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 13

EMILY stood in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor, anticipating the moment when he would touch her and the fight to resist the lure of her senses would start once again. Along with the realisation that she was by no means sure of victory.

Rafaele came to stand behind her and she felt him remove the band that confined her hair and begin to free it from its tight braid. His fingers were gentle and very thorough, combing through the silky strands until they hung loose about her face and shoulders.

In some strange way, she thought dazedly, her skin warming, it was one of the most intimate things he had ever done to her. Almost more so than sex itself.

Then he lifted the scented auburn mass in both hands and she felt his lips caress the exposed and vulnerable nape of her neck.

Her entire body shivered at the brush of his mouth and she wondered if he knew this, and realised it was all too likely. That he knew everything about female bodies, their responses and reactions. Knew—and exploited his knowledge. So any sign of weakness on her part could be her ultimate downfall, and she must never forget that. Never.

It also seemed, from the smoothness of his skin against hers, that he’d had the promised shave—presumably while she’d been preparing dinner.

Advance planning, she thought, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. He said softly into her ear, ‘Don’t make me wait too long, cara,’ and moved away, but only, she realised at once, to undress. She knew, too, that he expected her to do the same, there in front of him. And that there was no real reason to hesitate, because he’d already seen her naked. Had already touched and kissed every inch of her, his astonishing patience pitched against her stubborn will.

She had nothing left to hide from him, but her hands were still slow and reluctant as she tugged her sweater over her head and tossed it on to the nearby chair. She unzipped her cords and eased them down over her hips, stepping out of them in order to do the same with her tights, all the time keeping her back resolutely turned to him.

His approach was soundless. She only realised he was standing close behind her when she reached round awkwardly to unhook her bra and felt him move her hands aside so that he could perform the task himself.

He slid the straps from her shoulders, kissing the faint marks they’d left on her skin, then removed the little garment completely, dropping it to the floor.

He drew her slowly back against him, her head resting against his bare chest, letting her feel the heat of his aroused body. His lips feathered kisses down the side of her throat as his hands cupped her small firm breasts, his fingertips drawing lingering circles round her nipples, making them rise proudly like dusky roses in bud.

‘Bellissima.’ His voice was husky. ‘Deliciosa.’

He let one hand move slowly downwards with smooth and deliberate purpose, his fingers slipping under the edge of her lacy briefs to seek the silken triangle at the joining of her thighs.

‘No.’ Her voice was a gasp as her hand fastened round his wrist, halting him, forbidding him to go any further. ‘Stop—please.’

He paused, his fingers splayed across the flat plane of her belly.

He said quietly, ‘Tell me something, Emilia mia. Why are you so afraid of pleasure?’

‘It has nothing to do with fear,’ Emily said stonily, aware that she was shaking inside. She pulled away from him, drawing a deep breath. Staring in front of her. Not at him. Not daring to look at him.

‘You take three years from my life, you destroy my hopes of future happiness, and then you take me.’ Her voice rose. ‘And I’m supposed to be grateful—and willing?’

She shook her head. ‘In your dreams, signore. Besides, being mauled by you is far from my idea of pleasure,’ she added defiantly.

For a long moment Raf did not move or speak. Then suddenly he was no longer holding her—touching her, and she was aware of him moving away across the room. Of the slight creak of the mattress as he got into bed.

For a few heartbeats she paused uncertainly, then fumbled off her briefs, putting them with the rest of her clothing.

Drawing a deep, jagged breath, she turned and walked to the bed, resisting the impulse to cover herself with her hands. But far from gloating avidly over her approach, Raf was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Emily slid hurriedly under the covers, pulling them up over her shoulders, then lay still, waiting for him to reach for her.

But he did not move and, as the long minutes passed, her tension grew and the deeper inner trembling intensified.

At last he turned his head and looked at her, the hazel eyes cool and steady.

‘I will make a bargain with you, Emilia,’ he said. ‘Kiss me and I will ask nothing else from you tonight.’

Emily stared at him, then found a voice from somewhere, almost squeaky with surprise. ‘You’ll let me—just go to sleep—for a kiss?

‘I have just said so.’

‘But I thought you wanted…’ She didn’t just think—she knew. When he’d been holding her just now the evidence of his desire for her had been frank and unequivocal.

‘Undoubtedly I did.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But I find I am no longer in the mood to treat you as gently as I should, given your inexperience.’ He added coldly, ‘So perhaps I deserve a little of your gratitude, after all, if my only demand is a kiss. You are escaping lightly, believe me.’

