Hunter's Moon & Bedded for Revenge

by Carole Mortimer

  ‘Bet Italy is never as green as this,’ she said one afternoon, when they had dismounted and their horses were grazing and she and Cesare were sitting—sweating slightly—beneath the shade of a big oka tree.

  ‘Umbria is very green,’ he said.

  ‘Is that where you live?’

  ‘It is where I consider home,’ he said, trying and failing not to be rapt by the distracting vision of her breasts thrusting against the fine silk of her riding shirt, her slim legs in jodhpurs and those long, sexy leather boots. He stifled a groan and shifted uncomfortably as she lay on her back, looking up at the leaves.

  The air was different today. It felt thick and heavy—as if you could cut through it with a knife—and in the distance was the low murmur of approaching thunder. It reminded him of the storms back home, and the warmth of the soil and the pleasures of the flesh. Cesare could feel a rivulet of sweat trickle down his back, and suddenly he longed to feel her tongue tracing its meandering salty path.

  ‘Really?’ she questioned.

  He blinked. Really, what? Oh, yes. The weather in Umbria—just what he wanted to talk about! ‘We have many storms close to Panicale, where I live—but that is why we have such fertile soil.’ Fertile. Now, why the hell was he thinking about that?

  ‘Have you always lived in Umbria?’ Sorcha persisted, because she wanted to know every single thing about him—what he liked for breakfast and what music he listened to, and where was the most beautiful place he’d ever been—‘Umbria, naturally,’ he had replied gravely.

  ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I grew up in Rome.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.

  What was it about women that made them want to tear your soul apart with their questions? And what was it about Sorcha that made him tell her? But he was spare with his facts—a houseful of servants and ever-changing nannies while his parents lived out their jet-set existence. A childhood he did not care to relive in his memory.

  And suddenly he could bear it no longer. ‘You know that I am having difficulty behaving as a house-guest should behave?’ he questioned unsteadily.

  Dreamily, Sorcha watched the shimmering canopy of leaves. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I want to kiss you.’

  She sat up, oblivious to the creamy spill of her cleavage, or the effect it was having on him. On her face was an expression of a tight and bursting excitement—like a child who had just been given a big pile of presents to open.

  ‘Then kiss me. Please.’

  He knew in that instant that she was innocent—though he had guessed at it before—and in a way it added to the intolerable weight of his desire, and his position here in the house.

  ‘You know what will happen if I do?’ he groaned.

  ‘Yes,’ she teased, in an effort to hide her longing, and her nervousness that she would somehow disappoint him—that somehow she wouldn’t know what to do. ‘Your lips will touch my lips and then—Oh! Oh, Cesare!’

  ‘Si!’ he murmured, as he caught her against him. ‘All those things and more. Many more.’ He pushed her to the ground and brushed his lips against hers, making a little sound of pleasure in the back of his throat as he coaxed hers into opening.

  The kiss went on and on. He had never thought it was possible for a kiss to last so long—he felt he was drowning in it, submerging himself in its sweet potency. The blood pooled and hardened at his groin and he groaned again—only this time the sound was tinged with a sense of urgency.

  ‘Cesare!’ she breathed again, as his thumb circled against the tight, damp material which strained over her breast. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’

  He sat up abruptly. This was wrong. Wrong. He sprang to his feet and held out his hand to her. ‘Let us move away from here!’ he ordered. ‘And where in the name of cielo is your mother?’

  ‘She’s up at the house—why?’

  ‘She is happy for you to ride with me alone every day?’ he demanded.

  ‘I think so.’

  Did she not know of Cesare di Arcangelo’s reputation? he wondered. Did she not realise that women offered themselves to him every day of the week? And would she not be outraged if her daughter were to become just one more in a long line of conquests?

  He looked at her, his eyes softening as he saw the bewilderment in hers. For Sorcha was not like the others. She was sweet and innocent.

  ‘Cesare?’ Sorcha questioned tentatively.

  ‘It is all right, cara mia. Do not frown—for you make lines on that beautiful face.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Let’s go and swim, and cool off.’

  ‘But Rupert’s down by the pool!’

  ‘Exactly,’ Cesare said grimly.

  But once Cesare kissed Sorcha it was like discovering an addiction which had lain dormant in his body since puberty. It was the first time in his life that he had ever used restraint, but he quickly discovered that sexual frustration was a small price to pay for the slow and erotic discovery of her body. And that delayed sexual gratification was the biggest aphrodisiac in the world.

  Sometimes he took pains to make sure that they weren’t alone together. And he quizzed her on her views so that sometimes Sorcha felt as if he was examining her and ticking off the answers as he went along.

  He knew she had a place at university, and he knew that the experience would change her. And—maledizi-one!—was it not human nature for him not to want that?

  The long, glorious summer stretched out like an elastic band, and they lived most of it outside. There were parties and dinners and a celebration for Sorcha’s exam results, which were even better than predicted, but soon the faint tang of autumn could be felt in the early morning air, and Cesare knew that he could not avoid the real world for ever.

  ‘I have to think about going back,’ he said heavily.

