Читать книгу It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge - Сара Крейвен, Julia James - Страница 11

‘MY GOD.’ Emily almost choked as she flung herself away from him across the bed, her heart juddering against her ribs, like a bird trapped in a cage. She was hideously aware that she’d closed her eyes a split second too late and that a unwanted image of Rafaele Di Salis without his clothes was now engraved on her memory.

Aware too of the sudden warmth of his body in the intimacy of the bed—his nearness. And felt the breath catch in her throat.

‘Don’t you dare come near me. And don’t touch me,’ she added wildly, trying to wrench herself free as his hands descended on her shoulders.

‘Now you are being foolish.’ Calmly but inexorably, Raf pulled her round to face him, his brows lifting as he studied the high-necked nightgown with its demure row of pearl buttons, the long sleeves and the lace-edged collar and cuffs.

‘I see the nuns’ training has prevailed in the bedroom as well as the kitchen, cara,’ he murmured, not bothering to hide his amusement. ‘So—will you remove this grotesque garment, or would you prefer me to do so?’

‘This is revenge, isn’t it?’ she said shakily. ‘Because I had the bad taste to prefer another man and let you know it.’

‘They say revenge is sweet.’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Perhaps, tonight, we will both discover if that is true.’

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t do this. You—you don’t really want me. You know that. And you’ve punished me enough already. So just—let me go.’

‘Without having tasted the pleasures of marriage?’ Raf said mockingly. ‘I don’t think so, my sweet wife. There are so few novelties in life, after all.’

She drew an uneven breath. ‘You’ll make me hate you.’

‘But I thought you already did, mia cara,’ he said. ‘So what have I to lose?’ He paused, fingering the collar of her nightgown. ‘Now, which of us is it to be?’ he questioned softly.

‘I’m not taking it off!’ she flared.

‘As you wish.’ As he began to unfasten the buttons, Emily made a grab for his hand, intending to sink her teeth into it.

But he was too quick for her. ‘Wildcat,’ he accused, laughing, as he captured both her wrists with one lean hand and raised them above her head so that she was helpless. ‘If you wish to bite me, Emilia mia, then I will gladly show you how and—where. But later. For now, my attention is fully occupied with these buttons, as I refuse to make love to you in this—tent.’

She stared up at him, her eyes enormous in her pale face. She said unevenly, ‘How dare you use the word “love”?’

‘What would you prefer?’ Raf asked, as the last button gave way.

‘Some Anglo-Saxon crudity?’ His shrug was cynical. ‘You will find it all means much the same thing.’

‘You are vile,’ she said passionately.

‘You would naturally think so.’

He released her wrists, but only so that he could whip her nightgown over her head with a speed and deftness that appalled her and toss it to the floor beside the bed.

She tried to pull the duvet up to her chin, but Raf forestalled her.

He said quietly, ‘No, mi amore, I wish to look at you,’ and threw back the covers so that she too was naked in the lamplight.

Emily turned her head away blindly, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

If I don’t look at him, she thought with a kind of desperation, if I don’t see him looking at me, I can pretend that this—this isn’t happening.

And I can bear it—somehow, especially if I think about something else.

She began to count in her head and had reached twenty before he spoke again.

‘Your body is like moonlight, carissima. Lovelier even than my dreams of you.’

‘Am I supposed to be flattered?’ She still didn’t look at him.

‘You don’t wish to be told you are desirable?’ He captured her chin, turning her to face him in spite of her resistance.

‘Only by the man I love,’ she said defiantly.

The dark brows lifted. ‘Dio, you still care about him, after what he has done? You astonish me.’

‘He must have been truly desperate,’ she said. ‘You—you have no idea what it’s like to be without money. You’ve always led this pampered life, with everyone dancing to your tune.’

‘You except yourself, do you, from this ludicrous generalisation?’ The note in his voice was almost one of disdain.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I danced too—when I was fool enough to marry you—and to think I could trust you when you said you wouldn’t touch me unless I—wished it.’

His smile was wry. ‘Perhaps I thought that, in time, you might change your mind.’

‘Then you were wrong.’ She was agonisingly conscious that he was propped on an elbow, his hazel eyes still intent on her exposed body, and that she felt not only horribly embarrassed by his continued scrutiny, but vulnerable. ‘May I cover myself?’ she requested curtly.

‘No, mia bella, not yet.’

‘But it’s cold.’

He smiled at her. ‘Then move closer,’ he invited.

She bit her lip. ‘Well—at least turn out the light.’

‘Later,’ he said. ‘When it is time for us to sleep. But for now…’

He bent and found her mouth with his.

