Книга - The Sicilian’s Red-Hot Revenge

The Sicilian's Red-Hot Revenge
Kate Walker








Kate Walker

THE SICILIAN’S RED-HOT REVENGE










TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND


This special book is dedicated to

four important writers in my life:

Marjorie Phillips, who created the first dark,

ambiguous hero I fell in love with

Mary Stewart, whose books inspired me

to want to write my own heroes as powerfully

as she created hers

Dorothy Dunnett, whose complex heroes

and amazing storytelling have thrilled and

absorbed me for years and

Marguerite Lees, who believed in me

from the start




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


EMILY sighed and kicked off her shoes, leaning back against the beach wall as she stared out at the blue-grey stretch of sea. The weak late-autumn sun shone down on her upturned face and the soft sand supported her comfortably. It was just so good to be still and on her own at last.

For the moment, all was silence—and peace. And it felt wonderful.

She sighed again, savouring the quiet around her, enjoying it after five long weeks of non-stop wretchedness. She thought she’d known what misery was like in the past, but this last month had shown her another sort of hell.

She had had to get away.

She couldn’t have taken another moment of being stared at, talked about, with every last move she made the subject of comment and gossip.

And disapproval.

But here, at last, she could be on her own—be herself.

For now.

After the confines of the hospital, the space was wonderful. The air felt fresh and clean, touched with the exhilarating tang of ozone, and it was a delight after the artificially maintained temperature of the wards.

But best of all was the fact that no one was watching her.

‘And I thought it was all over…’

Bringing her fist down on the sand with a thud, she snatched up a handful of the slippery grains, clamping them tight between her fingers and her palm, blinking fiercely to fight against the hot tears that stung at her eyes, blurring her vision. But then, with a fierce effort, she forced a new control on herself, shaking her head in both denial and despair.

Today was the day that she should have been free. The day when everything should have been signed and sealed, when it was all over and she could move on into a new life. Instead, she had been pulled back into the old one, with no hope of any liberation, no light at the end of the long, dark tunnel she was looking down.

‘No…no. Let it go!’ she commanded herself. ‘Let it go.’

And slowly, reluctantly, her fingers obeyed her, uncurling, opening, letting the sand slither through the openings between them to fall back onto the ground.

She only needed a day, she’d said. Just twenty-four hours before she would go back, face them all again. She knew her duty—and she would do it. But she just needed time to breathe.

The sound of the sea lapping against the shore brought her head round again, her eyes staring out at the distant horizon. The wide expanse of the ocean looked cool and inviting, calling to her in a way that nothing had done for so long. Living in the city meant that she hadn’t been to the beach in…

In how long? Far, far too long. And she hadn’t been paddling in the sea since she was a child. Life had closed in on her and Mark would never have countenanced seeing her indulge in anything so undignified and unrestrained.

But there was nothing to stop her now!

A whole new rush of enthusiasm flooded her thoughts, driving away the sadness and the tiredness of just moments before. With excitement pulsing in her veins she scrambled to her feet and set off down the sloping beach towards the water, moving slowly at first, then speeding up, breaking into a run, and finally racing full pelt down towards the white foam-topped waves as they broke upon the shore.

‘Ooooh!’

The water was cold. Icy. Far colder than she had ever anticipated on a day like today. The shock of the chill against her skin was stinging, sharp, making her dance awkwardly, up on her toes, lifting first one foot and then the other out of the water, then letting them down again for the sheer thrill of the exhilarating sensation.

And suddenly it was as if the past days—the past months—had never been and she was a child again, free, uninhibited and laughing. Throwing her head back and opening her arms wide, lifting her face to the sun, she danced for sheer joy at the sense of freedom. Her blonde hair spun out around her face and the salty water splashed against the tight denim jeans she wore, soaking into the plain white long-sleeved T-shirt as she splashed, whirling round and round and laughing as she hadn’t laughed in years.

It didn’t matter if she looked like an idiot. She didn’t care if she appeared as mad as a hatter—because no one was looking. The beach was totally deserted from end to end. There was no one there. No one to see or hear her. No one to care.

No one was watching her.



He couldn’t stop watching her.

On the deserted promenade, the tall, dark man stood, feet planted square on the paving stones, hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed against the sun, staring down at the woman on the beach before him.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

He had spotted her from a distance as she drove the compact blue car down the hill from the town, travelling at just enough of a speed to draw his attention but not enough to be totally reckless. And even as he’d turned his dark head to watch she pulled up sharp against the kerb, yanking on the brakes and switching off the engine. Even from this distance he’d been able to see the brusque sharpness of every movement, the way that she had seemed almost to jump out of the car. She’d barely paused enough to slam the door and lock it before she’d been striding across the pavement, almost running down the worn wooden steps that led to the beach.

And just for a moment then he’d been really alarmed, a dark expression of concern creasing his forehead, drawing the jet-black brows together in a watchful frown. She seemed so distracted, so absorbed in something that was upsetting her, so close to some edge that every instinct had warned him to be wary—to watch more closely His long body had tensed, muscles tightening. He’d even been on his toes, ready to move—to run—if she was actually, as he had first thought—first feared—heading for the sea.

Was his imagination running away with him, or was she actually…?

But no. The breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding in hissed from him in a sigh of release as he watched her march a couple of metres over the sand, slipping and sliding in its softness, and then throw herself down onto the ground, kicking off her shoes and lying back, her eyes closed.

But still he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t explain why. She was lovely, there was no question about that. Middle height, middle build, with a neat waist and curving hips. Her breasts were small and high as they pushed at the white cotton of the loose T-shirt she wore with rubbed and faded jeans. Her hair was pale blonde, cut neat, smooth and sleek, so different from the colouring and the style of the women back in Sicily where he lived.

So with her cool colouring would there come a temperament to match? If he approached her would she freeze in the so very English way that said without words, Do I know you? We haven’t been introduced.

He didn’t know but he was damn well going to find out. He couldn’t turn his back, walk away, without ever having met her. From the moment he’d seen her, something about her had pulled at his senses, demanded attention. He had to meet her; had to look her in the face. Had to see if her eyes were blue or grey and he had to hear her voice…

But she was on the move again. Even as he started forward she had pushed herself up from her position on the sand and was running down the beach to where the sea lapped against the shore. Her feet slipped and slid in the sand, the movement made her hips press tight against the worn denim of her jeans, and the sway of her breasts made his mouth dry. He felt the clutch of hunger low down in his body reminding him of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman—too long. When he’d come to England, romancing had been the last thing on his mind.

He’d had enough of that with Loretta and the marriage she’d almost trapped him into. Even now the memory of her scheming and lying sent a cold sensation trickling down his spine. This time in England couldn’t have come at a better moment. Here, he could forget about being Vito Corsentino and just be himself.

And until now just being himself had meant no women in his world or in his bed. Life was easier, less complicated that way…

But one look at this woman had changed all that.

Right now the thought of a woman—this woman—in his bed was the first thing on his mind. The only thing on his mind.

She was running headlong into the sea, dancing a little as the chill foam of the waves broke over her toes, waving her arms in the air like a small child suddenly released from its mother’s hold. The salt water splashed dark patches on her jeans, dampened the white T-shirt so that it clung to the curves of her breasts, and watching her made a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Did she know how uninhibited—how wild—how all-fired sexy she looked like that?

