by Lucy Gordon;Sarah Morgan;Robyn Donald;Lucy Monroe;Lee Wilkinson;Kate Walker
‘Oh, scusi!’
His start of surprise, his careful apology when he saw her in David’s arms, were perfect. So why should Amy’s suspicions be raised instantly, her reaction instinctive like the lifting of the hackles on the neck of a defensive cat facing an intruder into its territory?
Because it was just too perfect. Because it made her feel that it was calculated to give exactly the impression he wanted.
‘No problem.’ She managed to keep her voice calm, her body still. At the beginning, when Vincenzo had first moved into her home, she had reacted almost with panic to his every appearance.
Well, not this time, she resolved. Behaviour like that was just playing right into Vincenzo’s hands.
So she stayed right where she was, meeting the speculative glance of those dark, deep-set eyes with defiance, before she eased herself away.
‘I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?’
‘I’d love some.’
Her question had been addressed to David, but it was Vincenzo who answered, throwing himself down in one of the deep brown velvet-covered chairs and stretching lazily.
‘It’s warm out there, and I’m very thirsty.’
Get your own tea, Amy was tempted to snap, but she bit the words back hastily. She was not going to let Vincenzo get to her any more. In fact, she was not even going to notice him any more. She was just going to get on with her life and not let him be any part of it.
That was easier said than done, especially when Vincenzo, casually dressed in a crisp white polo shirt and elderly denim jeans, wandered into the kitchen after her.
‘Need any help?’
‘To make tea?’ Amy scorned. ‘No.’
Those jeans were so worn that they clung to the strong lines of his body in a way that was practically indecent, and the contrast of the pristine white shirt with the glowing bronze of his skin make her heart kick in her chest in response. Even such sunshine as the early English summer had brought, mild and brief compared to the heat of his native land, had deepened the year-round tan he wore naturally. With his glossy dark hair and brilliant eyes, he appeared like an exotic wild predator in the midst of a bunch of dowdy sparrows.
‘I’ll get the mugs anyway.’
‘You can do what you like.’
She didn’t care if she sounded ungracious. She felt ungracious, and she was damn sure he knew exactly why. Knew it and was playing on it quite deliberately.
And the narrow confines of her small galley kitchen were not the best place to try and go through even the simple procedure of making a cup of tea in close proximity to a devastating male like Vincenzo. Every one of Amy’s senses seemed to be on red alert, her eyes having to be dragged away from the vibrant masculine presence of him, her skin tingling as if undergoing an electric shock if she so much as brushed past him.
She tried to close her ears to the sound of his soft baritone humming as he went about his task, hold her breath against the scent of sun, fresh air and clean, warm skin that pervaded the atmosphere. Her own soft blue cotton dress seemed to brush over her sensitised skin in a way that made her shiver in response.
‘That colour doesn’t suit you,’ Vincenzo said suddenly, seeming to pick up on her thoughts in a way that was thoroughly unnerving.
‘David thinks it looks very smart,’ Amy retorted, dumping biscuits on a plate with such force that two of them broke in half.
‘Then David has no taste. With your colouring you look much better in richer, deeper colours, red or purple or—’
‘Or the sort of thing you once bought me!’
‘Exactly.’
His smile mocked her prickly response.
‘Why do you think I bought them for you?’
‘Well frankly, I think they were over the top and quite unsuitable for an English climate.’
Hopefully the force of her reply hid the twisting pang of regret that she couldn’t suppress at the thought of the beautiful, jewel-coloured clothes she had left behind, confined to the wardrobe in the house in Venice.
‘They’re just not me.’
‘They’re certainly not the you I’ve seen since I came to England,’ Vincenzo returned sardonically. ‘That dress must be the closest to anything bright that you’ve worn in weeks. And I don’t believe I’ve seen you with your hair any way but in that appallingly tight style once.’
