Her Passionate Italian: The Passion Bargain / A Sicilian Husband / The Italian's Marriage Bargain. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
thought anxiously. How could she be considering putting her trust in him?
He surprised her then by lifting his hands to her shoulders, the fingers threatening to bite. She dragged her eyes away from Angelo to look into this other, darker face. He was angry, she saw. His eyes were a glitter, his mouth compressed into a grim line—not kissable, definitely not kissable right now.
‘Do we leave quietly by the back way or are you up to running the gauntlet out there so you can pack your bag?’
It was both a question and a hard warning. He’d put his pride on the line here and now she was threatening to make him look a fool by wavering over going with him.
‘How old are you?’ she asked out of nowhere.
‘Old enough to have grown out of playing games,’ he said. Then he kissed her, and she learned that angry or not that mouth was indeed very kissable, hard and demanding and searingly hot—
‘This is sickening.’ On that muffled choke Angelo got to his feet and lurched towards the door.
‘Stay where you are, amico,’ Carlo lifted his head to toss after him. ‘We still have things left to say to each other.’
Angelo froze. So did Francesca. What did they have left to say? Her skin began to prickle. She didn’t like the new dark look in his eyes. ‘Don’t you dare discuss me with him!’ she warned tautly.
‘Frightened he might give your most intimate secrets away?’
She gasped, ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, then on a growl of impatience lowered his mouth to her ear. ‘Stop looking at him as if he’s your preferred option.’
She jerked her head back to stare at him. ‘But I wasn’t—’
‘Do we go by the back or the front?’ he cut over her.
It was decision time, Francesca realised. Did she go with him or did she not? In the end it was pride that made the choice for her. What bit she had left of it was not going to let her kill it by taking the coward’s way out.
So, ‘The front,’ she replied and wondered straight away if there was insanity in her family because, pride or not, she had to be crazy to want to go anywhere with him.
Some of the anger seeped out of him. He nodded his dark head then actually smiled. ‘Brave girl,’ he murmured and even kissed her for it before taking hold of her arm to lead her to the door.
He had to step around Angelo to open it for her and he did it with a smooth shift of his body that blocked the other man off from her behind the width of his wide shoulders and ignored his presence at the same time.
Ruthless, she repeated inwardly, and shivered and knew she didn’t feel brave at all. The door swung open. Heaving in a deep breath, she clutched her hands into two tight fists by her sides then lifted her chin and took that first mammoth step over the threshold.
The first thing she noticed was the lack of music, then the small clutches of people dotted around the vast hall. There was a sudden drop in the hum of conversation as all faces were turned her way. What they thought they knew as fact about what was going on here and what was pure speculation was impossible to judge. That depended on which story had made the biggest impression—the one where some of them had witnessed her standing in Carlo’s arms or the one where Sonya had spat out the truth about her affair with Angelo.
Her stomach muscles knotted, her throat ran sandpaper-dry. Behind her she could feel Carlo standing in the doorway as he took in their audience.
‘Ten minutes long enough?’ she heard him say quietly.
She swallowed and nodded, her cheeks feeling as if they would never cool down again.
‘I will be here.’
It was a promise, issued loud enough for everyone to hear it. And, dangerous man or not, it was a promise she needed to hear right now.
Then she was drawing herself up, lifting her chin that bit higher and walking on legs that did not really want to support her towards the wide and sweeping marble staircase without allowing herself to make eye contact with anyone. She might not know if their expressions were vilifying her for being caught red-handed in another man’s arms or if they were feeling sorry for her because she’d found out the truth about Angelo and her best friend, but one thing was certain—they would be leaning one way or the other.
It really was like walking the gauntlet. By the time she hit the stairs the low hum of conversation had begun to gather pace again. From the corner of her eye she could see Carlo’s tall, dark figure still standing by the study door. No sign of Angelo. He was doing what she had been doing earlier and hiding away while he got himself together enough to face the madding crowd, or should that be buzzing crowd? she thought as she kept herself moving at a steady pace even though she wanted to run.
About halfway up, where the stairs swept around the great central chandelier, she dared to take a final peek down and saw that Angelo’s parents were being ushered into the study by a grim-faced Carlo. He still didn’t move from his firm stance at the door, though, watching her all the way.
Standing guard.
By the time she reached the sanctuary of her room she was almost expiring beneath the stress of it all. Closing the door behind her, she then leant back against it and closed her eyes in relief. She was trembling all over. Stupid hot tears were pricking at her eyes. She was suffering the shock and humiliation from what she had seen and overheard in the garden, she acknowledged. Was desperately confused by her own behaviour with Carlo afterwards and even more shocked by his passionately possessive behaviour towards her.
Now she was leaning here feeling frightened for the future and had the worrying suspicion that she had just committed herself to a torrid affair with the last man on earth any ordinary, sensible woman would want to become tangled up with.
Ordinary, sensible, boring, undesirable to the point where the man you intended to marry needed to supplement his passions with a real woman—a woman he’d also intended to fantasise about when he did get around to making love to her.
‘Francesca…?’ a wary voice murmured as if it was shooting straight out of her last bitter thought. ‘Are you all right?’
She opened her eyes to see Sonya perched tensely on the end of her bed. Blue eyes big, face pale, lush mouth quivering in anxious appeal. Her heart sank like a lead weight to her stomach. ‘Much you care,’ she replied.
‘I do care.’ Sonya scrambled off the bed and began walking towards her. ‘Why do you think I’ve been sitting here waiting for you? I needed to apologise and explain. You have to—’
‘It doesn’t need explaining,’ Francesca cut in. ‘I know what I saw, cara.’
The sarcastically spoken endearment earned itself a painful wince. ‘I know that—don’t you think I don’t know that?’
Did she honestly think Francesca cared? Pushing herself away from the door, she moved at an angle that gave her the widest route around her so-called friend. Her feet took her towards the walk-in wardrobe. Sonya followed, trailing sullenly behind her.
‘I need to explain to you why it happened,’ she said pleadingly. ‘You don’t know the real Angelo, Francesca. He’s selfish and sly. He puts on a special act for you but—’
‘Not any more he doesn’t.’
‘No,’ Sonya huskily conceded and watched as Francesca located her suitcase from where she’d stashed it just inside the room then knelt with it on the floor so she could unzip it. She had been intending to change her clothes for something more appropriate before leaving this room again but now all she wanted to do was pack her things and get out.
‘You’re leaving?’ Sonya asked as if it was some huge surprise.
‘What do you think?’ It was enough to