Hell—the smile wavered as desire kicked in hot and hard, making him shift uncomfortably. It really had been too long that he had been without a woman.

But all that was going to change.

Sweeping back the sleek black hair that the breeze from the sea had blown into his eyes, he headed for the steps down onto the sand.

He didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. But tonight she was going to be his.

It was a good thing that no one could see her, Emily reflected as she skipped over the waves, dodging the little foaming eddies and splashing in the cool flowing water, feeling the sand suck at her toes as the tide pulled it forward and then back.

She hadn’t felt this free—this uninhibited in years, not since she had met Mark Lawton and certainly not in the past eighteen months or so. But here, now, it seemed as if some of the burdens that had weighed her down had slipped from her shoulders, leaving her free and liberated at last. It was almost as if the years had slid from her too and she found herself giggling as the cold water tickled her feet, breaking over her ankles as she went in deeper.

She should have rolled up the hems of her jeans, to save them from getting damp, but quite frankly she didn’t care. They were old, old and worn, and almost at the stage where she should have thrown them away—perhaps after this, when she finally found peace with herself, and peace with her life, she would do that.

But for now she didn’t care if she got soaked to the skin. Jumping high, she landed with both feet, sending up another spray of the water in an icy splash, laughing as she stamped hard, wetting her jeans even more.

Oh, this was fun—kicking the water up before her, she danced further and further from the shore, heedless of the way that the sea soaked into the legs of her jeans, dancing, whirling spinning, the clear blue of the sky with its white puffs of clouds revolving round and round her until she felt dizzy. Her breath was coming in shaky, breathless gasps, laughter bubbling up inside her, as she turned faster and faster and…

‘Oh!’

It was a cry of shock and panic. Already further out than she had expected, she hadn’t realised that there was a sort of shelf at the edge of the sea, where the land fell away beneath her feet. Stumbling down it, she missed her footing, twisted her ankle, fell, shocking and hard, down into water that was suddenly up past her waist, her breasts.

She landed with a gasping splutter, tumbling head first into the chilly waves, feeling the sting of salty water break over her head, soaking into her hair.

‘Oh, help!’

She had to get up. Had to get to her feet. But the current was stronger here, swirling round her, tugging at her clothes, dragging her down. The soaking jeans were heavy and clinging, the T-shirt drenched. Her hair was in her eyes and the sting of salt water made her blink hard, vision blurring, tears forming.

‘Help!’

A real panic was setting in now. She scrabbled at the sand, felt it slip and slide away from her as she tried to push upwards to her feet. But just as she thought she was going to manage it, another bigger, fiercer wave thundered towards her, rearing up, the curves at the top frothing white and angry-looking, blotting out the sky. And at the same time the ebb of the tide beneath her tugged away the faint hope of a grip she was getting, knocking her back down again in a rush.

‘No!’

It was a wail of despair, one that was silenced shockingly, blotted out under the heavy fall of water that tumbled over her head, into her eyes, flooding her open mouth. Gasping and choking, she could only give in for the moment, letting herself be carried down, down, deep under the waves, tugged by the undertow, thrown up again to the top…

‘Help!’

She was going to drown…going down again. What was it they said about the third time? Oh, dear heaven—please…

She tried to snatch in a deep breath, hoping to hold it under the water, but only succeeded in inhaling more stinging, burning water, choking on it. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t…

‘I’ve got you…’

The words came to her through the roaring in her head. She could only hear them as another, different sound, one she didn’t really believe in because there couldn’t be anyone else here, couldn’t be someone who had come to her rescue, couldn’t—

But then suddenly, just as she feared she was going to black out, something—everything—changed.

Impossibly—unbelievably—Emily felt strong hands grab hold of her, fixing tightly around her arms. She was caught, held, then hauled up, up, out of the water, her mouth opening wide on a gasp of shock and wonderful, pure, breathable air. The rush of it into her beleaguered lungs after the pressure of the water she had tried so hard not to inhale made her chest heave, cough, her thoughts spin. She was aware of the blue of the sky, clear and spotted with white clouds after the darkness of the water, but her eyes stung and her legs would not support her. Caught once again in the pull of the tide, she swayed weakly, almost fell.

The strong arms around her tightened even more. Changing position slightly so that they clamped about her waist and her chest, they pulled her up against something hard and warm and muscular.

Something—or rather, someone, hard and warm and powerfully male. The heat of him reached through her sodden clothes to warm her shivering body. The power of him surrounded her, supported her. She wasn’t sure if the pounding in her ears was that of her own heart or his, only that it was hard and fierce, and, wonderfully, when she had come close to fearing the exact opposite, marvellously potent and alive.

‘Madre de Dio!’ The voice in her ear was rough and raw, the accented words almost incomprehensible through her whirling thoughts. ‘I feared I would not reach you in time. Are you all right?’

Was she?

Still unable to open her streaming eyes, or form coherent words, Emily could only nod silently, her thoughts further scrambled by the way that the movement brought her face close against the hard bones of a powerful shoulder, her senses tantalised by the ozone-tinged scent of his skin.

‘OK…’ she managed but knew that she was not yet ready to have him let go. Her feet barely touched the ocean bed, her toes simply drifting in the swirling sand, and she prayed that her rescuer wouldn’t let her go, fearing she would be dragged away again with the ebb and flow of the white-capped waves.

But he showed no sign of even thinking about releasing her. Instead he pulled her up closer, moved his hands again. Before she could quite register what he had in mind, he had swung her up off her uncertain feet, his arms coming under her legs as he lifted her high out of the water.

‘Ohhh…!’

Instinctively her own hands flew up, her arms fastening around his neck, holding on tight. She felt the muscles bunch in his shoulders as he took her weight, adjusted his stance, bracing strong legs against the powerful tug of the tide. Then, turning, he began the slow, difficult journey back to the shore, ploughing through the waves that still broke against them, spattering them both with cold spray.

‘Almost there…’

Emily didn’t know if he expected a reply. She couldn’t give him one if he did; couldn’t find the words. Her head was against his chest, the heavy, regular beat of his heart under her cheek.

If she opened her salt-crusted lids she could see the smooth line of his throat, the olive skin tanned gold even this late in the year. A slight movement of her head made it possible to see the point where his hair, jet black even without the soaking that the sea had given it, covered the bronzed skin at the nape of his neck. He wore his hair longer than most men she knew, the dark strands brushed against the neckline of his navy T-shirt, slightly unkempt, so very, very different from the tightly controlled, cropped way that Mark had always worn his.

But that was Mark. Everything about him had always had to be controlled. Except his drinking. When he drank all sense of control went out the window, and a very different man took over.

‘No!’

The word escaped her as she shook her head, trying to drive away the thoughts she didn’t want. She had come here today to get away from all that and she was not going to spoil her hard-won freedom by letting unwanted memories intrude and upset her.

‘No?’

The man who held her had heard her and his determined stride slowed, halted, his dark head turning, looking down at her. She saw the sudden flash of deep dark eyes, stunningly beautiful eyes fringed with impossibly long, luxuriant lashes, watched his black brows draw together in a frown.

‘What…?’

