Her Wedding Night Surrender (Harlequin Presents)

by Clare Connelly

  The air on the deck was noticeably cooler, but it was still a sultry, muggy night. It felt as though a huge bandage was pressing down on Rome, holding in its heat, making breathing difficult.

  Emmeline dropped her towel onto a lounger and turned towards the pool—just as Pietro dived into the water, his body strong and flexed as he hit the surface and went underneath.

  He was like a god, tanned and muscular, as if he’d been carved from stone. She watched the water separate as if to welcome him and then conceal him again, almost by magic. Her breath was held again inside her lungs—waiting, apparently, for the moment he reappeared at the other end of the pool when she let out a slow sigh.

  ‘Well?’ He turned to face her. ‘Are you joining me, Mrs Morelli?’

  Her eyes met his, and if she’d known about the look of anguished surrender in them she would have tried harder to conceal her feelings. But she didn’t.

  The moonlight sliced through her as she moved to the water’s edge and dipped her toe in. As she’d hoped, it was deliciously cool.

  She sat on the edge and then eased herself into the water. It reached up to her waist and enveloped her in its thick, luxuriant relief.

  She didn’t swim. Rather she walked across the pool, her face deliberately averted from his. He might have found it entertaining if he hadn’t already been frustrated beyond belief. The idea of a cold swim had been essentially to serve the same purpose a cold shower might have. Instead his wife was swimming with him, her pert breasts outlined by the light cast from the moon, her enigmatic, aristocratic face tilted angrily away from him.

  Was she angry with him? And, if so, why did he like the idea so much? Why did he want to inspire that hot, fierce temper in her?

  He dived underwater and swam the length of the pool, pretending not to notice as he passed her by and splashed water in her general direction.

  When he surfaced she’d moved to the other end of the pool.

  Was she hiding from him? The idea of her being the mouse to his cat was like a red rag to a bull. He dived underwater again and swam beneath the surface, stealthy and silent, and had the pleasure of seeing surprise on her face when he lifted himself up right beside her.

  ‘Nice evening?’ she murmured, her eyes scanning his face, her anger flashing more visibly now.

  ‘Not really,’ he said noncommittally.

  Without developing some kind of mystical psychic ability she had no idea what he meant by that. She turned her head away, her eyes soaking in the view of Rome in the distance without really seeing it. Even at this early hour of the morning the city was alive, its buildings outlined with light, all its ancient stories winding around themselves, whispering through the walls to those who wanted to listen.

  ‘Do you do this often?’ He turned to face her, his body achingly close.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor do I. Strange that we both had the same idea tonight.’

  ‘Not really. It’s been muggy as hell today,’ she pointed out logically. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  He nodded, but his eyes were speculative. ‘And in general?’ he prompted.

  God, she looked young like this—bathed in moonlight and the salt water of his pool.

  Her eyes were blank. ‘What do you mean?’

  He compressed his lips. ‘Are you settling in well to Rome?’

  ‘Oh.’ She was grateful for the night, grateful that it hid her blush. ‘Yes. I’ve sent off my enrolment forms. I’ll start university next term.’

  ‘What will you study?’

  ‘Psychology.’ She looked away from his intense gaze, feeling that he saw way too much. ‘It’s always interested me.’

  ‘I see.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I would have imagined you doing history, or perhaps English literature.’

  She lifted a hand and ran it over the water’s surface, feeling its thick undulations beneath her fingertips.

  ‘Why? Because I’m bookish? Because I look as though I’d be perfectly at home under bags of dust in an ancient library?’

  His smile was perfunctory. ‘No.’

  He moved closer towards her, and again she had the sense that he was chasing her. Ridiculous when they were simply floating at the same end of the pool. Besides, why would a man like Pietro Morelli chase her?

  ‘Because the last time I saw you, you spent the entire night staring at very old paintings as though they were the beginning and end of your existence.’

