by Penny Jordan
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE had had a wonderful afternoon, Charley reflected as she sat in a small café, drinking her cappuccino. One glance at the queues of people waiting to visit some of Florence’s most famous sites had told her that with only an afternoon at her disposal her time would be put to its best use if she simply wandered around and got a feel for the city—which was exactly what she had done. She had walked down from the Via de Tornabuoni to the River Arno, and then along its embankment until she reached the Ponte Vecchio, wandering by the long queues for the Uffizi to gaze in delight at everything in the Piazza della Signoria. Picking up a free map from a tourist office, she had strolled at her leisure, pausing frequently to admire her surroundings and to drink in the wonderful atmosphere of the city. Inside her head she had removed its modern-day crowds and re-peopled its streets with men and women of the Renaissance, imagining them going about their everyday business.
Now, though, it was nearly four o’clock, and she still had an hour to spare before she had to return to the apartment. A girl walking past, dark hair swinging on her shoulders like liquid silk, caught her attention. Italian women had such lovely hair… She reached up and touched her own. She’d tied it back again during the afternoon, but the new Charlotte who was emerging from the old Charley wasn’t satisfied any longer with the plain practicality of simply pushing her hair out of the way. She wanted a hairstyle that matched her new self. She’d passed any number of hair salons on her stroll—but how to find the right one? She could see the store where Raphael had taken her down the street to her left. Determinedly, before her courage could desert her, Charley finished her cappuccino and, having paid for it, made her way towards it.
If the saleswoman who had served them earlier was surprised by her request she gave no sign of it, listening calmly instead, and immediately announcing that she knew the very place and that if Charley would kindly wait for a second she would telephone them herself, on Charley’s behalf.
Which was how, nearly two hours later, Charley found herself stepping out of the salon with an elegant, sleek, not quite shoulder-length newly bobbed hairstyle, which she liked so much that she couldn’t help sneaking glances at herself in shop windows, unable to resist moving her head just for the pleasure of feeling her hair swing so perfectly against her neck.
But she wasn’t going to have much time in which to get changed for dinner. The new haircut had taken far longer than she had expected…
Raphael looked at his watch. Charlotte should have been back over an hour ago, and her failure to return—initially an irritation—had now grown into an anxiety that was manifesting itself within him as anger that he was fighting to control.
Anger. Just thinking about the dangers of allowing himself to feel such an emotion intensified what he was trying not to feel. Was this a manifestation of the madness that ran in his blood? A feeling of irritation that would ultimately grow into a monstrous, many-headed alien form within him that he could not control? That would make him lash out, at first verbally, then physically, hurting and then destroying those who aroused the rage that had taken possession of him? That rage had already possessed him once, and he had sworn that he would never allow it to do so again.
The buzz of the apartment’s intercom, followed by the sound of Charley’s voice, cut across his thoughts, replacing them with action as he moved quickly towards the door of his study-cum-office.
Standing on the step outside the imposing double doors in the still busy street, not hearing any response to her call, Charlotte was just about to try the intercom again when the door suddenly opened to reveal Raphael standing there.
‘You were supposed to return here at five-thirty. It is now nearly seven o’clock.’
He was angry, Charley recognised. ‘I know—I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I got stuck in the hairdressers. I didn’t realise it would take so long, and I couldn’t let you know as I don’t have your mobile number.’
She’d been in a hairdressers? Raphael looked at the shining, elegant swing of her hair as she stepped out of the door’s shadow, and was filled with an irrational surge of fresh anger as he recognised how much confidence and pleasure her new hairstyle was giving her, and that his concern for her wellbeing had been totally unnecessary.
‘In future it would be as well if you remember that I don’t pay you to visit hairdressers,’ he told her harshly, adding, ‘We have a vitally important business meeting in less than an hour’s time, prior to which I had intended to run through a few things with you.’
Charley was completely mortified, all her pleasure in her new hairstyle lost, destroyed by the force of Raphael’s anger.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long. I wanted…’ Her throat locked protectively around the words that would have humiliated her even more had she uttered them—told him that she had wanted him to look at her and admire her. Admire her or desire her? The confidence and happiness she had felt earlier had gone.
‘I’ll go and get changed,’ she told Raphael in a flat voice that echoed what she was feeling.
Raphael watched her go, resisting the temptation to stop her and tell her—tell her what? That he wanted her? Wanted her when he knew that ultimately he might destroy her, and with her himself? The sooner everything was sorted out and he was able to leave her in charge of the garden project the better. He had work to do in Rome with regard to his business interests, which would keep him safely away from her for long enough for him to deal with his unwanted desire for her, Raphael assured himself.
In her bedroom, Charley undressed and then showered quickly, glad that the stylist had taken the time to show her how to dry and smooth her hair to keep it in polished perfection. She had taken the opportunity to ask the saleswoman at the designer store which of Charlotte’s new outfits she would recommend for a smart business dinner engagement, and so, wrapped in a towel, she removed the clothes the saleswoman had suggested from the wardrobe in the dressing room off her bedroom and carried them carefully to place them on the bed.