‘I’m fine…’

She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t want him to stop; wanted to stay in his hold, in his arms like this forever. Or at least in the space that seemed to have reached out to enclose her like a bubble, suspended in time.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Oh, yes, I’m sure—don’t let me go.’

Had she really said that?

The water must have battered her brain more than she’d realised. She felt as if she’d completely lost touch with reality. Had she really just asked this man—her unexpected rescuer, the man who had scooped her up from the waves when she had felt that she was going to drown, not to let her go? To keep her in his arms?

But the truth was that in those arms she felt wonderfully safe, protected as never before. It was as if the broad shoulders that supported her, the chest against which her head rested, had come between her and the world, acting as a defence against the trials and disasters that had darkened her life over the past months. With those arms around her she could, if not forget about the disasters that she had run away from and the problems and situation that awaited her when, inevitably, she had to go back, then at least put them out of her mind.

‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ that wonderful rich, deep voice with the surprisingly lyrical accent assured her. Just the way that he spoke sent warm waves of sensation running over her skin, easing the cold of her drenching in the sea, warming her blood. ‘Not until I’m sure that you can stand on your own.’

And most likely not even then, Vito told himself. He had hold of this woman now; he wasn’t going to let her go.

His heart had barely stopped racing, hardly slowed from the moment he had seen her dancing wildly in the sea, her hair swirling round her face, arms waving in the air. But then there had been that pulse-stopping moment when she had seemed to stumble, when her hands had flown up into the air. She had spun on one leg, fallen—and the white-crested waves had crashed over her head.

He hadn’t even been aware of moving, of racing down the strand to the sea. At some point he had kicked off his shoes and left them, careless of where they fell. His jacket had followed somewhere and all the time he had been running, running through the sand, into the water…

When he reached the spot where he’d last seen her he’d thought he’d lost her, the sea had already closed over her head. But then he’d seen, in the depths, the swirl of pale hair, an even paler face; the white of her T-shirt. And he’d plunged into the water. Eyes struggling against the sting, hands reaching out, closing over her arms, dragging her close, lifting her up and out…

At first he’d feared he was too late. She was terribly limp—too limp. But then she’d choked, coughed, and the air had rushed into her lungs on a huge, gasping sigh. Her head had fallen back against his shoulder, blonde hair splaying out across his chest.

And suddenly everything had changed.

She was cold and wet. He was cold and wet. But what he actually felt was a heavy, heated pulse that throbbed through every vein. The soft weight of her in his arms, made his own body tighten in hungry need and it was all he could do not to turn his head to hers and press a wild, demanding kiss on her parted lips.

But for now practicality was what mattered. Already the woman was starting to shiver in his arms. He had to get her to the shore, check that she had suffered no ill-effects from her accident. And so, gritting his teeth against the clamour from his inner senses, he turned and ploughed his way back towards the land.

‘Don’t let me go,’ she said again. ‘Don’t let me go!’

Didn’t she know that that wouldn’t be the problem? That the thought of letting her go had never entered his head? From the moment he had first seen her arrive at the beach, he had been caught, entranced, and now that he actually had her in his arms there was no way he was going to let her go. Not without exploring what this whole thing meant. Not without taking this unexpected, fiery connection to the furthest limits possible.

‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ he said again, disturbing himself even with the intensity of the way it came out. So much so that he amended it hastily, adding some nonsense about wanting to see her on her feet first.

And why, when they finally reached the shore, when his feet were on solid land, with the sand firm beneath them, did he not act on that? Why did he not let her down, still holding her, still supporting her, waiting to see if she could stand up by herself?

Because his whole body, everything that was in him, rebelled at the idea.

He had her where he wanted her and he wasn’t about to let go.

‘We’re here,’ he said when she didn’t appear to be about to stir either. Certainly she showed no sign of wanting to move but just lay in his hold as if she belonged there. ‘Signorina…’

That caught her attention, brought her head up. Her eyes—they were, he now saw, the softest, clearest blue, blue like the sky reflected in the sea—widened, looked straight into his.

‘You’re Italian!’

‘Sicilian.’

‘Oh…’

It was the last thing Emily had expected. When she had fallen into the cold, turbulent waters of the English Channel on a very English beach, she had never imagined that the man who had come to her rescue, like some knight of old racing to the defence of his lady, would be anything other than local. But now, looking up into his face, she saw that there was no way he could ever be taken for an Englishman. The olive-toned skin covering powerfully carved features, high, angular cheekbones, and the full, sensual mouth that now curved in a devastating smile, revealing white, white teeth, were definitely not the sort of looks she saw around her every day.

‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. My name is Vito…’

‘Emily…’ she managed awkwardly, her tongue stumbling even over her own name as she struggled with the over-heated race of her heart.

Those deep-set dark eyes burned down into hers with an intensity that seared her skin, making it flame with heat. It was as if the sun had suddenly come out from behind a cloud, almost blinding her, and she had to turn her head away, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder.

She should say thank you, she knew. She should say thank you for rescuing me and now would you please put me down? Let me stand on my feet…?

But she couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t say anything.

The scent of his skin surrounded her. Warm and musky and still overlaid by the ozone from the sea. She took it in with every breath, felt it enfold her like the strength of his arms. No man had touched her, no man had held her in too long. No man except Mark, but Mark’s hold had never affected her like this. Even in the beginning. Mark’s arms had never felt so strong, his skin hadn’t had that wild, intoxicating scent that went straight to her head like a swallow of the most potent of spirits, making her thoughts spin.

‘Emily…’

That voice, that accent made her name into a totally different sound. They took away the clipped, essentially English, pronunciation she was so used to hearing every day and transformed it into a warm, lyrical sound, one that stirred her senses so that she nestled even closer, burying her face against Vito’s chest, in the curve between his neck and his shoulder.

The warmth of his skin was against her cheek, the still damp strands of his hair brushing her ear as he moved his head, making her draw in a long, ragged breath. And with that breath she took in once more the essence of him, the scent of his skin, the taste…

In the warm, concealing darkness her closed eyes fluttered open, fixed on the point where just inches away from her, the heavy, regular throb of his pulse beat just under the skin. The firm stretch of olive skin was so smooth, so tempting…If she just moved her head…

It was only when her lips touched the warmth of his flesh that she realised what she’d done. And by then it was too late, way too late. Just the feel of it underneath her mouth, the taste of it on her tongue, was like a drug, making her blood heat, her senses yearn. Something hot and hungry and uncontrollable was uncoiling in the pit of her stomach, sending shivers of reaction along the pathway of every nerve. She couldn’t stop herself from pressing her lips to that pulse again, breathing in the scent of his skin, tasting it with her tongue.

‘Emilia,’ Vito said again but this time on a very different note. One that matched the thunder in her head, the sensations in her body.

‘Vito…’ she breathed against his neck and slowly lifted her head, turning back towards him, tilting her mouth…

And found it taken in a sizzling, blazing kiss that sent reaction scorching through every inch of her.




CHAPTER TWO


THE world tilted, swung round her. Her vision blurred, her thoughts fled. Somewhere high in the sky above her, the cry of a lone gull was the only sound she was aware of, but it seemed to belong to another world, not the hot and hungry one that had suddenly reached out to enclose her, sweeping away all other sense of reality. And very soon even that faded, drowned out by the pounding of her own blood in her head.

