His laugh was a soft caress. ‘That was rude of me.’
‘It was honest of you,’ she corrected, stretching again, her body lean and long and begging for his touch.
He cupped her breast possessively, his eyes simmering with tension as they locked to hers. ‘Do you need anything? Food? Water? Wine? Tea?’
She shook her head slowly. How could she need anything when he’d just made her feel like that?
She smothered a yawn with the back of her hand and he smiled.
‘Sleep, then.’
‘Mmm...but then I might think this was all a dream.’
He covered her with the duvet that was folded across the bottom of the bed. ‘Which will give me the perfect opportunity to remind you otherwise,’ he said, with a deep husk to his words.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing even, but she was still awake. He watched as she breathed in and out, her face calm, her cheeks still pink from the heat of their lovemaking. He watched as the smile dropped and her wakefulness gave way to slumber...as her breathing grew deeper and steadier and her eyes began to dance behind their lids. Her lashes were two sweeping fans across her cheeks.
And still he watched. Without realising it he was being pulled into a spell; it wrapped around him, holding him immobile.
There were mysteries surrounding his bride. Mysteries of her choice. Her being. The contradiction that lived deep inside her. She was stunningly beautiful and yet she did everything she could to hide that fact. She had lived like a prisoner for years—a prisoner of her father’s love and concern, but a prisoner nonetheless—and yet she was brave and spirited, strong and independent. Why had she sacrificed her independence for so long?
She was sensual and desirable and yet she’d never even been kissed. How had she subjugated that side of her nature for so many years? She was twenty-two years old but she lived like a Victorian. Most women her age had their heads buried in their smartphones, sending glamorous selfies to their social media followers. She read books by the pool and covered herself from head to toe. Why?
These were questions to which he badly wanted answers, but there were other overriding questions that poisoned the perfection of the moment.
How would she react when she learned the truth about her father’s health? Would she be able to forgive him for keeping it from her?
And, most importantly of all, why did the idea of lying to her, disappointing her, inadvertently hurting her with his dishonesty, make his skin crawl all over?
CHAPTER EIGHT
HER BODY THROBBED in an unusual new way. She stretched in bed, and wondered at the strangeness of everything. Not just her body, but the smells that enveloped her. Sort of citrus and lavender, clean and fresh. And the sounds—or lack of sounds. No busy motorways or bustle of a nearby city.
Her eyes blinked open, big pools of gold in the darkened room—dark save for the flickering of a couple of candles and the glow of a laptop screen beside her.
‘Ciao.’
His voice was a warm breath across her body. She looked up at Pietro—her husband...her lover—and a lazy smile curved her lips.
‘I had the strangest dream,’ she murmured, pushing up onto one elbow so that the duvet fell from her body, uncovering her breasts for his proprietorial inspection.
He dropped his eyes to the display, unashamed of enjoying her nakedness. ‘Are you sure it was a dream?’ he prompted, folding his laptop closed and placing it carelessly on the bedside table nearest to him.
‘It must have been,’ she said softly. ‘It was too perfect to be anything else.’
She was so beautifully unsophisticated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman who didn’t dissemble in some way. Her honesty was as refreshing as her body was tempting.
He brought his frame over hers, so large against her slender fragility that Emmeline couldn’t help but feel safe in his presence. As though nothing and no one could hurt her if he was by her side.
The thought evaporated when his lips touched hers, his kiss perfection in the midst of her body’s awakening.
‘I want you again,’ he said.
Her smile was broad. ‘Good.’
He dropped his eyes for a moment. Something was clearly bothering him.
‘I want you too,’ she reassured him.
His laugh was a kernel of sound—a husk in the night. ‘I hated seeing you with those men.’
She blinked, having no idea at first who he was talking about. Then, ‘I was just talking.’
‘I know that.’ His smile was self-deprecating. ‘It is possible that I overreacted.’
She burst out laughing. ‘Is that some kind of extremely hesitant apology?’
He ran a hand over her hair, stroking its dark glossy length thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’
‘Apology accepted. But, Pietro? You can’t really expect me never to speak to another man...’
‘Lo so. I know.’
‘Good. Because I came to Rome to find my feet—to be myself. I can’t do that with you getting all shouty every time I have an innocent conversation with someone...’
‘I know.’
He lifted himself up and straddled her, the strength of his want for her evidenced by the rock-hard arousal that was already pressed against her abdomen.
‘But I will bring you to my bed each night and make it impossible for you to even think of another man.’
He dropped his head, placing a kiss on her temple.
‘I will be all you think of and your body will crave mine.’
He thrust into her without warning and she cried out at the sweetness of his invasion, the possession that she was already hooked on.
‘Starting now.’
‘Starting a couple of hours ago,’ she corrected breathily.
He grinned. ‘Yes.’
He made love to her as though she was his only lover—as though he’d been dreaming of her for years. As though he needed her and only her. He made love to her with an intensity that blew her mind and filled her with the kind of sensual heat she hadn’t believed could possibly exist.
She refused to acknowledge the truth: that she
