Her body had superseded any counter argument her mind tried to throw up to resist him. The simple truth was she wanted him to make love to her, to reclaim her body, to imprint it with the potency of his.
His mouth was still locked on hers as his hands lifted her cocktail dress, searching for the slick wet heart of her. He cupped her first through the lacy barrier of her knickers, which were already damp with want. She arched her spine as he pushed the lace aside to slide one finger into her. The sensations rippled through her, making her want more and more of his touch. She whimpered against the crushing heat of his mouth as his hand left her moist heat to unzip his trousers. She blindly assisted him, her fingers stroking along his steely length, delighting in the feel of him so aroused. It was something to cling to, this need he had for her. He might not love her, he might never find it in himself to forgive her for denying him knowledge of his child, but he wanted her with a fervency that secretly thrilled her.
She could have pulled away. She could have stopped things before they went any further but she didn’t. She dug her fingers into the tautness of his buttocks and urged him on.
He thrust into her with a deep bone-melting thrust that sent her head thudding against the wall behind her. He set a furious pace but she matched it. It didn’t matter that they were still fully clothed; it didn’t matter that no one had mentioned protection.
The friction of his thickened body brought her undone within seconds. She had never been able to come without added stimulation before but this time her body shattered into a thousand pieces, the convulsions of her inner core setting off his equally powerful release. She felt the pumping of his body as he emptied himself.
His breathing was still uneven as he stepped back from her and re-zipped his trousers. ‘That should never have happened,’ he said grimly. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you.’
Bronte smoothed down her dress. ‘I thought that was your intention—to hurt me as much as possible for keeping Ella a secret from you.’
His expression was contorted with regret. ‘Anger is a dangerous emotion when it’s out of control,’ he said. ‘I had no right to take it out on you in such a way. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
Bronte felt a little sideswiped by his sudden mood change. She wasn’t sure how to deal with her own feelings, let alone his. Her body was still humming with the aftershocks of his lovemaking. She could still feel his presence inside her even now, the twinge of unused muscles and the damp heat of him reminding her of how much passion simmered between them. Those out of control needs were satiated for now, but how long was that going to last? If she were to marry him and live with him there would be no way of ignoring the sexual tension that crackled like a current of electricity between them. She stepped away from the wall and wasn’t quite able to disguise a little wince as her body protested at the movement.
Luca’s frown deepened. ‘I did hurt you, didn’t I?’
Bronte felt her cheeks heat up. ‘I’m fine. It’s just been a long time…well, you know…’
There was an awkward little silence.
‘It’s been a long while for me too,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck again.
Bronte looked at him, wondering whether to believe him or not. When she’d met him he had a reputation as a playboy. What he wanted, he got. No woman could resist him. She couldn’t quite see him adhering to a celibate lifestyle for longer than a week or two. He was too full of life, too full blooded, too intensely and potently male.
He looked at her with a wry expression. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Why should I?’ she asked. ‘You’ve told me practically nothing of your life over the past two years. For all I know, you’ve probably had numerous affairs, one after the other. A long time between lovers for you might mean a couple of days.’
He held her look for a long moment before shifting his gaze. ‘It’s not been like you think, Bronte. I’ve had other things going on in my life. There has been no one of any significance for quite some time.’
‘How very restrained of you,’ she said with an attempt at sarcasm.
He ignored her comment and wandered over to the small bookcase and picked up a photograph of Ella. ‘You mentioned you had photos and DVDs of her. I would like to have copies made, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Bronte said. ‘I’ll get them together for you. I’ll have to bring them to your hotel tomorrow, however. Mum has most of them at her house. There’s not much storage space here.’
He turned and looked at her. ‘Why do you live here instead of in the main house with your mother?’
‘I thought it was important to maintain some element of independence for me and for Ella,’ she said. ‘My mother—as you saw—is rather protective. She means well but at times she can be quite smothering. I make allowances for her because she’s been alone for so long. Living here is a sort of compromise. Mum is close by to help me with Ella but there is enough distance, small as it is, to establish some boundaries.’
‘How do you think she will take the news of our marriage?’
‘The same way I am taking it,’ she answered. ‘With a great deal of apprehension.’
Luca came back over to her and ran a fingertip down her cheek. She didn’t veer away, but he saw the way her eyes flickered with wariness. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses, puffy and pink and all too tempting to kiss again. ‘There is no other way to do this, Bronte,’ he said. ‘You do realise that, don’t you?’
She snatched in a breath that seemed to catch in her throat. ‘You’re blackmailing me, Luca, can’t you see that?’
He steeled his resolve. ‘I admit it was not the most polished proposal, but the end justifies the means. I want my child. I want to provide for her. I want her to be a part of my extended family. I want her to embrace her Italian heritage, to learn my language. I can’t give her that at a distance and you can’t do it on your own.’
‘But a loveless marriage…’ Her eyes communicated her anguish. ‘Ella’s just a baby now but it won’t be long before she’s old enough to see things are not quite right between her parents. No amount of money can compensate for that. Surely you see that?’
Luca placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her gaze with his. ‘We will work at our relationship. There is no doubt of the attraction that still exists between us. That is a good enough basis to start from.’