She had let her arms drop from around Vito’s neck but now she flung them back up again. Not for support but to draw his head down, press those seeking, demanding lips even closer to her own.

His arms no longer held her, or, rather, they still held her but in a very, very different way. The strength of his support had gone from under her legs, letting her slide down the hard, muscled length of him, until the tips of her toes brushed the sand, dangling just above the actual expanse of the shore. And this time one arm was clamped tight around her waist, crushing her to him, while with the other he laced hard fingers through the partly dried tangle of her hair, twisting slightly to hold her head just where he needed it, her mouth under his so that he could take what he wanted.

She was burning, softening, melting against him. She scarcely knew where her body ended and his began. And as he loosened his hold slightly so that she slid downward, over the long length of his powerful body until her feet were finally back on the sand, although not yet actually supporting her, that feeling intensified to almost agonising proportions. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her hips cradled his pelvis, feeling the heat and pressure of his arousal hard against her. Her mouth was opening under his, allowing the intimate invasion of his tongue, tangling with her own, tasting the personal essence of him that had been on his skin and now was on her lips, on her tongue.

She had forgotten what this felt like. This instant, explosive, dramatic response to a man. The way that her heartbeat kicked hard, the way her breath came raw and uneven. She’d forgotten how it felt to know the honeyed burn of need, the heat pooling between her legs, making her writhe against his hard strength in hungry longing.

‘Emilia…’

His version of her name was a raw breath against her mouth, his voice deepening and roughening until, she barely recognised it.

Recognised it!

The words echoed inside her head in a rush of shock and bewilderment. She had heard—what?—less than one hundred words from this man’s mouth and yet she felt as if she knew his voice, would recognise it anywhere. It was as if that deep, husky sound, with the melodic accent she now knew to be Italian—Sicilian—was burned onto her mind like music etched onto a CD, so that she would always know it, always recognise it, no matter what happened.

It was as if it was part of her now, bound by links that could never be broken.

‘Vito…’

She tried his own name, feeling it strange and exotic on her tongue. Just the sound of it sent a shiver down her spine, making her tremble in his hold.

How could this be happening to her? Just a few minutes ago she had arrived on this beach, not even knowing that this man existed, and yet now here she was, in his arms and…

The slam of a car door up on the promenade broke into the wild delirium that had invaded her brain, making her stiffen, pull her mouth away from Vito’s. And in the same moment his handsome dark head came up, those deep black eyes suddenly blinking hard, losing the wild, unfocused look and staring down into her own wide blue ones with an expression that she knew must mirror her own.

What the hell am I doing?

He didn’t have to say it, there was no need to speak the words out loud, they were written so clearly on his face, etched onto those stunning features.

And as soon as she saw that look, the same thought raced into her mind, slashing through the wild delirium that had clouded it, blurring her thinking and pushing her into actions that were so untypical of her usual behaviour.

What the hell had she been doing?

She didn’t know this man. Knew nothing about him except his first name and the fact that he had just pulled her from what she had feared was going to be a watery grave—but she didn’t know him! And yet she had been kissing him as if he was the love of her life. She’d been clamped so tight against him that they might have been one person, so close that there was no way she could have denied the sexual hunger he felt—or refuse to acknowledge the fact that it pounded through her own body too.

Anyone who might have seen them would have thought that they were already lovers, so intimate had been his hold on her, her response to him.

And this was a man that she knew precisely two facts about.

His name was Vito.

And he was a Sicilian.

It was mad. It was ridiculous. It was dangerous.

And it was as that last word exploded inside her head that she knew what had happened. She’d heard about it, read about it. She’d been in danger and this Vito had come to her rescue. The fear and the panic, the knowledge of danger and then the sheer, blinding exhilaration of having been saved. That had all created a wild, impossibly intense atmosphere. A hothouse atmosphere in which a very basic attraction had grown, been blown up out of all proportion and so created a volatile situation as a result.

Just the thought of it caught her body in a shiver of response that made her tremble where she stood. Immediately those black eyes narrowed, sharpening perceptibly.

‘You are cold! Forgive me—I should have thought.’

Already he was looking round, moving, heading in the direction of what she now saw was his jacket, discarded on the sand a short distance away, obviously in the haste of his mad dash to rescue her.

That thought should ease her mental discomfort, but instead it had the exact opposite effect, making her shudder even harder as reaction set in and the memory of just what had happened—what might have happened and how close she had come to it—attacked her nerves and made her quake inside, bitter tears of memory stinging at her eyes, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her.

This man—this darkly devastating, sexy, handsome man—had rushed into the turbulent water without hesitation when he had thought she was going to drown, throwing his jacket one way and the shoes she could now see further up the beach another. He’d come to her rescue when he had seen her going under for the third time, and no one had done anything like that, anything kind for her in a long, long time.

‘Here…’

Vito was back at her side, swinging the jacket up and around her shoulders, pulling it closed at the front.

‘This should help.’

‘Th-thank you,’ Emily managed, her tongue trembling as much as her limbs.

The jacket was comforting, so that she wanted to pull it closer, huddle into it to hide away from the world. But at the same time it started up a set of memories and emotions that in her present shocked state she was having terrible trouble controlling, so much so that the temptation to fling the garment from her and run was almost stronger than her need for comfort.

Almost.

Instead, she found that her fingers had clamped tight over the elegant lapels, crushing the expensive fabric ruinously as she clutched it to her like some sort of shield. Shock was setting in with a vengeance and she didn’t know how to cope with anything.

‘Are you OK?’

Idiota! Vito reproved himself furiously. Of course she was not OK! She had just almost drowned and now she was cold and probably in shock. What sun there had been earlier in the day was already fading rapidly, clouds gathering in the sky. Already some of those clouds were turning heavy grey and, if he was not mistaken, the storm that had been threatening all afternoon was now building up rapidly to breaking point.

And with the darkening of the skies had come a definite drop in temperature, a chill to the wind that had blown up. Instinctively he rubbed his own arms where the gooseflesh had already appeared. The damp jeans and T-shirt were cooling rapidly—and he wasn’t half as badly soaked as Emily.

‘Idiota!’ he muttered again and saw those big blue eyes widen in shock and apprehension as she took a stumbling step backwards, away from him. Immediately his conscience reproached him savagely. With her blonde hair darkened by the water and tangled around her face, her skin pale and her lips almost colourless, she looked like nothing so much as a half-drowned kitten, one he had just kicked out at, hard.

‘Not, not you—me’, he assured her hastily. ‘I should not be keeping you here talking when you’re soaked through to the skin. You need to get inside—get warm—change your clothes. We have to get you home—where are your car keys?’

‘Here…’ She pulled them from her pocket, where, luckily, she had obviously put them before her wild dance in the water. ‘But—but there’s a problem…’

‘There is?’

Vito had been turning away, heading for the promenade, but the comment and the shaky voice in which it was uttered brought him to an abrupt halt, swinging round to frown down at her again.

‘What sort of problem?’

For a second he thought she was going to keep silent. The way she huddled closer into his jacket, avoiding his eyes, seemed to indicate that. But then she bit down hard on her lower lip and lifted her gaze to look him straight in the face.

