Читать книгу Escape for Easter - Ким Лоренс, Trish Morey - Страница 13

SAM lifted a hand and ran it down the hard curve of Cesare’s jaw.

‘Couldn’t we just go to bed?’ she suggested hopefully.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a wolfish smile as he ran a finger slowly down the curve of her cheek. ‘You’re offering me some sympathy sex, cara?’

‘I’m offering you me.’

He gasped, and she could feel a shudder run through his hard lean frame.

‘I don’t seem to have any pride where you’re concerned. I’m utterly shameless.’ She had never imagined that she could surrender herself so unconditionally to any man, let alone a man like Cesare.

She was totally unselfconscious but at the same time more aware of her femininity than she had ever been in her life. Everything about this man was a contradiction and so were her feelings for him. The antagonism and attraction she felt for him bled into one confusing, powerful, all-consuming entity.

‘You’re utterly delicious,’ he contradicted thickly. ‘I have been thinking about being inside you.’

The erotic image his words created in her head made the ache low in her pelvis intensify. She stared into his eyes, she saw her reflection, saw the predatory glow and felt an equally primal response clutch like a tight fist deep inside her. Reckless desire tugged like a silken thread at Sam’s senses as she watched her bra go the same way as her top. She shivered as the cool air touched her overheated skin.

‘Then do it,’ she whispered.

‘Marry me.’

‘Will you stop saying that? People don’t make decisions just like that,’ she protested, pressing her lips to his throat and tasting the salt of his skin.

‘Forget people. We’re not people, we’re us. We made a baby, Samantha. He needs us.’

He made a compelling argument. Feelings struggled and warred inside her; her sex-soaked brain wouldn’t work. On one level what he was saying made sense and it was attractive, on another it terrified her witless!

‘What about me? Doesn’t it matter what I need?’

‘You need me.’ And right now he needed her. The hunger roared in his blood like a furnace, drowning out the nagging edge of guilt over his manipulation of the situation.

‘A paper arrangement, you said?’

A slow smile of male triumph spread across his face. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Right now I think we should finish this in the comfort of a bed. You do have a bed?’

‘Yes, I have a bed.’

He fitted his hand in hers. ‘Then lead the way, cara,’ he said, rising to his feet and pulling her with him.

‘I didn’t say yes.’

‘Of course you did,’ he said with smug male complacence before he kissed her and made her feel as though she’d say anything he wanted her to.

It was two days later that Cesare accompanied her on her visit for her first scan.

The plush offices of the Harley Street clinic were a million miles from the NHS department she had expected to be attending.

Watching her budget was too deeply ingrained in Sam for her not to feel a flicker of guilt at her luxurious surroundings, but, having seen Cesare’s expression when he’d spoken of the safety and health of his unborn child, she had recognised that this was not a point that he was prepared to be flexible on. It seemed better to save her energy for battles she could win.

Besides, she couldn’t see Cesare standing patiently in an NHS-clinic queue—he would probably behave so badly they would be asked to leave.

‘What are you smiling at?’

Sam turned her head, astonished. ‘How do you know I’m smiling?’

He shook his head, looked briefly perplexed by the question himself, and said, ‘But you are?’

‘I was thinking about you behaving badly.’

His voice dropped to the seductive purr that always made her stomach muscles quiver. ‘I thought you liked it when I behaved badly, cara?’ he observed with a pretty feeble display of innocent surprise.

‘I wasn’t thinking of the bedroom.’

His grin deepened. ‘I rarely think of any place else.’ He didn’t need to be psychic then to know she was blushing.

A few minutes later Sam knew Cesare’s thoughts were not in the bedroom.

She turned her face briefly from the screen and the look she caught on his face tore at her heart. She had been too excited and enthralled by what she had seen to give a thought to how Cesare would feel hearing the doctor describing the images of their baby—images he could not see of a child he would never see.

Swept away on a wave of painful empathy, she caught his big strong hand between two of hers, for once not caring of his ultra sensitivity to any form of sympathy. To hell with his pride! His skin felt cold as she brought his hand to her chest; she felt the raw pain in his face as a physical ache.

Her expression grew determined. She could not make him see but she could share.

‘You can see his head and his heart beating and that…’ She threw a questioning glance towards the medic. ‘The spinal cord?’