He paused. ‘Do you accept my offer, Contessa?’

‘I—I suppose so.’

‘Bene.’ He waited for a moment, watching her, brows raised. ‘But you will need to come closer, cara mia,’ he added, his tone almost bored. ‘Sadly, it is impossible for you to reach me from such a distance.’

Biting her lip, Emily edged warily across the bed. When she was within range, she leaned over him, her lips brushing swiftly and awkwardly against his in the most fleeting of contact.

There was a tingling silence, then he said softly, ‘That may be your idea of a kiss, Emilia, but it is not mine. There is ice enough outside the house at this time. I do not require it here in my bed.’

She stiffened, needled by the faint derision in his voice. ‘I’m sorry if you’re not satisfied…’

‘Now that, as we both know, is a lie,’ he said. ‘But now is not the time to discuss my level of satisfaction, or lack of it, and what you might do to improve it.’ He allowed her a moment to assimilate that, then added, ‘At the moment, you are simply required to—try a little harder.’

He raised a hand, cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, so that she could not pull away. ‘So, kiss me again, cara mia,’ he invited quietly. ‘Kiss me as you did on that long ago night in your father’s house.’

‘But—but that was when I thought you were—someone else.’ Her voice was a breath.

‘Did you truly, bella mia?’ Raf asked cynically. ‘I have often wondered how that could be possible. But, if it is easier for you, pretend once more that I am someone else. I promise I will not even ask his name.’

His hand was impelling her down to him, bringing her ever nearer to his waiting mouth.

And this time, as her lips touched the firm warmth of his, she found herself allowing the contact to lengthen—even to linger. Because, she told herself in growing confusion, this was what he wanted. And it was such a minor demand for him to make after—after all those others.

Suddenly he moved, reversing their positions smoothly and swiftly, so that she was lying on the pillow, looking up at him, her startled eyes widening.

And then he was kissing her, his mouth moving on hers slowly and achingly at first, then with a hard, deepening urgency—a hunger that made the soft, trembling contours of her lips feel bruised.

Until she could scarcely breathe. Or think rationally any more.

Or why else would she have found that, against all expectation, she wanted to return the sensuous pressure that he was subjecting her to? That she needed to learn the lines of his mouth as thoroughly as he was exploring hers? And, maybe, even more…

And then, with almost shocking suddenness, it was over, and he was lifting himself away from her.

‘A great improvement,’ he said in a tone so impersonal that Emily, still dazed, almost expected him to give her marks out of ten. He ran a careless finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘Now, sleep well, cara,’ he added lightly. ‘And may all your dreams be sweet.’

He turned to switch off the lamp, leaving her with an unwanted, but potent image of the long, supple line of his naked back before the room was plunged into darkness.

Emily turned away too, almost scuttling to the opposite side of the bed, lying, taut and breathless, on its furthermost edge as she waited for her heartbeat to regain its normality.

She was shaken to the core by her own reaction. Bitterly ashamed of her own weakness. And surprised too that Raf had actually kept his word, had not taken further advantage of her.

Yet Emily knew she had by no means escaped unscathed. That there was an even more worrying aspect of the situation that she somehow had to confront.

That long ago night…

Those were the words that were now coming back to haunt her. His unfounded but still disturbing suggestion that she might have gone into his arms knowing full well that he was not Simon.

Indicating that her female instinct should have stopped her before she’d got within a yard of him, let alone thrown herself at him.

But that’s nonsense, she told herself. It was dark, and I was very young and very stressed—nervous as hell—not thinking straight. Besides, it was Simon I was expecting. No one else. Because Raf was with Jilly. I—I knew that. Knew that, if she had her way, there was no reason to expect him back before breakfast.

And, anyway, as soon as I realised my mistake, I pushed him away instantly—immediately, she thought defensively. Of course I did. Although I admit that it should not have got to that stage. That obviously I should have known as soon as he first touched me. And that it should never—ever—have gone as far as it did.

But it was an honest error. And Raf has no right and no reason to imply anything different. As if I’d wanted to find out what being in his arms—being kissed by him—might feel like.

Which, she told herself hotly, is a shameful inference to draw from an—an innocent blunder.

Yet suddenly Emily found she was shivering, wrapping her arms round her body in an involuntary gesture of self-protection.

Because she was bitterly aware that she’d never been able to forget that brief moment in time, no matter how hard she’d tried. That she’d seen it as a warning not to allow him anywhere near her again.

