Reckless Nights in Rome by C. C. MacKenzie Read Free Book Online Page B

couldn’t
look away.
    “Scared,
Bronte?” His husky voice deepened his accent.
    Terrified
actually. “Now you’re being ridiculous.” Why couldn’t she breathe?
Bravado leaked away to be replaced by a dark longing, a response to
the soft seduction of his accent.
    “Prove it,”
Nico demanded.
    Grey eyes
challenged hers and she studied him for a long moment. Taking a
breath, she stepped out of his touch. “I’m attending the party this
evening, or had you forgotten?”
    “What time did
you rise this morning?”
    She
blinked.
    What had that
got to do with anything? “Six o’clock.”
    “Then you need
to eat. We have a new chef, what do you say? I’ve been invited too.
We can have a few dances with the band, have dinner and return
later for the disco. We appear to have got off on the wrong foot,
Bronte. This way we can have a chance to get to know one
another.”
    He took her
hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, again the sensation
sent shock waves through her system. That voice went dark and low.
“Please, cara .”
    Bronte hissed
out a breath as her hormones fizzed.
    Temptation
whispered in her ear, it would save her heating up a pizza. The new
chef was supposed to be brilliant too. Perhaps they could get to
know one another and perhaps he would realise how much her home
meant to her.
    Almost swaying
on her feet, she wondered if this devastating and exciting
sensation was the elusive chemistry that Rosie was always going on
about. For the first time in months, she felt truly alive.
    “What time do
you want to eat?” She asked, immediately telling herself she was a
fool.
    He didn’t
attempt to hide how pleased he was to have won. The smile
transformed his face showcasing dimples and Bronte’s hormones did a
little shimmy through her system. She’d always been a sucker for
dimples. Obviously she’d lost her tiny mind because there was no
way she could possibly resist him when he looked at her like
that.
    “Eight thirty.”
He placed a hand on her arm as she moved away. “What made you
change your mind?”
    She turned,
sent him a small smile.
    “You said,
please.”
     
     

CHAPTER
SEVEN
    “You must wear the ivory silk,” Rosie
advised her.
    She was
sprawled on Bronte’s monster of a bed built of solid mahogany.
Glossy black curls cascaded down the back of her silk bustier in a
vivid fire engine red the exact shade of her lipstick.
    “According to
an expert on weddings, my mother,” Bronte said seriously, “you
should never wear white or cream to a wedding if you are a guest.”
She eyed her friend with sheer envy. “I hate you. I do. Look at
those breasts.”
    Rosie stood,
stuck out her breasts and gazed with pride at perfect creamy
globes.
    “Chicken
fillets, honey. Plus I’m boned, lifted and separated.”
    Bronte stood in
white lacy panties and peered wistfully down the neck of her
T-shirt, remembering her ex-fiancé’s withering comments on her lack
of ‘a rack.’
    “Mine look like
fried eggs.”
    Rosie grinned
and held up a black floaty number in pure silk. “Your boobs are
pert, they don’t sag. I could never wear a sexy backless number
like this, but then you’d look good in a bin liner. Bitch.”
    Used to her
friend’s thought processes, Rosie always wanted what she didn’t
have, namely poker straight hair, five more inches and to be lean
and mean.
    Bronte ignored
the comment and ran a critical eye over the dress.
    “The problem
with that one is underwear. Even a thong leaves a line.” She took
it from Rosie, frowned into the mirror and held it up against her.
It was gorgeous, an impulse buy, never worn.
    Rosie lifted
the flowing skirt of Bronte’s dress.
    “It’s lined and
floor length. Don’t wear panties. Who’s to know?”
    Stripping off
her T-shirt, Bronte stepped into the cool silk. From the front it
wasn’t particularly revealing. A spaghetti strap hooked over each
shoulder leaving her back naked. It was a dress made for sin. She
had no idea what she’d