Was there only one woman in his life? Was it the beautiful redhead from the wedding?
She closed her eyes and the woman’s face came to mind. She’d been stunning—but so clearly cosmetically enhanced she should have borne her surgeon’s signature somewhere on her body. Was that the kind of woman he went for?
Emmeline would never be like that.
She blinked her eyes open but it was too late. An image of her mother had seared into her brain and she made a small sound in the dark room.
Patrice Bovington had been beautiful too. Stunning without cosmetic enhancement. But that hadn’t stopped her from seeing her doctor regularly, having a little Botox dabbed into her forehead, a tad of filler in her lips. Over the years she’d changed, but so subtly that it was only in looking back at photos that Emmeline could recognise the fact that beautifying herself had become an unhealthy obsession for her mother.
And a foolish one too. For there would always someone more beautiful, more svelte, younger. Why make one’s appearance the hallmark of one’s self-esteem?
‘You could almost be pretty if you put some effort in.’
She sat upright in the bed, the fever in her blood burning out of control. Did he know that looking pretty had led to all the problems she’d had with her mother? Guilt made her stomach flop as she remembered their last argument. The day before Patrice had driven her Mercedes convertible into an enormous elm around the corner from the house.
Emmeline rolled back to her other side, staring at the wall now. But it was no good. Her mind was wide awake, her legs restless, her body warm.
She sat up, then pushed her feet out of the bed.
She’d only swum a handful of times since arriving at the villa. Both times when she’d known Pietro was out of the house.
And now he was fast asleep—probably exhausted from seducing some beautiful woman all evening.
Emmeline changed into her swimsuit quietly. If she could hear the sound of his door clicking open and shut then he could certainly hear hers. She tiptoed out into the corridor, pausing for a second, her breath offensively loud in the silent evening.
The stairs were around ten steps away. She moved quietly but quickly, like some kind of night-time ninja.
She’d just wrapped her fingers around the top of the bannister when his door was flung open.
He stood there in a pair of shorts, otherwise naked, his scowl landing on her as though she’d driven a herd of elephants through the house.
‘Did I wake you?’ she whispered, not sure why she was keeping her voice down given the fact they were the only two in the house.
‘No. I was up.’ His eyes dropped to the swimsuit that was clearly on display, his frown deepening. ‘It appears we’ve had the same idea.’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t dare look at his shorts but, yes, she supposed they could be swimming trunks. ‘It’s a hot night...’ she finished lamely.
His grunt was an agreement of sorts.
She prevaricated on the steps for a moment, contemplating going back to her room and then deciding against it. When he began to move towards her, though, her pulse kicked up a notch. Her breath was held in her throat.
‘What are you doing?’
He looked at her as though she’d gone mad. ‘Going for a swim. We just discussed this.’
‘Oh. I thought...’ She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply; it was a mistake. The smell of him filled her, reminding her of how it had felt when he’d touched her so intimately.
‘The pool is more than big enough for the both of us.’
He was right, of course, and now she felt like an even bigger idiot. It was bad enough that he thought her some kind of inexperienced prim virgin. Worse when she confirmed those thoughts by acting just like one.
‘I know that,’ she snapped, resuming her journey down the stairs, moving quickly to stay ahead of him.
At the bottom she moved ahead—not waiting for him, not wanting him to think that she saw this as a joint venture. He wanted to swim and she wanted to swim. That didn’t mean they would be swimming together.
The air on the deck was noticeably cooler, but it was still a sultry, muggy night. It felt as though a huge bandage was pressing down on Rome, holding in its heat, making breathing difficult.
Emmeline dropped her towel onto a lounger and turned towards the pool—just as Pietro dived into the water, his body strong and flexed as he hit the surface and went underneath.
He was like a god, tanned and muscular, as if he’d been carved from stone. She watched the water separate as if to welcome him and then conceal him again, almost by magic. Her breath was held again inside her lungs—waiting, apparently, for the moment he reappeared at the other end of the pool when she let out a slow sigh.
‘Well?’ He turned to face her. ‘Are you joining me, Mrs Morelli?’
Her eyes met his, and if she’d known about the look of anguished surrender in them she would have tried harder to conceal her feelings. But she didn’t.
The moonlight sliced through her as she moved to the water’s edge and dipped her toe in. As she’d hoped, it was deliciously cool.
She sat on the edge and then eased herself into the water. It reached up to her waist and enveloped her in its thick, luxuriant relief.
She didn’t swim. Rather she walked across the pool, her face deliberately averted from his. He might have found it entertaining if he hadn’t already been frustrated beyond belief. The idea of a cold swim had been essentially to serve the same purpose a cold shower might have. Instead his wife was swimming with him, her pert breasts outlined by the light cast from the moon, her enigmatic, aristocratic face tilted