  Emmeline’s smile was genuine. ‘I’d never seen works of art like that before. The Dutch Masters have always fascinated me.’

  ‘So you can see, then, why I thought of history—perhaps art history—as your university subject of choice?’

  ‘Oh, I love art.’ She nodded. ‘And old things in general.’ She tilted her head back into the water, wetting her hair. It draped down her back like a silken curtain. ‘But I’ve wanted to do psychology for almost as long as I can remember.’

  Not quite true. She could recall the exact moment when it had dawned on her that a lot of people’s minds needed fixing.

  Apparently Pietro was drawing the same conclusion. ‘When did you learn the truth about your mother’s death?’

  ‘I thought I told you?’ she murmured quietly, feeling the night wrapping around them like a blanket. ‘I knew at the time.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to experience that loss. And so young.’

  Emmeline rarely spoke about her mother. Her father never wanted to talk about her, and Emmeline didn’t really have anyone else to confide in about something of that nature. But, perhaps because Pietro had known Patrice, Emmeline felt her strongly held borders dropping.

  ‘She’d been unhappy for a long time. I didn’t expect her to die, but it wasn’t a complete surprise, somehow.’

  ‘Unhappy how?’ Pietro pushed, moving closer.

  His recollections of Patrice were vague. She’d been drop-dead gorgeous, and kind enough. Perhaps there’d been a coldness to her, a sense of disconnection. He’d been a young man when he’d last seen her and his thoughts weren’t easy to recall.

  ‘Oh, you know...’ Emmeline’s smile was uneven, her eyes not quite meeting his.

  ‘No, I don’t. That’s why I asked you.’

  How could Emmeline answer? There’d been that morning when she’d come downstairs to find her mother passed out, two empty bottles of gin at her feet, her make-up ruined by her tears. And there’d been all the little nips and tucks, of course. But the biggest clue had been the control she’d begun to exert over Emmeline.

  Even as a teenager Emmeline had known it wasn’t right—that there was something unhealthy about her mother’s desire to infantilise Emmeline, to keep her from experimenting with clothes and fashion. Discouraging Emmeline’s attempts on improving her image had been one thing, but knowingly pushing her towards unflattering hairstyles and prohibiting her from anything except the wardrobe she, Patrice, had selected...

  It had taken years for Emmeline to understand her mother’s motivations and they’d left her reeling.

  ‘Lots of things,’ she said vaguely, shaking her head.

  Perhaps it was the raw pain in his wife’s voice that stalled Pietro from pushing further. For whatever reason, he let the matter go for a moment.

  ‘Psychology will no doubt be very interesting,’ he said quietly. ‘When do you begin?’

  ‘A month.’

  He nodded. ‘There’s still time for you to adapt to life here, then.’

  ‘I think I’m just about adapted,’ she said quietly.

  He was so close now that when he moved the water rippled in response and it almost felt as though he was touching her. She knew she should put some distance between them, but she’d hardly seen him for a month. This nearness was like a highly addictive form of crack cocaine.

  ‘You have been bunkered here in the villa,’ he said softly. ‘It’s time for you to start coming out with me. You are my wife. There are events. Functions. Things to attend.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sh
e bit down on her lip and uncertainty glimmered in her eyes. She had been the one who’d suggested they needed to keep up a certain public persona. But now the idea filled her with doubts. ‘I don’t know if that’s really necessary...’

  ‘Not all the time, no. But there are certain things you can no longer avoid.’

  ‘I haven’t been avoiding anything.’

  As soon as she said it she knew it was a lie. She had been holed up in his house as much as possible—reading, emailing, reading some more. Keeping her ears permanently trained on noises that might herald Pietro’s arrival so that she could scamper away.

  ‘My bank organises a banquet every summer. It is a Midsummer’s Eve theme—very beautiful and enjoyable. You’ll come with me.’

  She arched a brow, instantly resenting his imperious tone. ‘Oh, I will, will I?’

  ‘Si.’