  She clung to him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I must. I have stayed longer than I intended.’

  ‘Because of me?’ She slanted him a smile, but inside her heart was aching.

  ‘That is one of the reasons,’ he agreed evenly, pushing away the memory of the blonde who had told him she was pregnant. It had caused outrage when Cesare had demanded a paternity test, but his certainty that he was not the father had been proven.

  He thought how easy it was with Sorcha—and how restful it had been to have a summer free of being hounded by predatory women on the make. He was twenty-six, and he knew that sooner or later he was going to have to settle down—but for the first time in his life he could actually see that it might have some advantages.

  He was confused.

  He wanted her, and yet to take her virginity would be too huge a responsibility, would abuse his position as guest.

  He wanted her, but still he hesitated—because he wanted to savour the near-torture of abstinence, recognising that the wait had been so long and so exquisitely painful that nothing would ever feel this acute again.

  He wanted her, and yet in his heart he knew that he could have her only at a huge price.

  ‘Oh, Sorcha,’ he groaned, and knew that he could not go on like this. ‘Siete cosi donna bella.’

  He pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her, softly at first, and then seekingly—so that her lips opened like a shell, with her tongue the wet, precious pearl within.

  With a savage groan he cupped her breast, feeling its lush, pert weight resting in the palm of his hand. He flicked his thumb against the hardening nipple and knew that with much more of this he would suckle her in full daylight. And what else?

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she begged.

  He had held out for so long, until he was stretched to breaking point, and silently he took her hand and led her into the house, to the darkened study, whose windows were shuttered against the blinding sunlight.

  They kissed frantically—hard and desperately—and suddenly Cesare’s hands were all over her in a way he’d never allowed them to be before. He pushed her down onto a leather couch. His hand was rucking
up her dress, feeling her thighs part, and as he inched his thumb upwards she writhed in silent invitation.

  He had just scraped aside her damp panties and pushed a finger into her sweet, sticky warmth when they heard the sound of a door slamming at the far end of the house. Sorcha sat bolt upright and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. He pulled his hand away from her.

  ‘Merda!’ he swore softly. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It must be my mother!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Who else could it be?’

  Hurriedly he smoothed his hands down over her ruffled hair and silently left the room, disappearing for the rest of the afternoon until just before pre-dinner drinks were served when he went to find her alone, sitting on the terrace, her face unhappy.

  He knew that the timing was wrong—but he also knew that this must be said now. He felt as you sometimes did when you walked through the sticky mud of a ploughed field after a rainstorm. It was the price he knew must be paid for his body’s desire, and yet he was too het up to question whether it was too high.

  ‘Sorcha, will you be my wife?’

  She stared at him. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  Rocked and reeling with pure astonishment that such a question should have come out of the blue, Sorcha heard only the reluctance in his voice, and saw the strained expression on his face.

  ‘Why?’ She fed him the question like a stage stooge setting up the punchline, but he failed to deliver it.

  ‘Need you ask? You are accomplished and very beautiful, and you are intelligent and make me laugh. And as well as your many obvious attributes you are a virgin, and that is a rare prize in the world in which we live.’

  ‘A rare prize?’ she joked. ‘That matters to you?’

  ‘Of course it matters to me!’ His black eyes narrowed and his macho heritage came to the fore. ‘I want to possess you totally, utterly, Sorcha—in a way that no other man ever has nor ever will. And I think we have what it takes to make a successful marriage.’

  He was talking about her as if she was something he could own or take over—like swallowing up a smaller company.

  And it was the most damning answer he could have given. Sorcha was not yet nineteen and she hadn’t even begun to live. She was at an age where love was far more important than talking cold-bloodedly about a marriage’s chance of success. Yes, she had fallen in love with Cesare—but he had said nothing about loving her back. And how could she possibly marry him and give the rest of her life to him in those circumstances? And throw her hard-fought-for university education away into the bargain.

  He would get over it—and so would she. Yes, it would hurt—but just imagine the pain of an inevitable failed marriage with a man who didn’t love her? That damning phrase came back to echo round in her head.

  A rare prize.

  She looked at him, masking her terrible hurt with an expression of pride.

  ‘No, Cesare,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t marry you.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE bridesmaids’ limousine pulled up in front of Whittaker House, and Sorcha helped the little ones clamber down, forcing herself to concentrate on the present in the hope that it might take her mind away from that last painful night with Cesare and its aftermath.

  She remembered the way he had looked at her after she had turned down his proposal of marriage—with bitterness in his brilliant black eyes. She had tried to explain that she wanted to do her university course and get some kind of career under her belt, and that had seemed to make him angrier still.

  And she would never forget the things he had said to her. The things he had accused her of. That she was a tease and that some men would not have acted with his restraint—and that he should have taken her when she had offered herself to him so freely.

  How could deep affection so quickly have been transmuted into something so dark and angry?

  That day they had crossed the line from almost-lovers into a place where there could never be anything but mutual distrust and hatred on his part.

  And on hers?

