‘OK, DOC FRAN, tell me about the stars.’
Nic’s invitation was just that—inviting, and Fran could not resist it. They had come out into the night, after a leisurely, easy-going Tex-Mex dinner, and taken a paved path that led up to the top of the bluff, where the lights from the resort did not reach. The low level lighting for the path showed where several benches were, and they had settled down on one. Nic’s arm was around her shoulders and it felt warm, the right place for it to be.
He was lifting his face up to the heavens and so was she, and her breath caught. The night sky was ablaze, the moon not yet risen, and the stars were putting on a show that was unmatched in this clear, unpolluted air.
An exuberance filled her, fuelled by the night and the stars and the desert and their distance from her everyday life. The world she’d been born to—of castles and palazzos and titles and estates—and the world she now lived in—of arcane academia and erudite research—seemed very far away.
And it wasn’t the daiquiri running in her veins that was making her feel elated. It had everything to do with the warm, heavy arm around her shoulders, the solid mass of Nic at her side as she leant against him and gazed upwards into the blazing glory of the heavens.
‘Where do I begin?’ she breathed, wondering how to convey to Nic all that she knew, knowing it was impossible.
She knew she must start with opening his eyes to the searing power of the universe itself.
‘So—stars.’ She took another breath, her eyes lighting with her eagerness to share with him what she knew, what she felt, what filled her life. She waved a hand upwards. ‘Fiery, burning balls of gas, each one a powerhouse of energy, nuclear fusion, born in stellar nurseries deep in the galaxy, blazing their time, then burning away. Some stars are small, some huge, and how big they are, and how hot, tells us their fate. Some—the largest—will explode in fantastic supernovae that collapse into black holes, while smaller ones become red giants, as our sun will one day—’
She was away, and he let her talk. She regaled him with Main Sequence and Hertzsprung-Russell and Chandrasekhar Limits and every variety of dwarf star, and neutron star and pulsars and quasars, star clusters and nebulae, until his head was spinning. And in the end he heard not her words but the passion in her voice for the subject she loved. It warmed him to do so, for passion was passion, and it could be expressed in more than cerebral enthusiasm...
His could—oh, his could, indeed!
He felt the slender weight of her body against him as they gazed upwards, so soft. The scent of her freshly washed hair caught at him, the silken fall of its lush tresses beneath his bare forearm inflaming all his senses.
Desire was kindled in him, and all of a sudden he wanted no more of stars. His free hand came to her face and he laid one finger across her lips, silencing her.
She paused, her eyes lowering to his, meeting his. Seeing in his, under the starlight, a blaze that was nothing to do with the heavens above. A blaze that lit up in her own eyes.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her gaze worked over his face. ‘Enough with the stars?’ she asked, and her voice was husky suddenly.
Long lashes dipped over blue eyes turned inky in the dim light. ‘For now,’ he answered, and the huskiness was in his voice too. His strong fingers cupped her cheek as if it were the rarest porcelain, his gaze pouring into hers. ‘You love your subject so much...’
‘I adore it,’ she whispered.
But her hand was lifting to his face now, exploring its rough contours with the delicate tips of her fingers, tracing the planes and edges, the outline of his mouth.
‘The stars will burn for aeons, for a time we cannot grasp or fathom...’ her voice was still husky, a whisper, and her eyes were clinging to his, his to hers ‘...but this night, now, is ours.’
Slowly, sensuously, she reached her mouth to his, feeling its familiarity, its acceptance as he let her explore, slowly and sensuously, taking her time, all the time she needed, as her fingertips slid into his sable hair, cupping the nape of his sinewy neck, as his muscles flexed minutely—as, slowly and sensuously, he began to kiss her back.
How long they kissed she did not know—only knew that at some point she was drawn against his body, that strong, powerful body, folded to him as if she were silver tissue paper.
She could feel her breasts crushed, then engorged, peaking, and she gloried in it, gloried in the way his hand around her shoulder was pulling her to him, the way his mouth was foraging deep within hers, and she gloried in her answering response, eager, quickening the desire that was filling her, overwhelming her.
She heard her own voice, low in her throat, heard a kind of primitive growl in his, and then with a sudden movement he had swept her to her feet, then into his arms, as if she were a feather.
She gave a cry of laughter, exhilarated, enchanted. ‘You can’t carry me all the way back to the motel!’
He only laughed, carrying her down the path to the motel while she clung to him, setting her down outside the door. His hand clasping hers, he led her inside, down the corridor to his room, opening the door with a rapid swipe of the key card.
