The Sicilian's Red-Hot Revenge. Kate WalkerЧитать онлайн книгу.
power of him surrounded her, supported her. She wasn’t sure if the pounding in her ears was that of her own heart or his, only that it was hard and fierce, and, wonderfully, when she had come close to fearing the exact opposite, marvellously potent and alive.
‘Madre de Dio!’ The voice in her ear was rough and raw, the accented words almost incomprehensible through her whirling thoughts. ‘I feared I would not reach you in time. Are you all right?’
Was she?
Still unable to open her streaming eyes, or form coherent words, Emily could only nod silently, her thoughts further scrambled by the way that the movement brought her face close against the hard bones of a powerful shoulder, her senses tantalised by the ozone-tinged scent of his skin.
‘OK…’ she managed but knew that she was not yet ready to have him let go. Her feet barely touched the ocean bed, her toes simply drifting in the swirling sand, and she prayed that her rescuer wouldn’t let her go, fearing she would be dragged away again with the ebb and flow of the white-capped waves.
But he showed no sign of even thinking about releasing her. Instead he pulled her up closer, moved his hands again. Before she could quite register what he had in mind, he had swung her up off her uncertain feet, his arms coming under her legs as he lifted her high out of the water.
‘Ohhh…!’
Instinctively her own hands flew up, her arms fastening around his neck, holding on tight. She felt the muscles bunch in his shoulders as he took her weight, adjusted his stance, bracing strong legs against the powerful tug of the tide. Then, turning, he began the slow, difficult journey back to the shore, ploughing through the waves that still broke against them, spattering them both with cold spray.
‘Almost there…’
Emily didn’t know if he expected a reply. She couldn’t give him one if he did; couldn’t find the words. Her head was against his chest, the heavy, regular beat of his heart under her cheek.
If she opened her salt-crusted lids she could see the smooth line of his throat, the olive skin tanned gold even this late in the year. A slight movement of her head made it possible to see the point where his hair, jet black even without the soaking that the sea had given it, covered the bronzed skin at the nape of his neck. He wore his hair longer than most men she knew, the dark strands brushed against the neckline of his navy T-shirt, slightly unkempt, so very, very different from the tightly controlled, cropped way that Mark had always worn his.
But that was Mark. Everything about him had always had to be controlled. Except his drinking. When he drank all sense of control went out the window, and a very different man took over.
‘No!’
The word escaped her as she shook her head, trying to drive away the thoughts she didn’t want. She had come here today to get away from all that and she was not going to spoil her hard-won freedom by letting unwanted memories intrude and upset her.
‘No?’
The man who held her had heard her and his determined stride slowed, halted, his dark head turning, looking down at her. She saw the sudden flash of deep dark eyes, stunningly beautiful eyes fringed with impossibly long, luxuriant lashes, watched his black brows draw together in a frown.
‘What…?’
‘I’m fine…’
She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t want him to stop; wanted to stay in his hold, in his arms like this forever. Or at least in the space that seemed to have reached out to enclose her like a bubble, suspended in time.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure—don’t let me go.’
Had she really said that?
The water must have battered her brain more than she’d realised. She felt as if she’d completely lost touch with reality. Had she really just asked this man—her unexpected rescuer, the man who had scooped her up from the waves when she had felt that she was going to drown, not to let her go? To keep her in his arms?
But the truth was that in those arms she felt wonderfully safe, protected as never before. It was as if the broad shoulders that supported her, the chest against which her head rested, had come between her and the world, acting as a defence against the trials and disasters that had darkened her life over the past months. With those arms around her she could, if not forget about the disasters that she had run away from and the problems and situation that awaited her when, inevitably, she had to go back, then at least put them out of her mind.
‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ that wonderful rich, deep voice with the surprisingly lyrical accent assured her. Just the way that he spoke sent warm waves of sensation running over her skin, easing the cold of her drenching in the sea, warming her blood. ‘Not until I’m sure that you can stand on your own.’
And most likely not even then, Vito told himself. He had hold of this woman now; he wasn’t going to let her go.
His heart had barely stopped racing, hardly slowed from the moment he had seen her dancing wildly in the sea, her hair swirling round her face, arms waving in the air. But then there had been that pulse-stopping moment when she had seemed to stumble, when her hands had flown up into the air. She had spun on one leg, fallen—and the white-crested waves had crashed over her head.
He hadn’t even been aware of moving, of racing down the strand to the sea. At some point he had kicked off his shoes and left them, careless of where they fell. His jacket had followed somewhere and all the time he had been running, running through the sand, into the water…
When he reached the spot where he’d last seen her he’d thought he’d lost her, the sea had already closed over her head. But then he’d seen, in the depths, the swirl of pale hair, an even paler face; the white of her T-shirt. And he’d plunged into the water. Eyes struggling against the sting, hands reaching out, closing over her arms, dragging her close, lifting her up and out…
At first he’d feared he was too late. She was terribly limp—too limp. But then she’d choked, coughed, and the air had rushed into her lungs on a huge, gasping sigh. Her head had fallen back against his shoulder, blonde hair splaying out across his chest.
And suddenly everything had changed.
She was cold and wet. He was cold and wet. But what he actually felt was a heavy, heated pulse that throbbed through every vein. The soft weight of her in his arms, made his own body tighten in hungry need and it was all he could do not to turn his head to hers and press a wild, demanding kiss on her parted lips.
But for now practicality was what mattered. Already the woman was starting to shiver in his arms. He had to get her to the shore, check that she had suffered no ill-effects from her accident. And so, gritting his teeth against the clamour from his inner senses, he turned and ploughed his way back towards the land.
‘Don’t let me go,’ she said again. ‘Don’t let me go!’
Didn’t she know that that wouldn’t be the problem? That the thought of letting her go had never entered his head? From the moment he had first seen her arrive at the beach, he had been caught, entranced, and now that he actually had her in his arms there was no way he was going to let her go. Not without exploring what this whole thing meant. Not without taking this unexpected, fiery connection to the furthest limits possible.
‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ he said again, disturbing himself even with the intensity of the way it came out. So much so that he amended it hastily, adding some nonsense about wanting to see her on her feet first.
And why, when they finally reached the shore, when his feet were on solid land, with the sand firm beneath them, did he not act on that? Why did he not let her down, still holding her, still supporting her, waiting to see if she could stand up by herself?
Because his whole body, everything that was in him, rebelled at the idea.
He had her where he wanted her and he wasn’t