Читать книгу Hot-Blooded Italians: Sicilian Husband, Unexpected Baby / A Tainted Beauty / Marriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby! - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

EMMA spent the afternoon walking aimlessly around the city and ended up window-shopping in the glitziest department store she could find, taking advantage of one of the rest rooms to wash her hands and fringe and apply a lick of make-up.

Vincenzo’s comments of earlier had made her feel scrawny and unattractive—and that was the last thing she needed as she was about to walk into one of the capital’s smartest hotels and drop this particular bombshell.

Her heart was thundering as she walked into the Bay Room bar and she could see Vincenzo standing talking to a member of staff—looking tall and eye-catching in his dark suit, and totally at home in this upmarket venue.

Nervously, she glanced around. Seated at the trademark triangular tables with their distinctive turquoise velvet seats were the movers and shakers of the city. Women wearing amazing sleek and expensive clothes and gravity-defying high-heeled shoes.

And, despite her newly washed fringe and the liberal amount of scent and hand lotion with which she’d doused herself in the rest room, Emma had never felt quite so out of place in her life. She felt like one of those characters from a Victorian novel—a scruffy little urchin who’d taken a break from selling matches on a street corner outside—and if there had been a choice, she would have turned around and walked straight out. But she didn’t have a choice, not any more.

Vincenzo watched her walk in, his black eyes giving nothing away as they flicked over her in brief assessment. So she hadn’t spent the afternoon buying herself something new to wear, he noted—as most women who were planning to sleep with a man again would do. Which must mean that she really was broke—or that she was still very confident about her sexual allure over him. His mouth twisted. Or both.

‘Ciao, Emma,’ he murmured as she approached.

‘Hello,’ she said, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, aware of the bizarreness of the situation and the fact that the member of staff was looking at her as if some alien had just dropped in through the ceiling.

‘The maître d’ has just been telling me that, unfortunately, all the tables are taken,’ Vincenzo was saying smoothly. ‘But that he has arranged drinks for us on the rooftop terrace.’

‘You will find the view from the terrace infinitely superior sir,’ said the maître d’ with the affable smile of a man who had just been handed a large wad of money. ‘I will have someone accompany you to the penthouse.’

He snapped his fingers and a man in uniform who looked about twelve began to lead the way towards one of the lifts.

Emma’s eyes told Vincenzo that she didn’t believe a word of it and the mockery in his black eyes told her that he didn’t care. But how could she possibly object with a third party present—and had he been banking on that? Or was it just that he was aware of his bargaining power and that she must play to his rules if she wanted her divorce settlement?

The silence was suffocating as the lift rode upwards and it seemed to grow more and more oppressive as the bell-boy showed them into what was clearly a very large suite of rooms dominated by a vast sitting room studded with dramatic arrangements of flowers. It was true that the view was magnificent—a floor-to-ceiling firework display of glittering stars and skyscrapers against the indigo backdrop of the sky. But more glaringly obvious was a set of double doors which led through to a room dominated by the biggest bed she had ever seen. Emma bit her lip. It was an insult—a blatant and glaring insult.

‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

‘No, that will be all, thanks.’

She waited until the boy had shut the doors behind him before turning on Vincenzo, who was taking his jacket off. ‘You said a drink. This is a suite!’ she accused.

Vincenzo smiled as he loosened his tie. So she wanted to play games, did she? ‘The two aren’t mutually incompatible, surely?’ With a careless hand, he indicated the ice-bucket containing champagne. ‘Drink all you like, cara.’

‘Are you saying that a table wouldn’t magically have become available if you’d asked for one?’ Emma asked, wishing she could rid herself of the terrible nerves which were criss-crossing through her stomach and beginning to tie it up in knots.

‘I could have asked for one,’ he conceded. ‘But you cannot deny that up here it is so much more comfortable—and so much more private, of course.’ He poured out champagne, which fizzed up like pale gold into two tall flutes, his eyes glittering with insolent challenge—wondering how long she was going to carry on playing the innocent. ‘Take off your coat and lets have a drink. You said you had something you wanted to tell me.’