Then his arms were around her again, and he was yielding to all the overpowering impulses of his heated desire for her, setting it ablaze in her as a heady exhilaration filled her. Whatever it was that was happening between them, she was giving herself to it totally, consumingly.
A bedside lamp was all that illuminated the room, softening its contours as he drew her towards the waiting bed. A sense of rightness filled him that they were coming together now, like this. Whatever it was about this beautiful, breathtaking woman, she was right for him.
And this was right, what he was doing, sliding his hands on either side of her face, feeling the softness of her hair, her skin, gazing down at her with desire in his eyes, and warmth, and something more than both.
For one long moment he just gazed at her, into those clear grey eyes which showed she had made the decision to be here with him, now.
For this.
For his mouth slowly moving down to hers, kissing her slowly, carefully, to start the union that they would make together.
She answered his kiss, gave herself to it, and he folded her to him. Her arms moved around the strong column of his body. She felt him surge against her, and whilst a little ripple of shock went through her in its wake came a shiver of excitement. His desire for her was blatant, and she welcomed it. She felt her breasts cresting against his hard-muscled chest and knew he felt her reaction to him. Heard the low laugh of pleasure in her pleasure.
Slowly, sensuously, he peeled her clothes from her, never taking his eyes from hers, letting her delicate hands perform the same intimate office for him.
He let her do what she realised she had been aching to do—run the palms of her hands over his bare, smooth, taut-muscled torso, glorying in its muscled strength. And for answer he cupped the small weight of her swelling breasts with his hands, thumbs lifting to their cresting peaks.
She gave a moan in her throat, dropping back her head at the arousal of the sensation. Desire quickened in her, a sense of urgency, and in that same harmony that united them he was pressing her back down upon the coverlet of the bed, drawing it back so they lay upon the sheets.
Italian words broke from him as he gazed down at her perfect body, expressing his desire for her, telling her how beautiful she was, and she answered with a sensuous smile, for of course she understood his husky praise, answered it with her own for him. She lifted her hands to run them once more over that glorious torso, to glide them downwards over his taut, muscled abs and then, with a little gasp, realised just how very, very ready for her he was.
He laughed, collapsing down beside her, rolling her on to him so that she gasped again, then quickened, heat surging in her. His hand was around her nape, drawing her eager mouth to his, feasting on its sweet delights. She moved upon him, and with another groan he flipped her back on to the sheets, coming over her. His hands clasped hers, high on the pillow, and her hair was like a flag, blazoning her welcome of what was to come.
His eyes poured into hers. ‘Fran...’ He said her name, nothing more. And in it was a question—he wanted her to be sure, so very sure, that this was what she wanted.
She could sense his absolute self-control, his absolute assurance that nothing would happen that she did not want, did not want to share, totally and consumingly, with him.
She lifted her mouth to his. Kissed him softly, sensuously. Then she let her head fall back upon the pillow. Still gazing up at him. Knowing what she wanted. Knowing absolutely.
It was all the answer he needed.
Slowly, with infinite precision, he lowered himself to her, and with a response as old as time her thighs slackened, letting him find what he so urgently sought. She opened to him, feeling her body flower, all her blood surge in a swelling tide. Her heated flesh fitted around his strength, enclosing him within her, feeling the power of him, the desire of him for her, for her body, for her answering desire of him.
She felt her spine lift, arching towards his body as it reared over hers. Her crested nipples grazed his torso so that he gave a groan, his fingers meshing with hers yet more tightly. The strong cords of his neck, the tensed line of his jaw—all told her how very, very near release he was.
Yet he waited for her. Waited for her to make slow, exploratory movements of her hips, to feel him full and engorged within her, to feel the rightness of him being so, the sensual pleasure of it. With every slow, deliberate movement she made she could feel the tide of her desire mounting within her, heat rising within her, dissolving her into him until, in a vast upwelling of unstoppable sensation, they ran together, flooding out into the wholeness of her body, sweeping through her, consuming her, possessing her...
She heard her voice cry out, felt her neck arching, and heard his own roar of release, felt the spasming of his hands on hers, the surging pulse of his body within hers, carrying them forward, onward, into the vast unknown, into what bound them, body to body, to blaze and burn together.
Time stopped. Everything stopped. There was only this now, this possession, this fusion, this glory of desire fulfilled, passion sated upon passion, binding them together, making them one...
Until slowly, infinitely slowly, time began again, and now she could feel the pounding of her heart, of his, as their bodies slackened. And now he was cradling her trembling body, moving away from her only to draw her back against him, his strong hands tender on her, his breath warm on her shoulder as he held her until her body lay still and quiet with his.
