And when the tips of his fingers touched the corner of her mouth she twisted her head away savagely again and wrenched herself up against the pillows, and he misread the cause of her panicobviously he did—because he straightened up, reassuring her, ‘The meal will keep for ten minutes or so. Don’t worry about it. Have your shower while I sort out something fresh for you to slip into—it will save time.’
Uncomfortably aware of her crumpled state, she slid off the bed. Thankfully, he’d put the wrong interpretation on her flurry of panic. Saving time wasn’t her priority. And although he was acting like her big brother now she trusted neither him nor herself and she definitely didn’t want him going through her things. She couldn’t cope with that kind of intimacy.
‘There’s no need for that,’ she said stiffly, unaware of the naked fright in her wide green eyes, but he was aware and he mentally shook his head, doing his best to make her feel less threatened as he told her wryly, ‘I don’t have a fetish about women’s underwear. Now scoot—you’re wasting time.’
She went, simply because she couldn’t stay. Being in the same room, breathing the same air, constricted her blood vessels, made her heart pound.
How could she have let her emotions get so out of hand? she agonised as she closed the bathroom door behind her and leant defeatedly against it. There was no lock, she noted, her brows bunching together as panic fluttered crazily through her again, right down to her toes, making them curl against the cool marble floor.
How could the human heart behave so destructively? How could it act in such a way? Falling in love with her sister’s future husband was the most senseless thing she had ever done. It made her feel deeply, shamefully guilty and utterly stupid!
And it also meant that she couldn’t marry Tom.
Well, how could she? Even if a miracle happened and she fell out of love with Luke immediately she would always remember. Remember and compare.
Remember things she would rather forget, would have been better off never knowing. Remember the way she trembled inside when he looked at her and smiled, the way she had to do physical battle with herself to stop her arms reaching out for him. Remember the awful aching need to be close to him always ... always ...
She had never, ever felt like that about Tom. Never felt that the merest sight of him made life more glowing, more intense, richer, more worth living.
Beginning to shake all over, she did her best to batten down the clamouring emotions that were in danger of pulling her to pieces and shucked off her clothes with unsteady hands while casting an anxious glance at the door.
Her shower would have to be one of the shortest on record. She didn’t think he’d actually invade her privacy to the extent of walking in here, and the smoked-glass shower stall would afford some protection, but intimacy of any kind—even the casual, natural-seeming kind that he’d brought with him when he’d come to wake her—would be too much for her poor demented heart to bear.
So she was out within three minutes, wrapped in a bathsheet, dragging the plastic shower cap from her head when he walked through as if he had every right, draping the clothes he’d had the gall to pick out on a padded stool, not looking at her, not once, striding back out again with an easy, ‘Five minutes. OK?’
It would have to be. Although dinner with him was something she didn’t know how she’d get through. And her face felt hot, every bone in her body quaking as she reached out a hand for the tumble of black fabric, the lacy briefs and sheer, sheer tights.
Her eyes closed on a groan of bleak despair. What on earth had possessed her? What had made her rush out to buy on a wild impulse after she’d learned she’d be meeting up with Luke this weekend? What had made her splurge out on a deep flame-coloured top and trousers which she was sure she would never have the courage to wear, and this—the sexy black chiffon shift with the silverbeaded embroidery round the hem and the indecently scooped neckline?
And trust him to pick it out in preference to the sensible things she’d brought along—the practical cotton skirts and tops, the neat shirtwaister in goanywhere beige.
Padding back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel to retrieve the shirtwaister wasn’t an option. He would accuse her of wasting time again, argue, ask her if she was afraid to wear the black dress, and all the time she would be searingly conscious of him, of her nakedness, of the shameful, guilty desire to have him remove the towel, touch her, stroke the contours of her body with his eyes, pull her into his arms...
She blanked out the insanity of her thoughts ruthlessly and dressed quickly, refusing to look at herself in one of the many mirrors as she brushed her hair.
It would have to stay loose around her shoulders. Her fingers had turned to thumbs and there was no way she could manage to pin it back and out of the way.
And she didn’t look at him as she forced herself to walk back into the bedroom and pushed her feet into the brand-new spiky-heeled shoes he’d selected to go with the dress.
For if she looked at him he would read the raw and terrifying emotion in her eyes. It was too new, too shattering to be disguised, especially by someone as inexperienced as she knew herself to be.
And what then? Would he take that naked passion, demand it as his right because he, by his own unique alchemy, had brought it into being?
Or would he laugh, contrasting her humdrum ordinariness with what was already his—Helen’s gorgeous sexiness, Helen’s love—laugh at her because who would drink plain tap water when there was sparkling champagne for the taking?
She couldn’t face either scenario and made a great pretence of searching for her handbag, even though she knew where it was and didn’t need it anyway, so conscious of him that she thought she might faint.
Watching her move about the room, Luke felt the heat of forbidden desire clutch his loins. The moment he’d seen her at her engagement party he’d felt desperately, achingly sorry for her. A mousy little thing, completely overshadowed by her beautiful, dazzling, irresistible sister.
