The Sicilian's Red-Hot Revenge. Kate WalkerЧитать онлайн книгу.

      This special book is dedicated to

       four important writers in my life:

      Marjorie Phillips, who created the first dark,

       ambiguous hero I fell in love with

      Mary Stewart, whose books inspired me

       to want to write my own heroes as powerfully as she created hers

      Dorothy Dunnett, whose complex heroes

       and amazing storytelling have thrilled and absorbed me for years and

      Marguerite Lees, who believed in me

       from the start

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      EMILY sighed and kicked off her shoes, leaning back against the beach wall as she stared out at the blue-grey stretch of sea. The weak late-autumn sun shone down on her upturned face and the soft sand supported her comfortably. It was just so good to be still and on her own at last.

      For the moment, all was silence—and peace. And it felt wonderful.

      She sighed again, savouring the quiet around her, enjoying it after five long weeks of non-stop wretchedness. She thought she’d known what misery was like in the past, but this last month had shown her another sort of hell.

      She had had to get away.

      She couldn’t have taken another moment of being stared at, talked about, with every last move she made the subject of comment and gossip.

      And disapproval.

      But here, at last, she could be on her own—be herself.

      For now.

      After the confines of the hospital, the space was wonderful. The air felt fresh and clean, touched with the exhilarating tang of ozone, and it was a delight after the artificially maintained temperature of the wards.

      But best of all was the fact that no one was watching her.

      ‘And I thought it was all over…’

      Bringing her fist down on the sand with a thud, she snatched up a handful of the slippery grains, clamping them tight between her fingers and her palm, blinking fiercely to fight against the hot tears that stung at her eyes, blurring her vision. But then, with a fierce effort, she forced a new control on herself, shaking her head in both denial and despair.

      Today was the day that she should have been free. The day when everything should have been signed and sealed, when it was all over and she could move on into a new life. Instead, she had been pulled back into the old one, with no hope of any liberation, no light at the end of the long, dark tunnel she was looking down.

      ‘No…no. Let it go!’ she commanded herself. ‘Let it go.’

      And slowly, reluctantly, her fingers obeyed her, uncurling, opening, letting the sand slither through the openings between them to fall back onto the ground.

      She only needed a day, she’d said. Just twenty-four hours before she would go back, face them all again. She knew her duty—and she would do it. But she just needed time to breathe.

      The sound of the sea lapping against the shore brought her head round again, her eyes staring out at the distant horizon. The wide expanse of the ocean looked cool and inviting, calling to her in a way that nothing had done for so long. Living in the city meant that she hadn’t been to the beach in…

      In how long? Far, far too long. And she hadn’t been paddling in the sea since she was a child. Life had closed in on her and Mark would never have countenanced seeing her indulge in anything so undignified and unrestrained.

      But there was nothing to stop her now!

      A whole new rush of enthusiasm flooded her thoughts, driving away the sadness and the tiredness of just moments before. With excitement pulsing in her veins she scrambled to her feet and set off down the sloping beach towards the water, moving slowly at first, then speeding up, breaking into a run, and finally racing full pelt down towards the white foam-topped waves as they broke upon the shore.

      ‘Ooooh!’

      The water was cold. Icy. Far colder than she had ever anticipated on a day like today. The shock of the chill against her skin was stinging, sharp, making her dance awkwardly, up on her toes, lifting first one foot and then the other out of the water, then letting them down again for the sheer thrill of the exhilarating sensation.

      And suddenly it was as if the past days—the past months—had never been and she was a child again, free, uninhibited and laughing. Throwing her head back and opening her arms wide, lifting her face to the sun, she danced for sheer joy at the sense of freedom. Her blonde hair spun out around her face and the salty water splashed against the tight denim jeans she wore, soaking into the plain white long-sleeved T-shirt as she splashed, whirling round and round and laughing as she hadn’t laughed in years.

      It didn’t matter if she looked like an idiot. She didn’t care if she appeared as mad as a hatter—because no one was looking. The beach was totally deserted from end to end. There was no one there. No one to see or hear her. No one to care.

      No one was watching her.

      He couldn’t stop watching her.

      On the deserted promenade, the tall, dark man stood, feet planted square on the paving stones, hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed against the sun, staring down at the woman on the beach before him.

      He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

      He had spotted her from a distance as she drove the compact blue car down the hill from the town, travelling at just enough of a speed to draw his attention but not enough to be totally reckless. And even as he’d turned his dark head to watch she pulled up sharp against the kerb, yanking on the brakes and switching off the engine. Even from this distance he’d been able to see the brusque sharpness of every movement, the way that she had seemed almost to jump out of the car. She’d barely paused enough to slam the door and lock it before she’d been striding across the pavement, almost running down the worn wooden steps that led to the beach.

      And just for a moment then he’d been really alarmed, a dark expression of concern creasing his forehead, drawing the jet-black brows together in a watchful frown. She seemed so distracted, so absorbed in something that was upsetting her, so close to some edge that every instinct had warned him to be wary—to watch more closely His long body had tensed, muscles tightening. He’d even been on his toes, ready to move—to run—if she was actually, as he had first thought—first feared—heading for the sea.

      Was his imagination running away with him, or was she actually…?