  Well, she had vowed to forget him, and to a certain extent she had succeeded—but her recovery had been by no means total. For her, seeing him today was like someone who suffered from a dreadful craving being given a hit of their particular drug. And even though she could see contempt in his eyes, hear the silken scorn in his voice, that wasn’t enough to eradicate the hunger she still felt for him.

  But she could not afford the self-indulgence of allowing herself to wallow in the past because it was the present that mattered. And it was only a day—when she had an important role to fulfil and surely the necessary strength of character to withstand the presence here of the man she had once loved.

  Pinning a smile to her mouth, she swallowed down the dryness in her throat and looked around the grounds.

  There was certainly a lot to take in. The gravel had been raked, the lawn had been mowed into perfect emerald stripes, and not a single weed peeped from any of the flowerbeds. She had never seen her home look so magnificent, but then for once cash had been no object.

  Emma had been going out with Ralph Robinson since for ever, and her new husband was sweet and charming—but most of all he was rich. In fact, he was rolling in money, and he had splashed lots of it about in an effort to ensure that he and Emma had the kind of wedding which would be talked about in years to come. And Whittaker House might be crumbling at the seams, but no one could deny it looked good in photographs.

  The youngest of the bridesmaids tugged Sorcha’s dress.

  ‘Can I have ice-cream, please, Sorcha?’ she pleaded. ‘Mummy said if I was a good girl in church I could have ice-cream.’

  ‘And you shall—but you must eat your dinner up first,’ said Sorcha. ‘Just stay with me until we’re in the marquee, so we don’t get lost—because we’re all sitting at a big, special table with the bride and groom.’

  ‘Bride and gloom, Daddy always says,’ offered the more precocious of the pageboys.

  ‘Very funny, Alex,’ said Sorcha, but the smile on her face died as she saw Cesare climbing out of a low silver sports car, then opening the door for the brunette.

  Sorcha stared at her in disgust—the woman’s dress had ridden so far up her thighs that, as she swung her legs out of the car—she was practically showing her underwear. Didn’t she know that there were graceful ways to get out of a car without showing the world what you’d had for breakfast?

  And why should you care?

  But if she didn’t care—which she didn’t—then why did Sorcha find it impossible to tear her eyes away from him? Because Cesare could have been hers, and now she would never know what it would have been like—was that it? Somehow it didn’t matter how many times you told yourself that you had made the right choice—you couldn’t stop the occasional regret. And regret was a terrible emotion to live with.

  The brunette was laughing up at him, her fleshy lips gleaming provocatively—with sensual promise written on every atom of her being.

  ‘Come along, children,’ Sorcha said quickly, before he caught her studying him like some sort of crazed stalker.

  But Cesare saw Sorcha bend and tie a bow in a little cherub’s curls and giggle at something the little one said and his mouth twisted. He knew that women sometimes used children as a prop when men were watching them—a silent demonstration of what wonderful mothers they would eventually make. Was that pretty little tableau all for his benefit, he thought sourly, to show him what he’d missed? Oh, but he was going to enjoy her reaction when she discovered what was coming to her! Abruptly, he turned away to toss his car keys to a valet.

  Sorcha led the clutch of children around to the marquee, feeling a bit like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, but the presence of Cesare was like a dark spectre lurking in the background.

  How the hell was she going to react to him for the rest of the afternoon and evening, if the mere sight of him unsettled her eno
ugh to set her pulse racing and set off all kinds of feelings churning around inside her?

  She walked into the marquee, which looked as if it was competing for inclusion in the Chelsea Flower Show, and for a moment her dark mood evaporated. She forgot all about Cesare and all worries about the business and just enjoyed the spectacle of her sister’s wedding reception instead.

  There were blooms everywhere—tumbling and filling and falling over in tall urns dotted around the sides of the tented room—and ivy wreathed around the pillars. Roses were crammed into copper pots on each table, reflected back in the gleaming crystal and golden cutlery, so that the whole room looked a mass of glorious, vibrant colour.

  Maybe they could hire the house out as a wedding venue on a professional basis? she found herself thinking. Wouldn’t that help the current cashflow situation?

  She reunited her young charges with their parents until the meal began, showed an elderly aunt to her seat, and then dashed to the loo to reapply her lipstick. But when eventually she couldn’t put it off any longer, she began to walk towards the top table—and her heart sank with a dull dread when she saw who was dominating it, perfectly at ease, with the lazy kind of grace which seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing.

  She could see her mother at the far end in her huge hat, shrugging her shoulders in a don’t-ask-me kind of way. But even more annoying was that Cesare appeared to have captured the attention of the entire room—and it was supposed to be the bride’s day!

  His ruggedly handsome and impeccably dressed figure was exciting jealous glances from men as well as greedy ones from women, and as she grew closer Sorcha could hear people on the adjoining tables.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A rich Italian, apparently!’

  ‘Available?

  ‘Let’s hope so!’

  But Cesare wasn’t reacting to the interest buzzing around him—his black eyes were trained on only her, so that by the time she reached him Sorcha felt as jittery as if she had just walked the plank and was about to jump.