Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride. Lee Wilkinson
like.’
He slid a CD into the player as the car pulled away in a spray of gravel, but Sorcha almost wished she could tell him to turn it off again as the most heartbreakingly beautiful music swelled up and resonated through the air, so that you could hear nothing else but the voice and the song.
It was a man, singing in Italian, and she couldn’t understand a word of it—but maybe she didn’t need to. All she knew was that it was the most beautiful and sad song she had ever heard. It made her think of love and loss—and pain and happiness—and the man beside her. Sorcha closed her eyes.
She had to pull herself together—because it was pointless to feel things which would only be thrown back in her face, to want things which could never be hers.
Cesare glanced down at the hands which were clasped in the lap of her dress—at the way her fingers interlocked, the way they gripped when the music reached a crescendo—and he bit down on his mouth, hard, in an effort to dispel his own frustration.
Because unless he stopped imagining himself pulling over into a lay-by and slipping his fingers between her legs, this was going to be a very long and uncomfortable drive.
The car drew up outside the only hotel in the village—the Urlin Arms, which was run by a slightly dotty ex-admiral who rated eccentricity over efficiency. It was his old family home, which had been converted, and the fact that the place had ‘character’ compensated in a small way for the constant stream of junior staff who were always flouncing out in a huff and leaving the Admiral in the lurch.
‘You know this place?’ asked Cesare as he opened the car door for her.
She clambered out of the low car and stood beside him, looking up at it. ‘Yes. Of course. I remember when it was first converted.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it. It’s just…’
‘Surprising that I’ve chosen to stay here?’ he observed wryly.
‘A bit.’
His black eyes mocked her. ‘You thought I would have rented a glass and chrome extravaganza in London, did you?’
‘Why, Cesare—are you a mind-reader?’
‘No, I’m just good at reading body language,’ he murmured. ‘Especially yours.’
But Sorcha’s poise was in danger of slipping as she followed him inside—where the Admiral was having his customary gin and tonic and regaling a tyre salesman from Humberside with the problems in the modern Navy.
‘Evening, Admiral,’ said Sorcha, forcing a smile and hoping that he was as man-of-the-world as he always claimed and wouldn’t mention to her mother or Rupert that she’d been caught sneaking up to a hotel bedroom with Cesare di Arcangelo.
Why?
Because it felt wrong?
Because he was her boss?
They went upstairs to where he had obviously rented the best room. There were some fine pieces of furniture—a grandfather clock with a sonorous chime, a beautiful sandalwood chest, and faded silk rugs sprawled on polished floorboards.
Sorcha walked in and felt frozen to the spot, not sure what she was expected to do or say as Cesare pushed the door shut and leaned on it, studying her. And then his eyes narrowed and he turned and began walking towards a wooden drinks cabinet. ‘Drink?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Drink?’ she echoed blankly.
He reappeared at the door. ‘Wine? Or did you think I was going to leap on you as soon as you set foot inside the door?’
Sorcha swallowed. ‘How would I know? I’ve never been in this kind of situation before.’
Their eyes clashed. ‘Me neither,’ he said softly.
Some of the tension eased out of her. ‘Wine, please.’ She walked around the room, picking things up without really looking at them, trying not to look nervous when inside her stomach was tied up in knots.
Cesare came over and handed her a glass of red wine.
‘Thanks.’ She sipped it, and then took a bigger mouthful. ‘Gosh—it’s delicious. The Admiral must have better taste than I thought!’
He smiled. ‘Actually, it’s mine. My wine, that is. It is made from grapes which are grown in my own vineyard. The vines will be growing heavy now—with great clusters of grapes growing darker under the sun.’
His voice was dreamy enough to hurt, and suddenly Sorcha couldn’t bear it. If she had married him she would have been mistress of those vineyards, too—as proud of their yield as he was—while instead she was standing awkwardly in a slightly scruffy hotel room, making small-talk while the real agenda simmered away unspoken. The elephant in the sitting room.
She put her glass down with a hand which she was suddenly afraid was going to start shaking. And he must not sense her reservations or her nervousness—because that would surely tell a man as clever as Cesare that she was vulnerable. If he thought that this was simply about a powerful sexual attraction which had never been properly explored then wouldn’t she be safe? Maybe she would. For when they had taken their fill of one another perhaps they would discover that nothing remained.
She curved him a smile—a deliberately provocative smile she had no memory of ever smiling before. Where did a smile like that come from? Did you learn it from watching films? she wondered. Or was there just a moment in life when you met the only man for whom it was appropriate?
Cesare put his glass down beside hers, and for a moment he just savoured the anticipation of what was about to happen. At last. At last.
And then he beckoned to her. ‘Venuta,’ he said softly, and held his arms out. ‘Venuta, cara mia.’
She did as he told her, went into them and felt them tighten round her. His breath was expelled from him in a hiss—like air being released from a pressure cooker.
‘Cesare,’ she breathed, on a note which sounded broken.
And that was when he began to kiss her. Her arms fastened around his neck as hungrily she pressed her body closer to his—and as he kissed her he began pushing up the filmy dress. Up over her bare thighs, his fingers luxuriating as they kneaded the soft flesh, as if they were reacquainting themselves with an old friend.
And Sorcha realised that she could not play passive. Not this time. This was the command performance—for one night only! Remember that, she urged herself. Don’t be lulled by sweet sensation and unrealistic wishes just because his lips are soft and his kiss passionate enough to make you start indulging in make-believe.
She slid her hand between his legs and he groaned. Gently, she rubbed her palm down over the hard heat of his arousal and the pressure of his kiss increased—until he drew his head away, his black eyes looking as opaque and distant as a man in the midst of a fever.
‘You think I am going to do it to you here?’ he questioned unsteadily. ‘Is that what you want? You are one of those women who like it any place except in bed?’
One of those women. He might as well have slapped her. Sorcha shook her head. ‘No,’ she breathed.
He scooped her up without warning and carried her through into the bedroom, laid her down on the bed—and perhaps he sensed that his words had been clumsy, for he started to stroke her and soothe her, and anoint her skin with feather-light kisses, and speak to her in words of soft Italian.
He worked her up into such a pitch of longing that Sorcha was barely aware of the gauzy drapes which fell in soft folds over the imposing four-poster bed. Quite honestly it could have been a bare mattress on the floor of a downtown apartment she wanted him so much—and suddenly she was tearing at his shirt, pulling at it in a frenzy.
He started laughing as a button went bouncing across the floorboards, but he lifted a shoulder to