Softly he eased the tangled tendrils of her hair back from her face, kissing her cheekbone gently, murmuring low words she could not hear for the ebbing drumming in her ears, the heartbeat that was quietening finally.
Peace, a wondrous peace, filled her. The peace of fulfilment, of a contentment that seemed to be in every atom of her being, body and mind and soul. She could feel his powerful body, relaxed, exhausted in the aftermath of the overpowering intensity of their union.
A slow, tender smile eased her lips and then her eyelids were fluttering closed and sleep, so necessary, was sweeping up over her like the softest cashmere, embracing her as sweetly as did his slackening arms around her.
In the cradle of the night they slept...in the cradle of their embrace of each other.
‘OK,’ said Nic, ‘all set for the Grand Canyon?’
They were having brunch at the buffet bar of the motel—late, for theirs had been a long, long lie-in. Fran’s thoughts skittered away from just what that lie-in had entailed, lest it make her want to rebook the room.
A kind of wonder filled her—wonder that the night that had passed had been like nothing she had ever experienced. Her eyes fastened on the man sitting opposite her, his lithe, powerful frame relaxed, indolent, even. But then he was like no other man ever could be.
He was relaxing back with an air of well-being about him, and she knew perfectly well what the cause of that was. Because she shared it with him—as they had shared their passion, their fulfilment, and now would share the day that was to come.
And what would come after? Her mind sheered away from that question. There was no point thinking about what might happen ‘after’—they would take it a day at a time, a night at a time. That was all she wanted right now. And it was more than enough.
She felt delight flood through her—a sense of carefree happiness that came from what she was doing, indulging in this adventure with a man whose lazy glance could make her heart beat faster even before he reached for her.
She felt again that lift that came whenever she looked at him, thought about him, felt a smile play on her lips, her gaze soften. Her pulse quickened. She didn’t know, could not tell just why it was like this with him, knew only that it was what she wanted.
Nic had swept her away, and here she was, at his side, on the road trip of a lifetime—an adventure she would embrace with all her will. She hadn’t sought it, but it was here and now—with Nic.
That lift came again, the rush of happiness.
‘North Rim or South?’ Nic was saying now. ‘South means we could take in Vegas if you wanted?’
Fran shook her head vigorously in rejection. Nic was glad. He’d prefer to avoid Vegas himself. Though he had no property there, there was always a chance he might be recognised if they stayed at one of the major hotels.
A thought struck him—one that intruded into his good mood.
‘Is it somewhere your ex-fiancé would have taken you?’ he heard himself ask.
Hell, why had he said that? It made him sound possessive—and he was never possessive about women. Nor did he let them get possessive about him, either.
There was no point. No point in a woman wanting commitment from him.
No point in a woman wanting commitment from any man.
Hadn’t his poor mother hammered that home to him, her own sorry life story grim proof of that? Men let women down...they didn’t stick around. They cut and ran when it suited them, when the woman tried to get possessive, wanted commitment from them.
With a jolt out of his dark reverie he realised that Fran had given a choked laugh in response. ‘Cesare?’ she said, again giving his name the Italian pronunciation. ‘Las Vegas would have been the last place he’d have visited!’
Cesare would loathe Las Vegas—far too vulgar and touristy for his aristocratic tastes.
‘Is he an astrophysicist too?’ Nic heard himself ask. He wondered why he was going on about the man.
‘Oh, heavens no! Cesare is...’ Fran paused, trying to find a way to describe him to Nic. ‘Well, I guess you could say he works on the land.’
That was true enough. Cesare ran his vast estates with businesslike efficiency, as well as a proprietorial stewardship that took responsibility for his ancient heritage.
Nic gave a satisfied laugh. ‘A hick? A—what’s that particular English term? Oh, yes—a country bumpkin!’ It was good to think of the unknown Cesare as some kind of plodding farm boy.
‘Mmm...’ murmured Fran equivocally.
She really needed to change the subject. La Donna Francesca, once engaged to Cesare, Il Conte di Mantegna, had no place here in this egalitarian country. Here, she was only Doc Fran Ristori.
And Nic was Nic Rossi, who ran the security team at the Falcone Nevada.
And that’s what I want—here and now. Nothing else. Just him and me—for while it lasts.
‘OK, we’ll skip Vegas,’ Nic said now, his laid-back, laconic style already so endearingly familiar to her.
He drank some coffee and made a face. Fran smiled sympathetically. ‘Your Italian genes are showing again,’ she said, amused. ‘I’ve lived Stateside a few years now, and still the coffee is grim!’