The scowling glance he directed at the smooth chignon in which Amy’s rich dark hair was confined expressed his disapproval far more eloquently than words could ever do.
‘The way I dress has nothing to do with you! I wear what I like, and I choose my clothes to suit the woman I am.’
‘So you actually choose to look like a repressed spinster?’ Disbelief rang in his voice. ‘And hide away the warm, sensual woman I know really exists? That kettle’s boiling.’
‘I’m well aware of that!’
Amy snatched up the kettle, her abrupt, jerky movements perfectly mirroring the uncomfortable state of her thoughts.
‘You know nothing about me!’ she raged on, splashing boiling water into the teapot with reckless abandon. ‘And I’m not hiding anything! I am simply—Ouch!’
She broke off on a cry of shock as an unwise movement made the hot water splatter onto her hand, scalding it painfully.
‘Amy, cara!’
Reacting with instinctive speed, Vincenzo’s arms came round her, swinging her in an arc towards the sink. Pulling the kettle from her hand, he pushed her injured fingers under the cold tap, turning it on with full force as he did so. Biting her lip against the discomfort, Amy gave a small, sobbing cry of relief as the icy water poured over her hand, soothing it immediately.
But the sensations rushing through the rest of her body were very different. Soothed was the exact opposite of the way his touch made her feel. It was as if tiny rivulets of fire were spreading out from the point where his fingers were resting, searing her delicate skin with a sensation far more disturbing than the sting of her injury. She was achingly, hungrily, shockingly alive.
His nearness, the feel of that muscular body so close to hers, firm and hard under the white shirt, was almost more than she could bear. She could breathe in the scent of him with a sensuality that rocked her balance; even the soft sound of his breathing played havoc with her already tightly stretched nerves.
‘I’m—I’m okay,’ she said hastily, struggling for the composure not to wrench away from him. ‘You can let me go now.’
His response was slow in coming and when she heard it she was overwhelmed by a devastating impulse to give in to the weak tears that were pricking at her eyes.
‘I don’t want to,’ Vincenzo said simply, softly. ‘I don’t want to let you go.’
‘Well, you have to!’ Amy hissed through clenched teeth, stiffening every muscle into tight rejection of the insidious, snaking appeal of just being close to him, that seemed to coil round her like scented smoke.
‘No, I don’t,’ he contradicted softly. ‘On our wedding day, I took you as mine—to have and to hold. You may be able to forget those vows so easily but—’
‘I haven’t forgotten them!
It was so cruelly tempting. His mouth was so close to hers. All she had to do was to lift her face, tilt her chin just so…Only the scream of her nerves in recognition of the danger she was in held her back, forcing her to face reality.
‘But David is just next door; he might come in at any moment.’
Too late she saw how the way she had phrased things could seem to imply that her rejection of him was based solely on that fear. And of course, Vincenzo, being the man he was, pounced on that small weakness immediately.
‘If that’s all that’s troubling you, then tell him. Come with me right now and we’ll tell him the truth together…’
He had his hand in her uninjured one, had even led her partway towards the door before reality returned in full, forcing her to dig in her heels and pull him to a halt.
‘I don’t want to tell Dav
id anything!’
‘He has to know some time.’
Vincenzo shrugged off her protest with a casual indifference that had her clenching her fists against the urge to scream with frustration.
‘He doesn’t have to know a damn thing! Because there is nothing for him to know! I have nothing—get that—nothing to tell him!’
The look her turned on her was pure scorn, contempt blazing in the coal black depths of his eyes.
‘Coward,’ he murmured with a silky toned disdain that still managed to seem to scrape away a protective layer of her skin, leaving her feeling raw and vulnerable.
‘Cowardice has nothing to do with it.’
A quick twist of her wrist freed her from his unexpectedly loosened grasp.
‘But a very thick skin and total refusal to accept the truth on your part has. I do not want to be with you.’
She spelled out the words slowly and precisely as if explaining to a rather slow child.
