* * *
Sorcha stared out of the window to the front lawn, where a peacock was strutting and fanning its deep shiny turquoise feathers, squealing like a newborn baby.
Her hand fluttered to her throat to play with the pearl which hung from a fine golden chain, and she could feel a pulse beating at the base of her neck. It was almost as if she needed to touch herself to check that she was real—for she felt curiously detached, as though this evening was happening to someone who wasn’t really Sorcha Whittaker, someone who had taken over her body for a while.
Because the real Sorcha Whittaker didn’t have gasping orgasms across the boardroom table from a man she was certain despised her. Nor would the real Sorcha Whittaker have changed her outfit four times this evening until she was sure she had struck just the right balance.
Except that she still wasn’t sure she had made the right choice, and there was no opportunity to try another because the long silver bonnet of Cesare’s car was nosing its way up the long gravel drive.
The bell rang, and she ran downstairs and opened the door to see Cesare standing there, his head slightly to one side. He had taken his tie off, but otherwise he looked the same as he had done at work—save for a hint of dark shadow at his jaw.
With the evening sun behind him his olive skin looked almost luminous, and his thick hair was as darkly glossy as one of the ravens which sometimes strutted across the lawn before being chased away by the peacocks.
‘Hello,’ she said, and suddenly she felt confused. This felt like a date, and yet she was damned sure it wasn’t a date. It was nothing more than a sexual liaison—a settling of old scores. But she felt as shy as a woman might feel on a first date—and that was even more peculiar—because how could any woman in her right mind feel shy after what had happened between them today?
Maybe because she wasn’t in her right mind.
Cesare’s eyes flickered over her. She was wearing some floaty dress in layers of green, with tiny little gold discs sewn into the fabric, her hair was loose down her back and she wore gold strappy sandals to flatter her bare brown legs. ‘Pretty dress,’ he murmured.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re ready?’He could see the wary expression in her eyes as she followed him out to the car and he told himself that it was inappropriate to ravish her on the doorstep—particularly since her mother and her brother might be around. Of course they might not be—but if he asked, then it would make him sound…
As if he was abusing the hospitality they had offered yesterday—just as they had offered all those years ago?
But it was actually more complex than that—because Cesare realised that he hadn’t taken memories into account. He hadn’t realised that they were such a powerful trigger into feeling things you didn’t want to feel—until you reminded yourself that memories were always distorted by time. They had to be. They weren’t constant—because no two people’s memories were ever the same, were they?
Yet being with Sorcha like this mimicked a time when life had felt so simple and sweet—when he had felt unencumbered by anything other than the long, hot summer and the slow awakening of his senses.
But there was that distortion again—because that hadn’t been part of Sorcha’s agenda, had it? While he had been handling her with kid gloves she had been leading him on—playing with him with the clumsy confidence of a child who had mistaken a tiger-cub for a kitten. And she was just about to discover what it was really like in the jungle…
‘Music?’ he questioned, once they had strapped themselves into the car.
Sorcha sank into the soft leather of the seat. ‘If you like.’
He slid a CD into the player as the car pulled away in a spray of gravel, but Sorcha almost wished she could tell him to turn it off again as the most heartbreakingly beautiful music swelled up and resonated through the air, so that you could hear nothing else but the voice and the song.
It was a man, singing in Italian, and she couldn’t understand a word of it—but maybe she didn’t need to. All she knew was that it was the most beautiful and sad song she had ever heard. It made her think of love and loss—and pain and happiness—and the man beside her. Sorcha closed her eyes.
She had to pull herself together—because it was pointless to feel things which would only be thrown back in her face, to want things which could never be hers.
Cesare glanced down at the hands which were clasped in the lap of her dress—at the way her fingers interlocked, the way they gripped when the music reached a crescendo—and he bit down on his mouth, hard, in an effort to dispel his own frustration.
Because unless he stopped imagining himself pulling over into a lay-by and slipping his fingers between her legs, this was going to be a very long and uncomfortable drive.
