Her Wedding Night Surrender (Harlequin Presents)

by Clare Connelly

  Later she would find that instinct absurd, but in that moment it filled her, made her desperate to comfort him somehow.

  He swore in his own language, the harsh epithet filling her mouth and her soul.

  ‘You were worried I wouldn’t enjoy myself?’

  He rolled away from her, pulling out of her and sitting up in one motion. His face was angled down towards her, his smile bemused.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  Emmeline blinked up at him and stretched her body. She was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration and her nipples were taut; there was a red rash on the parts of her body his stubble had grazed, including her thighs, and at the top of her legs. She arched her back, tossing her arms over her head and stretching like a cat in the sunshine.

  ‘I feel...whole.’ She smiled and closed her eyes, her breathing soon deep and soporific.

  He studied her for a moment, hearing the reality of what they’d done banging on a door in his mind—one he was going to ignore for as long as possible.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said thickly, running a finger over her abdomen up to the swell of her breast.

  ‘What?’ She flicked her gaze to him.

  ‘Explain to me why you haven’t done that before.’

  ‘Maybe I was waiting for you,’ she murmured, the words incongruous in their sweetness. She broke the spell by smiling teasingly. ‘Or maybe I just didn’t meet anyone who tempted me.’ She pushed up on one elbow, her eyes not shying away from his. ‘Is that so strange?’

  ‘Yes.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet it also makes sense.’

  Her eyes dropped to the sheet between them. ‘I’m glad you made an exception to your “no virgins” rule for me.’

  His laugh was a soft caress. ‘That was rude of me.’

  ‘It was honest of you,’ she corrected, stretching again, her body lean and long and begging for his touch.

  He cupped her breast possessively, his eyes simmering with tension as they locked to hers. ‘Do you need anything? Food? Water? Wine? Tea?’

  She shook her head slowly. How could she need anything when he’d just made her feel like that?

  She smothered a yawn with the back of her hand and he smiled.

  ‘Sleep, then.’

  ‘Mmm...but then I might think this was all a dream.’

  He covered her with the duvet that was folded across the bottom of the bed. ‘Which will give me the perfect opportunity to remind you otherwise,’ he said, with a deep husk to his words.

  Her eyes were closed, her breathing even, but she was still awake. He watched as she breathed in and out, her face calm, her cheeks still pink from the heat of their lovemaking. He watched as the smile dropped and her wakefulness gave way to slumber...as her breathing grew deeper and steadier and her eyes began to dance behind their lids. Her lashes were two sweeping fans across her cheeks.

  And still he watched. Without realising it he was being pulled into a spell; it wrapped around him, holding him immobile.

  There were mysteries surrounding his bride. Mysteries of her choice. Her being. The contradiction that lived deep inside her. She was stunningly beautiful and yet she did everything she could to hide that fact. She had lived like a prisoner for years—a prisoner of her father’s love and concern, but a prisoner nonetheless—and yet she was brave and spirited, strong and independent. Why had she sacrificed her independence for so long?

  She was sensual and desirable and yet she’d never even been kissed. How had she subjugated that side of her nature for so many years? She was twenty-two years old but she lived like a Victorian. Most women her age had their heads buried in their smartphones, sending glamorous selfies to their social media followers. She read books by the pool and covered herself from head to toe. Why?

  These were questions to which he badly wanted answers, but there were other overriding questions that poisoned the perfection of the moment.

  How would she react when she learned the truth about her father’s health? Would she be able to forgive him for keeping it from her?

  And, most importantly of all, why did the idea of lying to her, disappointing her, inadvertently hurting her with his dishonesty, make his skin crawl all over?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HER BODY THROBBED in an unusual new way. She stretched in bed, and wondered at the strangeness of everything. Not just her body, but the smells that enveloped her. Sort of citrus and lavender, clean and fresh. And the sounds—or lack of sounds. No busy motorways or bustle of a nearby city.

  Her eyes blinked open, big pools of gold in the darkened room—dark save for the flickering of a couple of candles and the glow of a laptop screen beside her.

  ‘Ciao.’

  His voice was a warm breath across her body. She looked up at Pietro—her husband...her lover—and a lazy smile curved her lips.

  ‘I had the strangest dream,’ she murmured, pushing up onto one elbow so that the duvet fell from her body, uncovering her breasts for his proprietorial inspection.

  He dropped his eyes to the display, unashamed of enjoying her nakedness. ‘Are you sure it was a dream?’ he prompted, folding his laptop closed and placing it carelessly on the bedside table nearest to him.

  ‘It must have been,’ she said softly. ‘It was too perfect to be anything else.’

  She was so beautifully unsophisticated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman who didn’t dissemble in some way. Her honesty was as refreshing as her body was tempting.

  He brought his frame over hers, so large against her slender fragility that Emmeline couldn’t help but feel safe in his presence. As though nothing and no one could hurt her if he was by her side.

  The thought evaporated when his lips touched hers, his kiss perfection in the midst of her body’s awakening.

