dark finality. “But leave me out of it. Or I will assume you are inviting me to share the details of our night in Monaco with the world.”
She swallowed, which was hard to do when she felt as if the tears she refused to shed were choking her. “I understand.”
He didn’t say another word. He stalked around to the driver’s side and climbed into the car with a grace that should not have been possible for a man his size.
And Sophie stood where she was for a long time after he’d gone, driving off with a muscular roar.
She wanted to cry, but didn’t allow herself the weakness.
He’d treated her like a naughty child but the truth was, Sophie thought she’d just grown up.
At last.
She already hated herself, so what was a little more fuel to that fire? She would marry Dal tomorrow, as planned. She would carry on with the life that had been so carefully plotted out for her. She would force herself to do her wifely duty and Dal would either do the math or he wouldn’t.
Babies were born early all the time.
Her stomach heaved at that, but Sophie shoved the bile back down.
She’d made her bed and now she would have to lie in it. Literally.
Something in her eased at that. There was a freedom in having no good choices, she supposed. If Dal found out, it wasn’t as if it would turn a good marriage bad. Their marriage was a business affair, cold and cruel at its best.
If she was lucky, he might even set her free.
That would have to be enough.
The child she carried might not be Dal’s. It might never know its real father. But no matter what, no matter what happened, it would be hers.
Hers.
And Sophie vowed she would love her baby enough, with all that she had, so that it would never know the difference.
RENZO WOKE IN the middle of the night, restless and something like agitated—when he normally slept like the dead.
He had left Sophie behind without a backward glance, roaring off in a cloud of self-righteousness and sweet revenge, delivered exactly as planned. He’d congratulated himself on the entire situation, and the way he’d handled it, all the way back to the suite of rooms he maintained in his Southwark hotel, with its views of the Thames and giddy, crowded London sprawled at his feet.
He would normally top off a satisfying and victorious day with enough strong drink to make him merry and an uninhibited woman to take the edges off. But, unaccountably, he had done neither of those things.
Not because he was mourning anything, he’d assured himself. It was nothing to him if a one-night stand who’d lied to him repeatedly was getting married. It was entirely possible every one-night stand he’d ever enjoyed had raced off to marry someone else—why should he care?
He’d sat there in the fine bar on a high floor in his hotel, surrounded by gleaming, beautiful people, none of whom likely knew the first thing about Sophie Carmichael-Jones and her wedding plans, and told himself that he felt nothing at all.
Nothing save triumph, that was.
He had been less able to lie to himself, however, when every image in his head as he’d drifted off to sleep was of Sophie and all the ways he’d had her in Monaco, each more addictive than the last. And a thousand new ways he could avail himself of her lush, remarkably acrobatic loveliness, if she’d been in the vicinity instead of off in a stately house in Hampshire, ready to wed a bloody earl in the morning.
She was a hunger that nothing else could possibly satisfy, and the fact that was so infuriated Renzo.
Still, he had been certain that come the dawn—and with it the inevitability of her high-society wedding, with all its trappings and titles and trumpeting self-regard on the pages of every tabloid rag in Europe—the raging hunger would disappear, to be replaced by his usual indifference toward anything and everything that appeared in his rearview mirror.
But here he was. Wide-awake before dawn.
His body was hot and tight and too many sensations swirled all over him, as if Sophie was beside him in this bed when he knew very well she was not.
He rolled out of the wide platform bed and refused to handle his body’s demands on his own. His lips thinned at the thought.
Renzo was not an adolescent boy, all testosterone and infatuation. He would not use his own hands and spill his own seed with the name of an unattainable female on his lips, as if he was fifteen. He hadn’t done such things when he’d actually been fifteen, for that matter, loping around the ancient cliffside town where he’d been the no-account bastard son of a shamed whore of a mother—and therefore might as well have been invisible to the village girls.
He wasn’t invisible now. The village girls who had snubbed him then were grown now. Married to the men they’d found more appropriate and settled there on the edge of the very cliff that Renzo had imagined throwing himself over, more than once, to escape the realities of a bastard’s life in that place. And these days Renzo’s illegitimacy was rarely mentioned. He was the local celebrity who had not only gone on to a glorious motor racing career, but had systematically bought and rebuilt every structure in that damned town, then opened a hotel on the next ridge, until there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who the king of that tiny little village was.
That was how Renzo handled things. He waited. He bought it.
Then he made it his.
But that wasn’t possible in this situation. He padded over to the wall of windows that let in the insistent gleam of one of the world’s premiere cities, but he didn’t see London Bridge there before him. Or the Shard.
It was as if Sophie was haunting him, though Renzo had never before believed in ghosts.
There, alone in the dark with only London as witness, he no longer felt that sense of triumph.
Instead, he remembered her responses. The catch in her throat. The wonder in her gaze.
The way she’d looped her arms around his neck when he’d lifted her against the wall—directly inside the front door to his villa, because he couldn’t wait another moment—and had blushed.
From head to toe, as he’d soon discovered.
He had quickly learned that she was a virgin, and he’d reveled in that fact. That she was entirely his. That he was the only man alive to taste her, touch her, learn how she delighted in every new thing he taught her.
Renzo had never been a possessive man. But Sophie had brought it out in him.
Earlier tonight he’d accused her of being a virgin as a technicality only.
He wanted to believe that, of course. A woman who was meant to be a countess might well keep her hymen intact in preparation for her marriage