‘I—I don’t live locally.’

‘You don’t?’

Emily shook her head, sending cold drops of sea water flying from her pale hair. ‘I only meant to be here for the day—I was just passing through.’

No. His mind rebelled at the thought, rejecting it out of hand. That wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to ‘pass through’, moving on and out of his life without a backward glance. He hadn’t met a woman who had stirred his senses so ferociously in a long time—if ever. He wasn’t going to just let her go without knowing what it would be like to take this instant, blazing attraction further. An attraction that she had felt too. He had sensed it in every inch of her body; felt it when she had trembled against him.

That hadn’t been from cold, but from the exact opposite. The burning heat of desire that he’d experienced had made him shake too, but with need, with a hunger that he had been barely able to control. Its force had been primitive enough to bring him almost to the point of flinging her down onto the sand and indulging in the raw, primal need that they were both enduring. Only the knowledge that they were in such a public place had forced him to rein in the fierce desire that had him in its grip.

He still felt that way. But seeing the way she huddled into his coat imposed a control over his actions that warred cruelly with the still burning desire.

‘But you have clothes in your car—something to change into…’

The words died on his tongue as she shook her head again.

‘I didn’t bring any with me. I—wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘Just passing through.’ Vito repeated her words automatically, his mind busy.

‘Just passing through,’ she echoed and shivered again as a drip of water tumbled from her fringe and landed on her nose.

The small response made up his mind for him.

‘Then you’ll have to come back with me,’ he declared, making it a statement of fact, not a suggestion. To him it was the only answer. There was no other way.

But Emily’s blonde head tilted to one side, blue eyes studying him warily. And there was a new expression in them now. One that had suddenly reminded him that she might be just a kitten—but even the smallest cat had very sharp claws.

‘Back where?’

‘To my flat—’

He waved a hand in the direction of the far side of the seafront, vaguely indicating the general area of the small apartment he was renting for this year.

‘You can have a shower, dry your clothes…’ He saw her reaction in the way her face changed, even before she spoke. ‘No?’

‘No…’ Her voice was low but firm.

‘And why the hell not?’

He couldn’t believe she was actually backing out of this. He had been so sure that it was what she wanted too—almost as much as he did. This wasn’t the same woman that he had held in his arms. The woman he had kissed.

Silently Vito cursed the fact that he had ever stopped kissing her—ever let her go. If he had just kept her in his arms, if he had clamped his lips to hers, sealed her mouth with his and carried her off the beach and down the road to his flat, then she would have gone without a word, he knew. The woman he had kissed had melted under his touch, yielding mindlessly and immediately, and he could have kept her that way—should have kept her that way. That woman would never have hesitated, never given him that wary, assessing stare. That woman would never have said no. He knew that without a doubt.

But he had let her go. He had given her a chance to pause and think and as a result she had drawn back. Something had changed her mind, stopped her from going with what she felt and making her act instead on careful, rational thought. And the heady, burning passion that had flared between them couldn’t survive in the same atmosphere as careful, rational thought.

‘I don’t think that would be wise.’

‘Wise!’ He flung his hands in the air in a gesture of total exasperation. ‘Wise! And you think being wise matters right now?’

He’d said the wrong thing. He could see it in the way her eyes sparked, the mulish, mutinous set to that neat chin.

‘Common sense certainly does,’ she said stiffly, all trace of that warm, responsive woman disappearing under a layer of ice. ‘I know nothing about you! Not even your full name or—’

‘Corsentino,’ he inserted sharply as she drew a breath to go on. ‘Vittorio Corsentino, usually known as Vito.’

‘And is that supposed to mean something to me?’

‘No.’

He was glad to see that it didn’t. That there was no change in the expression in those soft blue eyes. There was no flicker of recognition and definitely not, grazie a Dio, any surfacing of the sort of acquisitive glint that had burned in Loretta’s eyes when she had tried to press home her claim for support for herself and her unborn child.

‘But you wanted my name.’

‘And you think that’s enough for me to let you entice me into your flat? You could be planning anything…’

‘Madre de Dio!’ Vito exploded. ‘And why should I want to do you any harm? I rescued you…’

‘You rescued me,’ Emily flung at him. ‘That doesn’t mean you own me.’

‘It does in some cultures,’ Vito shot back. ‘Save a life and it’s yours to do with as you please.’

But that was just too much, Emily admitted to herself. It sounded too ruthless, too possessive, too much like Mark’s gloatingly domineering, ‘You can’t leave me—you know you can’t. Where would you go? How would you live?’

‘Well, this isn’t one of those cultures. And I am definitely not yours in any way.’

She wouldn’t let herself think of the disappointment his reaction had created. Wouldn’t let any hint of the pain that slashed at her register as she admitted that she had brought this on herself. She had been so stupid in reacting the way she had. In kissing him the way she had. Shock did weird things to the mind—and the body—and as a result she’d given this Vito quite the wrong impression. An impression it seemed he was determined to act on, while she was equally determined not to let him.

That all sounded fine and rational inside her head, so why didn’t it quite ring true? Why couldn’t she convince herself that this was truly what she meant?

Why was there still a tiny bit of her, a weak, emotional bit of her, that fought against the sensible, rational approach? That yearned for this to be more than that—to mean more than that? A yearning that made her fight to control her voice as she continued.

‘I’m grateful to you for your help, obviously, but that’s it. There’s nothing else that need concern you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Would the wretched man never listen? Why didn’t he just give in and walk away? She was really beginning to feel the after-effects of the fright and the icy soaking she’d endured and it was a struggle to stay on her feet, never mind argue. All she wanted was to run to her car, get in and lock the door against the world. There, she could rest her aching head on the back of the seat, close her eyes and let the world go away. That was what she had wanted when she had first arrived. To switch off and let the world go away.

It was a cruel irony that she had only come here today to be on her own—get away from the problems at home—to escape from all the fights and the arguments that had been her life for as long as she could remember. She had wanted some peace and quiet which was why she had headed towards the sea. And she had thought she’d found it.

Until Vito Corsentino had appeared on the scene.

Until he had taken her in his arms and kissed her senseless.

Exactly—senseless! He had kissed her until she had lost what little remained of her mind. Until she had reacted in the most stupid, irresponsible way possible. So Vito Corsentino had affected her as no man had done for years. So he’d woken the secret, sensual part of her that had been buried, hidden away for so long. So his kisses and his touch had left her wanting more—she wasn’t going to give in to that need. The results would be far too complicated—dangerous—destructive. She didn’t want to get tangled up with anyone—least of all a man like Vito Corsentino.

‘I want you to think so!’

She aimed to make her tone emphatic but the effort she was putting into stopping it from shaking at the same time only succeeded in making it sound harsh and brittle, colder than the waves that still broke against the shore near their feet.

‘I appreciate what you did for me, and I thank you for that, but I don’t need anything more. And I definitely don’t want to go to your flat—or anywhere with you! What I need—what I want—is for you to leave me right now. Just turn—walk away…’

For an uncomfortable, worrying second or two she thought he was going to argue further. She saw the flash of rejection in his eyes, watched that beautiful mouth harden and thin, his face losing all warmth, becoming as hard and fierce as the face of some wild hunter just as it scented its prey. But then, just as her heart quailed inside her and she struggled to find the strength to face another argument, to fight him further—to fight herself further and deny the weak, disappointed clamour of her own senses that were trying to tell her it didn’t have to be this way—he suddenly, and totally unexpectedly, gave in.