But was that because she could not trust him, as Raf himself had proved only last night, justifying all her worst fears? Or was it—could it be—because she was afraid she might not be able to trust herself?

Could it be possible that there’d been one second—one infinitesimal moment on that long ago night when she hadn’t wanted to step back? When, incredibly, she’d wanted to press herself closer to the hardening danger of his body and offer her parted lips for his deeper exploration?

She hadn’t been unfaithful to Simon—of course not. But instinct had told her she’d approached some danger zone that she hadn’t known existed till then. So she’d buried all the doubts—the unanswered questions far, far down in her psyche.

But now Raf’s mocking challenge had brought them all raging back to the surface to torment her, testing the validity of her claim of ‘an honest error’.

Yes, it was still a terrible mistake to have made, but whether it was ‘honest’ or ‘innocent’ was now wide open to question.

Because she’d never managed to completely erase the memory of that barely discernible flicker of physical excitement.

And, if she was being truly honest, it wasn’t the only time that she’d reacted in that particular way.

My wedding night in Italy, she thought, swallowing. When I saw him walk into the bedroom and felt myself start to tremble inside. Yes, I was scared, at first anyway, but that wasn’t all of it, and I—I knew it.

Because I suddenly found myself remembering that other night and his arms holding me—the touch—the taste of his mouth. And wondered…

And, for a moment, I almost forgot that he’d married me solely out of a sense of obligation to my father. Although Rafaele soon reminded me, of course. Spelled out chapter and verse, then walked away.

While I told myself I should be relieved that he didn’t want me and even more thankful that I hadn’t made a fool of myself by smiling at him, or giving any other indication that he might be welcome to stay.

And yet there’d been times during that first year of marriage when Raf’s constant visits had been difficult to bear. Dreams, too, that she’d burned to remember.

But, eventually, as he’d begun to stay away and the rumours that he’d resumed his bachelor lifestyle had begun to circulate, Emily had been able to convince herself that it had all been a temporary aberration on her part, with no connection to the future she was planning for herself.

And when Simon came back and told me he’d never stopped loving me, she thought, I felt justified somehow. I was glad I could tell him that there’d never been—anyone else for me, and that we could start again—together. That I’d belong to him—and him alone.

Fine words, yet, so far, I haven’t shed a single tear for him. Is it possible that I always suspected, deep down, that I was just a means to an end? My father’s credulous heiress, looking for love in increasingly hopeless places?

Because I haven’t been very lucky in either of my suitors. One of them sold me out and the other used me to repay an old debt.

Which doesn’t leave me with many illusions about myself and maybe I will be able to cry about that one day. Before I begin to sort out exactly who I am and what I really want. But not yet.

Because I have to get through this somehow and I can’t afford tears or self-pity. I need to survive.

She closed her eyes resolutely, then opened them again.

That long ago night…

It occurred to her suddenly that this was the first time Raf had ever mentioned it. Up to now, he’d always behaved as if it had never happened. But then, she thought, he’d never required her to kiss him before either.

Not that it meant anything, she added hastily. It was just another way of asserting his male dominance. Another ploy to humiliate her, as she’d embarrassed him over the annulment issue.

But she would never let him see that it mattered. Not that—or anything else he might do to her. She would shore up the control she’d so painfully acquired. And there would be no more moments of weakness or inappropriate curiosity about how it might be if she ever surrendered herself completely to his lovemaking, she told herself fiercely.

Because, one day soon, he would become tired of this fruitless battle of wills and decide to let her go and she wanted to be able to walk away, her head held high.

And now, she thought, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, I have to stop thinking about him and try to sleep.

She dozed eventually, but it was no peaceful rest. She was assailed by snatches of dreams peopled by shadowed figures with faces she did not recognise, who turned away as she struggled to reach them across bleak and barren landscapes.

In the end she was never sure what woke her. But as she opened her eyes to the pale grey light filtering through the curtains, she had a overwhelming impression of being warm, relaxed and deliciously comfortable. All this, she thought drowsily, in total contrast to her miserable night with its fragmented dreams.

Yet, as her awareness increased, several disturbing facts made themselves evident. For one, she was no longer lying on the far side of the bed, clinging to its edge as if stranded on the north face of the Eiger.

Somehow, in the night, she had moved back across the broad expanse of the mattress to where Raf was lying.