But she was seemingly content to fade into the wallpaper, because from what he had gathered she’d been brought up that way—the second-born, second-rate sister from whom little was expected. And she was about to be married to a stuffed shirt who would walk all over her, stamp her into the mould he believed he wanted, never allowing her the time or space to find out who she really was, what she wanted from life.
He had determined then to do what he could to open her eyes to her own possibilities. He had teased her, taunted her, pulled her this way and that and, yes, flirted with her, shown her what it was like to be properly kissed, because, despite her involvement with the stuffed shirt, he had known instinctively that she was totally unawakened sexually.
He bunched his hands in the pockets of the narrow black trousers he was wearing, the cream dinner jacket parting over his cream silk shirt, his eyes brooding.
So he’d achieved almost all he’d set out to do. She’d left that going-nowhere job to take one that would stretch her to the limit and she’d been tempted into choosing clothes that would show her to be as attractive in her own way as her vibrant sister.
He could hardly believe the way the black chiffon shift he’d plucked out of her wardrobe enticingly displayed the gorgeous curves that had previously been smothered by hopelessly dowdy stuff, the scooped neckline revealing the creamy skin of her upper breasts, the die-for cleavage that made his fingers itch to explore in loving detail, his mouth ache to suckle the pert globes that were so erotically cradled in filmy fabric, the short hemline showing off legs that were wickedly, slenderly elegant...
In a moment, he knew, he’d give in to the gratingly urgent, forbidden need to touch, to rip the dress from her back and kiss her body to full awareness. His plans for her metamorphosis had rebounded with a vengeance. And it had to stop.
‘We’ve kept Chiara waiting long enough,’ he said roughly into the silence. ‘Shall we go?’
The grating sexiness of his rough-edged voice brought her head up, her eyes
locking with his. Air bunched in her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, the intensity of her emotions shaking her by the throat.
There was a slight frown between his magnificent, brooding eyes and his sensual mouth was tugged down at the corners. So her mindless messing about, keeping him waiting, had annoyed him. It hurt. And it shouldn’t.
‘Of course,’ she returned spikily. ‘Let’s go. I’m ravenous.’
And she walked rigidly from the room, every muscle, every bone held stiffly as she fought the slamming awareness of his closeness, desperately holding onto her composure because she knew that if she lost it she would go to pieces.
And everything held, by some miracle it held, until they emerged onto the loggia.
‘This is fabulous,’ she said crisply, her voice high and brittle.
Golden lanterns illuminated the area. There was a table set for two and the roses cascading over the terrace looked ghostly in the moonlight, scenting the balmy air.
‘Guests could dine here if they preferred,’ she went on in that cold, hard voice, adding with a dose of sarcasm, ‘Of course, I don’t know the proximity to the proposed dining area, not having been given the opportunity to see the plans yet, but—’
‘What a prickly little thing you are.’ He seated himself on the opposite side of the table, his eyes remote. ‘You make every comment sound like an accusation. Lighten up, why don’t you?’
Bess swallowed. Hard. Perhaps her remarks, the tone of her voice had been too confrontational. But he needn’t look as if he actively disliked her! She felt her composure begin to slip, and made a grab for it, coming back snippily, ‘Are all Italian men so all-fired arrogant?’ She frowned at the glass of Chianti he’d poured for her, her face going tight as his compelling eyes pulled her gaze back to him.
The flickering golden light of the candle in its amber glass bowl was reflected in the dark and smouldering depths. He looked diabolical, a magnet for the dark forces of all that was wickedly exciting, intrinsically wrong, given their circumstances, sinfully reinforcing her deep and forbidden feelings for him. Tears of yearning, of dredging regret, stung the back of her eyes and the hardness of his voice was almost a relief as he answered her question.
‘I’m a half-breed, don’t forget. I may have my share of thoroughbred Italian arrogance, but I lack the inborn finesse.’ His sparsely flushed, broad shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. ‘I am a mongrel. Remember that. Mongrels fight dirty, if they have to.’
He stared at her face, its beauty tight and troubled. He’d fight any way he could to deny this dangerous attraction, he thought suddenly—even replace the growing sexual tension with direct antagonism, if that was what it took.
‘Eat,’ he commanded coldly. ‘Chiara has gone to some trouble and you said you were ravenous.’
Well, she wasn’t. She’d lied. And she should be rejoicing because he’d suddenly found he disliked her, had stopped flirting and teasing. And if her presence irritated him enough, became a bore, he’d be only too glad to see the back of her and let her go, tomorrow, after she’d done what she was here to do.
Her thoughts should have comforted her, but didn’t. She felt unbearably hurt, her stomach lurching as she stared with glazed eyes at the no doubt delicious helping of thinly sliced ham, olives, tiny sausages and anchovies he had put in front of her.
She forced some of it down, helped by generous sips of the ruby-red wine, then toyed with the next course—bite-sized pieces of tender lamb flavoured with rosemary which Chiara had proudly presented. Eventually she said, because the brooding silence was unbearable and she was sinking beneath the harsh weight of it and any conversation had to be better, ‘Do you have many relatives in Italy, apart from your cousin?’
‘Droves of them,’ he answered curtly, pushing his unfinished food away, impatience in the gesture. But she persevered, something driving her to get to know as much about him as she could.
