pushed away the encircling sheet and got up. It was the morning after the night before, and she simply had to get on with her life. She would have a bath—wash away the taste and touch of Marco Valante—get dressed, then start to dismantle the arrangements for the wedding that were already in place. Florists, caterers and printers would all have to be notified, and the church cancelled. She would need to make a list, she thought, trailing into the bathroom and turning on the taps in the tub.
And somehow she would have to tell her mother, and endure the inevitable wailings and recriminations.
On the plus side, she thought wanly, I will not have the nephew from hell following me up the aisle, although I expect that Sandra will have something to say about her little darling’s disappointment.
She poured a capful of her favourite bath essence into the steaming water.
There was going to be a lot of music to face, she thought frowningly, but only if she chose to do so. She could always take the weeks she’d booked off for her honeymoon and move them up. Get right away for a while and put herself back together again.
Some of the clients she’d planned to see might not be too happy if she went missing for a couple of weeks, but Melanie would simply have to make new appointments for them.
It’ll be good for her, she thought, testing the water. Show what she’s made of in a crisis.
And she was ready to bet that most of the clients would be prepared to wait for her return. Because she was good at her job.
I wish, she thought, as she stepped into the tub, that I was equally as good at life.
She settled back into the scented water with a little sigh and closed her eyes.
She’d made a monumental fool of herself, and taken a terrible risk, but she didn’t have to allow it to cloud her entire future, she told herself firmly. Everyone was surely allowed one serious mistake—and Marco Valante was hers. That was all.
She heard a slight sound, and turned her head sharply.
Her serious mistake was standing in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder negligently propped against its frame. He was fully dressed, but tieless, and his shirt was open at the throat.
He said softly, ‘Buon giorno.’ And began to walk towards her, discarding his jacket as he did so. ‘I thought you would sleep until my return, cara.’
‘Your return?’ Her voice was a stifled croak. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Your refrigerator was full of food, but nothing for breakfast, so I went shopping.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘We have fresh rolls, orange juice, cheese and some good ham.’ The green eyes glinted as they surveyed her. ‘All of which we will have—later.’
Flora realised he was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He reached down and took the soap from her unresisting hand.
‘Stand up, mia bella,’ he directed quietly.
Somehow she found herself mutely obeying, her eyes fixed on his face, aware that her throat had tightened with mingled panic and excitement.
Marco lathered his hands with the soap and began to apply the scented foam to her skin, starting with her shoulders and working his way downwards, massaging it into her body very slowly, and very thoroughly.
His gaze was reflective—almost dispassionate—as he worked—like a sculptor judging his latest work, she thought confusedly as her senses began to riot.
Everywhere he touched her—and he didn’t seem to miss an inch—was tingling and burning. An agonised trembling had ignited deep inside her.
Her breasts were aching with desire as his fingers lingered over their rosy tips. She quivered as he moved with exquisite precision down the length of her spine to her rounded buttocks.
When he touched her thighs, and the soft curls at their apex, Flora had to bite her lower lip to prevent herself from whimpering out loud.
When he’d finished, he took the hand spray from the shower unit and rinsed away the soap, just as carefully. The water droplets felt like needles piercing her over-sensitised skin as they cascaded over her small round breasts, making the nipples stand proud.
At last, when she was beginning to think she could bear no more, he turned off the spray and reached to the towel rail for a bath sheet. He took her hand and helped her out of the water, then wrapped the soft towelling round her.
‘Dry yourself, carissima,’ he ordered softly. ‘I would not wish you to catch a chill.’
Chill? Flora thought, as she started, dazedly, to pat herself dry under his unwavering scrutiny. She was already running a high fever. Her legs were shaking so much that she thought she might collapse and her blood was on fire. And he had to know this.
When she had finished, she paused, her eyes asking a question. He nodded, as if she had spoken aloud. He took the edges of the bath sheet, using them to pull her gently towards him. His arms enfolded her and his mouth came down on hers in a slow, deep kiss that sent her already reeling senses into free fall.
When he raised his head, his own breathing was ragged. He drew the edges of the bath sheet apart and began to kiss her body, his lips drifting soft as thistledown from her throat down to her breasts, then travelling over her ribcage to the faint concavity of her abdomen.
He sank down on one knee, his hands holding her hips as the trail of kisses continued downward. When he reached the division of her thighs, and parted them, she gave a little startled cry as she felt his mouth on the burning core of her, the silken eroticism of his tongue as he pleasured her tiny secret bud.
She wanted to tell him that he must not do this—that he should stop. But she could not speak.
She was conscious of nothing but the exquisite sensations rippling through her as he continued his intimate caress. Every atom of her being was focused almost painfully on her growing delight. And then, almost before she was aware, her body imploded into orgasm, the pulsations so strong she thought she might faint.
There were tears running down her face. He wiped them away with the edge of the towel, then picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the door.
‘Where are we going?’ Her voice was a breathless squeak.
‘Back to bed.’
‘But we were going to have breakfast.’
‘I think now that is going to be—very much later.’ He bent and kissed her mouth, fiercely, sensually. ‘Don’t you agree, mia cara?’
Flora pressed her lips against the triangle of hair-darkened skin revealed by his unfastened shirt. ‘Yes, Marco.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Oh—yes—please.’
A LONG time later, lying in his arms, Flora said dreamily, ‘I think we’ve missed breakfast—but it could always become lunch.’
Marco tipped up her chin and looked down at her, brows raised austerely. ‘You mean
