Tempest - Book 1

- 3 -

After a walk through mind harrowing halls, we came to a great sitting room. A slow flame flickered over the cobbled floor, a large velvet sofa inviting me to sit in front of the crackling blaze.

The room was occupied by four large men, clothed in neatly tailored black suits, hard faces watching me as I sauntered through the room. Imelda deposited me on the sofa, rich delicious fabric soft under my bare legs. The warm fingers of the fire coaxed me, leaning forward to embrace the warm breadth it offered. I was handed a large glass, the aromatic plume of a nice Sauvignon Blanc fluttered around my nose. I carefully swirled the wine, its soft legs clinging against the glass. I took a small sip, its snapping flavor dancing across my tongue. The beauty of the wine was astral, and it radiated a certain happiness inside me.

The men were quiet, Imelda softly humming as she tussled about the room, straightening their lapels. One took her petite hand and placed a soft kiss against her fingers. She smiled bashfully. They spoke intimately in Italian, her eyes hooded in needful contingence. He let his hand run over her defined collarbone, finger tips dipping below the neck of her dress. She pulled away, promising him a reprieve at a later time. Then she disappeared behind the cascade of the doorway.

And I was alone.

I sat slowly swirling and sipping, watching that passionate fire dance languidly before my eyes. waiting quietly for the arrival of my mystery man. There was a sound of soles clicking against stones. My pulse hastened, and I set my glass down before the inevitable shake came to my hands.

There were murmurs, words foreign to me.

I could feel the proximity of him close to me, the hair on my neck standing in a chilled delight. A hand was placed carefully on the back of my neck, and I held the urge to flash out of my skin. The hand traced the line of my shoulder, fingers tickling down my arm. I wanted to look at the body navigating this hand, but I was frozen in a callous distraught. Someone sat next to me, a nice weight balancing the sofa now. I carefully chewed my lip, my hands folded in my lap.

"Yelena. I have been dreaming of this day."

The voice was thick, sensual. His accent inviting, trusting.

I looked to him, a small gasp ghosting between my teeth. 

He was...indescribable. Tan angular face clean shaven, dark deep eyes staring into me. He wore a white linen shirt, partially unbuttoned. The edge of a tattoo peered at me from the folds. His black trousers clung tightly to his muscular legs, and I had to allow myself not to linger. His dark hair was speckled with grey, just a touch to amplify his good looks. He was easily twice my age, rough and refined.

He arched an inquisitive brow at me, tip of his tongue pinched between perfect white teeth.

I dropped my eyes, fighting the blush that clawed across my face.

"You look incredible."

He whispered.

I offered him a quaint smile. Only enough to please him with my hospitality. He motioned to one of the men, the veins on his hand tantalizing me. He wore a Bulgari watch, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled crisply to reveal more tanned skin. He was handed a handsome glass of scotch, the warm amber dull compared to his beauty.

"Please, where are my manners. Let me introduce myself"

He leaned towards me, a winsome smile spread over his perfect mouth.

"I am Luca Portillegaro."

I stared into this strangers welcoming gaze.

"Yelena Porokova."