Книга - Bedded For Revenge

Bedded For Revenge
Sharon Kendrick






DEAR READER LETTER

By Sharon Kendrick

Dear Reader (#ulink_21844317-3b88-594d-95e8-340645e178be),

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx


Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.


SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…


Bedded for Revenge

Sharon Kendrick






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Michele et Claude Bertrand,

for their wonderful hospitality and for

showing me a different side of glorious Paris.




Contents


Cover (#u3b85b5d4-c2f3-5aa4-8252-8c3744410b89)

Dear Reader (#ulink_8c1a98e9-9938-592f-8d02-f51763d1481a)

About the Author (#u8b48f521-a968-52a0-a3fb-e7aefb011d53)

Title Page (#uc4654176-437b-59a4-9148-c462bc5dab74)

Dedication (#ua74c55ce-021c-53b2-ac98-9b32525766c9)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2a1b9a2d-3b39-56af-97a9-200b243e916d)

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Coming Next Month

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_b559e327-5557-501e-97fe-e6f3026c2ef6)


CESARE DI ARCANGELO’S eyes narrowed as he watched the woman begin to walk down the aisle, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her beautiful mouth, and he found he wanted to crush it, lick it, bite it, eat it.

Yet he felt the flicker of a pulse at his temple and was aware of the faint wash of disappointment—for he had wanted to feel nothing, to remain as coolly indifferent as women always accused him of being. But as she approached, in a cloud of silk-satin and lace, that hope shattered within him. He felt anger rise like poison in his blood, but something else too. Something more powerful still—which it seemed that all the years could not diminish. Something which had kept the human race going since the beginning of time.

Lust.

And maybe that was better—because if lust was a problem then it had a pretty simple solution.

The sound of the organ music was building up to a crescendo, and the heavy scent of the flowers was intoxicating, but all Cesare could see from his seat near the back was Sorcha, smiling, her bouquet held in front of a waist which was as sensuously narrow as it had been when she was just eighteen.

What a gorgeously sexy bridesmaid she was…

Feeling the hard, heavy tug of an erection straining against the exquisitely tailored trousers of his morning suit, Cesare briefly clenched and then flexed his hands, willing the hard throb of desire to disappear.

He had slid into his seat at the back of the church at the very last minute. It had been a low-key but deliberate lateness—for the sight of Cesare diArcangelo tended to create interest and excitement wherever he went.

Mega-rich, sexy Italians seemed to be on the top of everybody’s wish list. It was why the hottest hostesses in all the major cities in the world pursued him with the fervour of astronomers who had just discovered a brand-new planet.

He scanned the congregation for Sorcha’s mother. Yes. There she was—in a hat as big as the Sydney Opera House—and even from this distance it was easy to read the cat-got-the-cream satisfaction of her body language. She must be very pleased—for a rich son-in-law spelt hope for a family firm beset with problems. Would Emma’s new husband be willing to pour the necessary funds into the family business to keep creditors at bay?

Cesare doubted it. Money only worked up until a certain point—after that, you might as well hold it up to the winds and let it scatter. Problems had to be fixed; they couldn’t be patched up. His mouth twisted. All problems.

The bride and groom were now passing, but he barely gave them a glance. Nor the parade of chubby little bridesmaids, or the scowling pageboys clad in satin romper suits which they would never forgive their mothers for forcing them to wear.

No, it was the only adult bridesmaid, with the bright, strawberry blonde hair woven with tiny rosebuds, who commanded his total, undivided attention. She was his problem—the unfinished business which he needed to put to bed. Beautiful Sorcha Whittaker, with the green eyes, and the bright hair like a waterfall, and a body as supple as an eel.

He had her trained in his sights, like a hunter with his prey fixed—for he wanted to see her reaction when their eyes met for the first time in…How long was it now? A pulse began to beat at his temple. Seven years? A minute? An eternity?

He saw her knuckles tense and her footsteps falter so much that for a second she almost came to a halt. Time froze as he stared into eyes as green as a rainwashed woodland and saw the confusion and consternation which flew into them as she stared straight back.

Cesare watched her face blanch and her lips tremble and felt a fleeting moment of utter triumph—swiftly followed by frustration that he could not just take her there and then.

If only this were not a crowded place of worship.

How much easier if they were alone and he could swiftly remove all the underwear hidden beneath the canopy of that monstrous dress—could swiftly obliterate desire and frustration with sweet release.

And then just walk away.

For a moment he was powerless—as once she had made him powerless all those years ago. But soon she would have fulfilled her role as bridesmaid, and then he would take the power back with relish.

‘Bride or groom?’ asked the delicious-looking brunette in banana-coloured silk who was standing beside him.

Cesare swallowed, for his erotic thoughts had inevitably made him ache. He flicked his eyes over the brunette, who widened hers so provocatively that she might just as well have had Yes, please! tattooed on her forehead. ‘Groom,’ he answered drily. ‘And you?’

‘Mmm. Me, too. He said there were going to be some gorgeous men here, and by heck—he wasn’t lying!’ The brunette batted her eyelashes quite outrageously. ‘Any chance I could cadge a lift to the reception?’

Cesare’s mouth hardened into a smile. ‘Why not?’



Outside the church, Sorcha was standing in the wedding group while it seemed as if a thousand photos were being taken. But her smile felt as if someone had slashed it across her face with a razor.

Her eyes flickered over to the tiny church and she saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerging, having to bend his head to avoid bumping it on the low door, and her heart felt as if someone had ripped open her chest and squeezed it with a bare fist.

Cesare!

Here!

‘Sorcha! This way! Look at the camera!’

With an effort she tore her eyes away from him and a flashbulb exploded in her face, temporarily blinding her. When it cleared he had gone. But there was her brother, Rupert, standing in a group, and she hurried over to him, completely ignoring the appreciative comments which came from his fellow ushers. Her mouth was dry and her heart was beating like a drum. And it hurt. It shouldn’t do, but it hurt.

