His shirt.
Pausing to steady herself against the wall of the kitchen passageway, she bit her lip. Oh, God, how deeply, desperately embarrassing. Nothing could have made her feelings more obvious really, which he would either find amusing or just tedious and awkward. She took a deep breath and walked down the passageway to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. He was standing against the Aga, his head in his hands in an attitude of utter despair.
An icy chill crept into her heart. So that answered that, then.
Glancing around the kitchen she could suddenly see it as he must see it. Compared to the sleek perfection of the yacht, this must seem like the armpit of the universe.
She was about to flee back upstairs when he looked up.
‘Anna, you shouldn’t be out of bed. I’m bringing you some tea.’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ she said, doing her best impression of bright and cheerful. ‘I’ll make the tea. I should take some in to my father. He’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.’
‘It’s all in hand. Stop worrying.’
She spun round. ‘You’ve seen my father?’
‘Yes, and I found the number for Mrs Haskett and I’ve arranged for her to come down first thing tomorrow—and bring some groceries.’ His voice was harsh and impatient, filling her with black despair. Perhaps he noticed that because, with a heroic effort, he softened it and said, ‘Really, there’s nothing for you to worry about.’
Yeah, right. The tidying up was in hand. Shopping was being delivered. That would just leave the embarrassing detail that she was head-over-heels in love with him, then.
Awkwardly she nodded and looked down. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all such a mess.’
She heard him expel a heavy breath, then felt the delicious warmth and strength of his hands on her shoulders. ‘Go back to bed. I’ll bring the tea. And is there anything to eat in this place, apart from cat food?’
Anna reddened. ‘I’ve been so busy with the schools, I haven’t really had the time to shop.’ Or the inclination. She’d lost all interest in food since she’d been back, which was possibly one of the up sides of unrequited love. She’d lived mainly on breakfast cereal and the awful instant soups favoured by her father. The langoustines and olives of St Honorat seemed to belong in another lifetime.
‘Schools? Am I right in thinking that would explain your rather unusual outfit this afternoon?’
She nodded, then was struck by a thought. ‘The bread! We made bread—and butter! It’s out in the dairy—I’ll just go and get it.’
‘No! You’ll go back to bed. I’ll go and get it and if you’re not in bed when I come up there’ll be trouble.’
Going back upstairs, Anna’s heart felt like lead in her chest.
He was here and he was being so wonderful. This was everything she’d dreamed of, so why wasn’t she swinging from the chandeliers with joy?
Because she had trapped him. He felt guilty, obviously, for the accident, and he couldn’t leave until he was sure she was OK. The doctor had probably even told him as much, so he was stuck here until she was deemed to be well enough to leave on her own. Twenty-four hours?
Twenty-four hours.
It wasn’t much, but it was all she had to keep her going—maybe for a lifetime.
He was back in twenty minutes, balancing a tray on one hand as he kicked the door to her room shut to keep out the draught that curled through the passages of the old house.
Sitting up in bed, Anna smiled bravely. No tears, no neediness, but as she watched him walk towards her she felt her heart give a painful kick.
The late September light was failing outside and the sky in the west over the parkland was streaked with fire. In the gloom and shabbiness of the room he seemed more golden and perfect than ever. In some strange way he suddenly reminded her of her mother. Maybe it was his beauty. Maybe it was the fact that, for however briefly, he was looking after her.
‘So,’ he said gravely, setting the tray down on the end of the bed and coming to sit beside her, ‘I have to admit that you’re the first pole-dancing, aristocratic eco-warrior I’ve ever met who can also bake a great loaf of bread. You’re full of surprises, Lady Delafield.’
Anna grinned weakly. ‘I try. I’d hate to be the same as all the other pole-dancing, aristocratic eco-warriors out there.’
He laughed briefly. Oh, God, Anna thought, he’s bored out of his brain, he can’t wait to get away.