‘Fine.’

He threw up his hands in a gesture that in another man might have been meant to express defeat but even on such short acquaintance she knew that defeat was something this man would never acknowledge. Instead, he was revealing total exasperation, and dismissing the argument as not worth bothering to take any further. He’d had enough of this, his body language and the dark, glowering scowl he turned in her direction said. Enough of this and enough of her.

So he did as she’d asked, or, rather, demanded. He turned on his heel in the sand, sending the fine grains spraying up around his legs with the determination of the movement. And he walked away.

So now she’d got what she wanted. She’d got what she’d said she needed. So why didn’t she feel as if that was what had happened? Why weren’t her shoulders relaxing, her heartbeat easing as she watched him move away from her? Why didn’t she feel glad—or at least a sense of release—at the way that every line in that tall, powerful body, the way that the long, straight back was held, the set of the broad shoulders, spoke of rejection and dismissal so that it was obvious that he wasn’t going to reconsider or even hesitate? It couldn’t be clearer that he had no intention of changing his mind, of turning back. And that was what she’d wanted; wasn’t it?

So why did she feel a thickness in her throat, a knot around her heart, as if she was in danger of losing something valuable? Something she would regret discarding so carelessly in the future?

She watched him stride further up the beach to where his shoes had been kicked off in that wild, frantic run towards the sea. To rescue her. As he stooped to snatch them up, still not giving the slightest glance backwards in her direction, her conscience twisted sharply inside her, giving a nasty little stab of reproach that made her wince inwardly. She shifted awkwardly from one foot to another on the soft sand, huddling closer into the jacket as a cold wind coiled round her, the black clouds now scudding across the sky, darkening the atmosphere threateningly.

The jacket! Her conscience stabbed at her again, more cruelly this time. Vito Corsentino had come to her rescue without hesitation. He’d dragged her from the waves and brought her safely to dry land. He’d even given her his jacket to keep her warm and to cover her sodden, bedraggled clothing and all she’d done was to tell him to go and leave her alone.

Had she even thanked him properly? What sort of an ungrateful idiot was she?

‘Wait!’

He hadn’t heard her. Or he’d heard her but he wasn’t prepared to stop.

She watched his long, determined stride cover the sand, taking him further away from her with each movement…He would soon be out of earshot.

‘Wait—please!’

One more stride further away. And another. But then, with this last one, he slowed, stopped, swung round. He didn’t say a word but those dark eyes flashed the question Well? in her direction with a fierce impatience that made her heart quail inside her.

‘Your jacket…’

She was shrugging herself out of his coat, coming forward, holding it out to him.

‘You need it back.’

For a moment he stayed where he was, looking deep into her eyes, and then, briefly, that black-eyed gaze flicked down to focus on the garment she held towards him.

The hand he used to gesture expressed such total contempt that it was a dismissal of her as well as the apparently unwanted jacket.

‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘You need it more than I do.’

‘But…’

But Vito was already turning away again, even as she tried to form the protest.

‘Keep it,’ he tossed over his shoulder at her. ‘It’s getting cold and you have nothing else to keep you warm. I would hate to think that my efforts to save you from the sea would all go to waste because you caught a chill as a result.’

The memory of his rescue—the way that he had dashed into the sea without a thought—stung at her conscience again, making her shift uncomfortably on the sand, tracing a pattern in it with one bare toe.

‘Vito, please don’t do this…’ she began again. ‘I’m sorry—I—’

But what she had been about to say was drowned, totally obliterated, as with a roar of thunder and a brilliant flash of lightning the storm that had been threatening all afternoon broke suddenly and violently right overhead.

‘That settles it!’

At least that was what she thought that Vito said but the truth was that she saw his lips move and barely caught any sound from them. This time it was the rain that swept away any hope of hearing properly, the heavens opening and a savage downpour thundering onto the sand, taking just a second to drench them all over again.

‘Vito!’

His name was a cry of shock and confusion as once more water lashed against her face, drove into her eyes. Gasping and spluttering, Emily lifted her hands to cover her face, providing a little, inadequate cover, then just as swiftly let them drop down again as she realised that she was holding Vito’s expensive and now very much worse-for-wear jacket up too.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’

But Vito didn’t hear her or if he did, he didn’t care. The next moment she was grabbed, those strong hands clamping hard on her again as once more she was swung off her feet and up into his arms.

‘Damn the jacket!’ he muttered roughly, inclining his head so as to dodge another battering from the rain. ‘I told you it didn’t matter. We’ll talk about it when we get inside.’

‘Inside where? I told you…’ Emily began, only to have the words die on her lips as Vito glared down into her rain-swept eyes.

‘And I told you that we’d talk about this inside!’

He was moving as he spoke, carrying her off the beach and climbing precariously up the steep wooden steps to the promenade. And all Emily could do was fling her arms around his neck and hold on tight, her heart in her mouth with the fear they might fall making her shiver even more than the storm that buffeted them ferociously. Vito had to pause a couple of times, rebalance himself, but he made it safely to the top of the steps and onto the security of the paved promenade.

‘All right—you can let me down now!’ Emily tried again but he simply shook his head, jaw set hard, dark eyes shuttered against her.

‘I’m not letting you go until we’re inside. We need to talk and we can’t talk in this. I’ve saved you from drowning once—I don’t intend to do it again. Like it or not, you don’t have any choice—you’re coming home with me.’




CHAPTER THREE


‘ALL right, we’re inside…’

Emily’s voice was cold and tight, seeming even more stiff and hostile in the sudden silence that had descended after the door to the flat had slammed behind them, shutting out the slashing rain and muffling some of the sound of the storm that was still raging outside.

‘So put me down—you promised!’ she insisted when Vito hesitated, tempted not to go along with what she wanted.

It was her tone that set his teeth on edge. The sharp, peremptory edge to it had him clenching his jaw tight shut on the angry retort he was tempted to make, the equally abrupt refusal to do anything of what she wanted.

But there was another reason, of course. One he was less willing to acknowledge.

He didn’t want to let her go. She felt good in his arms, in spite of the fact that she was still soaking wet, drops of water from her sodden hair dripping onto to him with uncomfortable regularity. But then he too was drenched, so he couldn’t actually get any wetter. And he didn’t want to put her down. He knew what would happen if he did. Then she would forget all about the flame of passion that had flared so wildly between them. She would put up the barriers, slam mental doors in his face, and it would be once again as it had been out there on the beach.

She would fight him every inch of the way, her pretty face stiffening, closing up, as it had done when he had suggested that she came back here. Well, he had her here now, but she was still fighting, and if that mutinous look on her face was anything to go by then her grip on her temper was fraying rapidly.

‘Signor Corsentino…’ she said warningly, and, deciding that, for now, cooperation was probably the best policy, he let her slide to the floor, as he had earlier let her slip down until her feet were in the sand.

