by Various
Trying to ignore the doubts which were flaring in her mind, Natasha took his hard and proud face in her hands, cupping its sculpted shield shape as if to reassure herself it was real. That he was real. That this was really happening.
Oh, but it was.
With a gasp, her hands fell away at the precise moment that his fingers grazed over her nipple—so hard it was almost painful, pushing against the silk-satin of her evening dress as if it wanted to be free of the constricting gown. And as if he had read her thoughts, he slipped the delicate strap of her gown down over her shoulder, so that her breast was bare. She felt first warm air against the naked skin, and then—shockingly—the flick of his mouth on it.
Shuddering, she looked down—and there was Raffaele’s dark head, suckling her. And that shockingly intimate touch jarred the growing voice of her conscience even as her body silently screamed out its answering desire. This isn’t right, she told herself frantically. You know it isn’t. Especially in the back of a car!
She tasted sweet. She tasted salty. She tasted of woman and of need. Raffaele was nearly exploding as his tongue played with the puckering bud, and he felt her squirm beneath his hands, heard her tiny gasps of pleasure. It was so unexpected. So bizarre. In a few short days the woman who brought him tea in the afternoons had been transformed into this passionate creature who was writhing around in his arms!
He felt the hard need of his desire pressing against him. If it had been anyone else but Natasha he would have guided her hand there. She would have unzipped him. Taken him into her mouth…
What the hell was he thinking of? He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except—
‘Raffaele!’ Sanity prevailed for the single instant it took Natasha to push at his chest, the word indistinct because it took every bit of determination for her to say it.
But the muffled protest was like being showered with icy water. With a groan, Raffaele tore his mouth away from her, letting go of her as if she had suddenly become contaminated. He slid over to the opposite side of the seat, steadying his ragged breathing, his pounding heart.
She waited until she had pulled her dress back up before she risked a glance at him, and she bit her lip, sensing his anger. Yet she’d had to stop what was happening. Surely, he realised that. ‘Raffaele?’
He turned his head then, and Natasha almost recoiled at the icy look of detachment in his eyes. ‘What?’
What had Kirsty told her to acquire along with her brand-new wardrobe? Attitude—that was it.
‘That…well, that shouldn’t have happened,’ she said coolly.
He looked at her almost with admiration. How effortlessly she had slipped into the role of fiancée! ‘You think I don’t know that?’ he growled softly, and yet he was aware that something remarkable had happened. A woman had stopped Raffaele de Feretti from making love to her. When had that ever happened before? His mouth became a grim line of realisation. In nessun momento—never!
And while his pride and his ego made him want to capture her in his arms and kiss her again, in a way that would leave her gasping and reeling and begging him to do it to her, infuriatingly, he could see that she had made the right decision. ‘You think I want to complicate further this damned ridiculous situation?’ he snapped. ‘By adolescent fumbling in the back of a car? That certainly wasn’t included in the deal!’
She was about to say that she didn’t think any particular deal had been hammered out—but perhaps he was referring to his offer that she could keep the costly ring? More hurtful was to hear that mind-blowing kiss dismissed in such a careless way.
‘Do you always kiss women like that?’ she demanded.
He gave an arrogant smile. ‘What do you think?’ he challenged softly. Was her ego growing at the same pace as her ease with her new role? ‘Do you think I turn on simply for you?’
His mocking tone tore into her. But she was damned if she was going to show him that he’d hurt her—because he might just start to question why.
‘Obviously not,’ she said smoothly. ‘You don’t get a reputation as a superstud unless it’s well founded.’
He stared at her, outraged, scarcely able to believe what he’d heard. ‘Superstud?’ he repeated dangerously.
How formidable the feeling of getting your own back could be—and what a marvellous way of distracting her aching body from the sweet pleasures she had denied it. He had wounded her and now he was having a taste of his own medicine.
‘Oh, come on, Raffaele,’ she protested. ‘You are listed and photographed in the international gossip columns with a series of glamorous women on your arm—some of whom have actually gone on record to boast about your sexual prowess. If that isn’t being a superstud, then I don’t know what is!’
There was complete silence apart from the quiet thrum of the car’s powerful engine, and Raffaele was so livid at her assessment that, for once in his life, he couldn’t think of a thing to say. But that didn’t last long, and he turned to her, his eyes spitting dark fire.
‘You think that I am defined by my ability to pleasure women—like some kind of gigolo?’
She had never seen him look quite so indignant and, in spite of everything, Natasha burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded furiously.
‘You are! Of course I’m not calling you a gigolo—I don’t expect you’ve ever had to pay for sex in your life—’
‘ Natasha !’ he put in warningly.
But she blazed on. ‘People say things when they’re…’ When they’re what, Natasha ? When they’re head-over-heels in love with a man who sees them just as an object in their lives? So quit while you’re ahead. Show him that it’s no big deal. But was she really that good an actress? ‘There’s no need to over-react, Raffaele,’ she finished softly.