It was the first time their lips had met since that night at the Manor, when she’d gone into his arms believing he was Simon.

Now the familiarity of his kiss shocked her. Scared her too. Even after all this time she suddenly found herself remembering the taste of him—the warm subtle scent of his skin.

Above all, his gentleness.

And it seemed that nothing had changed.

His lips were light but sensuous as they caressed hers, teasing the soft contours with unhurried persuasion. At the same time, his fingertips were stroking her neck, exploring the hollow beneath her ear and lingering at the base of her throat where the pulse leapt at his touch.

Emily was aware of a strange languor starting to permeate her senses while, deep within her, she felt a faint stirring, like the flutter of a butterfly wing or the slow unfurling of a rosebud.

She heard a small cold voice in her head whisper, So this is seduction.

And knew she was in real danger here.

Because Raf was a master of the game. He’d come here for her surrender and he would be satisfied with nothing less. At the same time, he would consider this initiation of his virgin bride no real contest for him. A foregone conclusion for someone of his experience. And that, before the night was over, she would be clinging to him, begging for more.

But she would make him think again, she told herself fiercely. Because she would fight him with every weapon she possessed—using her pride, her anger and her stubborn will to subdue her emotions—and especially that first kindling of unwanted sexual awareness that she’d just encountered.

She knew she would not prevent his physical possession of her. To struggle would be useless and demeaning. But she would make sure that his was a sterile victory—devoid of the response he would regard as his right. She had boasted to herself that she was immune to him. Now she would prove it by any means available. Retreat to some part of her mind where he could not reach her.

And she began to count to twenty all over again…

Raf allowed his kiss to deepen fractionally, took his mouth from hers for a heartbeat, then kissed her again, running the tip of his tongue delicately along the line of her lips, coaxing them to part for him. But they remained closed and unyielding.

He raised his head and looked down at her. ‘No?’ he asked on a note of mild curiosity.

She said nothing, just stared back with hostile defiant eyes.

His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Definitely—no,’ he murmured and drew her more closely into his arms.

Phase Two, thought Emily, and was tempted to say so aloud.

Only then his hand moved down to her breast, cupping its softness in his palm while his fingers played with her nipple in an enticement as pleasurable as it was calculated.

And for one blind, greedy moment she lost the power of speech along with the ability to think rationally. Her brain was in free fall, her body startled—pierced by a need she’d never known before—or even suspected could exist.

Then he bent and took one swollen rosy peak between his lips, stroking it delicately with his tongue, and as delight lanced through her she felt him smile against her skin.

And, with that, sanity returned, stifling the tiny moan in her throat. Oh, God, he was so sure of her, she thought with shock. So convinced that her inexperienced body would respond with gratitude and joy to this cynical exercise in sexual control.

Oh, why couldn’t he have assuaged his anger with some hasty, meaningless coupling, roughly accomplished, that would have fed her own resentment?

But he would never do that. Not when he knew so well how to tantalise and arouse, an ability he’d undoubtedly learned with so many other women, in so many other beds.

But not hers, she told herself with renewed and savage resolve. Never in hers.

Because she did not have to be at the mercy of her senses. She did not have to allow him to win.

Deliberately, she sank her teeth into her lower lip until she tasted blood, using the sharpness of the pain to distract her from the sensual drift of his mouth and hands over her body, the unexpected incitement of his aroused nakedness against her skin.

It would be so easy to yield, she realised, staring up at the ceiling over his shoulder and making herself count the beams. So easy and so fatal.

Because of him, all her dreams of a happy future life had been wrecked. Therefore she would deny him too.

Although she could not so easily control her own physicality, she realised with dismay, as the aching, melting sensation between her legs could attest.

Not even Simon, whom she’d loved, had ever induced this kind of reaction from her—made her feel as if she was about to vanish over the edge of the world.

Nor would she be able to hide it from Raf for much longer, because his knee was between hers, gently coaxing them apart, so that his sensuously exploring hands could gain the intimate access to her body that they sought.

As he began, softly and rhythmically, to caress the secret places of her womanhood, Emily tensed into rigidity, closing her eyes so tightly that coloured sparks danced behind her lids. But when he found the tiniest, most sensitive spot and started to circle it gently with a fingertip, she almost cried out under the force of the sensations he was creating. Realised that her iron determination was almost ready to collapse.

Frantically, she began to recite her twelve times table, verses of poetry she’d learned at school, even her Christmas card list—anything—anything—that would help her withstand the witchcraft of his touch and break the web of sensual promise he was weaving round her. Concentrating with such fierceness that she almost stopped breathing.

‘Emilia.’ His voice seemed to reach her from a great distance and she opened unwilling eyes and looked at him.