And just as it had then, the slow slide of her body against his made him clench his jaw against the burn of sensuality that flashed through his body, the throb of hot blood in his veins. He had to fight against the impulse to grab her again and kiss her hard as he had done on the beach. But he knew that if he did that then she would fight him even harder. And fighting was not what he had in mind. So for now he’d play things her way—but only for now.

‘I told you it’s Vito,’ he said, the tension between his mind and his body making the words harsh and rough.

‘And I told you, I didn’t want to come here, but did you listen?’

Did she know that she still looked like a half-drowned kitten, spitting and snarling at him like that? Her blonde hair fell in ragged spikes around her face, plastered to her cheeks by the rain. If she had worn any make-up then it had been washed away, but her long, thick lashes were clumped together with the rain, surrounding eyes that seemed as clear and blue-green as the sea beyond the promenade. And they were every bit as cool, no warmth easing the distant, considering look she had turned on him.

‘So you’d like to leave?’

He decided to call her bluff.

The hall doorway was just behind him. All he had to do was to reach out, turn the handle. And, as luck would have it, just as he pulled the door open another crash of thunder sounded directly overhead and the rain pounded down again. A rush of cold air flooded into the confined space as Emily took a cautious step forward, looking even more catlike than before. But this time she was a wary, uncomfortable feline. One that shivered at the thought of facing the unpleasant elements outside.

‘I thought not.’

With one foot he kicked the door to again, noting that this time she didn’t even try to fight him on it.

‘But what am I going to do?’

‘Stay here at least until the worst of it passes over.’

‘Thank you.’

Still not fighting him; that was progress. He walked across the hallway, opening the door into his living room, deliberately not looking to see if she followed him as he spoke again.

‘And I think we’ll both feel better if we have something warm to drink and get out of these wet clothes.’

‘I don’t have anything to change into…’

Unexpectedly, she was right behind him. So close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck. Swiftly he wheeled away, putting some distance between them as he turned. Not quite enough, but then he could have been at the far side of the room and he would still have felt the sexual tug that linked his body to hers.

‘I’m sure I can find you something—even if only a T-shirt. You can’t stay in those things much longer.’

Not if he was going to have any hope of controlling his libido. In the hallway, with the heavy skies draining all the light, it had been too dark to see the way that the thin white cotton of her T-shirt had been turned almost transparent by the soaking it had received. Now here, with what light there was coming in through the big bay window, he couldn’t be unaware of the way that it clung to the soft curves of her breasts, the slender shape of her ribcage. The faint pink of her skin showed through the wet material, seeming to tint it lightly.

Vito curled his fingers tightly into his palms, clenching them against the impulse to peel that T-shirt from her, reveal the smooth reality of the flesh underneath it.

‘You could take a shower.’

He didn’t care that it came out brusquely, that his voice sounded rough.

‘The bathroom’s through here…’

The way that Vito waved at the door was a blatant gesture of dismissal, Emily realised. He wanted her out of here—and out of his way. What had happened to ‘we need to talk’? Or even to ‘you don’t have any choice—you’re coming home with me’?

But the truth was that she was beginning to feel cold and uncomfortable again. The clinging white T-shirt was chilled and clammy and the wet jeans rubbed at her legs with every movement. The thought of that shower was wonderful—tempting—but along with it came the thought of going into this man’s bathroom, stripping off…and that was what was making her hesitate. The action seemed too revealing, too intimate—and not just in a physical way. She hadn’t been alone with a man, apart from Mark, for three years, and to contemplate being naked in Vito Corsentino’s flat, even behind a closed door, seemed somehow so shocking that it made her legs tremble, and froze her into foolish indecision.

‘Look, signorina, if you’re not getting cold then I am.’

Vito had obviously come to the end of his limited patience and the way the sentence was forced from between gritted teeth, and a tight jaw, was a warning that he was not prepared to wait for very much longer.

‘I am also trying to be a gentleman here by offering you the use of the shower first. But if you prefer to stand there looking like a drowned rat then could you at least move into the kitchen instead of dripping on my landlord’s carpet?’

‘Oh—I’m sorry!’

His tone stabbed at her, making her take several steps towards the door that he’d indicated, then pause, looking back guiltily at the water-darkened spot on the dull green carpet.

‘If there’s any damage—’ she began but Vito didn’t let her finish.

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he declared brusquely, his impatience almost getting the better of him. ‘If you’ll just get into that shower!’

‘Of course.’

The edge on his voice made her jump.

‘There’s no need to shout—I’m going.’

She fled through the door and let it slam closed behind her, coming to a halt in the middle of the room as she realised where she was and paused to survey her surroundings.

Not the bathroom. At least, not immediately, though another door on the far side of the room must obviously lead to that. Instead she was in a bedroom.

In Vito Corsentino’s bedroom.

It couldn’t be anything else. The relentlessly masculine atmosphere was there in the plain white walls, the denim-blue linen on the big bed.

The big double-bed.

‘Oh, stop it!’ Emily spoke aloud to herself to reinforce the instruction. She couldn’t believe the thought that had flashed through her head, the way that even before she had realised it she had been looking more closely around the room, looking for evidence of the fact that Vito lived here alone. That there was no woman in his life.

Well, if there was a woman in his life then she clearly didn’t live here. There was no sign of any feminine influence in the room. No cosmetics, no flowers, the only ornaments several dramatic and beautiful carvings in polished wood that stood on the dresser and the windowsill. Everything else was stark and had a strange temporary look about it, and the wardrobe door hung open, revealing only male clothing stored inside.

Male clothing…

A sudden shiver of discomfort slid down Emily’s spine as it dawned on her that she still held Vito’s jacket—the jacket he had taken off and put round her shoulders to keep her warm. Reluctantly, guiltily, she looked down at it, a gasp of horror escaping her as she saw the mess that the sea, the weather, and finally her own careless grip had made of the garment. It was hopelessly crushed, little more than a rag. It was ruined.

And the worst thing was that now that she had a chance to look at it, it was of far better quality than she would have ever expected when she looked round at the place that Vito lived in.

No…

Emily shook her head, looking round the room again. It was the flat that was the surprise. Somehow the small, slightly shabby ground-floor apartment didn’t fit with the powerful, dynamic man that Vito Corsentino appeared to be.

But the jacket did.

And she’d ruined the jacket.

Her conscience was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. She was going to have to apologise—offer to pay to replace it.

But first she was going to get into that shower.

Carefully placing the jacket on the back of a nearby chair, smoothing the dreadful creases as best she could in the vain hope that the worst of them would hang out, she hurried into the bathroom.

She’d be as quick as possible. Just warm herself up, get back out there, talk to Vito and—

‘Oh, no!’

Her thoughts trailed off on a yelp of shock and horror as she confronted her image in the mirror and recoiled from what she saw.

She looked a fright.

The wet, grubby clothes she had been prepared for, and the sodden hair. She hadn’t been wearing any make-up—the need to escape, get away as fast as she could had meant that she hadn’t even paused to smooth on her usual tinted moisturiser and add a slick of mascara to darken her fair lashes—but even so the pallor of her skin was shocking. And her hair!

Some of it still hung in rats’ tails around her face, clinging to her skin and dripping cold, wet drops onto her cheeks. The rest had already started to dry and was bunched into salt-crusted lumps, sticking out at right angles to her head.

