Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
She slept deeply and dreamlessly, and awoke with reluctance. For a moment she lay still, feeling oddly disorientated—as if her faintly aching body no longer belonged to her. And then, like a thunderbolt, her memory returned and she sat up.
Oh, God, she thought desperately. I’m in bed with Marco Valante.
Except that wasn’t strictly true. Because no sleeping man lay beside her. Nor, she realised, was there any sound from the bathroom, or any sign of his clothes either.
She said aloud, ‘He’s gone.’ And her voice sounded small and desolate in the emptiness of the room.
She lay down again, pulling the tangled sheet up over her body, aware that her mouth was dry and her heart was thumping.
Well, Flora, she told herself. It seems you’ve just had your first one-night stand. Now you have to live with that, and I just hope you think it was worth it.
And, to make matters a million times worse, you’ve had unprotected sex with a stranger. A man who’s probably left his notch on bedposts in every major capital of the world, and several small towns as well. And that’s something else you’ll have to deal with.
She pressed her clenched fist against her mouth, to stop herself from moaning aloud.
She had no one to blame but herself, whatever the consequences. After all, she’d gone out last night undressed to kill, flinging down a challenge to his sexuality that no red-blooded man could have ignored. And all because of a fit of pique.
She stopped right there. Because that was too easy—too glib an excuse for what she had done.
From that first glimpse of him, Marco had intrigued her. Had tantalised his way into her dreams, sleeping and waking. He himself had been the challenge—and the ultimate prize.
And she had hardly been short-changed. In a few brief hours Marco had taught her more about her body and its needs than she could have believed possible.
And she would never be the same again.
The girl who had had the rest of her life mapped out, with a sensible marriage and a secure future, had disappeared for ever—if she’d even existed at all.
What was it Hester had said? ‘Heaven, hell and heartbreak’?
Well, she’d had the heaven, and now she was faced with the hell of knowing that, for him, it had been just a casual sexual encounter—another girl in another bed. And, although she was currently feeling numb, she knew the heartbreak would surely follow.
And then there was Chris, whom she had betrayed in the worst possible way.
I can’t tell him, she thought miserably. I can’t hurt him like that. He doesn’t deserve it. I’ll have to find some other excuse for calling off the wedding. Tell him I’ve been having second thoughts—that I prefer my career—my independence.
His mother will be pleased, anyway. She never thought I was good enough for him—always dropping hints about modern girls not knowing how to be homemakers.
She groaned, pressing her face into the pillow. No amount of self-justification was ever going to excuse what she’d done. She’d had no right to have dinner with Marco Valante, let alone allow him to make a feast of her in bed.
And now he’d walked away without a backward glance, and she knew she had no one to blame but herself.
Act like a tart and you’ll get treated like a tart, she thought drearily.
She pushed away the encircling sheet and got up. It was the morning after the night before, and she simply had to get on with her life. She would have a bath—wash away the taste and touch of Marco Valante—get dressed, then start to dismantle the arrangements for the wedding that were already in place. Florists, caterers and printers would all have to be notified, and the church cancelled. She would need to make a list, she thought, trailing into the bathroom and turning on the taps in the tub.
And somehow she would have to tell her mother, and endure the inevitable wailings and recriminations.
On the plus side, she thought wanly, I will not have the nephew from hell following me up the aisle, although I expect that Sandra will have something to say about her little darling’s disappointment.
She poured a capful of her favourite bath essence into the steaming water.
There was going to be a lot of music to face, she thought frowningly, but only if she chose to do so. She could always take the weeks she’d booked off for her honeymoon and move them up. Get right away for a while and put herself back together again.
Some of the clients she’d planned to see might not be too happy if she went missing for a couple of weeks, but Melanie would simply have to make new appointments for them.
It’ll be good for her, she thought, testing the water. Show what she’s made of in a crisis.
And she was ready to bet that most of the clients would be prepared to wait for her return. Because she was good at her job.
I wish, she thought, as she stepped into the tub, that I was equally as good at life.
She settled back into the scented water with a little sigh and closed her eyes.
She’d made a monumental fool of herself, and taken a terrible risk, but she didn’t have to allow it to cloud her entire future, she told herself firmly. Everyone was surely allowed one serious mistake—and Marco Valante was hers. That was all.
She heard a slight sound, and turned her head sharply.
Her serious mistake was standing in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder negligently propped against its frame. He was fully dressed, but tieless, and his shirt was open at the throat.
He said softly, ‘Buon giorno.’ And began to walk towards her, discarding his jacket as he did so. ‘I thought you would sleep until my return, cara.’
‘Your return?’ Her voice was a stifled croak. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Your refrigerator was full of food, but nothing for breakfast, so I went shopping.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘We have fresh rolls, orange juice, cheese and some good ham.’ The green eyes glinted as they surveyed her. ‘All of which we will have—later.’
Flora realised he was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He reached down and took the soap from her unresisting hand.
‘Stand up, mia bella,’ he directed quietly.
Somehow she found herself mutely obeying, her eyes fixed on his face, aware that her throat had tightened with mingled panic and excitement.
Marco lathered his hands with the soap and began to apply the scented foam to her skin, starting with her shoulders and working his way downwards, massaging it into her body very slowly, and very thoroughly.
His gaze was reflective—almost dispassionate—as he worked—like a sculptor judging his latest work, she thought confusedly as her senses began to riot.
Everywhere he touched her—and he didn’t seem to miss an inch—was tingling and burning. An agonised trembling had ignited deep inside her.
Her breasts were aching with desire as his fingers lingered over their rosy tips. She quivered as he moved with exquisite precision down the length of her spine to her rounded buttocks.
When he touched her thighs, and the soft curls at their apex, Flora had to bite her lower lip to prevent herself from whimpering out loud.
When he’d finished, he took the hand spray from the shower unit and rinsed away the soap, just as carefully. The water droplets felt like needles piercing her over-sensitised skin as they cascaded over her small round breasts, making the nipples stand proud.
At last, when she was beginning to think she could bear no more, he turned off the spray and reached to the towel rail for a bath sheet. He took her hand and helped her out of the water, then wrapped the soft towelling