His breath fanned her cheek and her heartbeat thundered in her eardrums and still she couldn’t move. He rearranged her hair with the intimacy of a lover, trailed a caressing forefinger down her knotted spine. ‘So tense I could almost believe you were terrified,’ he teased and then he pressed his mouth briefly, hungrily, agonisingly to an incredibly sensitive spot just below her right ear and she could feel every bone melt, every muscle give way in surrender.
‘Tonight,’ he breathed huskily, and vaulted gracefully upright again.
She began to shiver, suddenly cold, shock giving way to wave upon wave of after-shock.
‘Do you want to come riding with me?’ He was already at the door in two long, elegant strides. ‘No? I’ll meet you for breakfast in an hour in the courtyard.’
And then he was gone. Kelda slid bonelessly down the bed. She was in Tuscany with Angelo. Angelo wanted her. Angelo had apparently been lusting after her for years. Angelo was prepared to deck her in emeralds and diamonds before breakfast. Angelo was asking her...no, expecting her to become his mistress. Hot mistress material. And when he had touched her, it had been like coming alive in paradise...she had felt...she had felt wildly immoral and wonderfully sensual for the very first time in her chequered and, until now, not that exciting existence.
So much, for not being a real woman, she tasted. Angelo had actually admitted that he would have married her six years ago purely to satisfy his hunger for her. Hunger—she savoured the concept shamelessly. All this time and she hadn’t known, hadn’t even suspected that Angelo desired her. She rolled over on her stomach and stretched, conscious of every individual skin cell in her body. She felt incredibly powerful for several more minutes...this was A
ngelo where she had always wanted him...on his knees.
And then common sense began to assert itself. It was an uphill battle but it got there in the end, hacking a passage through the layers of sublime contentment that she was suddenly quite unable to reasonably explain. Did she like Angelo wanting her? Oh, yes. It was retribution for all he had put her through in the past.
But that was her teenage self talking, not the adult she was supposed to be. It was impossible to explain the fact that she had allowed him to festoon her in emeralds and diamonds unchecked. She put both hands to her throat in sudden anger and attempted to remove the necklace. Five fruitless minutes later, when she was afraid of breaking the wretched thing, she gave up and leapt off the bed, wide awake but still...she just couldn’t help it...still not thinking straight.
Of course, she was going home on the first available plane. He had her passport but he would hardly insist on keeping it...would he? Dear heaven, he had virtually kidnapped her! He had lured her here with the intent of seduction. Such an old-fashioned word and quite inappropriate. The sole seduction Angelo intended to employ was his immense wealth.
You arrogant, conceited swine, she suddenly thought, livid. Angelo actually believed that all he had to do was flash extravagant jewellery at her and she would fall down gratefully at his feet. He had reminded her how broke she was. He was willing to strew the passage to his bed with emeralds, diamonds and cold, hard cash. Angelo might find her incredibly desirable and she really couldn’t restrain the flush of heat that enveloped her at that repeated reflection but his confession had not been coined to flatter her. Angelo was treating her like a high-class whore.
What the hell sort of a spell had he cast, that she had lain there and simply listened without rearranging his features for him? Men had insulted her before, but leave it to Angelo to fathom out the grossest possible insult! He assumed that all he had to do was ask and he would receive...he really did think that! Abruptly, hot moisture flooded her eyes and she was shocked at herself.
She didn’t know why she was crying. She ought to be laughing her head off. Angelo had miscalculated and made an ass of himself. She was not for sale, she was not tempted, and if she lusted after being badly treated and abused she would find a street corner to haunt faster than she would sink to the depravity of allowing Angelo Rossetti to lay one arrogant finger on her!
Six years...six years, though, he had waited for her, wanting her, thinking about her, presumably noticing her every time she appeared in the newspapers and on advertising hoardings and in glossy magazines. Six years—she just couldn’t get that out of her mind. Six years...good to know that she hadn’t been the only one scanning boring newsprint, gossip columns, tuning in to BBC 2 when there was a stock-market crisis, just knowing he’d be interviewed...
And why had she done that, she asked herself in sudden stricken dismay? A sliver of conversation she had had recently with Tim returned to her.
‘Did you see Angelo holding forth on TV last night?’ she had mocked.
‘I don’t watch that sort of stuff.’ Tim had dismissed. ‘Sometimes I think you’re obsessed with Angelo...’
‘Because I hate him,’ she had responded drily.
Was that a kind of obsession too? Was hatred so all-encompassing? And, if she hated him, why hadn’t she broken out into a rash of revulsion when he’d pressed his mouth to the pulse beneath her ear?
She turned the shower on full blast on cold. Go on admit it, she scorned with throbbing self-disgust. Ever since that night, Angelo has fascinated you. He had taught her the meaning of desire. A terrifying devastation of the senses. After that night, she had decided she was a slut in the making, all rampant hormones and no self-control. She had imagined that Angelo would recall her response to him with cruel amusement.
She had cringed from the memory. She had hidden from the fact that even though hours earlier she had been subjected to a brutal assault of a very sexual nature, she had still contrived to melt into Angelo’s arms without a shred of fear. He had stolen her peace of mind forever. He had shown her how frail she was under fire of her own sensuality. But only with him...only with him, a little voice whispered inside her head. Only with Angelo.
Admit it: you want him too. Incredibly bad taste, she told herself. It was purely physical chemistry, the sort of thing she had no control over. But of course, she would have complete control of that weakness now because she had freely admitted it to herself. As an arrangement of flesh, muscle and bones, Angelo was indisputably very nicely arranged. However, that was all it was, just a stupid, mindless physical thing.
Having placed Angelo exactly where he belonged, Kelda got dressed in a pair of matador-style high waisted cotton trousers and a sheer lace shirt. Combing out her towel-dried hair, she didn’t even bother to reach for her cosmetics case. After all, she didn’t want Angelo imagining that she was making an effort for his benefit! Poor Angelo, she reflected, feeling much more like herself. This time, he really had gone in over his head!
‘My passport, please,’ she rehearsed in front of the mirror, and laughed.
There was no sign of breakfast in the courtyard she had entered the night before. She trekked back through the echoing hall, glancing into rooms on her passage past, her feet moving more and more slowly. Fabulous house, she found herself thinking, more of a palazzo than a mere dwelling. Trust Angelo to have found it, she thought. Probably picked it up for a song and then spent millions on it which he could well afford, she conceded darkly, absently fingering the emeralds still at her throat. But where, oh, where were the serfs to people his feudal kingdom in the Tuscan hills...impossible to imagine Angelo ‘doing’ for himself!
There was a little inner courtyard. There he was, bathed in a pool of golden sunshine that glinted off his ebony-dark hair, accentuated his strong profile and turned his gorgeous eyes to honey-gold. Something went hip-hippety-hop behind her breastbone and she momentarily froze on the threshold. All of a sudden, as he looked at her, it was so incredibly hard to breathe. It was intimidating.
He slid upright. Superb manners, she absently recalled. Angelo was the only male she had ever met capable of opening a door and standing back politely for you to precede him even in the middle of a violent argument.
‘I want my passport,’ she announced.
‘Have some cappuccino,’ Angelo suggested smoothly.
She planted both hands on her slim hips. ‘Look, the comedy is over, Angelo. I want my passport.’