it,” he muttered and clinked his glass to hers again. “Let us drink to more pleasant things, my dear. Tell me about yourself, and what specifically brings you to Palermo.”
“A lion,” she said, smiling. “Much like yourself, only mosaic.”
He raised his eyebrows.
Jamie huffed out a laugh. “The one in the Palazzo Normanni. Standing over Frederick’s tomb.” She laughed again at his expression. “Surely you’ve seen it? In the Palatine Chapel?”
He saw the streets of Palermo through darkened windows as he was driven from his apartment to the Palazzo di Giustizia. He once had the driver stop so he could see the façade of the cathedral. That was about it.
“I don’t know much about art,” he said. Actually, to be truthful, he knew nothing about art. “You said you were gathering…ideas?”
He barely remembered what she’d said in his office. His head had been so blasted by lust it was a miracle he remembered even a single word.
She nodded. Smiled. “I’ve been commissioned by a software mogul—who has more money than sense—to design the interior of a mansion in Boston that looks like a villa in the Mediterranean. So the architect is tasked with creating underground heaters for the lawn and gardens, if you can believe that, and the software mogul wants me to design the interior. From the five minutes I had with him, I gathered he wanted a Roman-emperor look, like in Gladiator , which he’d find embarrassing five minutes after the first person to see it laughs at him. So in order to spare him embarrassment and myself a career fail, I’ve decided to go for a more sober Sicilian-prince look.
“The software mogul is in the middle of an IPO and says he can’t look at anything until October, so here I am. I’ve already got sketches for the public areas and the bathrooms and now I’m designing a mosaic terrace, with a replica of the lion in the middle and palm trees around the perimeter. He’ll love it. It will have underground heaters too. No snow will be allowed to fall on the terrace.” She shook her head, tipped that long white neck back and took a sip.
He was entranced. Both at the idea of trying to deal with a madman who wanted to live in a snowless Boston and by this beautiful woman who designed beautiful things.
She turned to smile at him and his senses simply bloomed and exploded. The curtains snapped and billowed in a sudden lifting of the evening breeze, making the candles flicker. Some intoxicating scent that included “woman” went straight to his brain. His skin prickled as if it were too tight for him and was about to burst open like a ripe fig. His cock too, he realized with a sigh.
It felt heavy between his legs, like an anvil, only an anvil that moved. Every time he looked at her, blood pulsed, his dick trying to reach out to her, like a divining rod to water after a long time in a dark desert.
It was impossible not to look at her.
She had a face made for candlelight. Smooth skin, fine features, enticing dips and shadows.
It felt as if he hadn’t seen an attractive female face in years. And maybe he hadn’t, now that he thought about it. Really the only woman he saw with any regularity was Rosa, the cleaning lady—efficient, a wonderful cook and with a fierce moustache any of his men would envy.
Nothing like this woman. There was something about Jaime he couldn’t put his finger on. Yes, she was beautiful. But his life in Milan had been filled with beautiful women and that life was only a few years past, not decades. Milanese women took care of themselves. Most women in the classes he moved in didn’t have a stray hair unplucked or a line on their faces, no matter the age.
This woman—she had a natural beauty untouched by surgical enhancement but improved by intelligence and humor.
“What?” Jamie asked, brow raised.
He shook himself out of his trance. “What?”
“You were staring.”
He had been, yes. He sighed. “You’re right, I was. I’m
“A lion,” she said, smiling. “Much like yourself, only mosaic.”
He raised his eyebrows.
Jamie huffed out a laugh. “The one in the Palazzo Normanni. Standing over Frederick’s tomb.” She laughed again at his expression. “Surely you’ve seen it? In the Palatine Chapel?”
He saw the streets of Palermo through darkened windows as he was driven from his apartment to the Palazzo di Giustizia. He once had the driver stop so he could see the façade of the cathedral. That was about it.
“I don’t know much about art,” he said. Actually, to be truthful, he knew nothing about art. “You said you were gathering…ideas?”
He barely remembered what she’d said in his office. His head had been so blasted by lust it was a miracle he remembered even a single word.
She nodded. Smiled. “I’ve been commissioned by a software mogul—who has more money than sense—to design the interior of a mansion in Boston that looks like a villa in the Mediterranean. So the architect is tasked with creating underground heaters for the lawn and gardens, if you can believe that, and the software mogul wants me to design the interior. From the five minutes I had with him, I gathered he wanted a Roman-emperor look, like in Gladiator , which he’d find embarrassing five minutes after the first person to see it laughs at him. So in order to spare him embarrassment and myself a career fail, I’ve decided to go for a more sober Sicilian-prince look.
“The software mogul is in the middle of an IPO and says he can’t look at anything until October, so here I am. I’ve already got sketches for the public areas and the bathrooms and now I’m designing a mosaic terrace, with a replica of the lion in the middle and palm trees around the perimeter. He’ll love it. It will have underground heaters too. No snow will be allowed to fall on the terrace.” She shook her head, tipped that long white neck back and took a sip.
He was entranced. Both at the idea of trying to deal with a madman who wanted to live in a snowless Boston and by this beautiful woman who designed beautiful things.
She turned to smile at him and his senses simply bloomed and exploded. The curtains snapped and billowed in a sudden lifting of the evening breeze, making the candles flicker. Some intoxicating scent that included “woman” went straight to his brain. His skin prickled as if it were too tight for him and was about to burst open like a ripe fig. His cock too, he realized with a sigh.
It felt heavy between his legs, like an anvil, only an anvil that moved. Every time he looked at her, blood pulsed, his dick trying to reach out to her, like a divining rod to water after a long time in a dark desert.
It was impossible not to look at her.
She had a face made for candlelight. Smooth skin, fine features, enticing dips and shadows.
It felt as if he hadn’t seen an attractive female face in years. And maybe he hadn’t, now that he thought about it. Really the only woman he saw with any regularity was Rosa, the cleaning lady—efficient, a wonderful cook and with a fierce moustache any of his men would envy.
Nothing like this woman. There was something about Jaime he couldn’t put his finger on. Yes, she was beautiful. But his life in Milan had been filled with beautiful women and that life was only a few years past, not decades. Milanese women took care of themselves. Most women in the classes he moved in didn’t have a stray hair unplucked or a line on their faces, no matter the age.
This woman—she had a natural beauty untouched by surgical enhancement but improved by intelligence and humor.
“What?” Jamie asked, brow raised.
He shook himself out of his trance. “What?”
“You were staring.”
He had been, yes. He sighed. “You’re right, I was. I’m
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