Page 15 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

There was a pause.

‘I have a busy lifestyle,’ he answered repressively. ‘I happen to run a giant organisation. You don’t think that eats into my time?’

‘I’m sure it does. But that’s not the real reason why you don’t go, is it, Romano?’ she challenged. ‘You manage to find time in your packed diary for all those fancy Premio Mondo car races, and the parties, and gallery openings and—’

‘How dare you take me to task in this way?’

‘I dare because there’s a gorgeous little boy who would love to get to know hiszio, but never gets the chance. And time is marching on, Romano. He’ll be a sulky teenager before you know it and—’

‘That is enough,’ he snapped, before sucking in a deep breath, as if to temper his icy retort with something a little more reasonable. ‘If only my sister would allow herself to see sense, she could base her family here, which is far more accessible than their current location—’

‘I didn’t find it that accessible,’ she objected, remembering her journey.

He glared at the interruption. ‘But she stubbornly refuses to accept my offer.’

Kelly opened her mouth to suggest why that might be, but hadn’t she already said enough? What was the point of accusing him of being a total control freak? He was an intelligent man. He must know that and even if he didn’t… Did she really think he was going to radically change his personality, on her say-so? What did she think might happen—that he would nod and smile and thank her for her insight? At the moment his face was so granite-grim, she couldn’t imagine him ever smiling again. ‘Oh, look,’ she said, her words tempered with relief. ‘Here comes Floriana. Let’s try and act normally, shall we?’

‘I don’t think I know what normal is, around you,’ he snapped.

‘You and me both,’ she shot back, yet as Floriana made her way towards them, Kelly was aware that, in some weird kind of way, it almost felt as if she wascolludingwith him.

CHAPTER FIVE

ROMANO LAY ONthe giant bed, wide awake.

Again.

This was unconscionable, he thought, throwing the rumpled covers away from his sweat-sheened skin. He was a man who had taught himself to sleep with enviable deepness, once he had trained himself out of the nightmares which had once haunted him. But not tonight. He gave a bitter laugh. Nor last night either. He stared out of the window, where the bright silver of a crescent mood was etched starkly against the black sky as he tried desperately to concentrate on something—anything—other than the image of flashing emerald eyes and copper curls and a pair of rosy lips which had poured forth a stream of insolent criticism. But the memory of Kelly Butler was more persistent than any fever.

He let out a ragged sigh, knowing it wasn’t simply her beauty which was making him feel like a man obsessed. He stared at the lacy flicker of moonlight which was dancing through the leaves outside his window. Because hadn’t her insolence rankled? How dared she take him to task over his perceived failures as an uncle? She had no right to speak to him like that. Not even a member of his own family would dare to do so. Come to think of it, he couldn’t think of a single other person who would have had the temerity or the courage to address him with such brutal frankness.

Yet somehow her words had bothered him—or, rather, the sentiments behind them had.Washe a bad uncle to little Rocco? He frowned. He put money into the child’s account every month and had written his will so that Rocco and his sister and any future siblings would inherit every euro of Romano’s estate.Sì, it was true he didn’t interact much with him, because he was stricken with a strange kind of paralysis around children. Up until the age of five he had existed without the company of other children. His heart had become stony, his spirit deadened. What kind of example would he be for the little boy—what could he offer him, other than cynicism?

He lifted up the glass of water at his bedside and put it down again. He needed something stronger than water. A slug of grappa perhaps, which might blot out his restlessness and help him get the rest he craved.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, he failed to grab a T-shirt or sweater, even though the night was cold. Because the chill on his bare torso might benefit him. It might even serve as the non-wet equivalent of a cold shower, he reasoned with a savage trace of humour.

The night-time creaks of thecastellowere familiar but, as he descended the curving staircase, he could hear unusual clinking and thudding noises which definitely weren’t. He frowned. Had he left a window open, so that a bird could fly in? Was an owl or a bat currently incarcerated in the bowels of thecastelloand wreaking havoc? Following the distant sounds which eventually led him to the scullery, he pushed open the door, totally unprepared for the sight that greeted him—which managed to be both domestic and erotic—of Kelly Butler with her back to him, bent over one of the sinks, seemingly lost in thought. For a moment he stood in silence, allowing his gaze to absorb the unexpected vision she presented to his cynical gaze.

Her thick red curls were tied back in a black velvet band and her hands were deep in soapy water, with a row of crystal glasses draining neatly on the side. She was wearing a pair of pyjamas of a type he had never seen before—certainly none of his lovers would have dreamed of sporting such robust-looking nightwear. Because these weren’t made of gossamer-fine silk which whispered against the flesh—intended to reveal almost as much as they concealed. These, he noted sourly, were made of a thickly unattractive material he had once heard described as… He frowned. What was it? Winceyette?Sì.The word had been so extraordinary that he’d never forgotten it. Disbelievingly, he registered a pattern of bright sprigs of cherries splashed against a dark background. She couldn’t look more different from the occasional forbidden fantasy he had entertained about her, yet still he had difficulty tearing his gaze away.

‘Kelly,’ he said quietly, for he had no wish to startle her.

But she spun round anyway, her plump lips forming a cushioned circle of surprise, her eyes widening as she clutched a dripping brush she was brandishing before her like some sort of a weapon.

‘Romano!’ she cried.

‘Why, who else were you expecting?’ he demanded sarcastically—mostly to divert his attention from the fact that she could look so ravishing, despite the roomy swamp of her practical pyjamas. ‘The resident castle ghost?’

Her eyes grew even wider. ‘Isthere a castle ghost?’

‘I have no idea. I don’t believe in ghosts,’ he snapped, shaking his head with an impatience he didn’t bother to hide. ‘What on earth are you doing down here at this time of night?’ He glanced up at the ancient clock on the wall. ‘Or should I say morning?’

‘Sorry. I didn’t realise there was a curfew.’ She put the dripping brush down. ‘Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing? It suddenly occurred to me that there were probably a load of dirty glasses left in the dining room after the servants had all gone home for the night, since none of them are resident any more.’ She shrugged. ‘And I… I couldn’t sleep. So I thought: why not do something useful?’

‘I thought I told you not to do anything until the others have left for Rome?’ he husked, unable to stop his brain from registering the quivering movement of her breasts beneath the voluminous nightwear. ‘Until then, you are here as a guest. The housekeeper will be here in the morning. She can finish off.’

‘Suit yourself. Anyway, what are you doing up at this time of the—’ irreverently, she wrinkled her snub nose at him as she dried her hands on a nearby cloth ‘—morning?’

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