Nerves had suddenly clutched at her throat as if someone had placed their hands there and were squeezing all the breath from her body. Emma nodded, slipped her coat off, perched on the edge of the sofa and took the drink from him, although she noticed that he didn’t pick up a glass himself.

It had been a long time since she’d drunk champagne and its sudden heady rush reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She felt dizzy. Weakened by his proximity and the way that he was looking at her. So tell him.

‘Vincenzo…this is very difficult.’

He sat down beside her. He could see her trembling and his lips curved into an arrogant smile. Had an earlier taste of his kisses reminded her just what she’d been missing? She really did want him. ‘Is it?’ he questioned, with soft arrogance.

Taking the half-drunk glass from her unprotesting fingers and putting it down on a table, he ran a thoughtful finger along the too-severe jut of her collar-bone, feeling her shiver beneath his touch. ‘It’s only difficult if we make it so. If you try and dress it up to be something it isn’t. Why not just admit that we’re still physically attracted to one another and that we both want this?’

Emma stared at him in rapidly escalating horror. He thought…he really did think she’d come back to strike the deal—a quick divorce in exchange for a night of sex. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

But Vincenzo wasn’t listening. He was hungry for her, transfixed by the way her rapid breathing was making her breasts rise and fall—and he was feeling more fired up than he could remember feeling since that last time he’d made love to her. His mouth hardened. Or, rather, had sex with her. There had been no love involved in that last frantic coming together that day in Rome. Maybe there never had been. Maybe thunderbolts were merely the indiscriminate strikings of lust.

‘I don’t care,’ he said deliberately. ‘In fact, I don’t care about anything—only this.’

His mouth came down on hers—a slow, drugging kiss with all the passion he’d displayed earlier in his offices, but this time there was a difference. This time they were not on his territory with the possibility that his assistant might wiggle her way in at any moment. And this time Emma knew that she was beaten—in every way. In a few minutes’ time she was going to tell Vincenzo something which would change his life irrevocably.

She was going to have to learn to live with his anger and the contempt she knew deep down that he was keeping on ice because at this moment he wanted her. And didn’t she want him, too? If she was being honest, then she had never really stopped wanting him. So why couldn’t she have this one last time before all the recriminations started? One last taste of bliss before the dark clouds descended.

‘Vincenzo,’ she groaned as she reached up to cling onto his broad shoulders and felt their muscular power. ‘Oh, Vincenzo.’

He closed his mind to the memories stirred up by her breathless words, instead pulling her closer into his arms, feeling her petite frame trembling beneath his touch and the soft, silken spill of her hair as it brushed against his cheek. The fierce throbbing at his groin was setting him on fire, and he kissed her more thoroughly than he could ever remember kissing anyone before—his lips exploring hers as if he couldn’t bear to tear his mouth away. What was it that she did to him?

‘Touch me!’ he urged huskily. ‘Touch me the way you used to.’

The faint sense of vulnerability in his deep voice was almost too much to bear—as intoxicating as his shuddered entreaty—or was Emma just imagining that? Hearing what she wanted to hear. But either way, she was in too deep to want to do anything other than what he wanted—and she ran her hands luxuriously down over his chest, feeling the roughness of hair beneath the fine silk of his shirt.

‘Like that?’ she whispered.

‘Piu!’

‘More?’

‘Sì! More. Much more.’

Her fingers whispered down to his groin, where he was unashamedly aroused, and he bit out a remark which sounded like some Sicilian curse, and she thought that it probably was. As if he despised being in thrall to his senses like this, even while his body revelled in it. ‘Like this?’

‘Sì, exactly like that. Ah, Emma,’ he groaned. Pale witch of a woman! Experimentally, he ran his hands over her body—this body he knew so well—as if he were feeling it for the first time. And maybe he was. He frowned. It felt different. Not only a diminishment of flesh, but her breasts seemed to be a different shape, too—or at least as much as he could tell while she was still covered up. He cupped one and let his thumb graze across it.

‘Take this damned dress off,’ he instructed.

