Ultimate Temptation. Sara Craven
matter of a few months, perfectly aware of their own considerable attractions, and looking for a good time. And where was the real harm in all that?
You should stop being so critical and join in more, she told herself forcefully. Make the best of things, starting with tonight’s party. Remember that you’re single too now, instead of half of a couple.
Aided by the painkillers, she slept for a while, her dreams confused and disturbing. And, throughout them all, a man’s dark figure walked on the edge of her consciousness, his face as proud and beautiful as a fallen angel’s.
She awoke in the twilight with a start, her hands reaching across the empty bed for a presence that didn’t exist, and lay still, waiting for the drumming of her pulses to subside.
Philip, she thought. I must be missing Philip.
She did not feel particularly rested, and she was beginning to stiffen up, too, her bruises announcing their existence. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to cry off from the evening’s festivities and stay in her room, she acknowledged, hauling herself gingerly off the bed and over to the big, heavily carved guardaroba. But then solitude had no particular appeal either. It gave her imagination too much scope, she decided wryly.
Most of the clothing she’d brought with her was casual, but at the last moment she’d thrown in a dress that was strictly after-dark gear.
She looked at it without enthusiasm. Philip had urged her to buy it, against her better judgement, during the last week they’d been together. It wasn’t her style, being brief-skirted and body-hugging, with the neckline slashed, back and front, to a deep V, which did no favours at all for her slender curves. And that shade of dark red was wrong for her too, draining her own natural colour.
It seemed to have been designed for a very different woman, and having caught a brief, piercing glimpse of Philip emerging from a fashionable Knightsbridge restaurant with his new lady—a vivid brunette built on voluptuous lines—she could guess only too well who’d he’d been thinking of when he’d picked it out.
But it was the only party wear she had, she thought as she zipped herself into it. And maybe it would do her good to wear it, as a tangible reminder of how little her relationship with Philip had come to mean.
She had spent days and nights since their break-up tormenting herself with self-blame. Asking how she could have been so blind, or why she hadn’t suspected in time to put things right—win him back.
Now, as she brushed her hair into a smooth curve swinging just above her shoulders, she knew there was nothing she could have done. And found herself questioning for the first time whether she should even have tried.
For the truth was, she realised almost dispassionately, that the magic had gone out of their lives long before he’d left.
In the first, euphoric flush of love, she’d ignored the fact that their lovemaking fell short of rapture for her. That Philip had always seemed more concerned for his own satisfaction than hers. That, invariably, she was left stranded, aching for a fulfilment which she could only guess at, having never actually experienced it in reality. And, towards the end, it had become perfunctory—almost a mechanical ritual because they shared a bed.
But how was it that she could suddenly see all this so clearly? she wondered, biting her lip in confusion.
Because today a man had kissed her—someone she would never meet again—and in those few moments when his mouth had possessed hers she had been shaken to the depths of her being, her body shocked into an instant arousal she had never known before.
In her dreams, it was not Philip she had sensed at all, but this other man—the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the scent of his skin, the casual strength of the arms which held her. And in her dreams she had wanted more—much more—than his kiss alone.
She looked at herself, half-wonderingly, in the mirror, her hand going once more to her lips.
She thought, Dear God, what’s happening to me? And could find no answer in her heart.
In spite of all her good resolutions, Lucy could not get into the swing of the party.
The guests had arrived, already uproarious, bringing a crate of assorted wine and a ghetto blaster blaring out heavy rock.
Fee had prepared an enormous bowl of spaghetti carbonara, which they ate in the dining room. Lucy winced as she saw Dave carelessly stub out his cigarette on the comer of the huge polished table.
‘What a fabulous place,’ Ben commented, leaning back in his chair. ‘You were damned lucky to find anywhere in this neck of the woods. When my parents first came out here looking for a holiday place, they found everything in the district belonged to a crowd called Falcone—bankers from Florence, by all accounts. And they weren’t prepared to part with one inch of land, or a single brick of property.’
‘Falcone?’ Lucy questioned, frowning. ‘How strange. There’s a carving of a bird like a falcon over the main door here. I wonder if there’s a connection?’
‘Lucy,’ Fee said patronisingly, ‘is heavily into old buildings. She notices things like that.’
Hal leaned forward. He was tall and blond, older than the others.
‘Maybe she could switch to the present day and notice me instead.’
He gave a mock leer, making everyone laugh, but Lucy noticed how his eyes lingered on her cleavage, and felt uncomfortable.
Ben picked up one of the bottles on the table. ‘Or we could all notice this—Chianti Roccanera—one of the Falcone local by-products.’ His voice took on a reverent tone. ‘Dad would kill me if he knew we’d helped ourselves to some of this.’
Nina raised her glass. ‘Then let’s drink a toast to Ben’s father, and all the Falcones, including the one over the door,’ she said lazily. ‘And our landlord, Tomasso Moressi, who managed somehow to beat the system.’
When supper was finished, they rolled up the rugs in the salotto and danced. Lucy found herself watching the pairing-off process with detached interest. That it was not going to be to everyone’s liking was more than evident.
Nina singled out Greg, with whom she’d been flirting on the plane and who was, apparently, unattached, so that was all right. But Ben’s girlfriend, Sue, was frankly mutinous watching him gyrate with a laughing Fee. And Sandie was blatantly intent on winning Dave away from Clare.
Aware that Hal was heading in her direction, Lucy decided hastily that she would be better employed in clearing the remains of the meal. The dining room looked as if a bomb had hit it, she thought ruefully as she collected the dirty plates. Food had been spilled. A puddle of wine had collected on the table from an overturned bottle and dripped onto the floor. A lamp on a side-table had been knocked over and damaged, and one of the beautiful crystal goblets had been smashed.
And the kitchen was even worse. Fee seemed to have used every pan and bowl to concoct her spaghetti. Lucy sighed soundlessly, tucked a towel round her waist, and set to work.
The noise of the party seemed to be receding, and presently she heard splashing and laughter coming from outside. When she went to investigate, she found them all down at the poolside.
It was a warm, sultry night, with the sky blazing with stars. The ornamental lamps had been lit, and someone had changed the cassette for one with music of a slower, dreamier tempo.
Greg and Nina were dancing slowly, as if they were welded together. He was kissing the side of her neck, pushing down the straps of her dress as he did so.
Fee and Sandie were in the water with Ben and Dave, obviously skinny-dipping, their discarded clothing lying in untidy heaps on the tiled surround. Sue’s face was frozen as she watched them, and Clare was biting her lip, close to angry tears.
There’s going to be trouble, Lucy deduced resignedly. And I don’t really want to be involved.
As she turned to