‘I found some soup. God knows what it’ll taste like, but I want you to eat something. You’ve got far too thin.’ He held up a spoon to her lips and she parted them, looking into his eyes.
The room fell silent, apart from the hammering of her heart. It was so dark now that it was impossible to make out the expression on his face.
‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were, when we were on the yacht?’ he asked, tearing off a mouthful of bread with those long poetic fingers and offering it to her.
She leaned back on the pillows, sighing softly.
‘Do you remember you accused me of making assumptions?’
He nodded, his face in shadow.
‘Well, you were right. I did do that. But I think that’s because I’ve had a lifetime of people doing it to me. Lady Roseanna Delafield—daughter of a Marquess. Spoiled, rich, brought up in the lap of luxury with an army of servants. That’s what people always assume. And, as you’ve seen, that’s not how it is.’ She hesitated and bit her lip, struggling to find the words to confront her old demon. Her secret shame.
‘No,’ he said dryly. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s also not who I am. I don’t belong here. I found—’ She faltered. She could see his profile silhouetted against the window. He was so unreachable, so remote, and all of a sudden she was reminded of that lonely boy in the orphanage. The words died on her lips. She would not start whining about her own sense of isolation and lack of identity. Not to this man who had had none of the blessings she had been given—parents who had loved her and had been willing to look after her as their own.
‘I don’t know,’ she finished lamely. ‘I guess I’ve never been someone who wanted to be labelled. I’ve spent my life trying to avoid that.’
‘Running away?’
There was a small pause as Anna digested his words.
‘Maybe. Running away sometimes, but also hiding. Behind different roles. Rebel. Disciplined dancer. Activist. All of them designed to distract people from the simple fact that, underneath, I don’t know who I am, and that I’m ashamed of that.’
That was the nearest she was going to get to saying it. Their eyes locked and she looked at him imploringly, silently willing him to understand.
‘Don’t be.’
Electricity seemed to be buzzing and crackling through her veins and the throbbing in her head had been drowned out by the more persistent drum-beat of the pulse between her thighs. She was trembling, so that as Angelo held the spoon to her lips again it clattered against her teeth.
Two fat tears slid down her bruised cheeks.
Turning away, he replaced the spoon in the bowl, then slowly, slowly brought his face back round to look into hers. Reaching out one hand, he cupped her jaw, brushing away the tears with his thumb. His chest felt it might implode with the effort it was taking not to crush her mouth with his and rip that bloody shirt off her. Again.
Mustering every shred of self-control he possessed, he slid an arm around her heaving shoulders and cradled her against his chest, where her hot tears soaked through his shirt.
Gradually her sobs subsided under the soothing stroke of his hand and the murmur of his lips against her hair. He didn’t know how long he held her like that, but the moon had risen above the trees by the time her breathing steadied and deepened and he felt her grow heavy in his arms. He lay staring into the silvery dark, testing out his new-found emotional depth.
Not since Lucia had he allowed himself to get this close to someone without ravishing them. For him, closeness had involved not
hing more than considerate foreplay, but here he was, holding this girl, kissing her hair.
He pressed a final kiss against her head, settled her more comfortably against him and lay back on the pillows.
Slipping into sleep, he felt a tiny flicker of hope glowing in the ashes of his heart.
‘Angelo?’
His eyes snapped open. It was still dark, he realised, struggling into a sitting position and rubbing a hand over his face. It must be the middle of the night.
‘I’m here. What is it? Are you all right?’ his voice was harsh with anxiety. He’d dreamed of Lucia and had awoken with that old familiar feeling of panic.
‘I’m fine. It’s OK …’ He felt her slim arms slip around his waist, her cheek come to rest on his back so that he could feel the warmth of her breath through his thin shirt. Then she moved so that she was kneeling in front of him. Her eyes were like liquid in the darkness, then the lashes swept down over their rich gleam.
‘You were talking,’ she said softly. ‘About Lucia.’
He sighed and swore quietly. ‘Sorry. It’s a dream I have often.’