‘Who in their right mind invited Cesare di Arcangelo today?’ she managed, though her specially perfected chief bridesmaid smile didn’t waver.

‘Oh, he’s here, is he?’ Rupert looked around and an odd expression came into his eyes. ‘Good.’

‘Good?’ Sorcha tried to squash all the instinctive fears which came scurrying to the forefront of her mind. Because none of them might be true, and it was her sister’s wedding day, after all.

It was supposed to be a happy occasion, a joyous day—like all weddings should be. And it had been—right up until the moment when she had seen Cesare’s dangerously handsome face and had felt her heart clench as if it was making up its mind whether to beat again.

Just the sight of his brilliant black eyes had taken her back to another time and another place—and mocked her with the lesson she had been learning ever since. That no other man could ever match up to him. And one look at him had reminded her exactly why.

Her mouth was dry and her breath was rapid, but she sucked in a deep breath and tried to stay calm. ‘Rupert, did you know he was going to be here?’

There was a pause. ‘Er…kind of.’

‘Kind of? And so did Emma, presumably—since she’s the bride?’

‘Yeah. Ralph’s family does a lot of business with di Arcangelo. You know that, Sorcha.’

Yes, she knew that—but it was one of those things you knew and kept pushed to the back of your mind. The same way that you knew natural disasters occurred, but you just didn’t spend your time thinking about them until you had to. ‘And it didn’t occur to any of you to have the decency to tell me he’d been invited, in view of our…our history?’

Rupert looked vaguely bored. ‘You went out with him a few years ago—what’s the big deal? And anyway—he asked me not say anything. He wanted it to be a surprise.’

She wanted to yelp—What do you mean, he asked you not to? I am your sister, and as such I take precedence over Cesare di Arcangelo—in spite of his affluence and influence.

‘Oh, it’s certainly a surprise,’ said Sorcha lightly—but if she said any more then Rupert would think she cared. And she didn’t. Not any more. She had to get things into perspective. Cesare was simply part of her past who would soon be gone, if not forgotten.

But why was he here? What possible reason could there be for re-establishing a family connection which had fizzled out years ago? Loyalty to her brother? Had they really been that close? Or was it just what it seemed—he was attending the wedding of a son of a business colleague?

It was like being caught in a trap which no one apart from Sorcha could see. Even though the sun was shining, and the church was picture-postcard perfect, and the bells were pealing out, inside she felt a bleak pang of regret. Time healed, that was what everyone said—and now it seemed that the rest of the world had been colluding in a great big conspiracy of lies.

But she played her part to the maximum and flashed a series of bright, happy smiles for the cameras until they wanted just couple shots of the bride and groom and she could escape.

She just wasn’t sure where.

With an odd kind of sixth sense, Sorcha suddenly became aware of being watched as surely as if eyes were burning into her back, branding her pale skin through the delicate silk-satin of her bridesmaid dress. And—try as she might—she couldn’t stop herself from turning round to see, even though she knew exactly who it was.

This was the true meaning of the word irresistible, she thought as she tried uselessly to pull against the power he exerted. As if she were a snake and he some charmer, summoning her against her will. And she looked round to find herself dazzled by the ebony gaze of Cesare di Arcangelo.

Stay away, Sorcha prayed silently—but her prayer went unanswered. Sunlight bouncing off his gleaming blue-black hair, he walked across the church path towards her, tall and dark and supremely confident—leaving a sulky-looking woman in a bright yellow dress glaring at his retreating back.

Sorcha felt a lump in her throat—as if someone had rammed in a pebble large enough to block her wind-pipe—and she briefly closed her eyes, imagining—almost praying—that she would pass out. What a merciful release that would be. To faint and discover when she opened her eyes again that Cesare had gone—as if he had never set foot here in the first place. Almost as if she had dreamt it all up.

But she did not faint, and there was no mercy. Or dream. Instead, the air came flowing back into her lungs as she stared back at him—and just the sight of him was the visual equivalent of a punch in the solar plexus.

‘Cesare,’ she said, and it came out as a whisper.

He was wearing a pale, formal suit in grey, made from some expensive fabric which hung and hugged his muscular body in all the right places. Whoever had designed it must have decided that hinting at a man’s raw sexuality was the way to go—or maybe it just had something to do with the man who was wearing it.

The grey contrasted with jet-dark hair which was thick and silky-straight—just like the outrageously thick black eyelashes which shielded eyes as rich as dark chocolate. He looked more like an international sex symbol than the millionaire entrepreneur he really was—who had taken the long-established wealth of the di Arcangelo family, transformed it into super-riches and made himself into a bit of a legend in the process.

Everything about him was perfect—even that slightly restless expression on his face, and the cold and quizzical eyes that hinted at an intellectual depth which lay beneath the charismatic exterior. She had once thought that it wasn’t possible for a man to be as gorgeous as Cesare, but somehow he had defied the improbable—and seven years had only added to his striking physical impact.

Somehow she managed to pull herself together—even though there was still some remnant of the lovestruck girl inside her who wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his gorgeous face down to kiss her, wriggle her untutored body restlessly against the hard perfection of his.

Her heart was hammering, but somehow she inclined her head politely—so that to the casual observer it would look as though the chief bridesmaid were greeting just another guest.

‘Well,’ she said coolly. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Don’t you like surprises?’ he murmured.

‘What do you think?’

He smiled as he sensed the tension in her. ‘Ah, Sorcha,’ he murmured, his gaze travelling with slow insolence over the body of the only woman who had ever rejected him. ‘Bene, bene, bene—but how you’ve grown, cara.’

She wanted to tell him not to look at her like that—but that wasn’t entirely true, and she didn’t want to be branded a hypocrite. Because even while she despised that blatantly sexual scrutiny, wasn’t there some traitorous part of her body which responded to it?