The caressing hand had stilled. Indeed, he wasn’t touching her at all, but was propped up on a elbow, studying her, the hazel eyes hooded.

He said unsmilingly, ‘I feel I am boring you, carissima. If it is true, do not hesitate to say so, or tell me if there is some other way I might please you more.’

‘I just want you to leave me alone,’ she said raggedly. ‘Nothing else. Can’t you understand that?’’

He shrugged. ‘Your body does not seem to agree. Continue your passive resistance, if you must, but I still intend to make you my wife. However, it would be easier for both of us if you were to—co-operate a little.’ He paused. ‘Would it be so impossible to return my kisses—perhaps even to touch me?’

‘Anything you want from me, signore, you will have to take.’ Her voice was quiet and clear. ‘I’ll give you nothing. Not now—not ever.

‘Nor will I forgive you for breaking the promise you made on our wedding night,’ she added huskily.

He moved then, taking her by the shoulders and jerking her towards him, crushing her breasts against his chest as his mouth took hers in a bruising kiss that was in total contrast to his earlier consideration.

She was gasping for breath, when he released her, allowing her to fall back against the pillows.

‘This is our wedding night,’ he said softly. ‘Here and now. And I will mark it with another promise to you, mia cara.

‘I swear that there will come a time—some day, some night soon—when you will desire me as much as I want you now.

‘And then, may God help you.’

He turned away, stretching down for his robe on the floor beside the bed. And, for a moment, with an odd jump of her heart, Emily thought he was leaving.

But as he straightened, she realised that he’d only been reaching for the protection he intended to use.

He saw her eyes widen and said icily, ‘Our marriage has no permanent basis, Emilia. It follows, therefore, that there can be no risk of a child.’

He positioned himself so that she could feel the hardness and strength of him pressing against the junction of her thighs. And the breath caught in her throat.

‘Relax a little,’ he directed. ‘Or I may hurt you.’

‘Hurt me then,’ she flung at him. ‘Do you think I care?’

As his mouth tightened in frustration and his eyes glittered with sudden anger, she knew a brief, almost savage satisfaction.

Then he moved fractionally and entered her.

He paused, drawing a deep breath. He said quietly, ‘Bend your knees.’ And it suddenly seemed wiser to obey.

He took her slowly, easing his way into her, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay very still, staring past him, her clenched fist pressed against her mouth, bracing herself mentally. But there was no pain. And, instead, out of nowhere, she found she wanted very badly to cry. But did not.

Because there was nothing to cry about. She’d endured—hadn’t she—the worst he could do to her and it would soon be over.

She began repeating, Soon—over soon, inside her head like a mantra.

For a moment he too was motionless, as if he were waiting for something, then he said huskily, ‘I would have given you the world, Emilia,’ and began to thrust his way to climax in long, powerful strokes.

Yet, in spite of everything, as she lay beneath him, waiting for him to finish with her, Emily became aware of one infinitesimal, bewildered moment when the stark driving force of his body seemed to trigger a tiny echo of response that flickered uncertainly somewhere in the depths of her being, but was immediately extinguished.

And, even as her throat tightened in shock, she felt his movements quicken almost to frenzy until, at the last, he cried out and was still.

Emily remained where she was too, because she had no other choice with Raf slumped on top of her, the dark dishevelled head pillowed on her small breasts.

When he eventually lifted himself away from her, there was none of the triumph in his face that she’d expected. In fact, she thought, he looked reflective, almost sombre. But if he had regrets, he certainly did not express them aloud. Or any other opinion either.

In the event, he simply got out of bed, put on his robe and left the room without a word.

So the mantra had worked, Emily thought, gulping with relief as she straightened the bed before turning on to her side and pulling the covers up over her shoulder. It really was—all over and she’d survived, without visible marks. She was conscious of aching a little internally, but she guessed that was only to be expected.

It also occurred to her that, in spite of the provocation she’d deliberately offered, he had not translated his anger into brutality. On the contrary, she could accept, in the absence of other criteria, that he’d probably been—almost considerate.

She’d not been really hurt, she thought wryly, just humiliated. But, all in all, it could have been very much worse.

Then she heard the bedroom door reopen and realised she’d been altogether too optimistic.

She turned defensively—warily. ‘I—I thought you’d gone back to your own room.’

‘And so I have.’ He put the bottle of wine he was carrying and two glasses down on the night table. There was faint mockery in his voice. ‘My place is here, beside you, mia bella sposa.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed to pour the wine, then handed her a glass. ‘To our real honeymoon,’ he said and drank.