‘I know what you said on the yacht, that you never sleep with … anyone … and I thought that may be why and … l didn’t want to trap you into something you didn’t want to …’ She took a deep breath. ‘I just wanted you to know that you can sleep in a guest room, if you want.’
‘Do you want me to?’
For a moment he could neither see nor hear anything in the velvet blackness. Then he felt the blissful softness of her mouth on his, felt her shake her head.
‘But please, if you’re staying, would you get undressed?’
Her hands were already undoing the buttons of his shirt. He caught them in his, held them.
‘I can’t, Anna. You’ve got concussion, for God’s sake, and I’m not such a cold-blooded bastard that I’m going to make love to you tonight.’
She sighed and pulled him down beside her, flipping on to her back. In the dull light he could just make out the outline of her breasts. His body thrummed and pulsed with raw desire.
It was a baptism of fire. Every nerve screamed to touch her, but he lay still.
His life for the last twelve years had been about instant gratification—in business and in pleasure, about taking and not keeping. But, as the cold grey light of morning filtered through the grimy window, he allowed himself a small smile of triumph. For the first time in his life he had managed to hold out. He had felt the need, experienced the longing, and resisted it.
That, he thought, was love.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHEN Angelo opened his eyes again it was properly light and the bed beside him was cold and empty. This time he felt no panic but lay on his back, his hands behind his head, staring up at the faded velvet canopy over the bed. He had slept deeply and, judging by the bright, cold light falling through the grimy window, for a long time.
And he had awoken feeling at peace with himself. Today, for the first time ever that he could remember, his head was not immediately full of targets and imperatives for the day ahead. There was no buzzy need to achieve something, to score the first business advantage of the day, to better an adversary or get ahead on a deal driving him to get out of bed.
In fact, if Anna was feeling better, absolutely nothing was going to drive him out of bed today.
Right on cue the door opened and she appeared.
He felt his body harden, the jeans he had slept in, like armour, tighten. Gesù, he thought wryly. This was another stage of youth he’d missed out on. From the moment he’d lost his virginity at the age of sixteen to the bored thirty-something wife of a shipping magnate, he’d screwed women artfully, effortlessly, emotionlessly. But this, this heart-flipping arousal, was something he’d never experienced before.
She was wearing jeans and an enormous, thick polo-neck sweater that highlighted the delicacy of her face and in her hands she carried two steaming mugs of coffee.
‘Is it sacrilege to offer instant coffee to an Italian?’
‘I suspect you could get away with offering ice cream to an Eskimo,’ he said dryly, accepting one of the mugs and shifting over on the bed so she could sit down beside him. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’
She smiled wickedly into his eyes, but there was a hint of uncertainty there. A question. ‘Frustrated.’
He took a sip of the watery coffee, relying on the caffeine rush to counteract the far more powerful testosterone hit her words had just initiated. ‘Anna, I’m being serious. How’s your head?’
She reached out and took the mug from his hand, putting it on to the dusty bedside table, then swung one leg over him.
‘My head’s OK,’ she said slowly. ‘However …’ she took one of his hands and slid it under her sweater ‘… I’m a bit concerned about my heart, doctor.’
Angelo sucked in a sharp breath as his hand encountered the soft warmth of her bare breast. He could feel her heart, beating fast beneath his palm. Slowly he sat upright and tipped her off his chest so that she was lying on the bed beside him. Carefully keeping his face perfectly blank, he pulled the curtains on one side of the bed closed in a shower of dust.
‘In that case, I’d better examine you. Take your clothes off, please.’
On the bed, Anna writhed out of her jeans as Angelo viciously tugged the curtains at the end of the bed closed. In the sudden shadowy darkness she saw his throat move as he swallowed. She sat up, raising her arms to pull the sweater over her head, and as the soft wool enveloped her face she felt his hands on her ribs, sliding upwards, along her arms, easing her out of the tangle of her clothes.