  His fingers brushed against hers underwater. Surely it wasn’t an accident? Her heart didn’t think it was. It pounded hard against the fabric of her being with a thundering beat that he must be able to hear.

  ‘I usually take a date. That would raise eyebrows this year.’

  She smiled, but it was a distracted smile. He’d been late home almost every night in the month since they had been married. It was impossible to believe he hadn’t been seen out with different women in that time.

  The thought made her heart race, but for a less palatable reason now. Jealousy. Not because she cared for him or wanted him, she hastened to reassure herself. But because he was hers. Her husband. And she didn’t particularly want people thinking that he was straying from the marital bed already.

  Marital bed.

  What a joke.

  Longing surged inside her.

  The need he had awoken was at fever-pitch.

  She controlled it as best she could, but her mind continued to toss up images of just what it would be like to be made love to by a man like her husband.

  The reality wouldn’t live up to her fantasies, Emmeline was certain.

  ‘It’s Friday night,’ he murmured.

  Her eyes clashed with his and the longing was back, begging her to do something—anything—to indulge it.

  ‘You want me to go?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I think you should come, si.’

  She bit down on her lip, and then spoke before she could question the wisdom of her proposition.

  ‘Well,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘there’s something I want too. I suggest we...trade.’

  ‘Oh? And what is it that you want, Mrs Morelli?’

  Say the words... Say the words... her courage pushed angrily.

  ‘I want you to sleep with me.’

  They blurted out of her on the warm breeze that rushed past.

  Pietro barely reacted. Just a tightening around his lips showed that he’d heard her proposition and was digesting it.

  ‘I told you—’

  Emmeline waved a hand in the air. ‘That you’re not interested in being my first lover,’ she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘But it’s too late for that. You’ve shown me what my body can feel and I want to know more.’

  ‘I’m not a damned teacher.’

  ‘No. You’re my husband.’

  His eyes narrowed, and his breath was clearly tearing from his body.

  ‘I’m not going to sleep with you,’ he said with an angry shake of his head.

  God, she was Col’s daughter, and he’d married her to ease the mind of his dying friend.

  But surely Col knew enough of Pietro’s ways to know that this was a possibility.

  Why was Pietro fighting it so hard?

  The last month had been a living torture as he’d forced himself to keep his distance, never sure if the flame between them would burst out of control.

  ‘I’ll go to this...this banquet with you. And whatever else you want me to attend. But I need to know what it feels like.’

  ‘Why now?’ he asked, the question thick in his throat.

  ‘I didn’t mean to not sleep with anyone. I just never met a guy I was interested in. Honestly, I started to think I was kind of...sexually not all there. All my friends have been in relationships forever.’ She bit down on her lip.

  ‘You lost your mother at a vulnerable time in your life,’ he said gently.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. It changed who I am.’ Her clear amber gaze held his for a long moment. ‘Life sort of got away from me. I feel like I’ve spent the last seven years in a sort of stasis and now I’m ready to start living again. I want to wake up.’

  Be brave. Be brave.

  She closed the distance between them, surprising him when she wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘I want you to wake me up.’

  His eyes were lightly mocking as they stared back down at her, but he didn’t push her away. He didn’t remove her touch.

  ‘I’m not Prince Charming, Sleeping Beauty.’ The words were cold. Determined.

  ‘I know that.’ She blinked her eyes. ‘I don’t need you to be.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have married you if I’d known,’ he said with an angry shake of his head. ‘You deserve to find someone yourself. Someone you care about.’

  ‘She’ll be vulnerable to fortune-hunters.’

  Yes, Emmeline—the sweet, naïve virgin heiress—sure as hell would have been vulnerable. She might as well have had a target on her back for some guy to come along and sweep her off her feet.

  All Col’s reasons for pursuing this marriage were blindingly clear to Pietro. What had at one point seemed ridiculously absurd now made absolute sense. Even without the fortune she would inherit, her youthful innocence would mark her as the easiest target for no-good bastards on the lookout for an easy buck.