Emily stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘You got what you wanted. And I accept now that there’ll be no annulment,’ she added bitterly. ‘You’ve made quite sure of that.’

She drew a breath. ‘But I’ll agree to your conditions for a divorce as long as—all of this—stops now and you leave me in peace.’

‘You thought that, having waited for almost three years, I would be satisfied by that one lacklustre performance?’ Raf asked cynically. ‘You are mistaken.’ He smiled at her. ‘You have an exquisite body, my sweet one, and I intend to enjoy all of this whenever and however I wish, for the duration of our marriage.’

‘But—surely—you came here to talk about a divorce!’ She was pleading suddenly.

‘Oh, that is postponed,’ he said. ‘Indefinitely.’

Her voice was a croak of disbelief. ‘Until when?’

He shrugged. ‘Until—perhaps—the ice melts.’ His smile was sardonic. ‘You see, Emilia, you have become a challenge.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Even though I’ve just shown that I don’t want you—and never will?’

‘You punish no one but yourself, mia cara,’ he told her quietly. ‘A man’s ability to gain satisfaction does not depend on his partner’s pleasure. Although it is enhanced by it, naturalmente.’

He paused. ‘And never is a long time, Emilia. While I—I have become used to waiting. It will not be such a hardship, especially when I expect the eventual rewards to be infinite,’ he added softly.

Her voice shook. ‘I hate you.’

‘Then at least you will not weary me with declarations of undying love when we part.’ His tone was brisk as he took the untouched wine from her and set it aside, then reached into the pocket of his robe. ‘Now, give me your hand.’

She obeyed reluctantly, looking down mutinously as Raf slid her wedding ring back on to her finger.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From your former bedroom at the Manor. I gathered from the lawyers, among other things, that you were no longer wearing it and made a special detour.’ His smile was ironic. ‘We are finally man and wife, carissima, and you will in future acknowledge as much to the world.’

She was still staring down at the gleam of gold in the lamplight, but her head jerked up. ‘You said—former bedroom?’

‘I have instructed the good Signora Penistone to prepare the master suite for us both when we next return to the Manor.’

‘But you can’t,’ she protested in sudden anguish. ‘Those were my father’s rooms.’

‘His rooms, Emilia,’ Raf said quietly. ‘Not his shrine.’

‘You have no right to give such an order in my house!’

‘I have any rights I choose to assume.’ He shrugged off the robe and rejoined her in the bed, pulling her effortlessly towards him. ‘And maybe now is the time I should remind you of some of them,’ he added softly and put his lips to the hollow between her breasts.

Emily awoke slowly. For a moment she felt totally disorientated, but two things rapidly became apparent—that a pale, sharp light was filtering through the curtains and filling the room and that it was difficult to move because she seemed weighted to the bed.

She turned her head cautiously and saw Raf sleeping beside her, his arm thrown carelessly across her body.

And then she remembered—a wave of embarrassed heat sweeping over her body as all the events of the previous night returned inexorably to haunt her. Everything he’d said—and, oh, God, everything he’d done.

Inch by inch, she began to edge away from him across the bed, but he did not stir.

Too worn out by his exertions, no doubt, she thought, loathing him.

She gave a silent sigh of relief as her feet touched the icy floor. She retrieved her discarded nightdress and put it on in lieu of a dressing gown, then tiptoed surreptitiously across to the window and looked round the curtain.

She had to repress a whistle of dismay, because there was the snow. And not the genteel icing sugar effect she was used to either. Overnight, the world outside the cottage had become a series of anonymous lumps and bumps, shrouded by drifts.

It looked, she thought unhappily, as if she was going to be stranded here for a while—and with him. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

She sighed, then went quietly round the room collecting a handful of underwear, a pair of dark blue cord trousers and a cream roll-neck sweater in thick wool.

Then she slipped out, closing the door noiselessly behind her, and went to the bathroom, running a tub as hot as she could stand. For a while she sat in a little huddle while the water cooled, legs drawn up to her chin as she stared into nothingness, as she came reluctantly to terms with what had happened to her.

She felt exhausted too—by the unexpected strain of the passive resistance she’d managed to sustain until Rafaele had eventually turned away from her to sleep and her taut, obdurate body had finally been able to relax.

Not that her stance had deterred him in the least, she thought bitterly. In fact, there’d been moments when she’d suspected he was even amused by her obstinate refusal to permit herself even the slightest response to his lovemaking.

He’d simply shrugged and continued to use her for his own entertainment, as if she was merely some expensive toy with a range of possibilities that he was curious to exploit.

And doing so, Emily realised, with a complete lack of inhibition that she found impossible to relate to the cool, elegant young man who’d appeared from time to time in her life over the past three years.