‘You’re asking me to give up everything,’ she said, still with that worried look in her slate-blue eyes. ‘I have so much more to lose than you. I will be alone in Italy. I don’t speak the language, or at least only a few words here and there. What if your family doesn’t take to me? Have you thought of that? I have never met them. They will no doubt be just as angry as you are about Ella being kept a secret all this time.’
Luca dropped his hands from her shoulders. ‘It won’t be easy. I am the first to admit that. I will do what I can to make things go as smoothly as possible. My family will accept you. I will make sure of that. They will adore Ella and in time may come to adore you too. It will take time. You will have to be patient.’
He put some distance between them before he spoke again. ‘I will compensate you handsomely for marrying me. I will have an agreement set up by my financial and legal people. That should help dissolve some of your current doubts.’
Bronte screwed up her forehead in a frown. ‘You think you can pay me to be your wife? You think I can be bought?’
The look he gave her was cynical. ‘One thing I have learned through business is that everyone has a price. I am sure you have one too.’
She glared back at him furiously. ‘You think you can afford me?’ she asked, not caring if she was goading him too far.
His top lip curled upwards with the same cynicism she saw reflected in his gaze. ‘Name your price,’ he said.
Bronte threw a figure at him, an astonishingly exorbitant sum that would have made most men flinch in response. Luca’s expression was mask-like. It showed no em
otion. It was as if they were discussing a business transaction.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I will make sure the funds are deposited in your bank account as soon as possible. You will need to give me your banking details, unless you would like me to write you a cheque here and now.’
Bronte scribbled her details down on a piece of paper, a war going on inside her over what she had just done. She had sold herself. Her future was now in his hands. She handed him the note, her eyes not quite able to hold his. ‘I will need to give the parents of my students some notice,’ she said.
‘I am sure your business partner will be able to see to everything,’ he said. ‘I want us to be in Italy at the end of the month. I want our marriage to be conducted at the family hotel in Milan. That way, all of my relatives can be there. It is too far for my elderly grandfather to travel all the way to Australia.’
Bronte’s eyes flew back to his. ‘Are you out of your mind? I can’t possibly tie up everything here in less than three weeks!’
‘I am a busy man, Bronte,’ he said. ‘I have commitments here that will now have to be put on hold until we get back.’
She frowned again. ‘So you’re expecting me to follow you back and forth across the globe?’
His eyes challenged her to defy him. ‘That is what most loving wives would do, is it not?’
It took Bronte a moment to catch on. ‘You…you want me to pretend our marriage is normal?’
‘But of course,’ he said.
She folded her arms crossly. ‘That’s out of the question. I won’t do it.’
‘It is not negotiable, Bronte,’ he said. ‘I will not be made an object of ridicule the world over for having a wife who hates the sight of me. You will at all times and in all places maintain the guise of a devoted wife.’
Bronte fumed as she stood facing him. ‘Is this marriage going to be an exclusive arrangement or are you going to continue with your philandering ways?’
He held her gaze for an interminable pause. ‘That, cara, will depend entirely on you,’ he said. ‘Why would I stray if all my needs are being met at home?’
‘And what about my needs?’ she asked, giving him a glowering look.
He picked up his car keys and made his way to the door before he answered. ‘I think I showed you only a few minutes ago how effectively I can meet your needs.’ His dark eyes ran over her from head to foot, undressing her, caressing her, tempting her all over again. ‘As my wife, Bronte, you will want for nothing.’
He closed the door on his exit and Bronte finally let out the breath she hadn’t even realised she had been holding.
You will want for nothing, he had said. But what about what she wanted most of all? No amount of money was going to buy her the love she so desperately craved.
Chapter Eight
BRONTE decided to take Ella with her to Luca’s hotel the next day, not just so he could spend time with his daughter if he happened to be there, but more to protect herself from falling into his arms as she had done last night.
Her body was still quivering with aftershocks, her flesh still tender from where he had possessed her so thoroughly. She felt ashamed of how she had fallen into his arms so quickly. Her actions had cancelled out every word of protest she had made to him about resuming their relationship. It would give him all the more power over her. He had always had the advantage. Wasn’t it true that the person who had the most power in a relationship was the one who loved less? By loving Luca in the past, she had become the most at risk of being hurt, and that was exactly what had happened. But this time the risk was much higher because Ella was part of the equation.
As soon as Bronte got out of the car a swarm of paparazzi came towards her, seemingly from nowhere. ‘Miss Bennett?’ A journalist held a microphone in her face. ‘Is it true your daughter is the secret love-child of Luca Sabbatini, the hotel tycoon?’
Bronte tried to stop the cameras flashing in little Ella’s face. ‘Do you mind?’ she snapped. ‘Keep away from her.’
Several camera shutters went off like a round of air rifle bullets. Ella started to cry and Bronte opened the back door of the car and fished her out of her seat, holding her close against her chest as she walked into the hotel with the bag containing Ella’s baby DVDs and photos banging painfully against her hip.