He laughed, lines indenting around his mouth. This was tricky territory—she was taking him for Italian-American, and he wanted to keep it that way. Wanted to stay as simple Nic Rossi, who had worked his way up from a deadbeat childhood to a respectable career in hotel security.
He stretched out his legs and returned to the subject of the Grand Canyon. ‘How about West Rim?’ he suggested. ‘The Hualapai Reservation does helicopter flights, a skywalk and a river ride. Plus we can stay in one of the cabins there tonight if we want.’
Fran’s face lit. ‘Sounds wonderful!’ Then she paused. ‘But pricey... I’ll go halves with you.’
Nic was touched. Just as he had been when she’d asked him, before they’d set out for the Array, to charge the SUV hire against her room. He’d waved it away, said he’d fix it, and left it at that. She hadn’t pressed and he was glad.
‘Deal,’ he answered, and they busied themselves making their reservations before getting on the road.
It was an unforgettable experience when they got there, reducing them both to awed silence. They stood at the canyon’s edge, in the heat and the silence, looking across to the far North Rim, seemingly so close, but actually ten miles away across the great chasm in the earth, the dramatic formations of rocks and cliffs, the narrow ribbon of river far, far below, the great arching sky above.
They did not speak, only found each other’s hands and stood, fingers meshed, together, side by side. Then another group of tourists came up behind them and Fran stepped aside, slipped her hand from Nic’s to let them by.
Nic found himself glancing down at his hand. It felt empty without Fran’s in it.
He shook his head to clear it. It was the effect of this place, that was all.
They headed back to eat lunch under an airy awning before their flight down into the canyon, then a boat trip, gliding sedately along the Colorado river, deceptively calm in this stretch, gazing up at the towering cliffs above slowly passing them by.
‘Fancy white water rafting next?’ Nic asked wickedly.
‘No, thank you!’ Fran said primly. ‘This is quite fast enough for me.’
He laughed, relaxing with her. Resting his arm around her shoulder in a gesture that seemed to come naturally to them as she leaned into him companionably.
Back up on the rim again, they made their way to their SUV, which was looking decidedly dusty by now. It had come a long way.
And so have I, she thought.
Her mind skittered away, not wanting to ponder or analyse. She just wanted to enjoy this adventure and wherever it took her.
‘OK,’ she said as they strapped themselves in, turning on the air-con with relief, ‘where to now?’
‘Shall we aim for the North Rim?’ Nic said. ‘It’s a long drive, but we could give it a go.’
‘Let’s do it!’ she said, settling back happily.
The sense of exhilaration that she was getting used to filled her again. Crazy this might be, but she wanted it! She was not thinking beyond it—just going along for the ride. With Nic at her side.
In the end they didn’t head straight for the North Rim. Instead they diverted to meander into the vast Canyonlands of Utah, making their way along the well-trodden tourist trail, taking in the Grand Staircase, Zion and Bryce, stopping over at lodges, hotels and motels along the way.
They were taking it easy, each day a new adventure, for now putting aside their own lives, their existence beyond this road trip romance.
They did some short, easy-access hiking trails, nothing strenuous, buying the kit they needed as they went, and they did a lot of driving through the awe-inspiring, breathtaking scenery all around, stopping as and when they felt like it. Unpressured, leisurely...
Days slipped by, each one bringing its own delights. And each night was as burningly passionate as the first had been. As if by silent mutual consent neither of them counted the days, wanting nothing more than to reach the next awe-inspiring destination. Never looking further ahead than the next day. Never thinking about what would happen when, finally, they ran out of road. Ran out of time.
It was at a small, cabin-style café, where they’d stopped for leisurely coffee and donuts one mid-morning, as they were finally heading back south towards the North Rim, where both the road and their time together finally ended.
Fran had been deliberately keeping her phone off except to look ahead to their next impromptu destination, which she was doing now, to see what accommodation they might book before finishing their drive to the National Park north of the Grand Canyon the next day.
Usually there were no messages, but today, as she switched on the phone, a flurry of texts, missed calls and voicemails greeted her. She would have ignored them but she could see the identity of the sender. It was her brother, Tonio.
She frowned, starting to read his texts with growing anxiety. Not noticing that Nic, like her, was checking his phone as well, and his expression was changing too.
The message on his screen demanded his attention. But it was bad timing. Bad timing to get a heads-up from his business development manager that a potential prime site was likely to become available in Manhattan. He would need to check it out personally and move fast. Immediately.
But protest reared in him. He didn’t want to call time on being with Fran.
I don’t want this to end! Not yet.
Even as the protest sounded in his head he felt hard, cold rational thought pour down on it.