Cesare swallowed, the muscles in his brown throat working hard as his fingers tightened around her own.

‘You say he?’

‘Do you want to know the sex, Cesare?’

There was a pause before Cesare responded. ‘I do not care about the sex so long as he, she, is strong and healthy.’

‘Well, the way he she is moving around there seems very little problem there.’ She glanced towards the doctor to seek confirmation and he nodded.

‘I’m happy to say everything is as it should be.’

‘In a few weeks you’ll be able to feel him move, kick… I just need to make some measurements to confirm your dates.’

‘Oh, there is no mistake about those,’ she said without thinking.

‘Indeed, a night to remember,’ Cesare agreed blandly.

‘I’m not blushing,’ Sam lied, not looking at the doctor.

‘You are,’ Cesare replied, a smile in his voice.

She blushed again when the medic confirmed that her dates were spot on before wiping the gel off her stomach and leaving them alone.

‘Thank you for that.’

Sam finished readjusting her clothes and got to her feet. ‘For what?’ Sam asked, avoiding those dark eyes and wishing she could avoid the intensity of her own feelings as easily.

‘Thank you for letting me see our child through your eyes, Samantha.’

A warm glow spread through Sam as she savoured the intimacy of the moment. Her throat clogged with emotion as she replied, ‘You’re welcome. He is, after all, the one thing we have in common. We should be able to share that much at least.’

He appeared about to speak but then stopped and instead reached out and took her chin between his fingers. His ability to be able to place her in a room always astonished Sam. ‘So you will let me see our baby through your beautiful blue eyes.’

‘They are blue,’ she admitted.

‘Tim got quite lyrical when he described the colour to me—like violets, he tells me. This is the point where you remind me you have freckles.’

‘And what do you do?’

‘I kiss you,’ he said, and did.

Eight days after the scan the day of the wedding dawned—no point in hanging around, Cesare had said—and Sam had been suffering panic attacks on a daily basis. It was as if the thing had gathered momentum like a snowball and run away from her.

She could have stopped the snowball effect with one word but she hadn’t—because the alternative would mean a lot of things, including spending her nights alone.

They’d spent every night together except the two that Cesare had stayed over in Rome for business, and the previous night when Sam had returned to her bedsit for the last time. During the nights of passion she had no doubts; it was when daylight dawned that she started wondering about her sanity.

Maybe morning had a similar effect on Cesare, maybe he woke up wondering what he was doing? After earlier that day it seemed a distinct possibility. Why else did a man ring the woman he was marrying ten hours later that day at five-thirty in the morning?

He had rung off after ten minutes and the why was no clearer. But she had been left with the nagging impression that he had wanted to say something—possibly to call the whole thing off—and had changed his mind.

She had picked up the phone to ring him back several times but had lacked the guts to follow through.

She was still wondering about what he had intended to say when the car arrived to take her to the register office.

‘It’s not too late,’ she told her pale reflection. But it was and she knew she was committed. This was the best thing for the baby. The best thing for her wasn’t going to happen—it couldn’t. Cesare didn’t love her.

The discovery that she loved him had not come to her in a blinding flash.

She wasn’t even sure at what point during the last week she had actually realised the truth.

When he had slid the big sapphire on her finger and she had had to turn away to hide the rush of hot emotional tears?

When she had come across the snapshot of him clinging to a vertical rock wall above a dizzying drop and realised that it was only one of the things that had been snatched from him? That he faced every day with a bravery and lack of self-pity that filled her with admiration?

She thought of the day she had walked into a room an hour before he was flying off to Rome and he had been sitting at a desk staring into space, looking so remote as he’d turned his head in her direction that a shiver of apprehension had chased its way down her spine.

What did you expect? the voice in her head had asked. The man doesn’t love you, he isn’t going to tell you he’s counting the minutes until he sees you again. He isn’t going to say he will feel lonely when you’re not there… But she would. Had it been then that she’d realised her love for him?

It was all of those times and none of them because she knew that deep down it was something she had always known but had denied to herself. She was in love. Cesare Brunelli, brave, stubborn, and totally impossible, was the love of her life.

Today should have been the happiest of her life but instead as the car arrived at her destination all she felt was a profound sadness. The sadness that hung about her like a dark cloud had nothing to do with the fact there were no guests—it had been Sam’s decision not to tell her family or friends.