She could feel it in the soft throbbing of her pulses and in the uncomfortable prickle as her breasts thrust against the lace brassière she wore—as if her nipples were screaming out to be touched. And Cesare would have noticed that. Of course he would. Once, in that protective way he’d had with her, he would have defused the sexual tension. But not any more. Now he was just taking his time and enjoying it.

And the time for social niceties was past. She had to protect herself. She had to know the truth.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded.

Black brows were arched. ‘What an appalling way to speak to an invited guest, cara,’ he answered silkily. Because now was not the time to tell her. Non ora. He was going to savour the timing of this, to maximise the impact when he dropped his bombshell straight into her beautiful lap. ‘Didn’t you know I was coming?’ he questioned innocently.

‘You know very well I didn’t—since my brother says you left instructions for it to be kept all hush-hush!’ Sorcha fixed him with a questioning look, reminding herself that this was her territory and that he was definitely trespassing. ‘So why all the cloak and dagger stuff? Do you want to be a spy when you grow up, Cesare?’

He gave a soft, appreciative laugh—for opposition always heightened the senses. He thought how much more spirited she had become with the passing of the years, and oh, but he was going to enjoy subduing that fire. ‘Why? Do you think I’d make a good one?’

‘No. You’d never blend into a crowd,’ she retorted, before realising that although it was the right thing—it was also the wrong thing to say. It might have sounded like a compliment, and that was the last thing she wanted. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘Maybe I knew how much you would have opposed my being here,’ he observed.

‘You were right.’

‘And maybe I wanted to see your face when you did. To see your first genuine reaction. Do you remember the last time we saw one another, my love?’

In spite of the sarcasm which dripped from it, the word made her heart clench. Until she reminded herself that it was a redundant word as far as they were concerned—as unreal as everything else about their relationship. The engagement that never was, the happy-ever-after which never happened. How could something which had never really existed, have hurt so much?

She gave him a blank look. ‘I don’t believe I do.’

‘Liar,’ he said huskily, black eyes sliding over the tight aquamarine silk bodice and the exuberant thrust of her pert breasts. His gaze lingered long against the tiny tips of her nipples, which looked so startlingly sharp against the shining material, and he wished that he could take his tongue to them. ‘Do you remember how it felt to be in my arms and to have my tongue inside your mouth? Are you regretting now that we didn’t ever get around to having full sex?’

She flinched as if he had hit her. As if he had led her down a predictable path and she had failed to see where it was heading—except that Cesare had never been explicit like that with her before.

Yet she was letting his words wound her, and she was in danger of making a fool of herself. People were already starting to turn round to look at them—as if the almost tangible tension between them was setting them apart. Murmured questions were buzzing around the high-society guests, and Sorcha’s gaze darted around to meet frankly curious stares.

His black eyes followed hers. ‘Do you suppose they’re thinking what an attractive couple we make?’ he murmured. ‘Do you suppose that they are imagining the contrast of your pale skin being pinned down by the darkness of mine? Are you imagining it too, cara mia, just as I am? Do you think that they would be disappointed if they knew the reality of our lovemaking?’

Her pulse rocketed. ‘Cesare—stop it. Just go. Please! Why are you doing this?’

This was better, much better. Her lips parting in breathless appeal, her eyes darkening at his erotic taunt. With a cruel pleasure which excited him, Cesare continued to play with her as a cat would a helpless mouse. ‘What a way to greet the man you once claimed to adore.’

Sorcha felt the blood rushing to her ears so that they were filled with a roaring sound, like the ocean. ‘I was young and stupid then,’ she said hoarsely.

‘And now?’

‘Now I’m old enough to realise the lucky escape I had.’

‘Well, then, we are agreed on something at least,’ he answered evenly.

Sorcha hesitated. Maybe she had got him all wrong. Maybe he wanted to make peace. Maybe…She peered over his shoulder to where the brunette in the biliously coloured outfit was still standing staring at him and her heart pounded. ‘Is that your…girlfriend?’

He heard the acid tone in her voice even though she did her best to disguise it, and turned his head to glance over at the woman, who wiggled her fingers at him in a wave. ‘Sindy?’ He gave a slow smile. ‘Jealous, Sorcha?’

‘Not at all.’ But she was lying, and Sorcha wondered if Cesare realised that. She found herself wanting to lash out like a little cat—to say that the woman’s skin was sallow, that she was wearing the wrong colour, that she was not fit to be his girlfriend. But that was all wrong—she shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not now.

‘Have you spoken to my mother?’

‘Not yet. I’ll catch up with her at the reception.’

Sorcha froze. ‘You’re coming to the reception?’ she whispered.

Cesare smiled. This was better than he could ever have anticipated! ‘You think I have flown all the way from Rome to hear a couple repeat a set of vows which will probably be broken before the year is out?’ he questioned cynically. ‘I may not be a big fan of weddings, but nobody can deny that they offer an opportunity to indulge in some of the more pleasurable aspects of life. And I shall look forward to being back in your house.’

The black eyes glittered in a way which took her right back to forbidden territory—more emotional than erotic, and all the more dangerous for that.

‘Shall we dance together later, Sorcha?’ he finished. ‘Perhaps even go for a swim, just like the old days—si?’

But the old days were gone—long gone. She wanted to convince herself that the person she was then had been markedly different—so that if the younger Sorcha had walked up and said hello she wouldn’t be able to recognise her. And yet while in many ways she was different—in others she felt exactly the same. Why else would there be such a dull ache in her heart when she looked at the man she had believed herself to be in love with?

‘I would tell you to go to hell,’ she said slowly, ‘if I didn’t think you’d already taken up a permanent berth there!’

‘Why? Do you want to come and lie in it with me?’

His soft mocking laughter was still ringing in her ears as Sorcha pushed her way through the crowds to where a dark limousine was waiting to whisk the bridesmaids and pageboys back to the reception. Four young faces pressed anxiously against the glass as Sorcha gathered up armfuls of tulle and silk and levered herself in next to them.

