And as the hard, urgent domination of his arousal thrust against the softness of her belly Bess sank bonelessly against him, transported to a world of winging ecstasy, a kaleidoscope of love in all its glowing facets where nothing existed but her love for him, her need and his.
‘Bess!’ he uttered hoarsely, a raw expletive thickening his throat as he lifted her bodily in his arms, his mouth returning hungrily to hers as he carried her through the silent building to her room.
And his hands were shaking as he unzipped her dress and slowly slid it from her shoulders, down her body—tiny tremors that added a sense of timeless urgency, made her step lightly out of the pool of fabric and rub the rosy tips of her breasts against his chest, her fingers parting his shirt, needing the touch of his flesh against hers.
Gasping raggedly, he threw back his head, his eyes closed, his mouth a grim rictus as her swollen nipples rubbed against his burning, hair-roughened skin, his whole body tensing for a fragment of time before he dragged her hard against him. His mouth moved feverishly over her skin, her eyelids, the corners of her mouth, the hollows behind her ears and the length of her throat before swooping lower to suckle ardently at the pert, swollen breasts as he had been aching to do since he’d first seen her in that wicked black dress.
As he swept her up in his arms once more and carried her to the bed, the tremors of his hard body matched her own, as if they were already one being. A stab of deep, raw sensation burned with bright savagery in the pit of her stomach when he dragged off his clothing and she saw the satin sheen of his skin, the desperate need in his tarnished-silver eyes, the sheer magnificence of him as he slowly, almost reverently, enclosed her in his arms.
The moment she woke Bess was immediately and sensationally deluged by emotions so deep, so intense that she marvelled that her slight body could contain them without fragmenting into millions of tiny ecstatic pieces.
Without opening her eyes she knew that Luke was still deeply asleep. His breathing was slow and gentle, his naked body warm and vibrant beneath her curving arm.
The temptation to wake him was enormous. Bess resisted. Slowly, carefully, she withdrew her arm and eased herself up on one elbow, and as she looked down at him her heart was wrung with a love that was so intense, it was painful.
He was so beautiful—dark lashes made twin smudgy shadows above his slanting cheekbones and in sleep his lips were parted temptingly. So temptingly...
But, more than that, his passion had been tempered with a gentle consideration, as if he had intuitively known she was a virgin. And as he had entered her, finally, completely, she had breathed his name and he had said thickly, making her feel special, ‘Luca. It is my birth name. To you I am Luca.’
And now she asked herself if he had also invited Helen to use the name he had been given before it had been anglicised. The question slammed into her, a physical blow that made her wrap her arms round her body in a futile attempt to contain the shock.
The awful, inescapable, uncontainable shock of guilt.
She had spent the night with her sister’s future husband, making love with him time after time, each experience more passionate, more tumultuous, deeper than the one before, her responses to him wildly uninhibited.
It was the ultimate betrayal and she didn’t know how she was going to live with herself. Unless—unless he hadn’t been able to help himself either, had fallen in love with her as catastrophically as she had with him.
But it needn’t be a catastrophe, need it? Not if he had discovered he loved her, not Helen.
She bit down hard on her lower lip, tears flooding her eyes as she realised how much Helen would be hurt. And her mother would never speak to her again. It had been taken for granted that Helen would make a brilliant marriage while she, Bess, would make a sensible one.
Her mother would accuse her of being a thief, stealing her glittering daughter’s rightful glory. And Bess had learned early never to try to stand in her sister’s limelight, never to expect the best things in life which Helen demanded, and got, as of right.
Closing her eyes, forcing back tears, she knew she had to be sensible about this. And that shouldn’t be difficult. She was famous for it, wasn’t she?
Her throat closed up. As soon as Luca woke they would talk things through, calmly, like the adults they were. But when he said her name, softly, the possibility of a sensible, rational discussion flew out of the window and she blurted out wildly, ‘Luca—I love you—so much it hurts!’ Then she turned to him trustingly, her green eyes huge in the pallor of her face, knowing that together, somehow, they would sort this out.