  ‘I want you again,’ he said.

  Her smile was broad. ‘Good.’

  He dropped his eyes for a moment. Something was clearly bothering him.

  ‘I want you too,’ she reassured him.

  His laugh was a kernel of sound—a husk in the night. ‘I hated seeing you with those men.’

  She blinked, having no idea at first who he was talking about. Then, ‘I was just talking.’

  ‘I know that.’ His smile was self-deprecating. ‘It is possible that I overreacted.’

  She burst out laughing. ‘Is that some kind of extremely hesitant apology?’

  He ran a hand over her hair, stroking its dark glossy length thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Apology accepted. But, Pietro? You can’t really expect me never to speak to another man...’

  ‘Lo so. I know.’

  ‘Good. Because I came to Rome to find my feet—to be myself. I can’t do that with you getting all shouty every time I have an innocent conversation with someone...’

  ‘I know.’

  He lifted himself up and straddled her, the strength of his want for her evidenced by the rock-hard arousal that was already pressed against her abdomen.

  ‘But I will bring you to my bed each night and make it impossible for you to even think of another man.’

  He dropped his head, placing a kiss on her temple.

  ‘I will be all you think of and your body will crave mine.’

  He thrust into her without warning and she cried out at the sweetness of his invasion, the possession that she was already hooked on.

  ‘Starting now.’

  ‘Starting a couple of hours ago,’ she corrected breathily.

  He grinned. ‘Yes.’

  He made love to her as though she was his only lover—as though he’d been dreaming of her for years. As though he needed her and only her. He made love to her with an intensity that blew her mind and filled her with the kind of sensual heat she hadn’t believed could possibly exist.

  She refused to acknowledge the truth: that she was one of many lovers for him and he was her only.

  Afterwards, as she lay with her head resting on his chest, listening to the strong, fast beating of
his heart and feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, all was silent in the bedroom.

  Except for the rather loud and insistent rumble of her stomach.

  She burst out laughing, self-conscious but mostly amused. ‘Apparently I’m starving.’ She sat up straight, turning her face towards his. ‘I hardly ate today,’ she said after a moment, thinking back to her shopping trip and then the time she’d spent styling her hair and applying make-up.

  ‘Why not?’

  He stroked a hand over her back as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and his touch stirred a deep sense of rightness right down in the bottom of her soul.

  She chewed on her lower lip. ‘Just busy, I guess. I don’t suppose there’s anything here though...?’

  ‘If so then someone’s going to find themselves out of a job tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, looking around the darkened room. Only a few candles remained alight, flickering lazily against the white walls.

  ‘Because I retain a full-time housekeeper to maintain this estate.’

  ‘Estate? What is this place?’

  His hand stilled on her back and then resumed its contact, as though he couldn’t bear not to touch her. ‘It is what you would call a bolthole,’ he said after a small pause. ‘My own little slice of the world.’

  ‘Why would you need a bolthole, Mr Morelli? Is it for when your hordes of admirers and past lovers get too much?’

  It was meant to tease him, but his face flashed with true annoyance. ‘There is significant media intrusion in my life—something you might have noted if you’d been with me more.’ He winced at the way that had sounded and shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’m sure you’re no stranger to that sort of invasion.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, and she wasn’t offended or upset—only interested. ‘Though staying on the plantation as often as I did meant I wasn’t really a figure of much interest,’ she said quietly, conveniently glossing over the articles that had been so painful to her teenaged heart. The articles that had so callously compared her boring appearance to her mother’s legendary beauty.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he said, taking her statement at face value. ‘For years I was followed everywhere I went, with paparazzi eager to catch a photograph of the kind of mess I’d get into next.’

  His wink hid genuine pain; she wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she did.

  ‘Including your escapade with that very much married Brazilian model?’

  He grunted. ‘Apparently.’

  She expelled a soft breath—a sigh that meant nothing. It simply escaped her lips without her knowledge.

  ‘I didn’t know she was married,’ he surprised her by saying gruffly. ‘We didn’t have that kind of relationship.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘What kind of relationship did you have?’

  He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment and then pushed out of the bed, striding across the room and grabbing a pair of shorts.

  ‘You don’t want to talk about it?’ she asked as he pulled them up his body, leaving them low on his hips.

  ‘I’m happy to talk about it if you would like. But let’s get you something to eat as we speak, hmm? I don’t want your energy fading.’

  She hid her smile and stood, keeping a sheet wrapped around her as she moved.

  His laugh was mocking. ‘Why are you covering yourself?’

  She sent him a droll look. ‘Because I’m naked.’

  ‘And you are worried I might see you?’ He crossed the room, dislodging the sheet from beneath her arms, dropping his head to kiss her shoulder. ‘Really? After what we’ve shared?’

  Her cheeks flushed pink and something inside Pietro twisted painfully. So her innocence wasn’t just a question of virginity. It was simply her. She had a sweetness, a naivety that was so unusual he doubted he’d ever seen anything like it.