The bridegroom’s niece scrambled onto her lap and planted a chubby finger right in the middle of her cheek.

‘Why are you cryin’, Sorcha?’

Sorcha sniffed. ‘I’m not crying. I just got a speck of dust in my eyes.’ She dabbed a tissue at her eye and then beamed the worried child the widest smile in her repertoire. ‘See? All gone!’

‘All gone!’ they chorused obediently.

Sorcha bit her lip and turned it into another smile. How simple it was to be a child in a world where things vanished just because an adult told you they had. The monster under the bed had gone away because Mummy said so.

But memories were like those childhood monsters—always lurking in dark places, waiting to capture you if you weren’t careful. And some memories burned as strongly as if they had happened yesterday.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f7be0820-2fda-5f0f-a02c-eb2532f44da1)


SORCHA had met Cesare di Arcangelo the summer she’d turned eighteen, the hottest summer for decades. It had been the year she’d left school and the year most of her classmates had finally rid themselves of the burden of their virginity—but Sorcha had not been among them. Her friends had laughed and called her old-fashioned, but she’d been holding out for someone special.

But that summer she had felt as ripe and ready as some rich fruit ready for picking—and hormones had bubbled like cauldrons in her veins.

She’d arrived home from a final school trip to France on a baking hot day with a sky of blinding brightness. There had been no one to meet her at the station, and no reply when she’d phoned the house, but it hadn’t particularly bothered her. She’d had little luggage, and because it was beautiful and so green, and so English after the little mountain village of Plan-du-Var, she had decided to walk.

The air had been unnaturally still and the lane dusty, but the sky had been the clearest blue imaginable—with birds singing their little hearts out—and suddenly Sorcha had felt glad to be home, even if she was slightly apprehensive about the future.

Up until that moment everything had been safely mapped out for her—but with the freedom which came from leaving school came uncertainty too. Still, she had worked hard, and she’d been offered a place at one of the best universities in the country if her exam results were as good as had been predicted.

She’d approached the house by the long drive—the honey-coloured mansion where Whittakers had lived since her great-great-grandfather had first got the bright idea of marketing his wife’s delicious home-made sauce. From humble terraced house beginnings, her great-great-grandma’s unique recipe had become a national institution, and soon enough money had poured in to enable him to satisfy his land-owning longings and buy himself a real-life stately home.

But of course that had been in the days before a croissant or a bowl of muesli had become staple breakfast fare—in the days when a full fry-up with Whittaker Sauce had been the only way to start the day. The slow, gradual decline in the family fortunes had soon begun, but it had been so slow that you didn’t really notice it, and it was much easier to ignore something if it just crept up on you.

Sorcha had given a small sigh of satisfaction as she’d looked towards the house, because in that moment it hadn’t looked stately, it had just looked like home. From this far away you didn’t really notice that the walls were crumbling and the roof needed replacing, and of course in the summer months it really came into its own.

Come winter and there would be so much frost on the inside of the windows you could write your initials in it and see the steam of your breath as it rushed out against the cold air. Anyone else might have capitalised on the house’s assets and sold it, but not Sorcha’s mother, who was hanging on to it with grim determination.

‘It’s a huge asset,’ MrsWhittaker always pronounced, and no one could argue with that. Rural it might look—but a few miles beyond its expansive grounds lay a road which took you straight into London in less than an hour.

Pushing open the oak front door, Sorcha had gone inside to an echoing silence, where dust motes had danced in the beams of sunlight which flooded in through the stained glass. She’d seen a man’s cashmere sweater lying on one of the chairs—beautiful and soft in palest grey—and raised her eyebrows. A bit classy for Rupert! Her brother must have given himself a pay rise.

The house had been empty—so she’d gone up to her bedroom, with its schoolgirl echoes of prizes—rosettes won at horseriding and shiny silver cups for swimming.

From there she could see the pool, and to her astonishment she’d seen that it had been cleared—instead of turgid green water with leaves floating on it like dead lilies it was a perfectly clear rectangle of inviting aquamarine.

Pulling open a drawer, she’d found a swimsuit and squeezed herself into it—she must have grown a lot since last year. Overnight, she’d seemed to go from being a beanpole of an adolescent to having the curvy shape of a real woman. She was going to have to go shopping.

The water had felt completely delicious as she’d dived in and begun to swim, length after length of slicing crawl, each stroke taking her further and further into a daydream. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the man who was standing there until she had come up for breath, exhausted, sucking in the warm summer air as the water streamed down her hair in rivulets.

Sorcha had started. For a moment all she’d registered was jet-dark hair and silken olive skin, but as she’d blinked the water out of her eyes she’d seen that it was a stranger—and a disturbingly handsome stranger, to boot.

In a pair of faded jeans and an old black T-shirt, he’d looked like one of the gardeners her mother employed to try and make a dent in the overgrowth at the beginning of every season. Unfortunately, he’d also had the arrogant and mocking air of a man who was supremely sexy and who knew it. His black eyes had gleamed and suddenly Sorcha had felt unaccountably shy.

‘Who…are you?’ she questioned.

She rose out of the water like a nymph and Cesare froze, his mouth drying as he saw the firm flesh, green eyes and the lush, perfect curve of her breasts. Madre di Dio—but she was exquisite.

‘My name is Cesare di Arcangelo,’ he murmured, in a velvety-soft accent which matched his exotic looks.

‘You’re Italian?’

‘I am.’

‘And…Well…’ She didn’t want to be rude, but really he could be anyone. And he was so dangerously gorgeous that she felt…peculiar. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Take a guess, signorina.’

‘You’ve come to clean the pool?’

He had never been mistaken for a worker before! Cesare’s mouth curved into a smile.