The outfit was a slim-fitting sleeveless cream dress, over which went a soft, floating, seamed and tucked tunic top, with long sleeves that flared out at the wrist to almost cover her hands. The tunic reached almost to the hem of the dress, and the outfit was completed by a fine-knit silk jersey double-breasted cardigan jacket, cropped just above the waist.
A little dubiously Charlotte put each piece on, and then went and looked uncertainly in the mirror, exhaling a sigh of shaky delight when she saw that, far from looking as though she was dressed in an odd assortment of clothing, the finished effect was a breathtakingly delicate yet sophisticated blending of textures and fabrics.
Boosted by the new confidence, Charley slipped on the strappy wedge sandals that complemented the outfit, and picked up the pretty soft leather clutch bag that went with them. It was just about large enough to hold a notepad and pen, as well as her lipstick and comb. She headed for the door, stepping out onto the landing just as Raphael emerged from his own room.
Charley held her breath a little, wondering if he would make any comment about her appearance, and then told herself when he didn’t that she wasn’t really disappointed. He was wearing a light-coloured suit over a dark shirt—the effect, to her mind’s eye, very Italian and very sexy.
As he waited for her at the top of the stairs he reached into his pocket and produced a small oblong package, which he handed to her, telling her, when she looked uncertainly at him, ‘Scent. Later on you can choose your own, but for now this will have to do. No Italian woman considers herself properly dressed without her favourite perfume, and I’m aware that you don’t wear any.’
Aware too, Raphael acknowledged inwardly, that the scent she always carried with her that was simply her own was becoming dangerously embedded in his senses. He had been glad of the shadows on the landing when she had come out of her room; he might have seen the clothes the saleswoman had chosen hanging on their rail, but the effect of the blending of diff
erent fabrics and textures of the outfit she was now wearing, and the way they both concealed and yet at the same time subtly hinted at the curves of her body, was one of sensual promise. And he would not be the only man to think that, Raphael knew. The feeling that speared through him was viciously sharp. Jealousy? He did not want other men to look at her with desire? He had no right to feel like that, Raphael told himself grimly.
Scent! She had not thought of buying any herself. Charley’s fingers trembled as she removed the wrapping, just as they would have done if this had been a lover’s gift—which of course it was not.
The liquid in the small glass bottle was the colour of warm amber. Very carefully Charley removed the top, breathed in the scent, and immediately fell in love. It transported her to summer gardens filled with fat, blooming heavy-petalled roses, their sweetness spiced with something alluringly exotic that made her think of Eastern harems and velvet nights.
She’d expected Raphael to choose her something modern and practical, but this surely was a scent designed for a woman who luxuriated in her sensuality—a scent she would wear in bed at night to clothe her naked body in temptation for her lover.
‘If you don’t like it—’ Raphael began.
‘I do,’ Charley assured him, determinedly dabbing it on her throat and wrists in proof of her claim. ‘It’s heavenly—but there’s no label on it.’
‘It’s from a parfumier who blends his own scents.’ His manner was off-hand and dismissive, making Charley feel reluctant to pursue the subject, although she loved the scent so much she desperately wanted to know where it had come from. She already knew that when the bottle was empty she would want to replace it.
Charley had only just dabbed the scent on her wrists and throat, but already Raphael could smell its sensual mix of promise and passion and Charley herself. He had had to smell several different scents before he had found the one he had eventually chosen. Even though he had been aware of its sensuality, he hadn’t, he admitted to himself now, been prepared for the effect it would have when mixed with the warmth of Charley’s skin. His mother had always worn a rose-based scent, less sensual and more floral. He pushed away that memory. He didn’t know why Charley’s presence was making him think so often of his mother, and nor did he want to know.
CHAPTER NINE
IT MIGHT be over now, but Charley had had the most wonderful evening ever. The conversation had been every bit as intoxicating for her as the wine that had filled her glass. To be amongst people who were so knowledgeable about their craft, so filled with passion for all that it represented, and who treated her as their equal, had made her feel so complete and comfortable with herself that every minute of the evening had been a joy. The whole evening had been the most exhilarating and wonderful experience. Antonio and Niccolo were both in their early fifties, and their wives, Charley guessed, in their late forties, mothers of grown-up families. They had treated Charley with kindness, complimenting her on her appearance and asking her about her own family circumstances, issuing invitations for her to join their own family get-togethers whilst she was working in Italy, so that she would not feel alone. And Niccolo had assured Raphael that he was interested in the project, and would be willing to have his teachers and students involved in it. A coup in which Charley hoped she had played her part.
Now, though, they were back at the apartment, and Raphael hadn’t said a word to her—his silence on the drive back a continuation of his behaviour towards her during the evening. Because he had been watching her? Assessing her? Testing her to see if she was up to the job of managing his project?
With her new-found confidence, instead of giving in to her anxiety she met it head-on.
‘Something seems to be wrong. If it’s because of the garden and my job, and you’ve changed your mind…’
She was not allowed to get any further. Raphael swung round and told her harshly, ‘It isn’t because of the garden, or your job. It’s because of this.’
