of her breath on the back of his neck. Swiftly he wheeled away, putting some distance between them as he turned. Not quite enough, but then he could have been at the far side of the room and he would still have felt the sexual tug that linked his body to hers.
‘I’m sure I can find you something—even if only a T-shirt. You can’t stay in those things much longer.’
Not if he was going to have any hope of controlling his libido. In the hallway, with the heavy skies draining all the light, it had been too dark to see the way that the thin white cotton of her T-shirt had been turned almost transparent by the soaking it had received. Now here, with what light there was coming in through the big bay window, he couldn’t be unaware of the way that it clung to the soft curves of her breasts, the slender shape of her ribcage. The faint pink of her skin showed through the wet material, seeming to tint it lightly.
Vito curled his fingers tightly into his palms, clenching them against the impulse to peel that T-shirt from her, reveal the smooth reality of the flesh underneath it.
‘You could take a shower.’
He didn’t care that it came out brusquely, that his voice sounded rough.
‘The bathroom’s through here…’
The way that Vito waved at the door was a blatant gesture of dismissal, Emily realised. He wanted her out of here—and out of his way. What had happened to ‘we need to talk’? Or even to ‘you don’t have any choice—you’re coming home with me’?
But the truth was that she was beginning to feel cold and uncomfortable again. The clinging white T-shirt was chilled and clammy and the wet jeans rubbed at her legs with every movement. The thought of that shower was wonderful—tempting—but along with it came the thought of going into this man’s bathroom, stripping off…and that was what was making her hesitate. The action seemed too revealing, too intimate—and not just in a physical way. She hadn’t been alone with a man, apart from Mark, for three years, and to contemplate being naked in Vito Corsentino’s flat, even behind a closed door, seemed somehow so shocking that it made her legs tremble, and froze her into foolish indecision.
‘Look, signorina, if you’re not getting cold then I am.’
Vito had obviously come to the end of his limited patience and the way the sentence was forced from between gritted teeth, and a tight jaw, was a warning that he was not prepared to wait for very much longer.
‘I am also trying to be a gentleman here by offering you the use of the shower first. But if you prefer to stand there looking like a drowned rat then could you at least move into the kitchen instead of dripping on my landlord’s carpet?’
‘Oh—I’m sorry!’
His tone stabbed at her, making her take several steps towards the door that he’d indicated, then pause, looking back guiltily at the water-darkened spot on the dull green carpet.
‘If there’s any damage—’ she began but Vito didn’t let her finish.
‘I’ll deal with it,’ he declared brusquely, his impatience almost getting the better of him. ‘If you’ll just get into that shower!’
‘Of course.’
The edge on his voice made her jump.
‘There’s no need to shout—I’m going.’
She fled through the door and let it slam closed behind her, coming to a halt in the middle of the room as she realised where she was and paused to survey her surroundings.
Not the bathroom. At least, not immediately, though another door on the far side of the room must obviously lead to that. Instead she was in a bedroom.
In Vito Corsentino’s bedroom.
It couldn’t be anything else. The relentlessly masculine atmosphere was there in the plain white walls, the denim-blue linen on the big bed.
The big double-bed.
‘Oh, stop it!’ Emily spoke aloud to herself to reinforce the instruction. She couldn’t believe the thought that had flashed through her head, the way that even before she had realised it she had been looking more closely around the room, looking for evidence of the fact that Vito lived here alone. That there was no woman in his life.
Well, if there was a woman in his life then she clearly didn’t live here. There was no sign of any feminine influence in the room. No cosmetics, no flowers, the only ornaments several dramatic and beautiful carvings in polished wood that stood on the dresser and the windowsill. Everything else was stark and had a strange temporary look about it, and the wardrobe door hung open, revealing only male clothing stored inside.
Male clothing…
A sudden shiver of discomfort slid down Emily’s spine as it dawned on her that she still held Vito’s jacket—the jacket he had taken off and put round her shoulders to keep her warm. Reluctantly, guiltily, she looked down at it, a gasp of horror escaping her as she saw the mess that the sea, the weather, and finally her own careless grip had made of the garment. It was hopelessly crushed, little more than a rag. It was ruined.
And the worst thing was that now that she had a chance to look at it, it was of far better quality than she would have ever expected when she looked round at the place that Vito lived in.
No…
Emily shook her head, looking round the room again. It was the flat that was the surprise. Somehow the small, slightly shabby ground-floor apartment didn’t fit with the powerful, dynamic man that Vito Corsentino appeared to be.
But the jacket did.
And she’d ruined the jacket.
Her conscience was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. She was going to have to apologise—offer to pay to replace it.
But first she was going to get into that shower.
Carefully placing the jacket on the back of a nearby chair, smoothing the dreadful creases as best she could in the vain hope that the worst of them would hang out, she hurried into the bathroom.
She’d be as quick as possible. Just warm herself up, get back out there, talk to Vito and—
‘Oh, no!’
Her thoughts trailed off on a yelp of shock and horror as she confronted her image in the mirror and recoiled from what she saw.
She looked a fright.
The wet, grubby clothes she had been prepared for, and the sodden hair. She hadn’t been wearing any make-up—the need to escape, get away as fast as she could had meant that she hadn’t even paused to smooth on her usual tinted moisturiser and add a slick of mascara to darken her fair lashes—but even so the pallor of her skin was shocking. And her hair!
Some of it still hung in rats’ tails around her face, clinging to her skin and dripping cold, wet drops onto her cheeks. The rest had already started to dry and was bunched into salt-crusted lumps, sticking out at right angles to her head.
Suddenly the need to be in the shower sprang from more than wanting to warm up. Scrambling out of her clothes, she flung them into a corner, turned on the