He guessed who she must be. Her hair was too wet to see its real colour, but her eyes were green with flecks of gold—a bigger, wider version of her brother’s. He knew deep down that there was a long-established rule that you treated your friends’ sisters as if they were ice-queens, but it was a rule he found himself suddenly wanting to break.

‘Do you want me to?’ he drawled. ‘Looks pretty clean to me. Anyway, I don’t want to interrupt your swim.’

Sorcha shook her wet hair, but something about his hard, lean body was making her pulse race. ‘No, that’s fine. Don’t worry—I’ve finished now.’

There was a long pause while they stared at one another, and the teasing became something else, while something unknown shimmered on the air.

‘So, why don’t you get out?’

Did he guess that she was scared to? Because she could feel the tight tingle of desire which was rucking her swimsuit across her breasts and making the tips feel so hard that they hurt?

‘I will in a minute.’

‘Do you mind if I get in and join you?’ He put his hand to the first button on his jeans and shot her a questioning look, but the sight of her dark-eyed confusion made him relent just as Rupert came round the corner.

‘Cesare! There you are! Oh, I see you’ve met Sorcha. Hello, little sister—how are you?’

‘Very well,’ she said, biting her lip and dipping down into the water in the hope that its coolness might get rid of her embarrassed flush. ‘Considering that no one came to meet me at the station.’ But she was angry with herself, and with the black-eyed Italian for having made her feel…what?

Desire?

Longing?

She frosted him a look—which wasn’t easy on a boiling hot day when your hair was plastered to your head and your heart was racing so much that it felt as if it was going to leap out of your chest. ‘Cesare?’ she questioned acidly, wondering why the name sounded familiar.

‘Cesare di Arcangelo,’ he said. ‘Rupert and I were at school together.’

‘Remember I told you about the Italian who bowled women down like ninepins?’ laughed Rupert. ‘Owns banks and department stores all over Italy?’

‘No,’ answered Sorcha in a voice of icy repression. ‘I don’t believe I do. Rupert, would you mind handing me my towel?’

‘Please, allow me.’ Cesare had picked up the rather worn beachtowel and was handing it towards her, holding her gaze with his black eyes. Her coolness intrigued him, for he had never experienced it from a woman before, and her lack of eagerness hinted at a pride and self-possession which was all too rare.

‘Forgive me,’ he murmured as he held the towel out. ‘But I couldn’t resist teasing you.’ Yet his mockery had been deliberately sensual, and it had been wrong. He had noted her reluctant, embarrassed response—and now he could have kicked himself for subjecting a beautiful young woman to such an onslaught.

He sighed. Her mouth looked as if it were composed of two folded fragrant rose petals which he would have travelled the world to kiss. And he had behaved like some impacciato idiot.

And she is the sister of your friend—she is out of bounds.

‘Will you forgive me?’ he persisted.

He sounded as if it mattered, and Sorcha found she couldn’t hold out against what seemed to be genuine contrition in his eyes.

‘I might,’ she said tartly. ‘But you’ll have to make it up to me.’

He gave a low laugh. ‘And how will I go about doing that? Any ideas?’ he questioned innocently, and something passed between them at that moment which he had never felt before. The rocket. The thunderbolt. Colpo di fulmine. Some random and overwhelming outside force—a kind of unspoken understanding—which took the universe into the palm of a gigantic hand and began to spin it out of control.

‘I’ll…I’ll think of something,’ said Sorcha breathlessly.

‘Anything,’ he murmured, and at that moment he meant it. ‘And it’s yours.’

There was an odd kind of silence and then Sorcha hauled herself out of the pool in one fluid movement, water streaming down her long legs. Never had she been so conscious of her body as in the presence of this Italian.

‘Cesare’s come to cast his expert eye over the Robinsons’ latest business plan,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m hoping I might be able to persuade him to look at ours!’

The Robinsons were their nearest neighbours—fabulously rich, with four eligible sons—one of whom their sister Emma had been dating since her schooldays.

‘Does that mean I have to be nice to him?’ Sorcha asked.

Black eyes now mocked her. ‘Very.’

But as she draped the towel over her shoulders Cesare averted his eyes from the body which gleamed like a seal in the tight, wet swimsuit. And wasn’t it strange how the smallest courtesy could make you feel safe with a man who was danger personified?

‘Do you ride?’ she asked suddenly.

Cesare smiled. ‘Do I?’

That was how it started. He’d set off for the Robinsons first thing and return about lunchtime, and Sorcha would be waiting for him in the stables. He would saddle up and they would gallop out together over the lush fields. And the way her face lit up when she saw him would stab at his heart in a strange and painful way.

‘Bet Italy is never as green as this,’ she said one afternoon, when they had dismounted and their horses were grazing and she and Cesare were sitting—sweating slightly—beneath the shade of a big oka tree.

‘Umbria is very green,’ he said.

‘Is that where you live?’

‘It is where I consider home,’ he said, trying and failing not to be rapt by the distracting vision of her breasts thrusting against the fine silk of her riding shirt, her slim legs in jodhpurs and those long, sexy leather boots. He stifled a groan and shifted uncomfortably as she lay on her back, looking up at the leaves.

The air was different today. It felt thick and heavy—as if you could cut through it with a knife—and in the distance was the low murmur of approaching thunder. It reminded him of the storms back home, and the warmth of the soil and the pleasures of the flesh. Cesare could feel a rivulet of sweat trickle down his back, and suddenly he longed to feel her tongue tracing its meandering salty path.

‘Really?’ she questioned.

He blinked. Really, what? Oh, yes. The weather in Umbria—just what he wanted to talk about! ‘We have many storms close to Panicale, where I live—but that is why we have such fertile soil.’ Fertile. Now, why the hell was he thinking about that?

‘Have you always lived in Umbria?’ Sorcha persisted, because she wanted to know every single thing about him—what he liked for breakfast and what music he listened to, and where was the most beautiful place he’d ever been—‘Umbria, naturally,’ he had replied gravely.

‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I grew up in Rome.’

‘Tell me,’ she whispered.

What was it about women that made them want to tear your soul apart with their questions? And what was it about Sorcha that made him tell her? But he was spare with his facts—a houseful of servants and ever-changing nannies while his parents lived out their jet-set existence. A childhood he did not care to relive in his memory.

And suddenly he could bear it no longer. ‘You know that I am having difficulty behaving as a house-guest should behave?’ he questioned unsteadily.

Dreamily, Sorcha watched the shimmering canopy of leaves. ‘Oh?’

‘I want to kiss you.’

She sat up, oblivious to the creamy spill of her cleavage, or the effect it was having on him. On her face was an expression of a tight and bursting excitement—like a child who had just been given a big pile of presents to open.

‘Then kiss me. Please.’

He knew in that instant that she was innocent—though he had guessed at it before—and in a way it added to the intolerable weight of his desire, and his position here in the house.

‘You know what will happen if I do?’ he groaned.

‘Yes,’ she teased, in an effort to hide her longing, and her nervousness that she would somehow disappoint him—that somehow she wouldn’t know what to do. ‘Your lips will touch my lips and then—Oh! Oh, Cesare!’

‘Si!’ he murmured, as he caught her against him. ‘All those things and more. Many more.’ He pushed her to the ground and brushed his lips against hers, making a little sound of pleasure in the back of his throat as he coaxed hers into opening.

The kiss went on and on. He had never thought it was possible for a kiss to last so long—he felt he was drowning in it, submerging himself in its sweet potency. The blood pooled and hardened at his groin and he groaned again—only this time the sound was tinged with a sense of urgency.

‘Cesare!’ she breathed again, as his thumb circled against the tight, damp material which strained over her breast. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’

He sat up abruptly. This was wrong. Wrong. He sprang to his feet and held out his hand to her. ‘Let us move away from here!’ he ordered. ‘And where in the name of cielo is your mother?’

‘She’s up at the house—why?’

‘She is happy for you to ride with me alone every day?’ he demanded.

‘I think so.’

Did she not know of Cesare di Arcangelo’s reputation? he wondered. Did she not realise that women offered themselves to him every day of the week? And would she not be outraged if her daughter were to become just one more in a long line of conquests?

He looked at her, his eyes softening as he saw the bewilderment in hers. For Sorcha was not like the others. She was sweet and innocent.

‘Cesare?’ Sorcha questioned tentatively.

‘It is all right, cara mia. Do not frown—for you make lines on that beautiful face.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Let’s go and swim, and cool off.’

‘But Rupert’s down by the pool!’

‘Exactly,’ Cesare said grimly.

But once Cesare kissed Sorcha it was like discovering an addiction which had lain dormant in his body since puberty. It was the first time in his life that he had ever used restraint, but he quickly discovered that sexual frustration was a small price to pay for the slow and erotic discovery of her body. And that delayed sexual gratification was the biggest aphrodisiac in the world.

Sometimes he took pains to make sure that they weren’t alone together. And he quizzed her on her views so that sometimes Sorcha felt as if he was examining her and ticking off the answers as he went along.

He knew she had a place at university, and he knew that the experience would change her. And—maledizi-one!—was it not human nature for him not to want that?

The long, glorious summer stretched out like an elastic band, and they lived most of it outside. There were parties and dinners and a celebration for Sorcha’s exam results, which were even better than predicted, but soon the faint tang of autumn could be felt in the early morning air, and Cesare knew that he could not avoid the real world for ever.

‘I have to think about going back,’ he said heavily.

She clung to him. ‘Why?’

‘Because I must. I have stayed longer than I intended.’

‘Because of me?’ She slanted him a smile, but inside her heart was aching.

‘That is one of the reasons,’ he agreed evenly, pushing away the memory of the blonde who had told him she was pregnant. It had caused outrage when Cesare had demanded a paternity test, but his certainty that he was not the father had been proven.

He thought how easy it was with Sorcha—and how restful it had been to have a summer free of being hounded by predatory women on the make. He was twenty-six, and he knew that sooner or later he was going to have to settle down—but for the first time in his life he could actually see that it might have some advantages.

He was confused.

He wanted her, and yet to take her virginity would be too huge a responsibility, would abuse his position as guest.

He wanted her, but still he hesitated—because he wanted to savour the near-torture of abstinence, recognising that the wait had been so long and so exquisitely painful that nothing would ever feel this acute again.

He wanted her, and yet in his heart he knew that he could have her only at a huge price.

‘Oh, Sorcha,’ he groaned, and knew that he could not go on like this. ‘Siete cosi donna bella.’

He pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her, softly at first, and then seekingly—so that her lips opened like a shell, with her tongue the wet, precious pearl within.

With a savage groan he cupped her breast, feeling its lush, pert weight resting in the palm of his hand. He flicked his thumb against the hardening nipple and knew that with much more of this he would suckle her in full daylight. And what else?

‘We can’t stay here,’ he said grimly.

‘Let’s go inside,’ she begged.

He had held out for so long, until he was stretched to breaking point, and silently he took her hand and led her into the house, to the darkened study, whose windows were shuttered against the blinding sunlight.

They kissed frantically—hard and desperately—and suddenly Cesare’s hands were all over her in a way he’d never allowed them to be before. He pushed her down onto a leather couch. His hand was rucking up her dress, feeling her thighs part, and as he inched his thumb upwards she writhed in silent invitation.

He had just scraped aside her damp panties and pushed a finger into her sweet, sticky warmth when they heard the sound of a door slamming at the far end of the house. Sorcha sat bolt upright and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. He pulled his hand away from her.

‘Merda!’ he swore softly. ‘Who is it?’

‘It must be my mother!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Who else could it be?’