So how long do you want it to last? How long before it ends? Just how much more do you want of this—of her, of Fran? Another week? Two weeks? How long? How long to put your life on hold while you drive around the American West?
His eyes bored into the screen, willing the message to disappear. But it was still there. His real life was summoning him back. This hedonistic R&R, unscheduled, snatched out of his life, this instinctive, overriding diversion with this incredible woman who had blazed across his path was over.
Dimly, he realised that Fran was speaking, and he switched his attention to her. Her voice was hollow, her eyes filled with fearful emotion. For a second, just a split second, he thought it must be because he’d said out loud that their time was over.
But it was not that.
‘Nic...’ The strain was naked in her words. ‘Nic, my grandfather...he’s had a heart attack. They—they don’t think he’s going to pull through.’ Her voice wobbled at the end, choking.
Instantly, instinctively, he reached across the table to take her hand. She looked at him, her fingers clutching at his.
‘I have to go to England,’ she said. ‘My mother is there already, and my brother and sister. My father is on his way too. I—I have to be there.’
He nodded. The decision was made. The only decision to make. He beckoned to the server, wanting to pay and go.
In minutes they were back in the SUV, heading south.
‘We can make McCarran in Vegas in just over three hours, I think. Can you sort a plane ticket while we drive?’
Fran nodded numbly. It was unreal, surely, what was happening? Her grandfather, who had seemed to be as indestructible as the ancient ducal castle that was his principal seat, was dying. By the time she got there it might be too late.
Guilt smote her. She’d kept her distance from her family ever since breaking up with Cesare, not wanting to hear any more of her mother’s recriminations for doing so, burying herself in her work, devoting herself to her research.
Her guilt was exacerbated by realising that the last thing she wanted her mother to know was that she had taken off on a crazy road trip with a guy who worked in security at a hotel.
She felt emotion twist inside her. This adventure with Nic had been a mad, impetuous break out of time—away from all that she knew. It had been heady, and fantastic, and wonderful.
But it had nothing to do with her real life, did it? Neither the sober life she lived as a scientist in the halls of academe, nor the life she had been born to as Donna Francesca.
The life she was being summoned back to now, to what might be the deathbed of her grandfather, the centre of her mother’s family, who even now might be passing his ducal coronet to his successor—her uncle—while his son-in-law—her father the Marchese—would be paying the respects due from one nobleman to another.
And she must be there too—she must. Whatever the friction with her mother, it counted for nothing at a time like this.
Blindly, she stared out of the tinted windows of the SUV at the wild, rugged landscape they were passing through. It had become so familiar in the past amazing, unforgettable days she had spent there, spent with the man who was now at the wheel, driving her to Las Vegas airport with all the speed the law allowed.
I don’t want to leave this—to lose this.
It was a cry that came from within, from a place she hadn’t known existed until that moment. But it was a cry she must silence.
And if not now, then when?
That was the knowledge that pressed upon her. Had her brother’s messages not summoned her away, what would it have gained her? Another few days with Nic? Maybe another week at most? How could it have lasted longer than that? Her other real life would have called her back. She had things to do. Papers to write. Another research post to find, maybe a move to another city—another country, even.
So maybe this sudden ending of her time with Nic was for the best. Wasn’t it? Yet something seemed to twist inside her, like a heavy stone turning over...
Nic was talking and she made herself listen. He was telling her not to worry about her suitcase, left at the Falcone Nevada, that he would ensure it reached her office.
She thanked him absently, her hands clenched in her lap. She urged the SUV onwards, towards the airport, anxiety filling her lest she arrive in London too late. But even as she urged it onward she knew that the last of her time with Nic was ticking away.
Their parting, when they arrived at McCarran, was swift. She was cutting it fine for the flight she’d booked, and there was no time for anything more than for her to take Nic’s hands as he helped her to the concourse at Departures and press them tightly.
‘Thank you!’
Her words were vehement, her kiss swift, pressing his mouth so fleetingly he had no time to do what he wanted, to yank her into his arms and crush her to him one last time.
But the last time had been and gone, without either of them knowing it. So she slipped her hands from his, slung on the backpack she’d acquired on their road trip, gripped her passport. She had already checked in online, had no luggage to drop, and she needed to make her flight now—right now.
Unable to bear to look back at him, she forged forward through the opening doors, was swallowed up inside.
For one endless moment he stared after her, not believing she was gone.
Then, making his muscles work, feeling a sudden clenching in his stomach, he swung away, back to the SUV, gunned the engine. He drove off. Heading back to the Falcone Nevada.
It was over. His time with Fran was done. His expression tightened, and he wondered why he felt as if he’d just been punched in the guts...