Suddenly the need to be in the shower sprang from more than wanting to warm up. Scrambling out of her clothes, she flung them into a corner, turned on the shower, switching the control to ‘Hot’.

It was only when she was under the shower rose, with the water pounding down on her head, that she let herself relax enough to think again.

She’d looked like that and Vito had still kissed her!

Grabbing a bottle of shampoo from the side of the bath, Emily poured some into her hand and began to rub it over her hair.

Mark had always been so quick to point out her shortcomings, and to criticise if she had been looking anything but her best. He had always insisted that she was smart, elegant and beautifully groomed. Several times he had sent her back to their room to change if she had appeared in some outfit that didn’t meet with his approval. He would have burst a blood vessel in fury if she had ever appeared in public looking like this!

Vito had seen her looking at her worst, hair a ragged mess, face pale—and he’d still kissed her! She could hardly believe it.

But she could remember it.

And as the warmth of the shower seeped into her chilled body she felt those memories flooding back along with it. If she closed her eyes then the fingers massaging her scalp weren’t hers but Vito’s hard, strong fingers that had closed in her hair, cradling her head as his mouth plundered hers. The warmth of the water playing over her skin was his touch, his caresses moving over her body, his hands soaping her breasts, sliding down her stomach…lower.

The pine-scented shower gel that was the only thing she had available filled her nostrils, making her feel that she was inhaling his scent, the personal signature of his skin. Her senses heated in a way that had nothing to do with the returning warmth to her body, her mind swimming in heady reaction. And in her ears the sound of the water was the crashing of the waves onto the shore, waves that seemed to underline rather than drown out the sound of a husky, softly accented voice speaking her name in a very special, totally unique way.

Emilia…Emilia…

Emily spluttered as she realised that she had actually sighed, swallowing some more water—warm this time. She snapped her eyes open, struggling to focus for a moment.

What was she doing?

Fantasising about Vito Corsentino—a man she had known for barely an hour!

Switching off the water in a rush, she reached for a towel. The single one available was far from generous and, once she had rubbed the worst of the moisture from her hair, she had to struggle to knot it around even her slender figure.

Perhaps there was another one or perhaps a robe in the bedroom. Cautiously she opened the door, peering round it nervously.

‘Emilia…’

It was the voice she had heard inside her head. The same husky tones, the same beautiful accent. But this time it was not her imagination that formed the sound. This time the tall, devastating form of Vito Corsentino was standing right in front of her, in the middle of the room, the towel she needed in his hand. He’d discarded his T-shirt somewhere so that the taut, muscled lines of his chest and ribcage and the gleaming bronzed skin lightly hazed with crisp black hairs were exposed to her hungry gaze, and those deep dark eyes of his were fixed on her as she hovered in the doorway.

And the look that burned in their black depths told her that she was in real trouble.

Vito had determined that he would stay well away from the bathroom. He would make the hot drink he had suggested, and concentrate on that. Take the opportunity to get his thoughts—and his libido—back under control. So he wanted this woman—that didn’t mean he was going to rush into this like some horny adolescent who’d just discovered what girls were about.

He had her here; that was what mattered. She’d almost got away from him, so much so that he’d had to call her bluff, but now she was in his home and going nowhere for a while. He could afford to relax and start to enjoy this.

He surveyed the damp patch Emily had left behind on the carpet, a wry smile curling his lips. If there was any damage it wouldn’t show, he reflected cynically. The whole carpet was so drab and old that a little more fading, another mark here or there would hardly matter. And if it did, he would buy the landlord a brand-new carpet—for the whole of the flat. It needed it.

The smile twisted into a grimace as he surveyed the small, shabby room with its old-fashioned furniture. It was a far cry from the large, white-painted Villa Limoneto he owned back home in Sicily, and the one time that his brother Guido had seen this flat he’d been stunned and disbelieving.

‘You live here? Surely you could have found somewhere more comfortable—a little more spacious.’

‘I don’t need spacious,’ Vito had laughed. ‘There’s only me. And I like being so close to the sea. Besides, there’s the yard at the back where I can work on carving.’

It was the way he’d wanted to spend this year. The year that was supposed to be his gift to himself. The gift that he and his brother had agreed on to mark their thirtieth year—twelve months of freedom to be themselves. Twelve months away from the pressures and discipline of running the huge Corsentino Marine and Leisure, the company they had built up between them. Guido had spent his year in America, working as a photographer, indulging his interest in that skill; Vito had spent the last eight months in England.

So now, trying to see the small apartment through Emily’s eyes, he knew that it reflected nothing of the truth about him. And that was something that gave him a great deal of satisfaction. Just the way that out there, on the beach, he had appreciated the way that she had simply accepted his name, and he hadn’t needed to fill her in on anything more. So now he found he liked the thought that she would only respond to him as a man and not as someone with a fortune and an international reputation behind him.

That had been Loretta’s only concern, he recalled, scowling now as he pulled off the T-shirt that had become uncomfortably cold and clinging, tossing it in the washing machine in the small kitchen before heading to the sink to fill the kettle with water. It had been that reputation, that fortune she had been interested in. He had a whole new sense of release knowing that this time, for now at least, it didn’t matter.

From the bathroom he could hear the sound of running water and knew that Emily had finally got into the shower. That was something that wasn’t so great about the flat being so small. He didn’t want to think of her standing in the shower, stripped naked, with the hot water sluicing through the fine blonde hair, pounding down on her skin, turning that creamy pale flesh pink with warmth as the heat flooded through it.

‘Dannazione!’

He swore savagely as the coffee he had been aiming for the cafetière missed the glass jug completely and spilled all over the kitchen worktop. He didn’t want to think about that!

But of course, having started imagining, there was no way he could force himself to stop. The erotic images flooded his head, swirling around in a way that made him grit his teeth against the temptation that burned up his body, twisted in his groin.

All he could hear was the sound of rushing water.

All he could smell—well, he would have sworn he could smell it even from here—was the scent of soap and shampoo and…

Hell, no! The flat was small but it wasn’t so small that he could smell the warm female body underneath the soap, the hair that was being washed by the shampoo.

Coffee. That was what he needed.

Coffee would at least warm him up—fill his nostrils with another, completely unfeminine scent—distract him. Madre de Dio, he prayed it would distract him.

It was as the kettle boiled that he remembered he hadn’t put out fresh towels, or found anything for Emily to wear. The way he was feeling, it would be better if she was clothed—at least for a while, he told himself, heading for the bedroom.

Inferno. All he knew about her was her name—and then only her first name. She hadn’t even given him her surname.

There was a clean T-shirt in the dresser. A shirt to go over it in the wardrobe. And there were brand-new, unworn boxers still in the packet…

It was as he had them in his hand that he heard the water switch off.

And the fantasy in his head froze him to the spot and kept him there.

Emily, stark naked and dripping wet, stepping out of the shower and onto the grey-tiled floor of the bathroom. She would rub the towel over her face, along her limbs…

‘Asciugamano…!’ She’d need another towel.

Pulling open another drawer, he grabbed two towelling sheets from it, painfully aware of the silence beyond the door. A silence that tugged at his nerves, tangled in his gut. And then there was another sound, one that twisted even harder. He turned slowly—so slowly—and watched the door open a crack—then wider.





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