‘You’re beautiful.’
Her hair crackled with static, but that was nothing to the passion that snapped and fizzed in her dark, dark eyes. His gaze travelled downwards and he forced himself to go slowly, taking her in, inch by inch: the delicate outline of her collar-bone above the luscious breasts that he knew just fitted perfectly into his hands. The narrowness of her ribs, the decadent sparkle of the jewelled bar in her midriff, the pale line on her flawless skin that showed where her bikini had been …
He made a low guttural sound, caught between wanting that moment to last for ever and the need to have her, to be inside her right now, to possess her and never let her go.
She stood up on the bed and, reaching round him, unhooked the curtains on the last side of the four poster, pulling them together to enclose them in secret darkness. He could see nothing, could only feel her hands on his waist, unfastening the button on his jeans, gently working them down over his hips. He let his head fall backwards as her fingers swept across the skin beneath the top of his boxer shorts, easing them over the hard jut of his painful arousal.
He was lost, throbbing with longing. Feeling every touch as if for the first time.
Aching.
Anna let her palms linger on the hard flatness of his stomach, adoring the way she could feel his flesh quiver as her hands inched downwards. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she leaned her forehead against his chest, knowing that her mouth was only inches from his straining erection, exhaling heavily so that her breath caressed his skin. The darkness wreathed them completely, but her mind was full of images of him. She jumped as she felt his fingertips on her shoulders, then relaxed against him as they began to move in caressing, languid circles down her back.
There was no hurry, no sense of urgency in their dark paradise. Every move, every touch was filled with the pleasure of the moment. Gently he pushed her back on to the bed, leaning over her to bring his mouth down to hers and plundering it softly, lovingly before moving downwards to her neck, her breast. Only as his lips brushed her dew-drenched thigh did she cry out, at last driven to the very edges of self-control and she felt him pull away from her.
‘Angelo, please …’
‘Wait,’ he rasped, stooping swiftly to where he’d kicked his jeans and fumbling in the pockets for a condom. ‘Damn.’
‘I don’t care. Please …’
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Her hands gripped his hips, pulling him down on to her, and the next moment a deep shudder of total surrender ricocheted through him as he felt her fingers close around the very core of his desire, guiding him into her. And then she was wrapping her slender legs around him and arching her pelvis up to take all of him inside her, and the past, the future and everything was obliterated in the pure perfection of now.
She was in his arms, underneath him, beside him, her hair on his face, her lips on his skin, her dark, delicious scent all around him. He was lost, but he was also home. The bliss stretched and quivered until convulsively he grasped her closer, cupping her bottom and driving deeply into her as desire spilled over into fulfilment. At the moment of his own explosion into ecstasy her soft, high gasp in his ear was like a gift.
Afterwards they lay locked together and he thought about the consequences and implications of what he’d just done. Never before, ever, had he had sex without protection. To him it was automatic—part of the ritual, to guard himself against disease and paternity, and maybe just to guard himself against closeness. Anna had removed that barrier as she had removed so many of the others he had built between himself and the rest of the world.
She shifted a little in his arms and he twitched the curtain aside so that a thin shaft of sunlight penetrated their warm cave.
‘No-o-o!'She rolled over and buried her face in his chest. ‘Too bright!’
‘I want to see you.’ He frowned and stroked the hair back from her face. ‘Are you all right—does your head hurt?’
‘No, thank you, doctor.’ She smiled teasingly up at him. ‘But I’m suddenly hugely hungry.’
‘Is Mrs Haskett downstairs? Did she bring groceries?’
Anna moaned. ‘I can’t believe you can even mention the word “groceries” at a moment like this. Angelo Emiliani, there is no romance in your soul whatsoever.’ Scrambling up on to her knees, he was treated to the glorious sight of her naked body as she reached up to the carved wooden headboard of the bed.
‘What are you doing? Not that I’m not enjoying the view, whatever it is …’
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