The car drew up outside the only hotel in the village—the Urlin Arms, which was run by a slightly dotty ex-admiral who rated eccentricity over efficiency. It was his old family home, which had been converted, and the fact that the place had ‘character’ compensated in a small way for the constant stream of junior staff who were always flouncing out in a huff and leaving the Admiral in the lurch.
‘You know this place?’ asked Cesare as he opened the car door for her.
She clambered out of the low car and stood beside him, looking up at it. ‘Yes. Of course. I remember when it was first converted.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it. It’s just…’
‘Surprising that I’ve chosen to stay here?’ he observed wryly.
‘A bit.’
His black eyes mocked her. ‘You thought I would have rented a glass and chrome extravaganza in London, did you?’
‘Why, Cesare—are you a mind-reader?’
‘No, I’m just good at reading body language,’ he murmured. ‘Especially yours.’
But Sorcha’s poise was in danger of slipping as she followed him inside—where the Admiral was having his customary gin and tonic and regaling a tyre salesman from Humberside with the problems in the modern Navy.
‘Evening, Admiral,’ said Sorcha, forcing a smile and hoping that he was as man-of-the-world as he always claimed and wouldn’t mention to her mother or Rupert that she’d been caught sneaking up to a hotel bedroom with Cesare di Arcangelo.
Why?
Because it felt wrong?
Because he was her boss?
They went upstairs to where he had obviously rented the best room. There were some fine pieces of furniture—a grandfather clock with a sonorous chime, a beautiful sandalwood chest, and faded silk rugs sprawled on polished floorboards.
Sorcha walked in and felt frozen to the spot, not sure what she was expected to do or say as Cesare pushed the door shut and leaned on it, studying her. And then his eyes narrowed and he turned and began walking towards a wooden drinks cabinet. ‘Drink?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Drink?’ she echoed blankly.
He reappeared at the door. ‘Wine? Or did you think I was going to leap on you as soon as you set foot inside the door?’
Sorcha swallowed. ‘How would I know? I’ve never been in this kind of situation before.’
Their eyes clashed. ‘Me neither,’ he said softly.
Some of the tension eased out of her. ‘Wine, please.’ She walked around the room, picking things up without really looking at them, trying not to look nervous when inside her stomach was tied up in knots.
Cesare came over and handed her a glass of red wine.
‘Thanks.’ She sipped it, and then took a bigger mouthful. ‘Gosh—it’s delicious. The Admiral must have better taste than I thought!’
He smiled. ‘Actually, it’s mine. My wine, that is. It is made from grapes which are grown in my own vineyard. The vines will be growing heavy now—with great clusters of grapes growing darker under the sun.’
His voice was dreamy enough to hurt, and suddenly Sorcha couldn’t bear it. If she had married him she would have been mistress of those vineyards, too—as proud of their yield as he was�
��while instead she was standing awkwardly in a slightly scruffy hotel room, making small-talk while the real agenda simmered away unspoken. The elephant in the sitting room.
She put her glass down with a hand which she was suddenly afraid was going to start shaking. And he must not sense her reservations or her nervousness—because that would surely tell a man as clever as Cesare that she was vulnerable. If he thought that this was simply about a powerful sexual attraction which had never been properly explored then wouldn’t she be safe? Maybe she would. For when they had taken their fill of one another perhaps they would discover that nothing remained.
She curved him a smile—a deliberately provocative smile she had no memory of ever smiling before. Where did a smile like that come from? Did you learn it from watching films? she wondered. Or was there just a moment in life when you met the only man for whom it was appropriate?
Cesare put his glass down beside hers, and for a moment he just savoured the anticipation of what was about to happen. At last. At last.
And then he beckoned to her. ‘Venuta,’ he said softly, and held his arms out. ‘Venuta, cara mia.’
She did as he told her, went into them and felt them tighten round her. His breath was expelled from him in a hiss—like air being released from a pressure cooker.