But she wasn’t just next to him, for heaven’s sake, but right up against him as if she’d been glued to his spine. Her legs had somehow become entangled with his and her body had adapted every inch of itself to fit the long, lean curve of his back, her breasts crushed against its hard muscularity, and her arm draped round his waist. Moreover, her face was pressed between his shoulder blades, so that her nose and mouth were filled with the warm, clean scent of his skin.

Emily lay for a moment, hardly daring to breathe, intensely conscious of the violent, erratic beat of her heart. Out of one nightmare into another, she thought with horror. Dear God, I’m practically inside him.

But how could it possibly have happened? It had to be her own doing, because Raf clearly hadn’t moved an inch and, fortunately, was still sleeping deeply and peacefully.

Slowly, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, she began to detach herself from him, little by little, before edging stealthily backwards, every nerve-ending attuned to the possibility that he might wake up, and then…

But she wouldn’t consider that. She’d just concentrate on freeing herself. All the same, it seemed an eternity before she could slide out from under the covers altogether and she stifled a gasp as her warm skin encountered the icy air in the room.

Tiptoeing about, trying to avoid any sound, she found her nightdress and pulled it on. It might not be picturesque, and it certainly wasn’t sexy, but it provided a much-needed layer of insulation, she thought, topping it with a quilted gilet for good measure.

Noiselessly, she drew back the curtains and looked out. It had snowed again in the night, she saw without pleasure, and there were still a few flakes whirling past the window from the slate-grey sky.

And small wonder that it was freezing, she thought, testing the radiator with a cautious finger. The heating wasn’t on, which meant there was probably something wrong with the boiler.

She groaned silently. This was all she needed.

She went softly out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Coffee was the priority, she told herself as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. Strong and very hot.

She wandered into the living room, opening the curtains, shaking up the sofa cushions and collecting the glasses from the previous evening.

The kettle should have been boiling by the time she returned to the kitchen, but there was no cheerful sound of seething water or any trace of steam from the spout and it was stone-cold to her cautious touch.

She suddenly remembered Angus’s casual warning about power failures and the way the lights had flickered the night before and said aloud, ‘Oh, no…’

She tried the light switch by the door, again with no result, then returned to the sink and turned on the hot tap, willing there to be at least some hot water left in the tank, but it was like putting her hand into the ice of a mountain stream and she bowed her head defeatedly.

‘You are feeling the cold, carissima?’

The softly spoken words made her turn quickly to see Raf lounging in the archway, his dark face alight with amusement as he studied how she was dressed.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she snapped defensively, observing that, by contrast and in spite of the temperature, he was wearing nothing but a towel knotted loosely round his hips.

His grin widened. He strolled across, sliding both arms round her waist, his lips nuzzling her neck. ‘Then you should have stayed in bed with me,’ he whispered. ‘I find I am in a much better mood this morning.’

‘Then I hope it continues,’ Emily said bitterly, trying to free herself from his clasp. ‘Especially when I tell you we have no electricity.’

‘Davvero?’ He sounded more interested than perturbed. ‘Well, it is not the end of the world.’

‘No?’ She wrenched herself away and stepped backwards. ‘You enjoy being without heat or light, do you? I don’t think so.’

‘We have a fire, candles and a stove to cook on.’ He shrugged. ‘Life goes on.’

‘But there’s no hot water. I can’t even have a bloody bath.’ She raised two clenched fists. ‘Oh, God, why did I ever come to this hellish place?’

‘I think, Emilia mia,’ he drawled, ‘that is a question you should answer for yourself rather than troubling Il Signore.’ He paused. ‘Your father told me once he feared he had over-indulged you. I have often thought since that he was right.’

‘Don’t you dare mention my father,’ she flared. ‘What do you imagine he’d think of you, if he knew you’d broken your word about this marriage?’

‘He asked me to give you time,’ he said. ‘He did not expect me to wait for ever. So he would assume we had reached some accommodation with each other at last and already have begun to look forward to his grandchildren.’ His tone was brusque. ‘Now, let us leave your flights of fancy and be practical.’ He opened a cupboard and extracted several large saucepans, along with a huge preserving pan.

‘If you wish to bathe, you may do so. It will not be luxurious, naturalmente, but it is the best that can be managed.’

Emily’s nose wrinkled doubtfully. ‘You mean we’re going to carry hot water—all the way upstairs—in pans?’

‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going to do it for you, so you will not be inconvenienced in any way, Contessa.’ He took out a much smaller pan. ‘And before you ask, this is to boil water for coffee. I think I may need it.’