Her misery arose, not from the absence of guests or an elaborate wedding, but because of the absence of the one thing her heart craved—to have her love returned. But it just wasn’t going to happen.

Cesare didn’t love her. He would care for her and he would, she believed, respect the vows he made because she had learnt that, unlike the person portrayed in the tabloids, he was actually a deeply honourable man. But she would never have that place in his heart she so longed for.

Was she greedy, Sam wondered, to want it so badly when she had so much?

And what would happen if one day he met someone he did love the way he had loved Candice? Did he still love the beautiful blonde? Sam couldn’t stop torturing herself with the thoughts that he might have been thinking of the other woman when they made love.

The thoughts, when they intruded, made her feel sick to her stomach and they had spoilt more than one perfect moment for her, and Cesare, with his uncanny perception, always seemed to pick up on her unease.

When he asked her what was wrong, she never told him, of course. She said nothing, but he knew she was lying and the lie lay like a wall between them. It dissolved when their passions flared and ignited, but later when they cooled it was still there.

Sam knew that if this marriage was going to stand any chance of working she had to overcome her insecurities and accept that Cesare could not give her what she wanted—what he did give her was more than most women ever had.

She would make it work, she said to herself as she lifted her skirts and left the car.

Tim, looking nervous as though he were the groom, was waiting for her in the foyer of the old town hall building.

‘You look beautiful,’ he gasped, his eyes widening in shock when he saw Sam.

Sam touched the white skirt of her oyster satin gown with a self-conscious hand. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit over the top?’

Sam’s original intention had been to wear the suit she had worn for her brother’s wedding. It had after all cost a small fortune and only been worn once.

It was not a suggestion that had found favour with Cesare, who, ignoring her protest that she hated posh shops, had rung ahead to some exclusive store and arranged for it to open out of hours for her to choose something suitably fitting for the bride of a billionaire.

She had not entered the place with any intention of purchasing anything approaching a traditional wedding gown. A suit or something simple had been her vague instruction to the helpful assistant—people became very helpful when unlimited funds were involved, Sam had realised cynically.

Maybe she hadn’t been very specific because the first thing they had produced had been a dress, the one she was now wearing.

It was the simplicity that had immediately attracted her. Cut in simple strapless sheath design, the shimmering fabric kicked out slightly at the calf-length hem, but hugged her waist and hips.

She had been a little unsure about baring her shoulders and revealing so much cleavage—the boned bodice had an uplifting quality, but the staff had reassured her it was perfect.

Of course, the way they had raved might have had something to do with the cost—this was not the sort of store that had anything as tasteless as price tags—but, seeing her reflection in the mirror-lined cubicle, Sam had had to admit she didn’t look too bad.

Once she had said yes to the dress the entire thing had snowballed into some sort of mad retail-therapy frenzy! An hour later a stunned Sam had ended up being escorted back to the chauffeur-driven limo the proud owner of some sinfully sexy decadent underclothes, shoes, and most extravagantly a simply gorgeous antique Brussels lace veil.

‘This is a wedding—you can’t be too over the top,’ Tim said as he watched the sparkle fade from her violet eyes. She looked so sad that, even though he wasn’t a man into tactile displays, he wanted to hug her.

‘It’s not that sort of wedding.’ Sam bit her lip as she heard her carefully neutral tone ruined by the emotional vibrato quiver in her response.

Tim’s eyes fell from her direct gaze, but he did not directly respond to her comment or, to her relief, lie. Instead he surprised her by producing a posy from behind his back like a conjuror.

‘I hope you don’t mind? It is a wedding and you should have flowers.’ Tim pressed the posy of violets into Sam’s hands, adding gruffly. ‘The colour reminded me of your eyes.’

Sam was incredibly touched by the unexpected gesture. She lifted the posy to her face and inhaled. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’

‘You can’t have a wedding without flowers. I know—I offered to pay for the flowers for my sister’s wedding.’ He let out a silent whistle. ‘I had no idea at the time how much they could cost in a real wedding.’ He stopped and looked embarrassed. ‘Not that this isn’t a real wedding,’ he added hastily.

‘There’s no need to pretend—we both know that it isn’t,’ Sam replied, her outward composure a stark contrast to the misery churning in her stomach.