‘Now what part of this do you not understand, Vincenzo?’
‘All of it!’ he tossed at her, a blaze of derision in his eyes, scorching over her exposed skin. ‘You must know that today was the first time—the only time—I’ve seen David hold you or do anything at all to show his feelings? I cannot bring myself to believe that you would choose the milk-and-water relationship you have with him over the one you shared with me.’
‘I never shared anything with you, Vincenzo! Nothing at all. We both took—neither of us gave…’
The lie caught in her throat, almost choking her, but she swallowed it down and forced herself to continue.
‘And the only thing that held us together—the blazing sex—has burned itself out as fires like that always will. They don’t last. They can’t…’
‘No!’
It came with the force of a thunderbolt, stopping her dead and leaving her shaking all over.
‘I don’t believe it—I won’t believe it.’
Twice Amy opened her mouth to answer him, and twice her voice failed her so that a broken croak was the only sound that she could manage. She had just swallowed hard to try to ease her parched throat enough to try again when she was saved by an unexpected intervention.
‘Amy?’ David’s voice called from the living room, a note of annoyance shading her name. ‘What the devil’s keeping you? How long does it take you to make a pot of tea?’
‘Just coming!’ Amy managed, affecting an ease she was so very far from feeling. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
A few moments of flurried movement put the teapot on the tray, the mugs, sugar and milk by its side. Picking it up, Amy turned towards the door then swung back to glare furiously into Vincenzo’s dark face.
‘Believe it!’ she said savagely. ‘Because that’s how it is. How it always will be!’
And shouldering the door open she marched out of the room, her head held defiantly high.
Chapter Eleven
SHE had thought that Vincenzo might have the tact to leave her and David alone, but he followed her back into the living room, settling again in one of the armchairs.
For courtesy’s sake she was forced to offer him tea, only to find that by the time she had poured it, he was deep in conversation with David about the problems of building business premises locally. He barely acknowledged her actions with a brief nod before continuing his discussion.
Cursing silently under her breath, Amy deliberately seated herself well away from him, taking a place beside David on the settee. But to her annoyance, her gesture went unnoticed; Vincenzo did not even take his eyes off the man opposite. Fuming, Amy could only sit silent and listen, her thoughts drifting until something she heard David say dragged them right back to the present.
‘Tell me, Vincenzo, doesn’t your wife object to your being away so long? You’ve been in England for three weeks now—is she likely to join you at any point?’
Amy’s tea slopped over in her saucer as she sat up sharply, nerves twisting in apprehension at the thought of just what Vincenzo might reply to that. She knew her face had paled, knew that Vincenzo’s dark, assessing eyes had flicked to it then away again, his attention apparently directed on David as he seemed to consider his answer.
‘I’m in contact with my wife every single day,’ he returned smoothly. ‘So she never feels neglected. As to whether she’s likely to join us, I think she’s perfectly comfortable where she is. I don’t expect that she’ll want to move in the near future.’
In spite of herself, Amy couldn’t help feeling admiration for the way he had side-stepped David’s question without ever compromising his determination never to lie. Meeting the gleaming black eyes that challenged her to object, she lifted her cup in a parody of a toast, seeing the corners of his lips twitch in amused response.
The next moment the cup clattered down into the saucer, as David turned his head towards her, narrowly missing catching sight of the gesture
‘That’s a pity, isn’t it, Amy? It would have been nice to invite her here for your birthday.’
Amy’s mind boggled at the thought and she had to struggle to compose her features into some degree of calm in order to answer him.
Vincenzo got there first.
‘That’s right. It’s next week, isn’t it? July the twentysixth.’
‘How do you know that?’
Panic flared in Amy’s mind, obliterating all rational thought. All she could picture was the moment that, in order to complete the formalities for their wedding, she had told Vincenzo her birth date. She could still visualise his smile, hear his beautiful voice say softly, ‘So you’re a Leo? It figures. A lioness suits you perfectly—proud and strong and deeply sensual at heart.’