If he’d been fighting his desire for her only this evening he would have been able to control it. But he hadn’t. He’d been fighting it for day after aching day, night after sleepless night, minute by minute, second by second, until the sheer weight of what he was trying to hold back was such that all it had taken was that one small extra burden of her question to tear down the walls he had built against her effect on him. In the few seconds of time it took him to reach for her a whole world of sensual images and longings flashed through him—an unstoppable avalanche of self-destruction he was powerless to stop.
Charley could hardly believe it. She was where she had so longed to be: in Raphael’s arms, in his hold, his mouth hard on hers, her senses bursting into life. For a brief handful of seconds she was sharply aware of the soft darkness of the hallway, the smell of Raphael’s cool cologne-scented skin contrasting with the heat they were generating, the rustle of their clothing, the soft sounds of pleasure she herself was making under Raphael’s kiss and the sharp click of her heels touching the floor, because she’d raised herself up on tiptoe in order to get as close to him as she possibly could. And then she was aware of nothing other than the feel of Raphael’s mouth on her own, the thrust of his tongue between her lips, and the surge of delight that invaded her body speared through her with a fierce urge to respond to him, to match him touch for touch and breath for breath.
This surely more than anything else was what she had been born for—what her senses had been designed for, what her inhibitions wanted to yield to. Curling her tongue against Raphael’s in sensual pleasure, she pressed closer to him, feeling her breasts flatten against the hard muscular wall of his chest, knowing that her legs trembled as she leaned into him, knowing that inside herself she was softening and aching and wanting.
Her body’s goal was Raphael’s possession of it, and hedonistically, recklessly, perhaps even dangerously, she was welcoming every single sensation and thought that took her closer to that goal.
Lost in the heavy, pulsing need to give everything that she was, everything that she had, to the urgency driving through her, the sudden raw sound of Raphael’s ‘No!’ as the harsh denial was ripped from his throat shocked her into frantic disbelief.
When Raphael released her and stepped back she swayed towards him, barely able to stand, her body shivering with rejection and the piercing, throbbing ache of denial, totally unable to comprehend why, having aroused her desire for him, he had now plunged her into such an aching agony.
‘No? You can’t say that. Not now—not after you’ve shown me that you want me and…and made me want you.’
She was so untutored in guile, so honest in what she thought and felt. Her words ripped into him, tearing apart the barrier he had tried to put between them.
‘Want you?’ Raphael laughed bitterly.
Until tonight, until he had seen her standing on the landing earlier, he had thought he had won, that he had subdued his desire for her—but all he had done was damp it down, and over the course of the evening, as he had watched her, it had leapt into fresh life like a wild fire, devouring everything that stood in its way.
‘No, I do not want you,’ he told her with brutal honesty. ‘What I feel for you is no mere wanting. I wish to God that it were. I hunger for you. I ache for you and I crave you. But, since I have a rule of never mixing my business and my personal lives, those needs shall have to go unsatisfied. We will return to the palazzo in the morning, and then I shall leave for Rome.’
He was walking away from her, heading for the stairs. Charley licked her suddenly dry lips, and then, before she could change her mind, she ran after him, pushing past him on the stairs. She stood in front of him, spreading her arms so that he couldn’t get past.
‘Sometimes rules have to be broken,’ she told him breathlessly. ‘Sometimes things happen that we shouldn’t try to control—things we are meant to experience, even if their pleasure is short lived.’ She looked up at him. ‘I want you to make love to me, Raphael. I want to know your hunger and your ache a
nd your desire, because I feel them too.’
In the half-light of the hallway the shadows lent his face a haunted harshness, giving him the look of a man who belonged to another age, tormented and driven beyond his own limits.
‘There can be no future for you with me,’ he told her harshly.
‘I am not asking you for a future.’
‘Then what are you asking me for?’
‘Tonight,’ Charley told him softly. ‘Tonight and nothing between us—nothing to stop us sharing the honesty of what we feel. When you said what you did earlier today, about my clothes and about my…my elegance, you started a process that has set me free to be myself. I want you to complete that process, Raphael.’
Charley could hear the increased pressure of his breathing even though he hadn’t moved.
Holding his dark, unreadable gaze, she continued. ‘I want you to take me and hold me. I want you to complete what you have begun, Raphael.’
His breathing had become a harsh sound of constraint, his chest openly rising and falling with the pressure he was exerting over himself.
Charley let her own voice drop and soften to a husky, sensual whisper.
‘I want us to break your rules, Raphael. I want us to have what we can have together tonight.’ She took a step towards him and waited, her heart pounding. Never in a thousand lifetimes had she imagined herself behaving like this with such sexual boldness, but now that she knew Raphael shared her desire she was prepared, whatever she had to risk, her whole body thrilling at the thought of what they could share.
When he reached out and circled her wrists with his hands, his fingers long and strong as steel when they snapped around her flesh, Charley’s anticipation turned to dread. He was going to deny her—move her out of his way and step past her. His grip forced her arms down to her sides and held them pinioned there.