run her fingers across that solid chest, then follow the narrowing dark line down towards—

Her gasp was as loud as a shout in the silence.

He swung to face her. The full frontal view affirmed her assessment. This man, this completely naked man, was formed like some ancient Roman god. Perfect musculature over strong bones and, oh, that...

Sonia whipped her gaze higher, fire scorching her cheeks.

Espresso dark eyes captured hers. The flames teasing her cheeks spread to her throat and breasts. And lower, much lower.

She sucked in another breath, shocked this time at herself. Her pulse thundered in her ears, yet Sonia felt light-headed as if her blood had drained to her toes. No, not her toes. There was a hot, pooling sensation between her thighs.

Horrified, Sonia registered the slight rise of decisive black eyebrows, the flaring of nostrils in that proud, streamlined nose. As if he was aware of that sudden rush of arousal in a body that moments ago had been limp with jetlag.

The tiny coffee cup paused on the way to his mouth. A firmly sculpted mouth, she noted, above a square, well-cut jaw. Then the cup rose, tilted, and she watched the strong muscles in that bare throat work as he swallowed.

Sonia blinked. Her hand rose to her own throat, then settled, splayed below her collarbone, where her heart knocked an erratic rhythm like a cage full of wild birds desperate to break free.

Since when had watching a man swallow been an erotic experience?

He lowered the cup slowly and spoke.

Sonia couldn’t make out the words. Her pulse drowned them.

He spoke again and this time she heard the lyrical cadences she associated with her brother-in-law, Matteo.

‘Non parlo Italiano.’ She croaked the words from her desert-dry throat. Explaining she didn’t speak Italian constituted one of her few phrases.

Why wasn’t he getting dressed? Why was he just standing there looking...?

Her gaze flickered back down, past the perfect symmetry of that masculine chest, over a flat belly and well-defined abs to the penis that, instead of looking wizened and tiny against all that imposing bulk, seemed definitely in proportion and anything but limp.

‘English?’

Sonia jerked her attention back to his face. Did his mouth curl at one corner? No, he looked unmoved and completely calm.

As if strange women in his apartment were an everyday occurrence.

Which wouldn’t surprise her