She bit her lip. ‘That’s why I came downstairs to—to make coffee…’

‘I think not.’ His smile was swift and ironic. ‘You came down, cara mia, because you realised you had spent the night nestling against me in a way it took all my self-control to resist and you found the discovery an embarrassment.’

He walked past her to the sink and began to fill the preserving pan with water.

‘I suggest you wait upstairs,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘And be sure to put some cold water in the bath first. I would not wish you to be scalded.’

She was scalded already, Emily thought furiously, as she marched out of the kitchen. Burning from head to foot. And not just because he clearly believed she was running scared after last night’s gaffe. The claim that she was some kind of spoiled brat rankled even more, implying that he and her father had calmly discussed her faults and failings before the marriage.

I’m surprised he didn’t ask to see my school reports or examine my teeth, she fumed under her breath as she climbed the stairs, trying not to trip on the trailing nightgown.

And if he has some idea that finding my arm round him in the night meant anything, he can think again—and fast.

But she took his advice about the cold water before retiring to the bedroom and assembling her clothing for the day. As many layers as possible, she thought. Warm tights under her cords and a long-sleeved T-shirt under her thickest sweater. And dismissed the sly inner voice which suggested that she could be wrapping herself against more than the weather.

She had just finished making the bed when Raf appeared in the doorway.

‘Your bath awaits, signora.’ He paused. ‘It reminds me that I must instruct Gaspare to engage a personal maid for you. A girl with muscles.’

‘That,’ said Emily coldly, ‘is entirely unnecessary.’

‘I disagree.’ He gave her nightgown another long look. ‘She will also conduct a complete review of your wardrobe and list what is required.’ He added softly, ‘I shall choose your lingerie myself—and it will not be black.’

He doesn’t forget a thing, Emily thought bitterly. She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you, but my existing clothes are perfectly adequate for my life.’

‘But not for the life you will lead with me,’ he told her with finality.

‘And where am I expected to shop for this new wardrobe?’ she challenged. ‘At Valentina X, maybe?’

There was the faintest of pauses, then Raf said softly, ‘Of course, if that is what you wish. Although I think Signora Colona may cater, perhaps, for more sophisticated tastes.’

He allowed her to assimilate that, then smiled at her. ‘But the choice is entirely yours, cara. Every designer in Italy will welcome the Contessa Di Salis.’

‘How very exciting for me,’ she said. ‘Now, excuse me please, or my bath will be getting cold.’

But of course it wasn’t. In fact the temperature was perfect and, annoyingly, he had even added some of her favourite bath oil.

Swiftly, she shed her nightgown and stepped in, reaching for the soap and rubbing it fiercely into her skin in a vain attempt to conceal the fact that she was smarting already.

Confronting Raf about his mistress had achieved nothing, she thought. He’d remained completely unfazed. Whereas she’d probably sounded young and silly. But not jealous, she prayed, closing her eyes. Oh, please, not jealous. Because it wasn’t true—it wasn’t true at all…

The creak of a board brought her abruptly back to the here and now and the realisation that Raf had walked into the bathroom, carrying another large pan.

‘It’s all right, thank you,’ she said, trying to fold herself into startled invisibility. If she lived to be a hundred, she thought, she would never become accustomed to his casual attitude to nudity—hers or his. ‘The water’s fine as it is.’

‘But not for me, carissima,’ he said silkily. ‘I like the temperature raised a little.’ He poured the contents of the pan carefully into the bath, dropped the towel he was wearing and joined her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She hated the breathless note in her voice as she tried to retreat into some distant corner of the bath that didn’t actually exist.

‘Washing,’ he said and held out a hand. ‘The soap, sposa mia, if you please.’

Numbly, she handed it to him, finding a voice from somewhere. ‘It doesn’t matter to you that I might prefer some privacy?’

‘And you may have it, once I no longer have to act as water carrier.’ He was briskly lathering his shoulders and chest. ‘But, until the power returns, we share.’ He scooped up handfuls of water, spilling the shining droplets over his head.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’ve finished.’

It was awkward leaving the bath under his sardonic gaze, but she managed it, winding the waiting towel round her like a sarong, covering herself against him.

‘Would you care to wash my back before you go?’ he asked.

Emily bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said, stonily. ‘I wouldn’t.’

His mouth twisted. ‘You did not find touching me so distasteful last night, mia bella.’

‘Because,’ she said, ‘I was still pretending you were someone else, signore.’ She added coolly, ‘I find it works very well.’

And she walked out of the bathroom, the edge of the towel following her like a train.