‘Cesare,’ she breathed, on a note which sounded broken.
And that was when he began to kiss her. Her arms fastened around his neck as hungrily she pressed her body closer to his—and as he kissed her he began pushing up the filmy dress. Up over her bare thighs, his fingers luxuriating as they kneaded the soft flesh, as if they were reacquainting themselves with an old friend.
And Sorcha realised that she could not play passive. Not this time. This was the command performance—for one night only! Remember that, she urged herself. Don’t be lulled by sweet sensation and unrealistic wishes just because his lips are soft and his kiss passionate enough to make you start indulging in make-believe.
She slid her hand between his legs and he groaned. Gently, she rubbed her palm down over the hard heat of his arousal and the pressure of his kiss increased—until he drew his head away, his black eyes looking as opaque and distant as a man in the midst of a fever.
‘You think I am going to do it to you here?’ he questioned unsteadily. ‘Is that what you want? You are one of those women who like it any place except in bed?’
One of those women. He might as well have slapped her. Sorcha shook her head. ‘No,’ she breathed.
He scooped her up without warning and carried her through into the bedroom, laid her down on the bed—and perhaps he sensed that his words had been clumsy, for he started to stroke her and soothe her, and anoint her skin with feather-light kisses, and speak to her in words of soft Italian.
He worked her up into such a pitch of longing that Sorcha was barely aware of the gauzy drapes which fell in soft folds over the imposing four-poster bed. Quite honestly it could have been a bare mattress on the floor of a downtown apartment she wanted him so much—and suddenly she was tearing at his shirt, pulling at it in a frenzy.
He started laughing as a button went bouncing across the floorboards, but he lifted a shoulder to help her shrug him out of it, and when his chest was bare she touched it wonderingly, curling her fingers in the dark whorls of hair which grew there.
‘You are hungry? Like a tiger?’ he murmured.
But his laugh grew slightly unsteady as she unzipped him, pulling off his trousers as best she could and murmuring as she skated her fingertips over the dark silk of his boxers.
His eyes snapped open. ‘Don’t,’ he warned.
‘Or what?’ she questioned breathlessly.
‘Or this.’ It was time to take back control—before he was fooled into mistaking this unique situation for something else. With a fluent efficiency born out of years of practice he peeled her dress off and tossed it aside, then unclipped her bra and sent it across the room in a lazy arcing movement. And then, with a hard smile of enjoyment, he caught the fabric of her mint-green panties between his hands and ripped them apart.
Sorcha’s mouth dried and her eyes widened. ‘Cesare—’
‘Do you know how many times I’ve fantasised about doing that?’ he grated as he pulled her down onto the bed, peeling off his boxers as he bent over to straddle her. ‘And this?’ he whispered, as he cradled his erection and pushed it close to her.
He paused only to reach for a condom, which it seemed he had conveniently placed ready beforehand, and Sorcha began to get a terrible feeling of panic. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Oh, she had known exactly what was going to happen, and her body was crying out for him, but it all seemed so…so…mechanical.
All those dreams she had cherished were about to be dealt a fatal blow. But maybe that was best—it was only forbidden and impossibly perfect dreams which made it impossible to move on. Reality was a much safer beast.
He felt her tension and kissed her with slow deliberation until he felt all her apprehensiveness dissolve—even though the effort it took nearly killed him. ‘I want you,’ he ground out. ‘And I want you now.’
‘You’ve…you’ve got me.’
He entered her slick tightness and he was lost—as if he had found himself in the middle of the sea and a mist had come down so that he couldn’t see any more, could only feel.
And—Madre di Dio—could he feel her! For a moment he felt shaken by the power of each perfect thrust.
Was she doing okay? she wondered as feverishly she kissed his shoulder. Was it acceptable for her to float away on this sensual bubble? Because it had never felt like this before—never, never, never.
Like an adult who had just got back on a horse after years of abstinence, Sorcha tried to remember the moves which pleased most, and she wrapped her ankles around his back and writhed her hips.