‘Do you see them often? Were you born in Italy, or in England? Perhaps you have a home of your own here?’
She knew she sounded breathless, but the words suddenly tripping off her tongue were born of a last desperate need to flesh him out.
She would never, she recognised sadly, be able to discuss him with her sister. It would be far too painful. She would do her level best to avoid the couple whenever possible after the wedding, at least until the pain in her heart became more manageable.
‘So many questions!’ But he sounded more relaxed, as if a conversation centred on his roots was safe territory. He shrugged lightly then gestured over the terrace where, down in the valleys far below, pinpricks of light showed the existence of tiny villages. ‘I was born here in Tuscany. It calls to me sometimes. I feel it deep in my heart—a loss, a regret.’
‘You’d like to make your home here again?’ she guessed, drawn by the yearning note in his honey-dark voice. He told her, ‘When the time is right, yes.’
When he and Helen had been married a year or two, were ready to start a family. It made sense. And it hurt. Unbearably. But he was telling her easily, ‘By the time I was born in a villa on the banks of the Arno, on the outskirts of Pisa, the family had come a long way from its peasant roots. My father was head of my great-grandfather’s merchant bank and had married into an English county family.’
He was looking away as he spoke, avoiding the huge, consuming eyes. He supposed he was talking about his background because it was easier to bear than the earlier taut silence, and the information was harmless enough. ‘My mother wasn’t happy in Italy and after my father died we lived in London. She has never been back.’
‘How old were you when your father died?’ Bess was glad he wasn’t looking at her. That way she could indulge the desire to devour him with her eyes, study those lean, dark features, the soft, silky fall of his hair, the firm masculine jawline, the cruel yet sensually beautiful mouth, to imprint his image on her mind in guilty secrecy because the image of him was all she would have, the man himself being strictly out of bounds.
Then she dropped her gaze quickly as he turned briefly to look at her, telling her, ‘Thirteen. I was sent to an English public school and the only concession made to my Italian heritage at that time was the promise that I should follow in my father’s footsteps regarding my career.’
Looking at her had been a huge mistake, he realised. The tension built up massively again. It stung the air. Yet, having turned to her, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pale oval of her face, framed by that rich, glossy hair, the golden lamplight making a mystery of her lush lips, smooth, creamy shoulders, stroking, deepening the enticing shadow between her breasts, making the adoring pools of her eyes look fathomless.
Adoring... He groaned silently, cursing himself for what he had done. He had awoken her to her sexual potential, never imagining that all those previously repressed desires would focus on him.
And heaven knew that desire was reciprocated! It would be fatally easy to do the dishonourable thing. He had to kill the infatuation, for that was all it could be for her, here and now. A muscle jerked at the side of his jaw. It would hurt him as much as it hurt her...
‘Anything else you’d like to know?’ he asked harshly. ‘The size of the shoes I wore when I was ten? When I came out of nappies? When I was weaned?’ He drained his wineglass and slapped it down on the table. ‘If not, may we end the conversation? It’s boring me.’
For a moment she couldn’t believe it. The pain round her heart was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She’d been lulled into softness by the companionable way he’d been talking to her, melting in the atmosphere of secret intimacy, feeling herself drawn closer to him, into him, a part of him, if only for a few magical moments...
‘I apologise for boring you,’ she managed through cold, wooden lips. There was a giant lump in her throat. Her mouth felt dry.
She stood up, intending to walk away with dignity, but her leg bones had taken a holiday and she couldn’t trust herself to move. To stop herself from wee
ping she informed him, ‘Don’t blame me if you’re used to more sparkling company. You insisted I stay. So be prepared to be bored out of your socks.’
She had to make her exit now. Whatever riposte he cared to make, she wouldn’t be able to bear it. She forced herself to move, but her jelly-like legs betrayed her, sending her jerking painfully into the side of the table as she tried to walk around it, and the tiny humiliation was the final straw. The tears she had been so gallantly fighting poured down her face, the sob that had been building in her chest escaping in humiliating disorder.
Her hands came up to cover her face, hiding this final ignominy, and she heard above the rasping of her breath and the uneven pounding of her heart the chink of china as the table was pushed unceremoniously aside.
‘Cora—don’t!’ His arms were like steel bands as they came around her. ‘I can’t take this. I’m sorry. Sorry! Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.’
His voice was harsh, but not like before; the raw emotion wasn’t displeasure, but something else. Something that made her feel light-headed, something that stemmed the flow of tears, sent shudders of wildfire through her veins as his arms tightened, merging their bodies, making her understand that inescapable something and helplessly, eagerly respond.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE flash of desire was too intense, too driven to be fought, and Bess wound her arms around his neck, her body beginning to shake.
Luke groaned despairingly as a deep answering shudder raked through his body, and then his mouth took hers and she submitted with mindless willingness to the plundering onslaught, the unstoppable tide of mutual need.
The invasion of his tongue ignited wild explosions throughout her body, creating a fever in her brain, and when the tip of her own tongue instinctively curled around his the conflagration of his untamed response flooded her with a sexual excitement more explicit, more wanton than she had ever dreamed possible.
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