But he didn’t move; his body, turned towards her now, was locked in a stillness that was frightening, his features set.
‘Luca?’
There was a plaintiveness in her husky voice that made him hate himself. His eyelids flickered, masking his self-disgust. Last night was something he would never forget; her loving had been so precious, so sweet and generous. But he should have had more self-control. She deserved better than a one-night stand or a brief and secret affair.
She deserved fidelity, the lifelong commitment of one man, a commitment of love and caring, not—He blanked out his thoughts and knew he had to force her to see her emotions for what they were. Infatuation. She was on a hiding to nothing; he cared about her enough to want to make her understand that. And there was only one way.
He reached for her, hoisting her back against the pillows, his voice low, the teasing note sounding slightly forced as he told her, ‘We’ll forget you said that, shall we?’ He pinned her hands above her head with one of his own, his eyes brooding darkly as they bored deeply into hers, only the smile that curved his sensual mouth giving her any reassurance at all.
And that only lasted until he said, ‘You don’t know what love is, believe me. You were brought up on a diet of stodgy old Tom. What you feel for me is infatuation, I promise. Because, never having known anything like it before, this is what you love.’ Then he took each nipple in turn, suckling deeply, making her powerless to say anything, to assure him that she’d loved him before he’d taken her to bed, that sex for the sake of it, mere infatuation, was nothing to do with the way she felt.
‘And this,’ he continued remorselessly as his hands moved down to her hips, making her body writhe with the need to have him fill her. ‘And this—’ He slid his hands over the soft swell of her stomach, then further down, brushing with slow sensuality over the tangle of coppery curls, driving her wild. ‘This is what you love. Nothing to be ashamed of; it’s entirely natural. But don’t mistake it for anything else.’
He planted a hard, punishing kiss on her mouth and twisted off the bed, plucking his abandoned clothes off the floor. ‘See you for breakfast in half an hour.’
Bess stared at the empty space where he had been, her eyes wide with shock. Then slowly, excruciatingly, her heart squeezed as humiliation filled it.
He had used her—simply and callously used her. He had come into her life and wrecked it, changed her for ever, pulled her out of the safe little world she had contentedly inhabited—a nice, comfortable little world carved from her perceived inadequacies and walled in by the strength of her insecurities—only to plunge her into the hell of loving him, betraying her own sister.
Then anger flooded hotly through her, making her leap from the bed and make the decision to tell him exactly how she felt, what she thought of him—the ratfink!—to explain how easily love could turn to blind hatred, do the job she’d come here to do and get back to England as fast as she could already made.
Defiantly, because she needed to bolster her confidence, keep her own flag flying, she dressed in the flame-red top and matching trousers, piled her coppery curls loosely on top of her head, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face, and marched downstairs, her heart hammering.
Chiara found her in the huge hall and ushered her into a small panelled room. It was as much as Bess could do to return the older woman’s friendly smile. Her thoughts
were too savage to be deflected by the need for normal politeness.
The dust sheets had been removed from the furniture and everything gleamed, the circular table in the deep window embrasure laid for breakfast. But Bess wouldn’t be eating a thing.
Luca was there, his head bent over the papers in his hand, and, even in her hatred, she had to admit that he looked startlingly, temptingly gorgeous in the soft worn denims and loosely styled pale grey silk shirt, open at the neck to reveal a few inches of sexy, hair-roughened olive skin.
As he heard her approach he looked at her, his silver eyes making a slow inventory of her tight-fitting scarlet trousers and the matching sleeveless top with its seductively dipping neckline. And then his face went tight.
‘Breakfast first, and then we work,’ he said with a cool politeness that added fuel to the fire of her hatred.
She waved aside the mention of breakfast; the very thought of eating made her feel ill. How could he act as if last night hadn’t happened, as if she had never told him she loved him? How could he talk to her as if she were a stranger?
‘Work suits me.’ Her voice was tight with harnessed rage. ‘I want to get away from here before nightfall.’ Bitterness welled up inside her. ‘But before we get down to it I want you to know that I won’t tolerate any more insults from you.’