For a moment he froze. He looked down at her and his eyes were black, almost…hostile.
‘What? What is it, Cesare?’
‘Oh, but you are…good, cara,’ he said unevenly. ‘Very good. I thought you would be.’
So why did it sound like an insult? And why did something alter from that moment? The pitch and intensity of his movements changed, and he drove into her like a man who had been starved of sex all his life. You and me both, she thought. And—even though she tried to fight it—she felt herself swept away by the longest and most powerful orgasm of her life.
She was still crying out helplessly against his shoulder when Cesare followed, with one final deep thrust which sent him spinning off into a place of unbearable sweetness. It seemed to take him a long time to return to earth.
After it was over he lay back against the bed, staring upwards at the ceiling of a bedroom that wasn’t his, oddly shaken by what had just happened. But that was because he had waited so long, he told himself—and now that the wait was over the hunger and the passion would die a natural death.
He turned to look at Sorcha. Her bright hair was tumbled across his pillow and her skin was rose-pink. But her eyes were closed.
‘Are you sleeping?’ he questioned softly.
Behind the sanctuary of her closed lids, Sorcha composed herself before opening them. Act like you don’t care, she told herself.
‘No.’
His eyes narrowed as he searched her face, but it was blank, like an unpainted canvas—as if she felt nothing. Yet how could that be? Even if she no longer had any great affection for him, he was experienced enough to know that her orgasm had been of the bone-melting variety. Cesare prided himself on giving a woman pleasure—indeed, it often inspired an almost slavish devotion in his lovers. Compliments were his due, and always effusive. Always. But not, it seemed, from Sorcha. He traced a finger along her shoulder and she shivered. ‘You liked that, cara?’
Keep it real, she told herself. Protect yourself. He must know how good he is. ‘It was…’ Sorcha shrugged. ‘It was okay.’
For a moment his face darkened. ‘You mean you were faking it?’
he demanded in disbelief.
Sorcha started laughing. ‘I’m not that good an actress.’
He relaxed. ‘Ah, I see—you are teasing me?’
‘Aren’t you used to being teased, then, Cesare?’
He pulled her closer. ‘Not,’ he said silkily, ‘at moments like these.’ Women tended to idolise him. His ego was vast, but it was not self-delusion which made him sometimes feel like a trophy—not when he knew that women sometimes boasted of having been his lover. Lately he had found the very obvious conquests a bore. He looked down at Sorcha’s bright hair. Yet she had been the easiest conquest of all. Or had she? He felt a twist of inexplicable pain.
‘You have had many other lovers?’ he demanded.
She turned her face towards him and her green eyes were serious. ‘Do you ask every woman that?’
‘Of course I do not. But it is different with you.’
‘Why?’ she whispered.
Because I wish I’d been the first. Because I cannot bear the thought of another man doing to you what I have just done. ‘Just curiosity.’
‘But it’s none of your business, is it?’ she asked sweetly. ‘I haven’t asked you how many women you’ve had.’
Cesare felt wrong-footed. ‘That is different,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Another thing that’s different? My, my, Cesare—where were you when women got the vote?’
He could feel a mixture of exasperation and frustration, because she still hadn’t answered his question. ‘You were right,’ he said suddenly. ‘We could never have been married. For I could never have tolerated a woman with strong opinions such as yours, which often do not coincide with my own.’
‘Then everything has turned out for the best, hasn’t it? Of course if we’d married my opinions would have been different,’ she said. ‘Because you would have helped form them.’
‘And you think that would have been such a terrible thing?’ he demanded, even though deep-down he admired her independence of thought.
There was a pause. She knew that there was an easy answer to give—but what would be the point? This—whatever it was they had between them—was not destined to last, so why not be honest at least? ‘Well, yes—I do. Because then all I would have been was an extension of you—with no intellectual freedom of my own.’
Hunter's Moon & Bedded for Revenge Page 22