Married For Revenge. Lynne Graham
cast it down. He was wondering if she could possibly have chosen the private location in expectation and encouragement of a bout of alfresco sex. No way, absolutely no way, Vitale decided grittily, was he sinking his famously cool reputation to fool about in long grass like a testosterone-driven teenager.
Seated unceremoniously on her knees and looking not remotely seductive, however, Zara was already digging through the basket and producing all sorts of goodies. ‘I’m really hungry,’ she admitted.
Vitale studied her and decided that he was becoming too set in his ways. Maybe he could bite the bullet if the only option was making out in the grass. He poured chilled white wine while she set out plates and extracted thin slices of prosciutto ham, wedges of onion and spinach frittata, a mozzarella and tomato salad and a bowl of pasta sprinkled with zucchini blossoms. It was a colourful and enticing spread.
‘Giuseppina is a treasure,’ Zara commented, digging in without further ado to a wedge of frittata washed down with wine from a moisture-beaded glass.
‘I’m an excellent cook,’ Vitale volunteered unexpectedly. ‘Giuseppina is a recent addition to my household.’
‘I can just about make toast,’ Zara told him cheerfully. ‘My older sister, Bee, is always offering to teach me to cook but I’m more into the garden than the kitchen.’
‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’
Zara kicked off her shoes and lounged back on one elbow to munch through ham and a generous spoonful of the juicy tomato salad with unconcealed enjoyment. ‘Dad has three daughters from two marriages and one affair. He’s a bit of a womaniser,’ she muttered, downplaying the truth to an acceptable level.
‘Is he still married to your mother?’
Worrying at her full lower lip, Zara compressed her sultry mouth. ‘Yes, but he’s had other interests along the way—she turns a blind eye. Gosh, I don’t know why I’m telling you that. It’s private.’
‘Obviously it bothers you,’ Vitale remarked perceptively.
It had always bothered Zara. Several years earlier, Edith had gently warned her niece to mind her own business when it came to her parents’ marriage, pointing out that some adults accepted certain compromises in their efforts to maintain a stable relationship. ‘I think fidelity is very important …’
Thinking of the wedding plans that he already knew were afoot in London on her behalf, Vitale almost laughed out loud in derision at that seemingly naïve declaration. He supposed it sounded good and that many men, burned by female betrayal, would be impressed by such a statement. More cynical and never ever trusting when it came to her sex, Vitale veiled his hard dark eyes lest he betray his scorn.
Zara could feel hot colour creeping across her face. She believed fidelity was important yet she had agreed to marry a man who had no intention of being faithful to her. Suddenly and for the first time she wondered if Bee had been right and if she could be making the biggest mistake of her life. But then, she reminded herself quickly, she would not be entering a real marriage with Sergios. In a perfect world and when people loved each other fidelity was important, she rephrased for her own benefit. Feeling panicky and torn in opposing directions by the commitment she had so recently entered, Zara drained her wine glass and let Vitale top it up.
‘How do you feel about it?’ Zara pressed her silent companion nonetheless because she really wanted to know his answer.
‘As though we’ve strayed into a dialogue that is far too serious for such a beautiful day.’
Was that an evasion? Vitale was very adroit with words and Zara, who more often than not said the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time, was reluctantly impressed by his sidestepping of what could be a controversial subject. More than anything else, though, she respected honesty, but she knew that some regarded her love of candour as a sign of immaturity and social awkwardness.
‘I could never, ever forgive lies or infidelity,’ Zara told him.
Watching sunshine make her hair flare like highly polished silver, her eyes mysterious lavender pools above her pink pouting mouth as she sipped her wine, Vitale reflected that had he been the susceptible type he might have been in danger around Zara Blake. After all she was a beauty, surprisingly individual and very appealing in all sorts of unexpected ways. That radiant smile, for instance, offered a rare amount of joie de vivre. But most fortunately for him, Vitale reminded himself with satisfaction, he was cooler than ice in the emotion department and all too aware of whose blood ran in her veins.
Barely a minute later and without even thinking about what he was going to do, Vitale leant down and pressed his sensual mouth to Zara’s. He tasted headily of wine. His lips were warm and hard and the clean male scent of him unbelievably enticing. Zara stretched closer, increasing the pressure of his mouth on hers with a needy little sound breaking low in her throat.
Her hands curved to his strong, muscular shoulders and, as though she had given him a green light to accelerate the pace, the kiss took off like a rocket. His hot tongue pierced between her lips and she shivered violently, erotic signals racing through her slight length. A flood of heat travelled from the pinched taut tips of her breasts to the liquid tension pooling at the heart of her. Her heart thumping out a tempestuous beat, she dug her fingers into his silky black hair and kissed him back with a hunger she couldn’t repress.
Within seconds she was on her back, Vitale lying half over her with one lean thigh settling between hers. On one level she tensed, ready to object the way she usually would have done if a man got too close, but on another unfamiliar level his weight, proximity and the fiery hunger of his kiss somehow combined in a soaring crescendo of sensuality to unleash a powerful craving she had never felt before.
‘You taste so good,’ Vitale growled huskily, ‘so unbelievably good, angelina mia.’
He was talking too much and she didn’t want him talking, she wanted him kissing, and she pulled him back down to her with impatient hands. He reacted to that shameless invitation with a driving passion that thrilled her. His mouth ravished hers, his tongue darting and sliding in the tender interior and the thunderous wave of desire screaming through her was almost unbearable. Long fingers slid below her top, travelling over her narrow ribcage to close round a small rounded breast. He found the beaded tip, squeezed it and she arched off the ground, shattered by the arrow of hot liquid need shooting down into her pelvis. And that jolt of soul stealing desire was sufficient to spring her out of the sensual spell he had cast.
Eyes bright with dismay, Zara had only a split second to focus over his shoulder on the trees around her and recall where she was and what she was doing. Shot back to awareness with a vengeance, she gasped, ‘No!’ as she pushed at his shoulders and rolled away from him the instant he drew back.
Still on another plane, Vitale blinked, dazed at what had just happened. Almost happened, he corrected mentally. Dio mio, they were lying in an orchard and there wasn’t even the remotest chance that he would have let matters proceed any further. She was like a stick of dynamite, he thought next, dark colour scoring his high cheekbones as he struggled to catch his breath and withstand the literal pain of his fully aroused body. A woman capable of making him behave like that in a public place ought to carry a government health warning. Overconfident, he had underestimated the extent of her pulling power, a mistake he would not repeat, he swore vehemently.
‘I’m sorry …’ Zara’s teeth almost chattered in the aftershock of having called a crushing halt to that runaway passion. ‘But someone might have come along,’ she completed lamely, wondering if she seemed dreadfully old-fashioned and a bit hysterical to a guy of his experience. After all he had only kissed her and touched her breast and she had thrown him off as if he had assaulted her.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ Vitale fielded, reaching for her hand, the nails of which were digging into the surface of the rug in a revealing show of discomfiture, and straightening her fingers in a calming gesture. ‘I didn’t think.’
It was an admission that very nearly choked Vitale Roccanti, who, with the patience and