‘Insults?’ His dark brows bunched. ‘When have I insulted you, cara?’
‘And don’t call me that!’ The careless endearment was too much to take. ‘It’s meaningless.’ Her nostrils thinned. ‘You insult me every time you look at me the way you do.’
She turned away, staring through the tall window, seeing nothing. There were things that had to be said, but she couldn’t bear the scrutiny of those handsome silver eyes.
‘I told you how I felt about you and you threw it back in my face, letting me know you consider me a sex-starved fool.’ The wobble in her voice was a result of rage—sheer gut-searing rage. It had to be. She forced herself on. ‘You treated me like a common whore. And if that’s not an insult then I’m a pineapple!’
‘Cara—’
She hadn’t heard him approach her but she felt his hands as they lightly touched her shoulders and knocked them frenziedly away, spinning round and edging backwards until she was trapped against the window.
‘OK.’ He spread his hands, making no attempt to crowd her. ‘I don’t think you’re a fool—far from it. As for the rest—’ his eyes gleamed narrowly ‘—I stand by what I said.’
‘That all I needed was a man. That any man would have done, given the state of my hormones,’ she said flatly, her eyes unconsciously vulnerable, and she shivered suddenly, wrapping her arms defensively around her body. ‘Don’t try to make me believe I’m down in your dark pit. I’m not. I do have some integrity.’
But not as much as I always believed, she thought hollowly. Not nearly as much. She had been as willing as he to betray Helen.
She heard his heavy sigh but couldn’t see his expression through the unwelcome haze of despised tears, shuddering uncontrollably as he bit out harshly, ‘Grow up, woman! I’ve shown you you’re capable of being whatever you want to be—practically shoved your beautiful face in your own sensuality. I admit I want you—you excite me more than I’m comfortable with—but that doesn’t mean you can expect me to walk through the rest of your life holding your hand!’
He would have walked out then—he had said all he could say—but the pain in her lovely eyes defeated him. He said impulsively, ‘Look, I’ll lay my cards on the table,’ He would have to be honest with her, he realised. After last night he owed it to her to explain why he wasn’t able to take the gift of her love.
It was tempting, but to accept it would mean using her. A discreet affair, short or long, wasn’t what he wanted for her. She deserved far better. And when she understood that nothing on earth would make him change his plans, fall in love with her, marry her, she would want nothing more to do with him. She was sensible enough to cut her losses, mark it down to experience, and emerge stronger and wiser.
Aware of the darkness in his voice, but unable to do anything about it, he suggested, ‘Why don’t we sit down and talk it over? Then, when you’ve had time to digest it all calmly, you can tell me if you still feel the same.’
He had already turned to the table, pushing aside the papers he’d been looking at earlier—which, Bess now saw, were the architects’ plans for the proposed hotel—and was pouring coffee for them both, and despite her earlier decision to get out of here as soon as she could, put him and the whole disgraceful episode out of her head, her heart jerked with stupid hope.
Maybe he was going to confess how reluctant he was to hurt Helen. How torn he was. How guilty. Poor Luca—he was going to marry her sister but had fallen in love with her, Bess. Surely he couldn’t have made love with such passion and tenderness if he didn’t love her? she thought naively.
He would be feeling as bad, as guilty as she did, but he was intelligent enough to know that it wouldn’t be fair to marry Helen if he loved someone else. It would be hard, but they were in this mess together, and together, somehow, they would sort it out.
He sat as soon as she did, slowly stirring his coffee, and her love for him came surging back, stronger after its brief translation into hate. She wanted to reach out and touch his hand but the grim line of his mouth and the spasmodic jerking of a muscle at the side of his jaw warned her to leave it.
He lifted his eyes to her. They were dark with something that could have been pain, but she couldn’t be sure. He gave a hard, tight sigh, then told her, ‘I won’t pretend I regret what happened last night. How could I? You were exquisite.’ Dull colour stroked his slanting cheekbones. ‘I was hungry for you. I still am. Nevertheless, it shouldn’t have happened. You do know why, don’t you?’