Oh, wasn’t there? Did she have any idea of how much he was aching for her right now? How if he wasn’t such a gentleman he would be sliding that dress up her thighs right now and letting his fingers entice her. He swallowed, made a barely perceptible curse. The irony did not escape him—even at such a moment of high desire—that no one had ever accused Raffaele de Feretti of being a gentleman before, least of all himself!
Yet, infuriatingly, she was right. There were two ways this could go—and the most obvious one would certainly be the easiest and most pleasurable to carry through. He could carry on kissing her, and she could carry on responding, and things would inevitably progress to the next stage of having sex with her. Maybe not in the back of the car—but certainly when they got back to the house.
But think of all the complications that would throw up along the way. How would they both feel about it in the morning, when the heat of passion had been vanquished and sated? When she had to go and get Sam his cereal and take him to school as if nothing had happened?
Then what? He wanted them to play-act at being engaged—but that would be taking method-acting one stage too far!
No, the most rational thing to do, under these circumstances, was to put it down to a cocktail of proximity and the raging hormones of two people in their sexual prime.
Raffaele scowled. When was he going to stop thinking in this crazy way? This was Natasha , and he needed to remember that. Maybe he should tell her to get changed into her ordinary clothes as soon as they were home—to make him a pot of decaffeinated coffee, the way she always did when he arrived home late.
It had been she who had insisted on the decaf, he remembered rather inconsequentially—after she’d once commented that he’d looked tired and he had confessed to lack of sleep. It had been during the Palladio takeover, he remembered, and frowned.
Crossing one long leg over the other, relieved to see the end of his street, he decided that maybe such a request wouldn’t be the wisest course of action. There was no way of second-guessing how she might react. The old Natasha seemed to have disappeared—lost in her brand-new hairstyle and her brand-new and overly provocative wardrobe. Would he ever get her back? he wond
ered.
Once again, he scowled. ‘We’re here,’ he said flatly, as the car drew to a halt.
She got out of the car before the driver had time to open the door for her. I’m off-duty now, she thought defiantly as she walked up to the front door and let herself in.
Anna was curled up in the television room, reading a weighty looking book on mime and dance, and she looked up when Natasha walked in, and smiled.
‘Oh, you’re back earlier than I thought. Did you have a good evening?’
‘It was fantastic,’ said Natasha , with the kind of enthusiasm she thought would be expected of her.
Anna frowned. ‘You look a bit pale,’ she commented.
‘I’m just tired,’ said Natasha lamely.
‘Mmm. Me, too,’ came a voice as smooth as honeyed cream, and Raffaele walked straight over to her and slid his hand possessively around her.
Half in alarm, Natasha looked up to see a sensual glint in the ebony eyes, and her heart began to pound in spite of everything.
‘I guess it’s an early night for us, mia bella,’ he murmured, and began to teasingly caress the indentation at her waist.
‘Oh, I quite understand!’ said Anna , jumping to her feet and grinning.
With a tight smile, Natasha shook herself free of his embrace and walked over to Anna . ‘
Sam ’s okay?’ she questioned.
‘ Sam ’s fine. I read him two stories and then he fell asleep. I haven’t heard a peep out of him once!’
‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Raffaele.
‘No, please. It’s just down the road!’ protested Anna . ‘Honestly, I’m a big girl now—you should see where I live during term-time.’
‘I’ll walk you,’ he repeated obdurately.
After they’d gone, Natasha automatically began to tidy up—but as she straightened from stacking some magazines neatly in the rack she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and was momentarily transfixed by the image which gazed back at her. Anna was right. Her face was pale and her eyes were like huge, dark saucers—dominating her face with a look of restless uncertainty.
The front door slammed, and Natasha hastily turned away from the mirror as Raffaele walked slowly back into the room, loosening his tie, an inexplicable look in his eyes. She was reminded, all too vividly, of the sweet sensation of his kiss, the sensational feel of his hands on her breasts.
‘What’s the matter, Natasha ?’ he mocked. ‘You don’t look very happy.’
‘Was that display really necessary?’ she questioned.
‘And what display would that be?’ he questioned, flinging his tie onto the table.
‘All that touchy-feely stuff in front of Anna ,’ she retorted, resisting the urge to pick up the tie and fold it for him, picking up the babysitter’s used coffee mug instead.
He shrugged, his eyes dancing as he recognised the tell-tale signs of sexual frustration in her expression, the angry little way she was wriggling her hips. ‘But we’re engaged to be married, cara ,’ he protested innocently, and drifted his eyes over the pinpoint thrust of her nipples against the slippery scarlet satin of her gown. ‘Or had you forgotten? Bedtime, I think—don’t you? Oh, and don’t forget to turn the lights out, will you?’ he added deliberately, and then he was gone.
Natasha was left staring at the empty space in the door, feeling as though some psychological battle had just been fought.
And Raffaele had won.
Chapter 8
Natasha didn’t see the newspapers until after she took Sam to school next morning. She had overslept, and only just remembered to put on her engagement ring after throwing on yet more new clothes.
She woke her son and went downstairs to make coffee and toast, with the massive diamond winking and flashing on her finger like a star. Would anyone at the school notice? she wondered, but doubted it. Early on at the school she had been assessed by the super-rich mums and accorded her own particular status—which was why she mainly mixed with the au pairs.
