There were blooms everywhere—tumbling and filling and falling over in tall urns dotted around the sides of the tented room—and ivy wreathed around the pillars. Roses were crammed into copper pots on each table, reflected back in the gleaming crystal and golden cutlery, so that the whole room looked a mass of glorious, vibrant colour.
Maybe they could hire the house out as a wedding venue on a professional basis? she found herself thinking. Wouldn’t that help the current cashflow situation?
She reunited her young charges with their parents until the meal began, showed an elderly aunt to her seat, and then dashed to the loo to reapply her lipstick. But when eventually she couldn’t put it off any longer, she began to walk towards the top table—and her heart sank with a dull dread when she saw who was dominating it, perfectly at ease, with the lazy kind of grace which seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing.
She could see her mother at the far end in her huge hat, shrugging her shoulders in a don’t-ask-me kind of way. But even more annoying was that Cesare appeared to have captured the attention of the entire room—and it was supposed to be the bride’s day!
His ruggedly handsome and impeccably dressed figure was exciting jealous glances from men as well as greedy ones from women, and as she grew closer Sorcha could hear people on the adjoining tables.
‘Who is he?’
‘A rich Italian, apparently!’
‘Available?
‘Let’s hope so!’
But Cesare wasn’t reacting to the interest buzzing around him—his black eyes were trained on only her, so that by the time she reached him Sorcha felt as jittery as if she had just walked the plank and was about to jump.
She stared at the thick black hair which once she had had the freedom to run her hands through, and those slanting, aristocratic cheekbones along which she had wonderingly traced a trembling fingertip as if unable to believe that he was real and in her arms. ‘You,’ she said, and was appalled to hear her voice tremble.
‘Me,’ he agreed, his eyes glittering with satisfaction as he saw the look of consternation on her face.
She gripped the back of her seat. ‘Is this some kind of bad joke?’
‘If it is then I must have missed the punchline,’ he answered silkily. ‘Am I making you feel weak at the knees, cara? You seem a little unsteady on your feet. Why don’t you sit down?’
He pulled the chair out for her and she sank into it, too shaky to defy his commanding manner and wondering if she had imagined the feather-light touch of his hand across her bare shoulder. ‘How have you managed to get yourself seated on the top table? And next to me? Did you change the placement?’ she questioned suspiciously.
He thought how she had grown in confidence over the ensuing years, how the shy young girl had gone for ever, and his blood heated. Oh, yes, this time he would enjoy her without compunction.
‘No, I did not change the placement,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps they felt sorry for you, being on your own. I take it you are on your own, Sorcha?’
Oh, how she wished that she had managed to sustain some of those random dates she’d had into something approaching a proper relationship. How she would have loved to rub Cesare di Arcangelo’s smug and arrogant face in it if she could have airily produced some unbelievably gorgeous and eligible hunk and said, in that way that women did, I’m-not-trying-to-be-smug-or-anything-but-this-is-my-boyfriend!
But how could she have done, even if such a figure had really existed? Whoever she lined up—however rich and however eligible—would fade into humdrum insignificance beside the luminous sex appeal of Cesare.
‘Yes, I am on my own,’ she said coolly, because she had learnt that being defensive about it only made people probe even more. ‘I don’t need a man to define me.’
‘Well, that’s lucky, isn’t it?’ he mocked.
‘Why are you bothering to sit next to me if all you want to do is insult me?’ she hissed.
‘Oh, but that isn’t all I want to do, cara mia.’ The black eyes roamed over her with breathtaking arrogance, lingering on the lush swell of her breasts, and very deliberately he ran the tip of his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘There are plenty of other things I’d like to do to you which are far more appealing.’
Sorcha turned her head, desperately hoping that someone might come to her rescue, swoop down on her and whisk her away from him. But no one came, and no one was likely to interrupt them—since the don’t disturb us vibes which were shimmering off Cesare’s powerful frame were almost tangible.
Maybe they needed to have this conversation. She hadn’t seen him since that day when he’d packed his bags and managed—she’d never been quite sure how—to get a helicopter with a stunning woman pilot to land on the front lawn and whisk him away.
And after today she wasn’t likely to see him again. So maybe this really would help her to move on—to eliminate his legacy of being the man whom no other could possibly live up to. Maybe she needed to accept that by settling for someone who didn’t have his dynamism and sex appeal she would actually be happier in the long run.
‘Just say whatever it is you want to say, Cesare.’
It occurred to him that she might be shocked if he gave her a graphic rundown of just what he would like to be doing to her right then, and he ran one long olive finger around the rim of his wine glass.
‘What are you doing these days?’ he questioned.
Sorcha blinked at him suspiciously, like a person emerging from the darkness into light. ‘You want to hear about my life?’ she asked warily.
He smiled up at the waitress who was heaping smoked salmon onto his plate and shrugged. ‘We have two choices, Sorcha,’ he said softly. ‘We can talk about the past and our unfulfilled sexual history, which might make us a little…how is it that you say…? Ah, yes. Hot under the collar.’ His gaze drifted to her bare neck. ‘Not that you’re wearing a collar, of course,’ he murmured. ‘And it would be a pity to taint that magnificent chest with unsightly blotches, don’t you think?’
Sorcha lifted her hands to her cheeks as they began to burn. ‘Stop it,’ she begged, and cursed the debilitating effect of desire which had turned her voice into a whisper.
‘You see? It’s happening already. And it’s all your fault for being so damned sexy,’ he chided, but he realised he had made himself a victim of his own teasing, and that his erection was pushing hard against his thigh. He shifted uncomfortably. Only this time the brakes were off. She wasn’t eighteen any more, but a woman—and he was no longer morally obliged to handle her with kid gloves.
‘The alternative is that we make polite conversation like every other guest in the room. Safer by far, don’t you think?’
Sorcha swallowed as she felt the blood-rush slowly drain from her face. Safer? Today he looked about as safe as a killer shark! Had she been blind to his almost tangible sex appeal before—or just naïve enough to think that he would protect her from it?
And he had, hadn’t
