The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario: Once a Ferrara Wife... / A Dark Sicilian Secret / Blackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife. Jane Porter
is so that you can tell me I’m wrong. So that you can change my mind and tell me what I should be thinking. You have the sensitivity of a tank and I hate your macho, caveman approach to everything.’
The atmosphere snapped taut and his eyes glittered lethal black in the dim light. ‘I can remember a time when you liked my macho, caveman approach.’
The sudden punch of sensual heat horrified her. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Really?’ She was hauled to her feet before she could do more than gasp his name.
Unprepared and off balance, she tipped against him and was forced to plant her hand against his chest for support. Through the fine silk of his shirt she felt hard male muscle and could feel him literally vibrating with anger. His dark features loomed over her and she swayed towards him like someone in a trance. The heat was suffocating but she had no idea whether it was the sultry Sicilian air or their scorching passion that seared her skin.
Safe in another country, it had been easy to rationalise the chemistry, but the reality was raw and frightening.
Two years of self-denial weakened her still further and, instead of pushing him away, her fingers fisted in his shirt. Helpless, hopeless, she watched as his head lowered towards hers, the sheer inevitability of it melting her resistance.
She was so ready for his kiss, so desperate, that it was a brutal shock when he released her suddenly.
In a smooth movement he uncurled her fingers from his shirt as if she were an insect he didn’t want touching his flesh. ‘You’re right—’ he spoke in a tone thickened with contempt and disdain as he thrust her away from him ‘—there is no point in conversation. Nothing, nothing, justifies you walking away from our marriage. You think you’re so tough and independent but you’re a coward who would rather run than stay and fight.’
And run she did. Right then, with her feet bare and her heart exposed. She sprinted along the sand, her hair flying in her face as she ran towards the safety of the villa.
Coward, coward, coward—
Each time her feet hit the sand she heard the word in her head and she increased the pace, trying to outrun the noise.
The tightness in her chest was back but she ran without pausing, without looking back. She ran until her lungs burned and by the time she reached the villa, she could hardly breathe.
Doubled over, she paused by the door. And knew instantly that she was in trouble.
She needed the inhaler now. Right now, if she were to avoid the attack that threatened.
A few minutes before, her biggest fear had been the way she felt about him, but suddenly that fear had been surpassed by something even more dangerous. The need for air.
Her lungs burned and breathing was becoming harder and harder. With hands that shook she automatically reached for her bag, only to discover she was no longer carrying it. She’d put it down on the sand next to her and she’d forgotten to pick it up when she’d been trying to escape from Cristiano.
Laurel knew a moment of real terror and she mentally cursed herself for being so stupid. She should have used her inhaler earlier instead of arguing with him.
Her chest was growing worse by the minute. Her breathing tighter and more laboured. Knowing that she didn’t have her inhaler made the stress worse.
Being on her own with an attack was something she dreaded more than anything.
Knowing that she was in serious trouble, Laurel let herself into the villa and sank down onto the floor with her back to the wall. Breathe. Breathe. Slowly. Relax. She needed to go back and find her inhaler but at the moment she wasn’t capable of walking that far.
Telling herself that she’d be fine if she could just calm down, she forced herself to focus on the lamp glowing in the corner of the room and forget her encounter with Cristiano, but it was hard to be calm when every breath was an effort.
Her chest became tighter and she heard the whistling sound that came with the onset of an attack.
No. Not now.
The door crashed open. ‘Always you run, but you and I are going to—’ Cristiano broke off as he saw her huddled in the corner, struggling to breathe. In one stride he was beside her. ‘Laurel?’ He dropped into a crouch, his hand sliding into her hair so that he could tilt her head and look at her properly.
‘Asthma?’
Wordless, she nodded.
‘You’re a fool, running like that. Where is your inhaler?’ He displayed that same ability to focus and prioritise that had brought him staggering success in the business world. For those few crucial moments everything between them was forgotten.
‘Bag—dropped it—’
‘This bag?’ Her tiny silver purse dangled from his fingers and her shoulders slumped with relief as she nodded. Already the wheeze was becoming worse.
Hands shaking, she reached for the bag but he was already opening it, his movements swift and purposeful as he extracted the inhaler.
‘This one?’
She nodded and his mouth tightened. ‘You shouldn’t have run.’
It wasn’t the running that had caused it but she didn’t have the air to tell him that so she simply watched as he yanked the cap off the inhaler. ‘Since when has your asthma got this bad?’
Since her stress levels had gone through the roof.
Since that awful night in the hospital.
Laurel wanted to sob but she didn’t have enough air to do it and she cupped his hands gratefully as he held the inhaler to her lips. She breathed in, drawing comfort from the fact that he was there, right in front of her. Strong. Reassuring. In a minute she’d send him away, but for now—for now his hands were warm and steady, his calm a soothing balm to her anxiety.
His beautiful, sexy mouth was set in a grim line. ‘I’ll call a doctor.’
Laurel shook her head, breathed one more time and then pushed his hands and the inhaler away. If she could still notice that his mouth was sexy then she wasn’t going to die any time soon. She leaned her head back against the wall. ‘Go back to the party.’
‘Sì, because the one thing I really feel like doing right now is dancing the night away.’ But this time the sarcasm was blunted by concern as well as exasperation. ‘I am a man who learns from his mistakes, tesoro. Last time I walked away when you needed me, although in my defence I didn’t realise how bad it was—’ His eyes never left hers.
‘You just can’t do it, can you?’ Laurel took a few difficult breaths. ‘You can’t … apologise.’
The corners of his mouth flickered. ‘For once I’m relieved you have the breath to argue. And, as for an apology—I’m getting closer by the minute.’
‘Don’t bother. It’s too late to make a difference … I already hate you.’ Laurel closed her eyes but not before she’d seen a tempting hint of bronzed skin with the cluster of dark hair hinting at what lay beneath his shirt.
It didn’t help that she knew exactly what lay beneath. She could picture it, every tempting curve and dip of his muscles, the taut flat abdomen and the firm thighs. He was the only client she’d ever had whose physique she hadn’t been able to improve.
‘You don’t hate me, tesoro.’ The assurance with which he spoke those words should have angered her because she’d always hated the way he accepted people’s respect and adulation as his due. He didn’t just walk into a room, he commanded it and that natural assumption of power had exasperated her.
Her throat tightened again, but this time the response was nothing to do with her asthma.
‘Go, or there