It seemed to her that he hesitated a moment as she leaned against him before he steadied her and continued behind the pack train. She had no choice but to follow, seething with anger at her helplessness, at his stubbornness and at the undeniable sexual pull he had over her. That bothered her the most. She’d known he wanted her from the moment he’d set eyes on her, and she’d planned to use that desire to her advantage. But her own reactions were causing her a problem. This was not the way she did it. Even when she’d played the weekend games at the elegant country homes back in England, she was the one who set the pace, she decided when to kiss, how to seduce. She was used to playing a man like a fish, leaving her deepest emotions untouched. For once, she might have met her match.
There seemed to be no discernable path, and they climbed in a direct line. The men strode ahead at a steady gait, obviously accustomed to negotiating the ascent, but soon she found herself scrambling on all fours as the scree slipped and rolled beneath her feet. Her leg muscles screamed in protest at the strain. Marco took her arm to help a couple of times, but she shook him off impatiently. The less touching the better for now.
They climbed in silence until the man in the lead raised a hand and they halted. The sound of an engine came from the left. Quickly the men led the animals deep into a clump of bushes and Marco grabbed her arm. He pulled her hard against him and clamped his other hand over her mouth. Instinctively she stiffened and resisted until she lifted her eyes and saw the grim expression on his face. The mute appeal in his gaze spoke more than words. He desperately needed her to cooperate and he feared the outcome if she drew attention to them. The fate of these men and their leader rested in her hands.
Her eyes locked on his, she relaxed and nodded, allowing him to lead her after the men. In the thicket they listened, not daring to breathe as the vehicle grew closer. They peered through the network of branches until a few minutes later an open lorry lumbered past, armed soldiers standing in the back.
As the rumble of the engine faded to their right, the men relaxed their hold on the muzzles of the animals and Marco let her go. She stood for a moment close against him, the fleeting moment of empathy soon over. With a quiet word to the men, Marco took up his position in the procession and they set off across the wide track where the lorry had passed, to resume the climb.
Unable to speak, she forced her thoughts into some kind of order. Marco and his band were in hiding, wanted by the police. Ergo, they were criminals. She could easily believe that Enrico and his sons might find themselves on the wrong side of the law. And the men with them now were rough-looking and surly. But Marco was apparently a doctor. She hadn’t had much to do with doctors back in London. A broken arm after riding too hard in a point to point, the usual childhood things like measles. The doctors she’d seen were cool and clinical or gruff and grandfatherly. She couldn’t imagine any of them leading a band of brigands. So what had he done that made him a wanted man?
He didn’t seem violent or cruel. He’d brought her clothes and food and looked at her with those hot eyes that made her stomach clench in response. She feared the attack on her senses much more than any threat to her body.
He’d mentioned the Blackshirts. She knew who they were, thanks to two or three lectures from Johnny Westmarland and some other smooth-talking man from MI5 a year ago. It had been useless to protest that she had no political opinions whatsoever, that she’d only been in Lady Ellersby’s circle simply because she liked going to bed with different men. To hear them go on about it all, anyone would have thought she’d been ready to sell the Crown jewels. But the attack on Johnny and his fiancee Gillian and the subsequent fuss and bother had given her a good fright and she’d had to swear off men and casual couplings. One day she supposed she’d get married when Daddy insisted. So here she was, as chaste as a nun for the last few months, and contemplating bedding this very unsuitable man who’d tied her up, ravished her with his gaze and was bearing her off to God knows where.
One thing she knew-if Marco was fighting the Blackshirts and Mussolini’s government, the less she knew about it the better. And the less Marco knew about her accidental involvement with the Fascist sympathizers in Britain, the better too.
Gradually the sun rose above the hills, bringing color and life to the surroundings. At first they had passed through ancient terraces on the dry hills, where men had cultivated vines and fruits for centuries, but Emma was in no mood to appreciate the stark beauty around her. Scuttling and panting, she fought her way beside Marco. Twice he stopped at the top of a particularly steep rise and offered his hand. The first time she refused and slid back several feet in payment for her stubborn independence. The second time she gave her hand and he pulled her up until she topped the slope, landing hard against him. The aromas of thyme and flowering bushes rose around them and she caught the scent of him, of male sweat and leather, as he took hold of her. His arms gripped her, his face inches from her mouth.
She looked up into his eyes and locked her gaze with his. Keeping her still clamped against him with one hard arm, he pulled the gag from her mouth and instinctively she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. After a long moment, he took the bandana from around his neck and brushed the drops of moisture from her brow. Her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes. The pack animals and their drivers had disappeared behind a wall of rock. She and Marco were alone in the world, under the warmth of the morning sun. A faint breeze ruffled her skirt, pressing the fabric against her legs. He held her so tightly she felt his erection against her mound. She had no underwear. Marco knew that. At the thought, moisture oozed between her legs. Her breath came in gasps, and her heart thundered in her chest.
She met his eyes again and a warm wave rippled through her at the heat in his gaze. What was it about this man that made her want to do things she had vowed never to do again? She swallowed hard, unable to move away, struggling against the urge to bury her hands in his hair and drag his lips down to meet hers.
What harm had there ever been in one kiss? It was a good tactic, she thought. Let him kiss her this once and she would be over it. She would use this moment to prove there was no special magic in kissing him, no wild pleasure missing from her life.
At the same time as a voice urged her on, another told her it was madness.
Move away. The faint voice of reason sounded in her head, but the fire that smoldered in her belly overcame logic.
With infinite slowness he bent his face to hers until their lips barely touched. It could not truly be called a kiss. It was as if a feather brushed across her mouth, sending tingles along the sensitive nerve points. She was lost. The wind blew a strand of his long hair across her cheek and made her heart do another flip. Instinctively she reached up, standing on tiptoe. The movement added a little pressure to the joining of their mouths. Still Marco hesitated.
A tremor coursed through her, compounding her need and her confusion. He stroked her shoulder, trailing his fingers down her arms and she let fall her shawl to snake her arms around the back of his neck. He murmured something against her mouth. She couldn’t tell if he was protesting or asking for more, couldn’t tell if he spoke English or Italian. It didn’t matter. Their bodies were communicating with no words.
Hot blood engorged her lips, her breasts and the damp folds between her legs. Her nipples ached, begging for his touch. Her vagina yearned, crying tears, longing for him to thrust his long, hard cock deep inside. If there had been a stone to stand on, she would have raised herself on it, to wind her legs around his waist, to open herself, to impale herself on him.
Her arms rested lightly on his shoulders. Still she waited.
His breath mingled with hers and yet still he did not truly kiss her. She rubbed her belly against his hardness and tried to move so that his cock pressed between her legs. As if a dam had burst, he groaned and pressed hard on her mouth. As his mouth sank deeper over hers, she forgot to think. She forgot where she was, who he was, where he was taking her. She forgot she was supposed to be able to walk away from this kiss as she’d walked away from a hundred others, sure that she could happily exist without it for the rest of her life.
All she knew was the hot pressure of his lips on hers, the shape of his mouth that fit hers so perfectly, the taste of crushed flowers and leather that clung to him, inflaming her senses. His lips forced hers to part and his tongue thrust inside, stroking at first as if to test her readiness, then invading, probing. His mouth was all she had imagined. Soft, yet strong and masterful. The invasion of his flickering tongue mimicked the subtle pulsing of every nerve in her body. He pressed harder still, with a rising passion, and she gladly opened to him, sighing as he held her tight. Her breathing quickened as she met his kiss, and gave into her need.
Her hand eased under his jacket, resting against the softness of his skin, as her fingertips sensed his