But even in the midst of her body’s heated clamour, Emma was assailed by nerves. Surely he wasn’t expecting her to leap up and start stripping off for him—the way she might once have done when they were newly married? In view of their situation wouldn’t that be impossible? Why, she would feel as if he was buying her. And isn’t he? jeered the mocking voice of her conscience. Isn’t he?

But Emma closed her ears and her mind to the uncomfortable taunt and licked her dry lips. ‘You…you take it off.’

‘If you insist,’ he murmured.

He was good at that, of course. He must have removed a million dresses in his time. And how many other women had he undressed since the last time she’d been in his arms? wondered Emma painfully as he peeled the cheap little garment from her body, letting it fall disdainfully to the floor.

As he moved away from her his black eyes scorched over her like a diabolical laser beam. ‘Let me look at you.’

She wanted to shrink her arms over her chest and bunch her knees up to hide from the inevitable critical assessment of her scrawny body and her plain underwear, and her…

‘Tights!’ he bit out derisively. ‘Since when did you start wearing tights?’

Since she stopped being a billionaire’s possession, that was when. Maybe her estranged husband didn’t realise that sliding into silk stockings and suspender belt wasn’t exactly compatible with getting up at the crack of dawn to feed a baby.

The thought of the baby and what she was going to have to tell Vincenzo was enough to make Emma freeze momentarily—to want to call a halt to it and tell him that this was a fruitless exercise. But by now he was tugging the tights down over her ankles and off her toes and burying his head into the apex of her thighs—kissing her there, over her plain cotton panties, until she was wriggling impatiently, wanting him with a fierce desire which was almost unbearable.

‘Vincenzo,’ she gasped.

‘You want to go to bed?’ he demanded hotly.

And break the mood? Giving her time for second thoughts? Allowing reason to creep in and ruin something that was making her feel more alive than she had done in so long? Her head said this was probably one of the craziest things she had ever done but her body had other ideas. And he was still her husband, Emma thought achingly—surely this was her right as much as her pleasure.

‘No,’ she whispered, tangling her fingers in the ebony waves of his hair, the way she’d done innumerable times before. ‘Let’s do it here.’

Vincenzo groaned at her easy capitulation—at her effortless transformation from ice queen to siren. But he had always loved the fiery passion which lay beneath the cool blonde exterior. That streak of sensual unconventionality he had coaxed from her—at least until those last glacial months of the marriage. He had taught her everything she knew—why should he not taste the fruits of his labour one more time, to see if she had improved during his absence from her bed? ‘Take off my shirt,’ he gritted out.

Her trembling fingers struggled to slide the delicate fabric over the infinitely silkier surface of his skin, her fingers gently clawing in little circles at the whorls of hair which grew there, but he stilled them with the flat of his hand. ‘Later,’ he said unsteadily. ‘There will be time for that later—but for now…’

He was pulling at the buckle of his belt and Emma was thinking that there would be no later—a certain knowledge told her that even while her nagging conscience urged her to tell him. Tell him now. But she did not heed it—she could not—for a broken little sound was torn from her throat as she touched her lips greedily to his shoulders and his neck. Her lips brushed against the rough rasp of his jaw, grazing softly along its proud, curved line, and she heard his ragged sigh of pleasure.

How cruel sex could be, she thought, with a shiver. And not just cruel, but clever, too—because it could make you feel things which weren’t real. It could make you believe that you still loved someone…and she didn’t love Vincenzo—of course she didn’t. How could she possibly love him after everything that had happened?

She watched as he moved away to remove the last of his clothing and then pushed her back against the sofa as he came to her—with a dark, sexual power she had almost forgotten. For a moment time was frozen as he towered over her like some dark and golden colossus before he slid down onto her waiting skin.

‘Vincenzo!’ she gasped as he entered her with one long and delicious thrust, filling her completely. For a moment he stilled and looked down at her, his black eyes opaque with lust and a fleeting glimpse of something else, too—something which looked like anger. But surely not anger at a time like this? ‘Vincenzo?’ she said again, only this time on a question.