His coming marriage to Helen. Of course she knew, and of course she understood what he must be feeling. Under the brooding intensity of his eyes she nodded mutely, her tongue flicking out to moisten her lips, unable to articulate because the look in his eyes, his mention of hunger held her in thrall.
She now knew what it was to hunger.
‘We’re going to have to talk this through—’ He broke off, frowning, the sound of footsteps breaking the quiet morning.
Chiara coming to clear a breakfast that hadn’t been touched? Bess wondered. But she didn’t think it likely that the comfy Italian housekeeper would be wearing stilettos on duty—if ever.
High heels on the marble floor of the hall produced that rapid, almost excited sound, and Luca turned his head in the direction of the door. Waiting. Waiting.
Bess held her breath, feeling stupidly apprehensive, and expelled it on a sigh of misery, of racking guilt, when the door was flung open and Helen stood there, a picture of golden, glorious sensuality framed in the carved splendour of the ancient doorway.
The ensuing tiny moment of silence was charged with dark, stinging tension until Helen broke it, swooping over the floor, her arms outstretched.
‘Surprise, surprise!’
Luca unfolded his elegant length from the chair and was ready when Helen hurled herself into his arms, her body fitting his as if it belonged there as she crooned, ‘Pleased to see me, darling? I had to be in Rome—someone to see—I couldn’t not come to see you, could I?’
She wriggled closer, the lemon-yellow silk of the dress she was wearing shimmering seductively over her sensually understated curves. ‘And I need to discuss arrangements—Mummy and I can’t agree. Shall we have the twelve bridesmaids—or would that be overegging the pudding?’
‘Whatever you decide on will be fine by me, you know that—or should do. It will be your big day, after all.’
If his voice was wooden, Bess put it down to guilt. That or the teasing proximity of those luscious scarlet lips, the near-impossibility of resisting the kiss that was so obviously expected while the woman he’d spent last night in bed with was hovering in the background.
Whatever, the wedding w
as clearly going ahead. She stumbled to her feet. She felt violently, physically ill.
Her movement must have alerted the other two to her presence. They’d been too absorbed in each other to spare time to pay any attention to her.
Helen turned her lovely head, staring at Bess as if she didn’t know who she was.
Then her delicate eyebrows peaked. ‘Goodness, I didn’t recognise you. What on earth have you done to yourself?’
She meant the scarlet trousers and top, the highheeled strappy sandals she’d bought to go with the outfit. Colour flared briefly on Bess’s face then died away. The way Helen looked at her, the half-amused, half-exasperated tone of her voice made her feel five years old, dressed up in her mother’s clothes.
She was going to have to walk out of here naturally, pretend that her heart wasn’t hurting like hell. Trying to summon the courage for what seemed an impossible task, she heard Helen say dismissively, ‘You’re doing some sort of work for Luke. Tom did tell me. He came over, furious because he’d wanted you back there, visiting with some old aunt or other.’ She moved out of the circling arms, wriggling provocatively as she smoothed the heavy silk over her hips. ‘God, what a journey—flight from Rome to Pisa then taxi to here. Thought we’d never find this place—the driver had never heard of it, had to look it up on some grubby old map.’
Her eyes glinted at Bess. ‘A word of advice, little sister. About Tom. If you insist on stamping around in your career girl’s shoes, you’re going to lose him. He’s not so smitten that he wouldn’t look elsewhere. Your holding power was your dependability, your docility.’ Her eyes narrowed, flicking over the brave scarlet outfit. ‘Let’s face it, there’s not much else, is there?’
Then her mouth curved irrepressibly. She came as near as Bess had ever heard her to giggling. ‘And underneath he’s not as stolid as he looks. We actually managed quite an enlightening conversation after I’d soothed him down over the aunt business. Now...’ She turned to the silent Italian, her head on one side. ‘Give me breakfast, darling, and we’ll have our cosy chat—discuss all the exciting arrangements.’
A Guilty Affair Page 8