Causing her, she thought, the kind of humiliation that she would never be able to forget. Or forgive.

She regretted now that she hadn’t fought him off, kicking and scratching, because instinct told her that Rafaele Di Salis would have never lowered himself by resorting to using his superior strength.

But now it was much too late.

Dry eyes burning, she picked up the soap and began to wash herself from head to foot, massaging the lather carefully into every inch of her skin so not one trace of him would be left behind.

Until next time, a small wintry voice in her head reminded her and she flinched, wondering just how much of him she would be made to endure.

Surely he would become irritated with her stubbornness before long and find himself a more responsive lady.

He wouldn’t have to look far, she thought. His name had most recently been linked with that of Valentina Colona, a twenty-seven-year-old former model who’d retired from the catwalk several years before to marry a wealthy industrialist from Milan, three times her age. He was now in failing health and confined to his villa in Tuscany, but his money had helped her start a chain of boutiques called Valentina X and she’d just launched her own perfume brand with the same name.

And for the last six months she’d been coyly referred to in the gossip columns as Raf Di Salis’s ‘constant companion’.

Emily even knew what she looked like—raven hair, a heart-shaped face almost doll-like in its beauty and a stunning body that managed to be lissom and voluptuous at the same time.

And last night Raf dared call me beautiful, she thought stormily. Compared with her, I’m a stick insect.

But what made his current behaviour truly inexplicable was the widely quoted story that Signora Colona would one day become the next Contessa Di Salis.

As if Emily herself did not exist, her marriage to Raf brushed to the sidelines, she’d told herself when she read the newspaper gossip. But she felt strangely stung just the same. Which was why she’d gambled that Raf would accept the offered annulment as a quick way out of his marital dilemma.

Only Raf, as he’d made only too clear last night, had not seen it that way.

Maybe he doesn’t wish to give his future wife any impression that he is less than the master in his own house, she thought, grimacing.

But if he really loves her and wants to marry her one day, why is he here with me? How can he betray her by having sex with someone else, even if it is only his wife?

That’s what I should have asked him, she told herself. After all, I’d stupidly let slip that I knew all about his extra-marital exploits.

But somehow accepting that Raf was an incorrigible womaniser, involved in a string of casual affaires, was easier than recognising him as a man capable of being deeply in love with just one woman.

Yet, in spite of that, he’d come here looking for revenge because she’d made him look a fool. But surely he could have achieved his aim without hurting the woman he loved?

On the other hand, lovers who were married to other people probably had to allow a certain sexual leeway in their relationships—were forced to be realistic about their partners’ marital obligations.

Maybe Valentina Colona was that kind of realist, although she must surely know that Raf’s marriage had only existed on paper until last night.

But maybe she didn’t care—as long as she won in the end.

Emily suddenly felt intensely dispirited and was conscious of the heated bitterness of tears rising in her throat. But she fought them back fiercely as she lifted herself out of the bath and reached for a towel.

Whatever Raf might have threatened, she told herself strongly, he wouldn’t want their marriage to drag on. It would prove far too costly.

Because he needed to concentrate on making yet more millions. At the same time, he couldn’t afford to neglect his mistress either.

Dried and dressed, she combed her hair severely back from her face and plaited it into a braid, trying to ignore the bruised eyes that stared back at her from the mirror.

She’d brought only a few cosmetics with her, just moisturiser, a lipstick and mascara, when what she really needed was a mask to shelter behind.

Because, sooner or later, Raf would wake up and come downstairs in search of her. And it was going to take every scrap of courage she possessed to face him—to start pretending all over again that she didn’t care what he’d done to her. That, somehow, this small cottage and the intimacy it inevitably imposed didn’t matter either. That she would get through the days and find some way to endure the nights without surrendering her integrity.

But how long could she feasibly remain focused? Last night it had taken every scrap of will-power she possessed to ignore her bewildered, starving senses and continue her inimical stance against him. However hard she tried to distract herself, she’d already realised that it was almost impossible to separate herself completely from what he was doing to her.

Especially when he seemed equally determined to arouse her.

Suddenly she found herself wondering—actually imagining how Raf would make love when he was in love. How tender he would be—whether there would be a difference in his kisses—in the touch of his hands. What he might say to his woman when they finally lay together, all passion spent. Whether he would simply hold her close in adoring silence, his lips against her hair?

And stopped herself right there, her mouth dry. Because there was no point in that kind of speculation. On the contrary, she told herself, it was positively dangerous.

She shivered as she turned away from the mirror and went slowly downstairs to begin the first day of her unwanted marriage.