  ‘You’re wearing something.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t look like you.’ He grinned, pulling her close. ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Believe me, I feel the exact same way.’

  His laugh was a little off-kilter, but he stepped backwards and slowly slid his briefs from his body so that he was completely naked.

  ‘Better?’

  Emmeline felt as though she’d eaten a cup of sawdust—her mouth was completely dry. ‘Uh-huh.’

  He laughed, kissing her cheek, and then reached for her hand. He laced his fingers through hers and she grinned.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘First time I’ve held hands with a guy. Other than my father.’

  He pulled a face that perfectly covered the way his heart was rabbiting about like a wild thing in his chest. ‘I don’t want to think of your father right now.’

  Or the fact that he had cancer. Was dying and lying to his only daughter. Nor the fact that he was using Pietro to cover that lie.

  Emmeline’s laugh covered the unpleasantness of his thoughts. ‘Sorry. It’s just this is all so strange.’

  ‘Si. Quest’e verita.’

  He pulled her after him, out through the door and down the stairs, and for the first time Emmeline spared a thought for the dwelling they were in. It was a very unassuming rustic farmhouse. Large terracotta tiles lined the hallway and the walls were cream. The furniture was nice, but certainly not designer.

  ‘It came like this.’ He answered her unspoken question.

  ‘When did you buy it?’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Here.’

  He guided her into a kitchen and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it before releasing her fingers from his grip. He opened the fridge and she watched, waiting.

  ‘Five years ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  He thought about not answering, but what was the point in that?

  ‘I’d broken up with a girlfriend. The press thought we would get married. So did she, I suppose. It was a messy split. Acrimonious. Bitter. Public.’ He grimaced. ‘I learned a lot from that experience. Most of all the importance of having somewhere to go when things get heated. I should have taken the time to calm down.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  He shook his head, pulling a box out of the fridge and opening it. ‘I stayed in Rome.’

  ‘That was bad?’

  He laughed. ‘I did a lot of drinking to forget her. A lot. It was not a good phase of my life.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, hating the lash of jealousy that whipped her spine.

  ‘Don’t be. We are still friends, and I realised that I needed somewhere all to myself. No one knows about this farmhouse. It’s owned by my corporation, but I never bring anyone here.’

  Pleasure soared at the fact that she’d made the cut, but there was envy too. ‘How...admirable that you’re still friends.’

  His eyes met hers, his smile making her feel as though she’d been sledged in the gut. ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She looked away, hating how transparent she must be to him. Unfortunately she had no experience in pretending not to give a crap about her husband’s past. Especially when his past must so radically outstrip her own experience.

  ‘Why does that annoy me?’ he mused, lifting a piece of meat out of the container and placing it on a dark timber chopping board. He reached for a knife; it glinted in the light.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly, distracted by the motion of the knife as it cut easily through the meat. ‘Even with this place you’re still in the press more than I can ever imagine.’

  ‘And you are never in it,’ he said thoughtfully, placing the pieces of sliced beef onto a plate and then turning back to the fridge.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing interesting about me,’ she said softly.

  ‘That isn’t true.’ A frown tugged at his lips. ‘You are an anachronism.’

  ‘I know.’

  She couldn’t help it. She reached over and lifted a piece of meat, placing it into her mouth just as he turned around.

  Her eyes met his and she shrugged. ‘I
’m starving,’ she said through a full mouth.

  He grinned. ‘I’m glad to see you eating. You need energy.’

  Her pulse raced. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Oh, yes, cara.’

  He paused, his eyes scanning her face so intently that she froze.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘When you smile like that you look so much like your mother.’

  Something flashed in her expression. Something that was definitely not pride or pleasure. It was doubt. Guilt. Pain.

  Curiosity flared in his gut. ‘That annoys you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘My mother was very beautiful. I’m flattered.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I know you,’ he said simply.

  And her stomach flopped because she didn’t doubt he was being honest.

  ‘So why do you not want to look like Patrice?’

  ‘You’ll never be like me! Take this off! Wipe it all off! It’s too much rouge, too much mascara. You look like a porn star gone wrong.’

  Emmeline shuddered, her smile as fake as the night was dark. ‘You’re wrong,’ she insisted, even as the memory scratched its fingers over her spine.

  ‘I’m never wrong.’ His eyes sparked with hers. ‘But I can be patient.’

  He placed a handful of strawberries on the plate, then a wedge of cheese and some bread.

  But I can be patient.

  Did he have some mysterious super-ability to know just what she needed to hear?

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she said, after a moment of silence had passed.

  ‘Family stuff often is.’

  His smile showed a depth of experience that she understood.

  ‘Are your parents pleased you’ve “settled down”?’ She made inverted commas with her fingers and he lifted his broad shoulders.

  ‘I suppose so. Rafe thinks you’re quite irresistible,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘I think he’s more than a little jealous that your father chose me as your groom du jour.’

  Emmeline made a sound of amusement and lifted a strawberry to her lips. Strangely, she was not remotely self-conscious in her nudity. Everything about that moment felt right.