of the tension eased out of her. ‘Wine, please.’ She walked around the room, picking things up without really looking at them, trying not to look nervous when inside her stomach was tied up in knots.
Cesare came over and handed her a glass of red wine.
‘Thanks.’ She sipped it, and then took a bigger mouthful. ‘Gosh—it’s delicious. The Admiral must have better taste than I thought!’
He smiled. ‘Actually, it’s mine. My wine, that is. It is made from grapes which are grown in my own vineyard. The vines will be growing heavy now—with great clusters of grapes growing darker under the sun.’
His voice was dreamy enough to hurt, and suddenly Sorcha couldn’t bear it. If she had married him she would have been mistress of those vineyards, too—as proud of their yield as he was—while instead she was standing awkwardly in a slightly scruffy hotel room, making small-talk while the real agenda simmered away unspoken. The elephant in the sitting room.
She put her glass down with a hand which she was suddenly afraid was going to start shaking. And he must not sense her reservations or her nervousness—because that would surely tell a man as clever as Cesare that she was vulnerable. If he thought that this was simply about a powerful sexual attraction which had never been properly explored then wouldn’t she be safe? Maybe she would. For when they had taken their fill of one another perhaps they would discover that nothing remained.
She curved him a smile—a deliberately provocative smile she had no memory of ever smiling before. Where did a smile like that come from? Did you learn it from watching films? she wondered. Or was there just a moment in life when you met the only man for whom it was appropriate?
Cesare put his glass down beside hers, and for a moment he just savoured the anticipation of what was about to happen. At last. At last.
And then he beckoned to her. ‘Venuta,’ he said softly, and held his arms out. ‘Venuta, cara mia.’
She did as he told her, went into them and felt them tighten round her. His breath was expelled from him in a hiss—like air being released from a pressure cooker.
‘Cesare,’ she breathed, on a note which sounded broken.
And that was when he began to kiss her. Her arms fastened around his neck as hungrily she pressed her body closer to his—and as he kissed her he began pushing up the filmy dress. Up over her bare thighs, his fingers luxuriating as they kneaded the soft flesh, as if they were reacquainting themselves with an old friend.
And Sorcha realised that she could not play passive. Not this time. This was the command performance—for one night only! Remember that, she urged herself. Don’t be lulled by sweet sensation and unrealistic wishes just because his lips are soft and his kiss passionate enough to make you start indulging in make-believe.
She slid her hand between his legs and he groaned. Gently, she rubbed her palm down over the hard heat of his arousal and the pressure of his kiss increased—until he drew his head away, his black eyes looking as opaque and distant as a man in the midst of a fever.
‘You think I am going to do it to you here?’ he questioned unsteadily. ‘Is that what you want? You are one of those women who like it any place except in bed?’
One of those women. He might as well have slapped her. Sorcha shook her head. ‘No,’ she breathed.
He scooped her up without warning and carried her through into the bedroom, laid her down on the bed—and perhaps he sensed that his words had been clumsy, for he started to stroke her and soothe her, and anoint her skin with feather-light kisses, and speak to her in words of soft Italian.
He worked her up into such a pitch of longing that Sorcha was barely aware of the gauzy drapes which fell in soft folds over the imposing four-poster bed. Quite honestly it could have been a bare mattress on the floor of a downtown apartment she wanted him so much—and suddenly she was tearing at his shirt, pulling at it in a frenzy.
He started laughing as a button went bouncing across the floorboards, but he lifted a shoulder to help her shrug him out of it, and when his chest was bare she touched it wonderingly, curling her fingers in the dark whorls of hair which grew there.
‘You are hungry? Like a tiger?’ he murmured.
But his laugh grew slightly unsteady as she unzipped him, pulling off his trousers as best she could and murmuring as she skated her fingertips over the dark silk of his boxers.
His eyes snapped open. ‘Don’t,’ he warned.
‘Or what?’ she questioned breathlessly.
‘Or this.’ It was time to take back control—before he was fooled into mistaking this unique situation for something else. With a fluent efficiency born out of years of practice he peeled her dress off and tossed it aside, then unclipped her bra and sent it across the room in a lazy arcing movement. And then, with a hard smile of enjoyment, he caught the fabric of her mint-green panties between his hands and ripped them apart.
Sorcha’s mouth dried and her eyes widened. ‘Cesare—’
‘Do you know how many times I’ve fantasised about doing that?’ he grated as he pulled her down onto the bed, peeling off his boxers as he bent over to straddle her. ‘And this?’ he whispered, as he cradled his erection and pushed it close to her.
He paused only to reach for a condom, which it seemed he had conveniently placed ready beforehand, and Sorcha began to get a terrible feeling of panic. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Oh, she had known exactly what was going to happen, and her body was crying out for him, but it all seemed so…so…mechanical.
All those dreams she had cherished were about to be dealt a fatal blow. But maybe that was best—it was only forbidden and impossibly perfect dreams which made it impossible to move on. Reality was a much safer beast.
He felt her tension and kissed her with slow deliberation until he felt all her apprehensiveness dissolve—even though the effort it took nearly killed him. ‘I want you,’ he ground out. ‘And I want you now.’
‘You’ve…you’ve got me.’
He entered her slick tightness and he was lost—as if he had found himself in the middle of the sea and a mist had come down so that he couldn’t see any more, could only feel.
And—Madre di Dio—could he feel her! For a moment he felt shaken by the power of each perfect thrust.
Was she doing okay? she wondered as feverishly she kissed his shoulder. Was it acceptable for her to float away on this sensual bubble? Because it had never felt like this before—never, never, never.
Like an adult who had just got back on a horse after years of abstinence, Sorcha tried to remember the moves which pleased most, and she wrapped her ankles around his back and writhed her hips.
For a moment he froze. He looked down at her and his eyes were black, almost…hostile.
‘What? What is it, Cesare?’
‘Oh, but you are…good, cara,’ he said unevenly. ‘Very good. I thought you would be.’
So why did it sound like an insult? And why did something alter from that moment? The pitch and