The press followed like a pack of hungry dogs snapping at her heels. She bolted towards the reception counter and, trying to soothe Ella as well as ignore the camera flashes, she handed the bag over to the concierge. ‘Could you please put this aside for Luca Sabbatini?’ she asked. ‘He’s staying in the penthouse.’
The concierge smiled and placed a swipe key in front of her. ‘Signor Sabbatini asked for you to be given this. If you give me your keys, I will get the valet parking attendant to take care of your car for you. If there is anything we can do to be of assistance with the little one, please don’t hesitate to ask. We have cots and baby food and a babysitting service if you should require it.’
‘Er…I’m not staying here,’ Bronte said quickly. ‘I’m just dropping off the bag with…er…I’m just leaving this for him.’ She pointed to the bag perched on the counter.
The concierge gave her an urbane smile. ‘Signor Sabbatini expressly asked for you to be given full access to his suite. He is not here at the moment but should be back shortly. He would like for you to wait until he returns.’
Bronte ground her teeth. She had two choices: turn around and put Ella through the drama of facing the press again, or go up to Luca’s suite and kill some time until the paparazzi left, hopefully before Luca returned. She let out a breath of resignation and picked up the swipe card and the bag of DVDs and photos. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ll wait for him.’
The suite was blessedly quiet and Bronte was finally able to settle Ella, who had come close to becoming hysterical over the fuss downstairs. Her little face was bright red and her eyes still streaming, and tiny heart-wrenching hiccups were rattling intermittently in her chest. ‘Don’t cry, darling,’ Bronte said softly, rocking her gently from side to side. ‘Shh, it’s all right. They’ve all gone away now.’
But for how long? she wondered. And how on earth had they found out about Ella being Luca’s child? Had Luca made some sort of announcement without telling her? It was a frightening thought that this was what she and Ella might have to live with: the constant intrusion of the press which Luca had described previously. How would she ever cope with it? How could she protect Ella? She didn’t want her daughter terrified every time they went outside. Was this really how celebrities and royalty lived? If so, it was absolutely unbearable.
Ella gave one last little hiccup and laid her head on Bronte’s shoulder, her dark lashes falling down over her eyes. Bronte carried her through to Luca’s bedroom, her stomach giving a little flutter as her eyes went to the bed that looked the size of a football field. She thought of herself lying there in Luca’s arms, not in anger or out of control passion but in mutual longing and need.
And love…
No, she checked herself sternly. You don’t love him any more. He killed everything you felt for him by shutting you so ruthlessly and mercilessly out of his life.
But still…
The smell of him was in the room, the musk and hint of citrus that she could not, even after two years, get out of her senses.
She laid Ella gently down on the middle of the bed and placed a bank of pillows either side of her to keep her from falling off. She couldn’t help a little flare of her nostrils as she held a spare pillow up to her face, breathing in the scent of Luca, a host of memories flooding her brain.
Not one night, she reminded herself as she tossed the pillow to the floor in a fit of pique. He couldn’t even stay with you one full night. How on earth do you think he is going to settle down to being married with a child? He wanted custody and he was going about getting it. Bronte was superfluous. She would be dispensed with as soon as the lust he felt for her died down. He didn’t know how to run a relatio
nship. He was too selfish, too closed off, too focused on his career. He didn’t know how to make sacrifices for other people. He didn’t know how to love.
And yet he seemed to love Ella…
Bronte strode out of the bedroom to get away from her traitorous thoughts but they followed her, just as the paparazzi had done earlier. Click, click, click went the shutters of her brain, bringing up the touching moment when Luca had seen Ella for the first time the night before.
Bronte had always found Luca to be so emotionally distant, but last night she had seen a side to him she had never glimpsed before. He had looked down at the child in his arms, his eyes so full of wonder and amazement that she was his. Bronte had thought she had seen a hint of moisture when he’d turned and faced her, but in a blink it had gone so she didn’t know if she had imagined it.
The door of the penthouse suddenly opened and Luca came in carrying a briefcase and a toy shop bag bulging with toys. ‘Bronte,’ he said, frowning. ‘The concierge told me there was a bit of scene with the press outside the hotel. Is Ella all right?’
Bronte folded her arms across her chest. ‘She was terrified. It took ages to calm her down. She’s sleeping on your bed.’
He put the briefcase and toys down and reached up to loosen his tie. ‘I should have warned you,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how they found out. I was going to make an announcement once I had informed my family.’
‘Have you told your family?’
He shrugged himself out of his jacket and laid it over the back of one of the plush sofas. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They were shocked, as you can imagine, but pleased, especially my mother. She can’t wait to meet Ella. I have promised to email some photos. Did you bring them with you?’
Bronte gestured to the bag on the floor near the sound system. ‘I’ve brought everything I could find. I even have a lock of her baby hair in a matchbox. I found another one this morning and divided the lock in two. I thought you might like one of your own.’
He picked up the bag and found the matchbox. He set the bag back on the floor and looked at the commonplace box for a moment. Bronte watched as his long tanned fingers opened it, his dark eyes homing in on the tiny curl of silky hair. He touched it and smiled, but there was sadness in it.
Scandal: Unclaimed Love-Child Page 10