out to moisten her lips. Oh, to be staying in the village—far away from this cold house with its strange atmosphere and its complicated menfolk. ‘Perhaps I could go and unpack now?’
‘Sure,’ said Riccardo. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
‘Have fun,’ murmured Romano. ‘I expect we’ll see you at dinner. Don’t work too hard.’
Angie didn’t say a word all the way back through the seemingly endless journey to her room, where her case had magically appeared—presumably placed there by some unseen servant. Uncaring of the huge bed or the magnificent picture-postcard view which could be seen from her window, she turned angrily on Riccardo.
‘Your brother knows!’ she accused.
‘Knows what?’
‘That…that…that we’re lovers!’
‘Are we?’ he murmured as he pulled her into his arms and pushed the hair away from her face. ‘You’ve kept me waiting for so long that I’d almost forgotten.’
Half-heartedly, she tried to pull away from his embrace but her body seemed to have other ideas. ‘He knows,’ she repeated.
‘He doesn’t know. He’s guessing—and so what, Angie?’ Tipping her chin up, he raked his gaze over her. ‘Are you ashamed?’
Was she? She was angry with herself for being here, yes—for allowing herself docilely to be led, like a lamb to the slaughter. And for accepting so little from him, when she wanted so much. But ashamed? She shook her head as she looked up into the soft, dark gleam of his eyes, feeling her heart begin to pound and the overwhelming urge to have him touch her. ‘No, I’m not ashamed,’ she whispered.
‘Then kiss me.’
‘No.’
‘Kiss me, Angie. If, as you say, my brother has guessed—then why should we endure all the innuendo without any of the pleasure?’
His arguments were beating down her objections and his lips were making resistance impossible—trailing fire where they touched. Her head fell back as they whispered along the curve of her jaw, the long line of her neck, and she shivered as he reached around her back. Unzipping her dress in one single, fluid movement, he eased her arms out of the garment with the skill of a man who had performed this particular task many times, until it pooled in a soft heap by her ankles.
‘Piccola,’ he murmured, unbearably turned on by the sight of her in that so plain underwear she wore. Despite the short notice, by agreeing to accompany him here—any other woman would have moved heaven and earth to acquire the flimsy wisps of underwear which would be expected of the mistress to a wealthy man. But she had not. And although he knew that her failing to do so was more in a spirit of defiance than anything else, there was still something ridiculously innocent about her functional bra and briefs, this miserable pair of tights. His lips drifted along the line of her collarbone. ‘You look…’
Not used to be being stripped naked in the middle of the day, Angie froze defensively. ‘What?’
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, realising to his surprise that he meant it.
Something in his voice stirred her just as much as the practised fingers which were reacquainting themselves with all her secret places—touching her softly and with unerring precision. Her senses began to sing, her blood heating her skin as he set her body alight. So why not just enjoy this? Take all the pleasure he was offering and stop wanting the impossible? To be his equal in the bedroom even if she was his subordinate outside it. Sliding her hands beneath his sweater, she began to run her fingers hungrily over the oiled silk of his back.
‘So are you,’ she whispered back.
Her urgency transferred itself to him and Riccardo momentarily moved her away while he peeled off his jeans and sweater, giving her one brief, provocative smile before tumbling them both down onto the bed. Their limbs tangled warmly as her lips sought his. Her arms wrapped him tightly to her, pulling him closer with an eagerness which made him give a low laugh of pleasure. For a moment their eyes met in a silent look as he straddled her, then drove into her with that first, longed-for thrust, which made her cry out until he kissed her quiet.
And Angie began to tremble. It felt as if she had entered another dimension of living. As if this melding together of flesh was what nature had intended her for. Even her orgasm seemed to happen in slow motion—almost miraculously at the same time as his. She heard the helpless cry he made, so that afterwards she found herself lying dazed in his arms, completely shaken by what had just happened. And for a while they just lay there, and that closeness was almost as good as what had preceded it.
‘Oh,’ she murmured eventually.
Absently, he stroked her tousled hair. ‘Good?’
‘A-amazing. Well, you know it was.’
He found himself asking a question he never asked women. ‘And how do I compare with your other lovers?’
She found the query intrusive, and yet wasn’t there a part of her which wanted him to know that she didn’t behave like this with other men? ‘I think you know that you’re a marvellous lover,’ she said quietly. ‘As for comparisons, I think they’re odious, but if you must know—I’ve had one lover before you, and it was a pretty disastrous experience.’
Riccardo felt the surface of his skin suddenly growing cold. How come she always told you more than you needed to know? So that the answer to a simple question suddenly seemed to carry a whole weight of significance. Wasn’t it easier to think of her as someone who’d been around a bit—rather than as someone who had briefly had her fingers burnt by a man? ‘What a pity,’ he murmured non-committally.
Angie turned onto her side to study the hard, perfect profile of his face. ‘There seemed to be a lot of…tension going on downstairs.’
He shrugged. ‘My sister is getting married the day after tomorrow. What do you expect?’
She hesitated. ‘There’s a difference between nerves and tension, Riccardo—and she seemed to have been having some sort of argument with your brother.’
‘That’s because she has insisted on having a woman as bridesmaid whom Romano thinks entirely unsuitable for the task.’
‘But surely it’s her decision, not his? Nothing to do with him?’
‘It’s certainly nothing to do with you,’ he returned softly. Rubbing a thumb over the rasp of his chin, he yawned. ‘I’d better go.’
But Angie couldn’t help noticing the exhaustion in his face; the dark shadows beneath his eyes—and, despite his prickly attitude, she felt her heart soften. Caring about Riccardo’s welfare was an impossible habit to break, it seemed. Gently, she began to stroke his black hair until she saw him relax and saw his eyelids shuttering—as if he were fighting the temptation to close them. Why not let him sleep—just for a little while? ‘Close your eyes,’ she whispered. ‘Just for a minute.’
Pulling the duvet over them both, she snuggled herself against his body, hearing his sigh and echoing it with one of her own as she heard his breathing steady into sleep.
Much later, she woke—feeling hungry and realising
