‘Get in, cara…’ Rafaello prompted when the bath was ready for her. Barefoot, his trousers drenched to the knees, his black hair tousled by the wind and his aggressive jawline darkened by a blue-black shadow of stubble, he was a far cry from his usual elegance.
She was ashamed that he still seemed wildly attractive to her. ‘Only when you get out.’
His eyes flared gold. ‘I’m not leaving you alone. You might faint—’
‘You’re too used to little, fragile women who get off on big, strong men looking after them. I don’t. It’s your fault I went out in a storm to get away from you!’
Without further argument, Rafaello just picked her up and settled her into the jacuzzi. She sat in the water still wearing his shirt and stared down into the bubbles sent up by the jets. Her strained eyes were suddenly prickling with tears.
‘If I’ve got you pregnant I’ll marry you,’ Rafaello asserted harshly.
Glory was stunned. She could feel her heart racing but almost as quickly it slowed and sank again. He wasn’t serious, he could not be serious. Rafaello Grazzini marry the gardener’s daughter just because he had got her in the family way? He sounded like a male being roasted on a fire to breaking point, and his tone spoke volumes for his true feelings. It was a reluctant proposal, powered by guilt. In terms of class, she was hardly his equal. He had to be cringing at the mere thought of having to take a wife from a background as humble as hers was. ‘You can forget that option. I would never be that desperate,’ Glory responded flatly, striving to sound wholly unimpressed by an offer that had momentarily made her foolish heart leap with joy. She played fair. He didn’t love her. She knew better than to snatch at an impulsive proposal made for all the wrong reasons.
‘I made the mistake. I take full responsibility for it. I’m sorry,’ Rafaello ground out half under his breath.
‘Sorry enough to let me go home tomorrow?’ Glory whispered tightly, not looking at him, sick with disappointment that his last words should have totally confirmed what had prompted that surprising offer of a wedding ring.
The silence simmered.
‘No…not that sorry,’ Rafaello qualified in the most ludicrous tone of apology.
She hunched her shoulders. ‘What are you getting out of this?’
‘You.’
She rested back against the padded pillow surround and let the water jets buffet her weary body with warmth and relaxation. She had never felt so tired in her life. When she surfaced from her inexorable drift into sleep she was out of the bath, propped up against Rafaello, and he was stripping off the wet shirt. Before she could object he had folded her into a giant, soft towel.
‘You can’t see it now but we’re going to be great together, bella mia,’ Rafaello told her with stubborn conviction. ‘When you wake up tomorrow the sun will be shining and you’ll feel different.’
Unresponsive in her exhaustion, Glory sank into the wonderful comfort of the bed.
‘You need to eat,’ Rafaello told her.
‘I couldn’t.’ She did not think she had the strength to lift a knife and fork. Her drowsy gaze flickered over the exquisite miniature portraits set into the headboard of the bed. ‘Who are they?’
‘Saints. Those are icons.’
Glory dealt him a shaken look. ‘What are you doing with a bed with saints watching over it?’
‘It’s a Corfiot marriage bed. It belonged to my mother’s family.’
Glory had forgotten that his late mother had been an Italian raised in Corfu. ‘A marriage bed?’ So dismayed was she by the thought of how inappropriate that choice of venue had been for an unwed couple that her superstitious nature came to the fore. ‘We should never have been in it!’
‘It’s just a bed, Glory.’ Viewing her with wondering dark eyes, Rafaello slowly shook his head at that comment.
Throwing him an exasperated glance that implied that he was downright stupid not to appreciate the natural order of things, Glory closed her eyes and went to sleep, but not before she had said her prayers.
Just as Rafaello had promised, Glory woke to sunshine. She was alone in the bed and there was no telling dent in the pillow beside her own. She headed straight into the shower to wash out the sand still clinging to her hair. Wrapped in a towel, she emerged again to find that a maid was unpacking her case. Choosing a blue skirt and a white sun-top, she went back into the bathroom to get dressed.
The door she had left ajar was slowly pushed wider.
‘Breakfast?’ Rafaello stood on the threshold, heartbreakingly handsome in a black T-shirt and well-cut chinos.
‘I could eat a horse,’ Glory admitted, colour rising in her cheeks, her eyes not quite meeting his.
The table on the balcony beyond the bedroom was laid with an extravagant choice of breakfast dishes. Glory took a cushioned seat and reached for the jug of orange juice. In silence she then worked her way through a bowl of cereal.
Rafaello studied her with brilliant dark eyes that probed her evasive gaze. ‘We start fresh today.’