Vincenzo didn’t even miss a beat.
‘You told me, didn’t you, Amy? Some time ago.’
Carefully omitting the fact that ‘some time’ was over four years before. Amy felt the stretched nerves that had coiled into knots begin to untangle, only to have them tighten again as the conversation continued.
‘Are you going to do anything special?’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve rented a cottage in the Lake District for the weekend.’
She’d planned it a couple of months ago, never suspecting then that by the time the date of her birthday came around she would view the short break not just as a couple of days’ relaxation but more as an escape from the strain of having to watch every word she said.
She was suddenly unable to sit still and got to her feet, crossing to replace her cup on the tray, then froze as she heard Vincenzo’s next words from behind her.
‘I have never seen that part of your country. I am told that it’s very beautiful.’
The louse was blatantly angling for an invitation to join her. Anger ripped through her, blowing a fuse in her thoughts. Whirling round, she faced Vincenzo, just as David opened his mouth to speak.
‘No!’ she flung the words furiously at Vincenzo’s smiling face. ‘No way at all! You’re not—’
‘Amy!’ David’s reproof cut through her outburst, shocking her into silence. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he went on, addressing the other man. ‘I really don’t know what’s come over her. It’s not like her at all.’
‘No problem.’
Vincenzo’s smile was calculated to mean totally different things to both of the people present, Amy knew. To David, it was pure man-to-man, united in the face of the irrational behaviour of women. To Amy, however, it had another interpretation entirely. It revealed an amused appreciation of the fact that he believed that this was the real Amy, certainly it was the one he knew only too well.
The temptation to round on him, give him a piece of her mind, was strong. But she knew that she had shocked David already. He would be stunned if she went any further. Stunned and disapproving of her behaviour towards a man he viewed as an important client. So she contented herself with looking pointedly at her watch, silently communicating the lateness of the hour.
To her surprise, Vincenzo took the
hint, getting to his feet and stretching lazily.
‘I think it’s time I left you two alone,’ he said, his tone implying an indulgent understanding of the needs of a couple he believed to be lovers that set Amy’s teeth strongly on edge. ‘Buona notte, David—Amy.’
It was all that Amy could do to acknowledge his departure. Her relief at seeing him leave was diluted by the fact that she fully expected that David was not going to leave things this way. He had obviously been shocked by her outburst, and clearly intended saying so.
She was right. The door had barely closed behind Vincenzo when David got to his feet and turned to her, disapproval written all over his face.
‘What on earth came over you? I’ve never known you be as rude as that—and to a man of Signor Ravenelli’s standing…’
She’d always know that David had this side to him, Amy reflected, tuning out his tirade by going deep inside her own thoughts. Always known that status and money meant more to him than it would ever do to her.
Now, knowing that Vincenzo was watching every move David made, every word he spoke, she was aware of everything in a new and very disturbing way. It was as if someone had switched on a brilliant, searching spotlight, focusing it directly on her life, and she wasn’t at all sure that she was happy with the things it was revealing.
She so much wanted David to be the sort of man who would impress Vincenzo. She needed him to drive all doubts from the Italian’s mind, force him to admit that here was a man he knew Amy could be happy with. Only then would he concede and sign the divorce papers.
So she had found herself unbearably sensitive to everything about her boss, seeing him through the other man’s eyes. And the problem was that where before she had been able to gloss over petty, carping criticisms, or his dogmatic insistence on work being the driving force of his life, now such things stuck out like a sore thumb, impossible to ignore.
David was coming to the end of his rant—really, there was no other word for it—and Amy hastily shook herself back into the present.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you’ll be in a better mood then.’
Amy fought hard with herself all the way to the door, knowing he expected her to apologise but equally aware of the way that the word sorry would stick in her throat. It was only when David’s grasp was actually on the handle that she found something with which to break her uncomfortable silence.