Tim’s expression grew earnest as he studied her pale face. ‘Are you sure about this, Sam?’

Sam, who wasn’t sure about anything except the fact Cesare was the love of her life and the father of her child, managed a teasing smile. ‘Are you suggesting I run?’

‘If Cesare wants this I doubt you could run fast or far enough to escape him…’ Tim’s eyes widened with dismay. ‘God, I make him sound sinister. I didn’t mean it that way, I just meant…’

That he wants this baby at any cost and I come as part of the package.

Sam sighed. She supposed she ought to be grateful that Cesare had not tried to deceive her. He had not pretended to love her. Recognising that part of her wished he had filled Sam with self-disgust.

‘I know what you meant, Tim, he’s…implacable. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing…’

Tim didn’t look as though he believed that claim any more than she did.

‘And if I don’t, well, there is a perfectly easy solution,’ she mused, recalling Cesare’s comments on the subject.

‘Divorce?’

Sam could understand Tim’s shocked expression. After all, it wasn’t customary for a bride to be discussing the subject just before she took her vows.

Her slender shoulder lifted. ‘Well…it happens. Don’t worry, I’ll try and make it work,’ she added.

It occurred to Cesare as he stood in the small anonymous room that this was not the sort of wedding that most girls dreamed of.

What sort of wedding had Samantha dreamed about?

Had she dreamed?

He didn’t know because he hadn’t asked her, he hadn’t given her time to think. It had been obvious that she was still in a state of shock over the unplanned pregnancy and he had ruthlessly exploited the situation to coerce her into marriage. What she wanted or needed had not come into the equation. He had been totally focused on being there for his child, on being a full-time father. That focus had allowed him to ignore one simple fact—he needed her.

Cesare had never needed a woman before. Wanted, yes, but needed, no.

The fact she was carrying his child had been convenient in that it had offered a sufficient excuse for him to legitimately avoid delving too deep into the survival-instinct mentality that had taken over when he had thought of her slipping out of his life.

A wave of self-disgust rolled over him.

He was a selfish bastard, but the recognition did not lessen his determination that this ceremony would go ahead.

He would be a considerate husband, he silently vowed.

She would not regret marrying him.

The door opened with a silent swish; there was no accompanying blast of music. No tissues were lifted to blot emotional tears, no heads turned to gasp at the bride.

It took every last ounce of Cesare’s self-control not to turn his own head in response to the sound of footsteps on the wood-block floor.

Sam recited her part in the charade in a quiet voice that the registrar visibly struggled to hear. Cesare in contrast made his responses in a clear, resonant tone. She kept her eyes carefully trained on the registrar throughout the service and it wasn’t until Cesare was given the smiling all-clear to kiss his bride that she turned and tilted her head, her shaking fingers struggling to lift her veil.

Cesare released a sigh, glad now more than ever that he had ignored the doctor’s earnest advice that morning.

Who would want to be lying in a hospital bed gazing at the sterile white walls when they could be looking at this face? She was beautiful.

He gazed, inscribing to memory every detail of her heart-shaped face. He had traced each contour with his fingers; he knew her skin was smooth and soft; he knew all about the tiny suggestion of a cleft in her small, determined chin and faint frown line between her feathery brows. He knew her mouth was lush and wide and made for kissing.

What he didn’t know about until now was that her lips were pink like roses, the colour only enhanced, not disguised, by the clear gloss she had applied to them.

That there was the creamy glowing tint to her skin, the delicious sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her tip-tilted nose, the glorious Titian of her Pre-Raphaelite curls, and most of all he hadn’t known about the colour of her eyes, an impossible shade of deep velvet blue.

His throat tightened as emotions swelled in his chest. If he woke up tomorrow back in a world of blackness he would carry this memory, that colour, her face with him.

There had been occasions over the past days when he had fallen asleep with her in his arms fantasising about waking up in the morning and seeing her face. He had never actually expected it to happen, but it had and she had not been there.

Not there, but his first instinct had been to tell her. He had picked up the phone, his intention to do just that, to share the miracle.

Then he had heard her sleepy voice the other end and thought, What if it isn’t a miracle? Maybe his sight would vanish as abruptly as it had returned. So he had remained silent and taken the decision instead to seek medical advice.