  ‘This isn’t about happily-ever-after,’ Emmeline said with a grim determination. ‘I’m twenty-two, and until our wedding day I’d never even kissed a guy.’

  She dropped her eyes, the admission making her insides squirm with embarrassment.

  ‘I feel like some dusty old antique no one’s wanted to pick up off the shelf.’ Her throat moved as she swallowed. ‘But when you look at me it’s like... I get it. I get what everyone’s talking about. I understand—finally—the appeal of sex. And I don’t want to die a virgin.’

  He couldn’t help but laugh softly at her dramatic end note. ‘You are not going to die a virgin. You are still young.’

  ‘Yes, but...if not now, when? Who?’

  An excellent question.

  Suddenly the idea of someone else taking this precious gift was anathema to Pietro. The red-blooded man that was thick in his blood had begun to see his wife as his. Not just a bride of convenience, but a woman in his home, under his protection. Was he to let her go one day, knowing some other man would take what he, Pietro, had so nobly declined?

  He groaned softly, knowing then that the devil was on his shoulder and he was listening to his urgings. He was listening when he should be speaking sense, reminding her of what they were.

  ‘You are too young for me,’ he said, with a finality that his hard-as-stone cock wasn’t happy with. ‘And too inexperienced.’

  He reached up, wrapping his hands around her wrists, pulling them away from his neck. As he glided them through the water, resting them at her sides, her pert breasts pressed into him.

  His arousal jerked and for the briefest moment his will-power left him. How easy it would be to do what she wanted! She was handing herself to him on a silver platter.

  But he’d regret it.

  One way or another he’d conquer this desire—because nothing and no one ever got the best of Pietro Morelli.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DIO. SINCE WHEN had she started wearing skirts like that?

  Pietro stared out of the villa window, his concentration sapped by the image of his wife in a scrap of denim that barely covered her arse and a simple white strappy top.

  Without a bra.

  The pert outlines of her breasts were clearly visible, as were the hardened nubs o
f her nipples, straining at the fabric. She was tapping a pen against her mouth, her eyes intent on the book she had propped on her knees. But his eyes were lost on her lips. Lips that were slightly parted, full and pink, glistening as though she’d just licked them.

  ‘I’m twenty-two and until our wedding day I’d never kissed a guy.’

  A fierce burst of possession tore through him. Those lips had welcomed his claim on them, had sought his mouth and kissed him back. They’d parted for his invasion.

  She’d tasted so sweet.

  His eyes swept closed as he remembered the way she’d come to him on their wedding night, all pink-cheeked and nervous. The way she’d stood like a rabbit caught in bright headlights—which was exactly what she’d been! How could she have understood the onslaught of sensual heat that was flaring up between them?

  Even for Pietro it was proving difficult to process. And impossible to ignore, apparently. Did she have any idea what her presence was doing to him? Here in his house...his virgin bride?

  His for the taking.

  The idea spread like wildfire through his body. It took every ounce of his willpower not to give in to temptation and act on it.

  But it would be so wrong. Other women were for meaningless sex. She was different. Not someone he could desire. She was someone he needed to protect. Yes, as a brother would protect his sister.

  Ugh. Not as a brother!

  She tossed her dark hair over one shoulder and her eyes lifted almost unconsciously. She was clearly lost in thought, her mind wandering as her eyes did the same.

  Pietro jerked his own head down, returning his concentration to the marketing reports he’d been given that morning. Or at least pretending to.

  But it was incredibly dull reading, and his wife was just metres away, her long legs calling to him...

  With a noise of impatience he scraped his chair back and strode towards the glass doors, his expression grim.

  ‘Are you wearing suntan lotion?’ he asked, pushing the door open wider as he stepped through it.

  Emmeline’s frown showed that she’d been deep in thought—that his question had seemed to come from a long way away.