She’d been ill.
How ill? It must have been bad for it to warrant a mention in not one but two of the wedding speeches.
He felt momentarily winded. Like that time when a tennis ball hit by his twin had slammed straight into his solar plexus. He had been itching to take Willow away from here as soon as the speeches were over, but suddenly he needed time. And distance. Because how could he now take her to bed in the light of what he had learned?
Did Willow sense where he was in the throng of people? Was that why her grey eyes suddenly turned to meet his? Only this time it was more than desire which pumped through his veins as his gaze connected with hers. It was a cocktail of emotions he was unfamiliar with. He felt sympathy and a flare of something which clenched his heart with a sensation close to pain. The sense that life was unfair. And yet why should that come as a surprise, when he’d learnt the lesson of life’s unfairness at the age of eight, when his entire world had changed for ever?
Why the hell hadn’t she told him?
He watched as the smile she was directing at him became slightly uncertain and she picked up her glass and took a mouthful of champagne. And part of him wanted to run. To get into his car and drive back to London. To fly on to Paris as soon as possible and put this whole incident behind him. Yet he couldn’t do that—and not just because she still had his grandfather’s precious tiara. He couldn’t just turn his back on her and walk away. If she’d known real suffering, then she deserved his compassion and his respect.
He saw all the women lining up and giggling and wondered what was happening, when he realised that the bride was about to throw her bouquet. And he wondered why it came as no real sense of surprise when Willow caught it, to the accompaniment of more loud cheers.
He couldn’t stay here. He could see some of her relatives smiling at him, almost—God forbid—as if they were preparing to welcome him into the fold and he knew that he had to act. Ignoring the redhead with the cleavage who had been edging closer and closer, he walked straight up to Willow and took the empty champagne glass from her hand.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
He couldn’t miss the look of relief on her face.
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said, sounding a little unsteady.
On her high-heeled shoes she was tottering as they walked across the darkening grass as if she’d had a little too much to drink—but for once Dante wasn’t about to take the moral high ground.
He waited for her to mention the speeches, but she didn’t. She was too busy weaving her fingers into his and squeezing them. He thought again about her father’s words and how her experience had affected her. It meant she’d probably learnt in the hardest way possible about the fragility of life and the random way that trouble could strike. He wondered if she’d plumped for recklessness as a result of that. Was that why she would have had sex with him before the wedding had even started, if her damned sister hadn’t interrupted them? He wondered if she was this free with everyone—an aristocratic wild child who’d learned to be liberal with her body. And he was unprepared for the sudden dark shaft of anger which slammed into him.
They reached her room without meeting anyone and the sounds of celebration drifted up through the open windows as she shut the bedroom door behind them and switched on a small lamp. He could hear music and laughter and the rising lull of snatched conversation, but there was no joy in Dante’s heart right then.
She leaned against the door, her shiny ruffled dress gleaming and her grey eyes looking very bright. ‘So,’ she said, darting a rather embarrassed glance at the bride’s bouquet she was still holding, before quickly putting it down on a nearby table. ‘Now what?’
He wished he could wipe what he’d heard from his mind, leaving his conscience free to do what he really wanted—which was to walk over there and remove her dress. To take off her bra and her panties and strip himself bare, before entering that pale and slim body with one slow and exquisite thrust.
He went to stand by the window, with his back to the strings of Chinese lanterns which gleamed in the trees.
‘Did you enjoy the wedding, Willow?’ he asked carefully.
She walked across the room, pulling the wilting crown of flowers from her head and placing it on the dressing table, and a clip which clattered onto the wooden floor sounded unnaturally loud.
‘It was okay,’ she said, taking out another clip, and then another, before putting them down. She turned around then, her hair spilling over her shoulders, and there was a faint look of anxiety in her eyes, as if she had just picked up from his tone that something was different. She licked her lips. ‘Did you?’
He shook his head. ‘No, not really. But then, I’m not really a big fan of weddings.’
Her smile became a little brittle. ‘Oh, well, at least it’s over now,’ she said. ‘So why don’t we just take our minds off it?’
She began to walk unsteadily towards him and Dante knew he had to stop this before it went any further. Before he did something he might later regret. But it was hard to resist her when she looked so damned lovely. There was something so compelling about her. Something pure and untouched which contrasted with the hungry look in her eyes and the wanton spill of her half-pinned hair. She looked like a little girl playing the part of vamp.
He shook his head. ‘No, Willow.’
But she kept on walking towards him until she was standing in front of him in her long dress. And now she was winding her arms around his neck and clinging on to him like a tender vine and the desire to kiss her was like a fever raging in his blood.
Briefly, he closed his eyes as if that would help him resist temptation, but it didn’t—because the feel of her was just as distracting as the sight of her. And maybe she took that as an invitation—because she brushed her mouth over his with a tentative exploration which made him shiver. With an angry little groan he succumbed to the spiralling of desire as he deepened the kiss. He felt the kick of his heart as her hands began to move rather frantically over him, and what could he do but respond?
She was tugging at his tie as he started to caress the slender lines of her body, his fingers sliding helplessly over the slippery material. He felt her sway and picked her up, carrying her over to the bed, like a man acting on autopilot. She lay there, almost swamped by the silky folds of her bridesmaid dress, and as his hand reached out to stroke its way over her satin-covered breast, he felt a savage jerk of lust.
‘Oh, Dante,’ she breathed—and that heartfelt little note of wonder was almost his undoing.
Would it be so wrong to take her? To have her gasp out her pleasure and him do
the same, especially when they both wanted it so badly? Surely it would be a good thing to end this rather bizarre day with some uncomplicated and mindless sex.