Hurriedly he smoothed his hands down over her ruffled hair and silently left the room, disappearing for the rest of the afternoon until just before pre-dinner drinks were served when he went to find her alone, sitting on the terrace, her face unhappy.

He knew that the timing was wrong—but he also knew that this must be said now. He felt as you sometimes did when you walked through the sticky mud of a ploughed field after a rainstorm. It was the price he knew must be paid for his body’s desire, and yet he was too het up to question whether it was too high.

‘Sorcha, will you be my wife?’

She stared at him. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.

‘Will you marry me?’

Rocked and reeling with pure astonishment that such a question should have come out of the blue, Sorcha heard only the reluctance in his voice, and saw the strained expression on his face.

‘Why?’ She fed him the question like a stage stooge setting up the punchline, but he failed to deliver it.

‘Need you ask? You are accomplished and very beautiful, and you are intelligent and make me laugh. And as well as your many obvious attributes you are a virgin, and that is a rare prize in the world in which we live.’

‘A rare prize?’ she joked. ‘That matters to you?’

‘Of course it matters to me!’ His black eyes narrowed and his macho heritage came to the fore. ‘I want to possess you totally, utterly, Sorcha—in a way that no other man ever has nor ever will. And I think we have what it takes to make a successful marriage.’

He was talking about her as if she was something he could own or take over—like swallowing up a smaller company.

And it was the most damning answer he could have given. Sorcha was not yet nineteen and she hadn’t even begun to live. She was at an age where love was far more important than talking cold-bloodedly about a marriage’s chance of success. Yes, she had fallen in love with Cesare—but he had said nothing about loving her back. And how could she possibly marry him and give the rest of her life to him in those circumstances? And throw her hard-fought-for university education away into the bargain.

He would get over it—and so would she. Yes, it would hurt—but just imagine the pain of an inevitable failed marriage with a man who didn’t love her? That damning phrase came back to echo round in her head.

A rare prize.

She looked at him, masking her terrible hurt with an expression of pride.

‘No, Cesare,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t marry you.’




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e609910f-26d4-56ea-b124-8f946df64762)


THE bridesmaids’ limousine pulled up in front of Whittaker House, and Sorcha helped the little ones clamber down, forcing herself to concentrate on the present in the hope that it might take her mind away from that last painful night with Cesare and its aftermath.

She remembered the way he had looked at her after she had turned down his proposal of marriage—with bitterness in his brilliant black eyes. She had tried to explain that she wanted to do her university course and get some kind of career under her belt, and that had seemed to make him angrier still.

And she would never forget the things he had said to her. The things he had accused her of. That she was a tease and that some men would not have acted with his restraint—and that he should have taken her when she had offered herself to him so freely.

How could deep affection so quickly have been transmuted into something so dark and angry?

That day they had crossed the line from almost-lovers into a place where there could never be anything but mutual distrust and hatred on his part.

And on hers?

Well, she had vowed to forget him, and to a certain extent she had succeeded—but her recovery had been by no means total. For her, seeing him today was like someone who suffered from a dreadful craving being given a hit of their particular drug. And even though she could see contempt in his eyes, hear the silken scorn in his voice, that wasn’t enough to eradicate the hunger she still felt for him.

But she could not afford the self-indulgence of allowing herself to wallow in the past because it was the present that mattered. And it was only a day—when she had an important role to fulfil and surely the necessary strength of character to withstand the presence here of the man she had once loved.

Pinning a smile to her mouth, she swallowed down the dryness in her throat and looked around the grounds.

There was certainly a lot to take in. The gravel had been raked, the lawn had been mowed into perfect emerald stripes, and not a single weed peeped from any of the flowerbeds. She had never seen her home look so magnificent, but then for once cash had been no object.

Emma had been going out with Ralph Robinson since for ever, and her new husband was sweet and charming—but most of all he was rich. In fact, he was rolling in money, and he had splashed lots of it about in an effort to ensure that he and Emma had the kind of wedding which would be talked about in years to come. And Whittaker House might be crumbling at the seams, but no one could deny it looked good in photographs.

The youngest of the bridesmaids tugged Sorcha’s dress.

‘Can I have ice-cream, please, Sorcha?’ she pleaded. ‘Mummy said if I was a good girl in church I could have ice-cream.’

‘And you shall—but you must eat your dinner up first,’ said Sorcha. ‘Just stay with me until we’re in the marquee, so we don’t get lost—because we’re all sitting at a big, special table with the bride and groom.’

‘Bride and gloom, Daddy always says,’ offered the more precocious of the pageboys.

‘Very funny, Alex,’ said Sorcha, but the smile on her face died as she saw Cesare climbing out of a low silver sports car, then opening the door for the brunette.

Sorcha stared at her in disgust—the woman’s dress had ridden so far up her thighs that, as she swung her legs out of the car—she was practically showing her underwear. Didn’t she know that there were graceful ways to get out of a car without showing the world what you’d had for breakfast?

And why should you care?

But if she didn’t care—which she didn’t—then why did Sorcha find it impossible to tear her eyes away from him? Because Cesare could have been hers, and now she would never know what it would have been like—was that it? Somehow it didn’t matter how many times you told yourself that you had made the right choice—you couldn’t stop the occasional regret. And regret was a terrible emotion to live with.

The brunette was laughing up at him, her fleshy lips gleaming provocatively—with sensual promise written on every atom of her being.

‘Come along, children,’ Sorcha said quickly, before he caught her studying him like some sort of crazed stalker.

But Cesare saw Sorcha bend and tie a bow in a little cherub’s curls and giggle at something the little one said and his mouth twisted. He knew that women sometimes used children as a prop when men were watching them—a silent demonstration of what wonderful mothers they would eventually make. Was that pretty little tableau all for his benefit, he thought sourly, to show him what he’d missed? Oh, but he was going to enjoy her reaction when she discovered what was coming to her! Abruptly, he turned away to toss his car keys to a valet.