She did her best not to react when Raffaele walked into the kitchen, waving his one free hand around in the air as he spoke in animated and exasperated French into a mobile phone. But it wasn’t easy. She wondered if that little scene in the back of the car had given him the same concern which had left her staring at the bedroom ceiling for most of the night.
‘He’s talking to a bank in Paris ,’ translated Sam as he carefully poured honey over his porridge. ‘An’ he’s very cross.’
Natasha thought that you wouldn’t need Sam ’s superiority with languages to be able to work that out! Though, to be honest, Raffaele might as well have been singing in Swahili for all the notice she would have taken of what he was saying. She was too busy trying not to ogle him.
He was wearing a city suit, but even the formal design of the outfit was unable to detract from his raw sexuality and masculinity. His black hair was faintly ruffled and he looked the picture of glowing vitality.
Natasha held up the cafetière, the way she always did, and Raffaele nodded his head vigorously—just the way he always did. Or did she imagine a faint quirk of his lips and that slight narrowing of his eyes? Even if it was simply her imagination her memory came thudding in to add to her discomfiture. Natasha was very aware that her hand was shaking, and she slopped some coffee into the saucer.
Raffaele raised his brows fractionally, his eyes dancing dark mischief as he clicked off his phone and shook his head when she offered him toast.
‘No, grazie,’ he murmured. ‘Strangely enough, I have little appetite for food this morning.
Why, Natasha —you’ve spilt the coffee! You seem a little on edge—is something troubling you?’
Yes, she wanted to shout. You are! But, of course, she couldn’t do that because Sam was sitting in the room—and there would be no explanation in the world you could give to a five-year-old to explain why you had started shouting at your boss and behaving so uncharacteristically.
And then—to Natasha ’s fury—the two of them began to chat to each other in Italian—
making her feel completely redundant. She really was going to have to work a bit harder at the language—she hadn’t really progressed much beyond the days of the week and being able to ask for directions to the railway station.
‘Have you nearly finished, Sam ?’ she asked pointedly as the minutes ticked by. ‘Yes? Then run up and brush your teeth and we’ll go.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Sam jumped up, grinned at Raffaele, and ran out of the room. Natasha grabbed an apple from out of the fruit bowl and made to follow him.
‘Oh, Natasha ?’
Keep it neutral, she told herself. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re in the papers. Or should I say we’re in the papers.’
Heart pounding, she stared at him. ‘Have you seen them?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘You know I don’t bother reading the tabloids.’
‘How do you know, then?’
‘ Troy rang me first thing. He seems pleased with the results.’ The expression on his face told her nothing about his own feelings on the matter. ‘You can buy them on your way back from school, if you’re interested.’
‘Of course I’m interested!’ She turned her head and noticed for the first time the faint blue shadows underneath his eyes. ‘Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what they say?’
‘What they say is largely irrelevant—getting the item in the papers was the main purpose of this exercise, remember?’ he questioned coolly.
Was that designed to put her in her place? To remind her that they might have shared kisses and intimate embraces but that she remained the woman who served him his coffee and offered him his toast.
‘Of course I remember,’ she said lightly. They stared at one another across the of the wide expanse of the basement kitchen, with its huge range and its copper pots and the exquisite antique tiles which had been imported at great expense from Italy . A bowl of fruit lay in the centre of a scrubbed wooden table
which stood on the beautiful worn stone floor tiles.
It looked like one of those illustrations from a magazine—everyone’s dream kitchen. Natasha had heard some of his friends expressing surprise when they saw it for the first time, especially the girlfriends. Perhaps they expected something streamlined and slickly modern, instead of the traditional. But Natasha had recognised early on that there was a side of Raffaele which was fiercely traditional.
It was why she had dared to make the odd little addition to the room—the slim coloured glass bottles lined up on the windowsill which she’d discovered as a bargain in a junk shop, the small jug of flowers on the dresser.
But this morning the familiar terrain of the kitchen seemed different—or maybe it felt different, just as Natasha did. It seemed that it was impossible for a man to awaken your senses and for you to carry on treating that man exactly the same as you’d done before.
She kept wavering between wanting to put as much space between them as possible and wanting to run into his arms, to have him hold her tightly and to kiss her again in that almost unbearably sweet way. He had made her feel like a woman—a real flesh-and-blood creature—with desires she had hidden away for so long she’d almost forgotten they existed.
She turned away before he could see her sudden rise in colour and guess its cause.
‘Oh—and just one more thing, Natasha .’
She swallowed down the erotic memory. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been invited to a cocktail party at the Italian Embassy on Wednesday. You will, of course, accompany me.’
‘Of course.’
‘And next weekend I have a business meeting which will spill over into the social.’ His voice dipped. ‘Is your passport up to date?’
Her embarrassment forgotten, she turned back to face him. ‘Why?’
‘Because, mia cara , the meeting will most probably be abroad.’
She shook her head. ‘Well, I can’t do that.’
‘Oh?’ Raffaele’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’
Was he being completely dense? ‘Because of Sam , of course.’
‘Because of what about Sam , mia bella?’