The Sicilian's Wife. Kate WalkerЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘YOU’RE what?’

      If he had felt as if he had been slapped in the face earlier, then this sensation was painfully like being kicked somewhere much more delicate—and intimate. It worked like magic on the ache of his libido however, making it vanish in a trice, leaving him numbed and bewildered, his head spinning wildly.

      ‘What did you say?’

      He didn’t need her to repeat the words; they were already disturbingly clear, etched into his thoughts in letters of fire. But he had to say something—anything at all. He had to keep talking—the most inane nonsense if necessary—just so he didn’t say the things that were buzzing in his mind.

      So he didn’t say—what the hell did you go and do that for?

      And he didn’t shout. Though he wanted to. Didn’t turn and kick something—anything. Though he wanted to. Didn’t demand to know why she had given herself to someone else when she was his! Didn’t she know that? Didn’t she see that she had no right to be with anyone else—let alone sleep with anyone else? But he had spent so long—a lifetime it seemed, pretending with Megan. So somehow he just slipped back into how it had been.

      And most of all, worst of all, he had to make sure that he never, ever, admitted to the raging inferno of jealousy that was surging through him. To the pain that was clawing at him, the blinding, black fury at the thought that she had cared for someone else enough to go to bed with him—to make love with him—to conceive a child with him.

      ‘What did you say?’ he repeated when Megan didn’t speak, but simply stood, white-faced and huge-eyed, her bottom lip trembling slightly as she faced him.

      ‘You know what I said! You heard me! I said that I’m pregnant.’

      ‘And how, in the name of God, did that happen?’

      Her smile, shaky though it was, was the last thing he had expected. Slightly wobbly and distinctly fraying at the edges, it was touched with a hint of wryness and just the tiniest bit of scepticism.

      ‘Oh, Cesare, surely you of all people don’t need to ask that! Don’t you know about the birds and bees?’

      ‘Yes, obviously I do,’ he growled, uncomfortably. ‘But you know what I mean. What happened?’

      ‘I… Do you think you could pass me my T-shirt?’ she said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘I’m—I’d prefer to cover up, if you don’t mind.’

      If anything revealed the way that things had changed, the dramatic alteration in the atmosphere in the room, the way that the tension seemed to have drained away all the air so that it was impossible to breathe, then it was that simple phrase—‘I’d prefer to cover up.’ That and the way that she barely lifted a finger as she gestured in the direction of the white T-shirt still lying on the floor some feet away, where he had tossed it in the heat of passion.

      There couldn’t have been a greater contrast with the uninhibited, wildly sexual siren who had delighted him on the settee just minutes before, and this uptight, heavily embarrassed woman who kept her arms firmly crossed over the lush curves of her breasts so as to keep herself hidden from him. She even managed to hook the T-shirt he tossed her on her thumb before determinedly turning her back in order to pull it on, concealing every sexy inch of herself from his watchful eyes.

      But perhaps it was just as well, Cesare told himself, automatically smoothing down his ruffled hair and fastening the loosened buttons on his shirt with fingers that were not exactly steady. He needed to get himself back under control and think straight. And that was something he would never be fully capable of doing with a half-naked Megan standing in front of him.

      So he waited, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep, until she was clothed again before deciding to speak once more.

      ‘So,’ he said when at last, dressed and apparently more composed, she slowly turned to face him. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

      It was like being summoned to the headmaster’s office to try and explain some kind of misdemeanour, Megan reflected, feeling reduced once more to the status of naughty schoolgirl, awaiting her punishment. No, it was worse than that. Cesare was counsel for the prosecution and judge and jury all rolled into one, the sombre, frowning disapproval on his face sending a sensation like the trickle of icy water running down her spine.

      ‘You know what happened! You don’t need me to tell you! I met this guy at a party—Gary. I—found him attractive and he made it plain he liked me. We started dating. One night our kisses led to more and more—as these things do…’

      ‘As they do,’ Cesare echoed in a voice that made her blood run cold. ‘And so you ended up in bed together.’

      ‘Do you have to make it sound so sordid!’

      ‘It wasn’t like that?’

      The cynical lift of one jet-black brow almost destroyed her but she forced herself to ignore it and rushed on.

      ‘No, it wasn’t! It was nothing like that!’

      ‘Ah, I see…’

      Pushing his hands deep into his trouser pockets, Cesare leaned back against the velvet cushions and looked up at her through narrowed eyes. His coldly assessing stare was cruel as a laser, seeming to cut right through to her soul and lay it bare.

      ‘You were madly in love with him?’ His scepticism scraped over her skin, stripping away one protective layer.

      ‘Yes! Yes I was!’

      It was too vehement, too revealing. Especially to someone who knew her as well as Cesare did. Surely he would be able to guess that she was protesting too much. That she was hiding behind a smokescreen of emotion?

      She had thought she was in love with Gary. For a time she had truly believed it to be the case. But then circumstances had changed, forcing her to reconsider. And if she hadn’t already been doubting her own conviction, then her reaction to Cesare just now would have rubbed her nose forcibly in the uncomfortable truth.

      ‘But he wasn’t in love with you?’

      Megan’s bright head came up sharply, big green eyes becoming even bigger and darker.

      ‘Why do you say that? How do you know?’

      His indifferent shrug dismissed her question as the irrelevant inanity it was.

      ‘If he cared anything about you, he would be here now—with you. He wouldn’t leave you to come home—face the music by yourself. I take it that was the reason for your tears?—Megan!’ he warned when she looked away, out of the window, down at the floor. Anything other than look him straight in the eye. ‘He didn’t come with you, did he?’