Sorcha led the clutch of children around to the marquee, feeling a bit like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, but the presence of Cesare was like a dark spectre lurking in the background.

How the hell was she going to react to him for the rest of the afternoon and evening, if the mere sight of him unsettled her enough to set her pulse racing and set off all kinds of feelings churning around inside her?

She walked into the marquee, which looked as if it was competing for inclusion in the Chelsea Flower Show, and for a moment her dark mood evaporated. She forgot all about Cesare and all worries about the business and just enjoyed the spectacle of her sister’s wedding reception instead.

There were blooms everywhere—tumbling and filling and falling over in tall urns dotted around the sides of the tented room—and ivy wreathed around the pillars. Roses were crammed into copper pots on each table, reflected back in the gleaming crystal and golden cutlery, so that the whole room looked a mass of glorious, vibrant colour.

Maybe they could hire the house out as a wedding venue on a professional basis? she found herself thinking. Wouldn’t that help the current cashflow situation?

She reunited her young charges with their parents until the meal began, showed an elderly aunt to her seat, and then dashed to the loo to reapply her lipstick. But when eventually she couldn’t put it off any longer, she began to walk towards the top table—and her heart sank with a dull dread when she saw who was dominating it, perfectly at ease, with the lazy kind of grace which seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing.

She could see her mother at the far end in her huge hat, shrugging her shoulders in a don’t-ask-me kind of way. But even more annoying was that Cesare appeared to have captured the attention of the entire room—and it was supposed to be the bride’s day!

His ruggedly handsome and impeccably dressed figure was exciting jealous glances from men as well as greedy ones from women, and as she grew closer Sorcha could hear people on the adjoining tables.

‘Who is he?’

‘A rich Italian, apparently!’

‘Available?

‘Let’s hope so!’

But Cesare wasn’t reacting to the interest buzzing around him—his black eyes were trained on only her, so that by the time she reached him Sorcha felt as jittery as if she had just walked the plank and was about to jump.

She stared at the thick black hair which once she had had the freedom to run her hands through, and those slanting, aristocratic cheekbones along which she had wonderingly traced a trembling fingertip as if unable to believe that he was real and in her arms. ‘You,’ she said, and was appalled to hear her voice tremble.

‘Me,’ he agreed, his eyes glittering with satisfaction as he saw the look of consternation on her face.

She gripped the back of her seat. ‘Is this some kind of bad joke?’

‘If it is then I must have missed the punchline,’ he answered silkily. ‘Am I making you feel weak at the knees, cara? You seem a little unsteady on your feet. Why don’t you sit down?’

He pulled the chair out for her and she sank into it, too shaky to defy his commanding manner and wondering if she had imagined the feather-light touch of his hand across her bare shoulder. ‘How have you managed to get yourself seated on the top table? And next to me? Did you change the placement?’ she questioned suspiciously.

He thought how she had grown in confidence over the ensuing years, how the shy young girl had gone for ever, and his blood heated. Oh, yes, this time he would enjoy her without compunction.

‘No, I did not change the placement,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps they felt sorry for you, being on your own. I take it you are on your own, Sorcha?’

Oh, how she wished that she had managed to sustain some of those random dates she’d had into something approaching a proper relationship. How she would have loved to rub Cesare di Arcangelo’s smug and arrogant face in it if she could have airily produced some unbelievably gorgeous and eligible hunk and said, in that way that women did, I’m-not-trying-to-be-smug-or-anything-but-this-is-my-boyfriend!

But how could she have done, even if such a figure had really existed? Whoever she lined up—however rich and however eligible—would fade into humdrum insignificance beside the luminous sex appeal of Cesare.

‘Yes, I am on my own,’ she said coolly, because she had learnt that being defensive about it only made people probe even more. ‘I don’t need a man to define me.’

‘Well, that’s lucky, isn’t it?’ he mocked.

‘Why are you bothering to sit next to me if all you want to do is insult me?’ she hissed.

‘Oh, but that isn’t all I want to do, cara mia.’ The black eyes roamed over her with breathtaking arrogance, lingering on the lush swell of her breasts, and very deliberately he ran the tip of his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘There are plenty of other things I’d like to do to you which are far more appealing.’

Sorcha turned her head, desperately hoping that someone might come to her rescue, swoop down on her and whisk her away from him. But no one came, and no one was likely to interrupt them—since the don’t disturb us vibes which were shimmering off Cesare’s powerful frame were almost tangible.

Maybe they needed to have this conversation. She hadn’t seen him since that day when he’d packed his bags and managed—she’d never been quite sure how—to get a helicopter with a stunning woman pilot to land on the front lawn and whisk him away.

And after today she wasn’t likely to see him again. So maybe this really would help her to move on—to eliminate his legacy of being the man whom no other could possibly live up to. Maybe she needed to accept that by settling for someone who didn’t have his dynamism and sex appeal she would actually be happier in the long run.

‘Just say whatever it is you want to say, Cesare.’

It occurred to him that she might be shocked if he gave her a graphic rundown of just what he would like to be doing to her right then, and he ran one long olive finger around the rim of his wine glass.

‘What are you doing these days?’ he questioned.

Sorcha blinked at him suspiciously, like a person emerging from the darkness into light. ‘You want to hear about my life?’ she asked warily.

He smiled up at the waitress who was heaping smoked salmon onto his plate and shrugged. ‘We have two choices, Sorcha,’ he said softly. ‘We can talk about the past and our unfulfilled sexual history, which might make us a little…how is it that you say…? Ah, yes. Hot under the collar.’ His gaze drifted to her bare neck. ‘Not that you’re wearing a collar, of course,’ he murmured. ‘And it would be a pity to taint that magnificent chest with unsightly blotches, don’t you think?’

Sorcha lifted her hands to her cheeks as they began to burn. ‘Stop it,’ she begged, and cursed the debilitating effect of desire which had turned her voice into a whisper.





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