He shook his head slightly as he began to move within her, despising her sexual power over him even as he felt it rip his senses apart with such an overload of sensual delight. He stared down at the vision she made beneath him—her eyes tightly closed and her cheeks growing pink as she lifted those perfect legs and wrapped them tightly around his back.

And hadn’t doing this to her haunted his dreams for too long? Surely this would rid him of her pervasive spell once and for all. His mouth hardened. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered softly. ‘Look at me, Emma.’

Reluctantly, she allowed her eyelids to flutter open. When your eyes were closed you could imagine. Invent. Pretend that this was happening for no other reason than that two people loved one another. How far from the truth that was—how complex the motives which had brought both of them here, to this place. She stared up into the taut tension of his face. ‘Oh, Vincenzo,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, Vincenzo!’ he mocked as he curled the palms of his hands underneath her bare buttocks. ‘Am I the best lover you’ve ever had, Emma?’

‘You…you know you are!’ she gasped out, aware that he wanted to hurt her—but suddenly she was past caring, for he had brought her to that point where it was all going to happen, and far sooner than she had thought. As if he were catapulting her up to the stars and then bringing her down again in slow and delicious motion. ‘Vincenzo…oh, oh! Oh…yes…yes…ye-e-s-s!’

He felt her body clenching around him and forced himself to hold back for just long enough to watch her wild abandon as her head fell back and her nails dug into his shoulders. And then he let go and took his own pleasure and he could never remember it washing over him with such strength—making him completely powerless in its wake. It seemed to go on and on as if it were never going to stop—and even after it was over and had subsided he stayed inside her for a moment while the final spasms ebbed away.

He looked down at her flushed face, at the strand of hair which clung to one damp cheek. In the past he might have pushed that strand away and curled it around his finger, but not now—for such a gesture would imply some kind of tenderness, and tenderness was the last thing he was feeling.

He pulled out of her and moved away, getting up from the sofa and walking over to pour himself a glass of water, lifting it to his lips and drinking from it, his black eyes capturing her gaze over its rim. ‘Do you realise that we were so up for it—as you might say—that we failed to consider contraception?’ he mocked. ‘But, as we both know, that is not a subject which needs trouble us.’

Disbelievingly, Emma stared across the room at him, trembling now. How unimaginably cruel. Had he saved the most wounding barb of all for last—to say something as confrontational as that, after they had just shared the greatest intimacy of all? To try to cold-bloodedly hurt her as nothing else could? Well, he was wrong—as he was about to discover—but wasn’t his brutality at such a moment a timely reminder not to weave any foolish fantasies about Vincenzo Cardini?

‘That remark was completely unnecessary,’ she said stiffly.

‘Was it?’ he mocked. ‘But it’s the truth.’

Surely he was never going to believe her when she told him how very wrong he was? Emma reached for her bra and pants. She was going to have to tell him, but she was damned if she was going to be naked when she did so.

He watched her getting dressed but was disinclined to stop her. If he wanted her again then he would simply undress her quickly—but right now all he felt was distaste. How quickly the urges of the body could mask the reality of a situation, he thought—and once passion had been spent all you were left with were the cold, hard facts.

Emma was nothing to him now other than a duplicitous wife who had just submitted to sex in order to secure a speedy divorce deal! He began to pull his own clothes on, eager now to be away from her.

‘Vincenzo.’ Emma finished pulling her dress down over her head and pushing her disarrayed hair back from her flushed face before turning to face him. ‘You remember I said that I had something to tell you.’

He barely flicked her a glance as he finished buttoning his shirt and slipped his shoes on. ‘I can hardly wait,’ he said sarcastically.

She drew a deep breath. How many ways were there to say it? Only one—because the words were so powerful that nothing, nothing was ever going to be able to lessen their irrevocable impact. But how could she tell him—how could she?

‘Vincenzo. You’ve got…I mean…we’ve got…’ Emma cleared her throat, aware of the furious, frightened hammering of her heart. ‘The thing is, you see—we have a son. A son. You have a son.’