The Sicilian's Red-Hot Revenge. Kate WalkerЧитать онлайн книгу.
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…?
But no. The breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding in hissed from him in a sigh of release as he watched her march a couple of metres over the sand, slipping and sliding in its softness, and then throw herself down onto the ground, kicking off her shoes and lying back, her eyes closed.
But still he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t explain why. She was lovely, there was no question about that. Middle height, middle build, with a neat waist and curving hips. Her breasts were small and high as they pushed at the white cotton of the loose T-shirt she wore with rubbed and faded jeans. Her hair was pale blonde, cut neat, smooth and sleek, so different from the colouring and the style of the women back in Sicily where he lived.
So with her cool colouring would there come a temperament to match? If he approached her would she freeze in the so very English way that said without words, Do I know you? We haven’t been introduced.
He didn’t know but he was damn well going to find out. He couldn’t turn his back, walk away, without ever having met her. From the moment he’d seen her, something about her had pulled at his senses, demanded attention. He had to meet her; had to look her in the face. Had to see if her eyes were blue or grey and he had to hear her voice…
But she was on the move again. Even as he started forward she had pushed herself up from her position on the sand and was running down the beach to where the sea lapped against the shore. Her feet slipped and slid in the sand, the movement made her hips press tight against the worn denim of her jeans, and the sway of her breasts made his mouth dry. He felt the clutch of hunger low down in his body reminding him of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman—too long. When he’d come to England, romancing had been the last thing on his mind.
He’d had enough of that with Loretta and the marriage she’d almost trapped him into. Even now the memory of her scheming and lying sent a cold sensation trickling down his spine. This time in England couldn’t have come at a better moment. Here, he could forget about being Vito Corsentino and just be himself.
And until now just being himself had meant no women in his world or in his bed. Life was easier, less complicated that way…
But one look at this woman had changed all that.
Right now the thought of a woman—this woman—in his bed was the first thing on his mind. The only thing on his mind.
She was running headlong into the sea, dancing a little as the chill foam of the waves broke over her toes, waving her arms in the air like a small child suddenly released from its mother’s hold. The salt water splashed dark patches on her jeans, dampened the white T-shirt so that it clung to the curves of her breasts, and watching her made a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Did she know how uninhibited—how wild—how all-fired sexy she looked like that?
Hell—the smile wavered as desire kicked in hot and hard, making him shift uncomfortably. It really had been too long that he had been without a woman.
But all that was going to change.
Sweeping back the sleek black hair that the breeze from the sea had blown into his eyes, he headed for the steps down onto the sand.
He didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. But tonight she was going to be his.
It was a good thing that no one could see her, Emily reflected as she skipped over the waves, dodging the little foaming eddies and splashing in the cool flowing water, feeling the sand suck at her toes as the tide pulled it forward and then back.
She hadn’t felt this free—this uninhibited in years, not since she had met Mark Lawton and certainly not in the past eighteen months or so. But here, now, it seemed as if some of the burdens that had weighed her down had slipped from her shoulders, leaving her free and liberated at last. It was almost as if the years had slid from her too and she found herself giggling as the cold water tickled her feet, breaking over her ankles as she went in deeper.
She should have rolled up the hems of her jeans, to save them from getting damp, but quite frankly she didn’t care. They were old, old and worn, and almost at the stage where she should have thrown them away—perhaps after this, when she finally found peace with herself, and peace with her life, she would do that.
But for now she didn’t care if she got soaked to the skin. Jumping high, she landed with both feet, sending up another spray of the water in an icy splash, laughing as she stamped hard, wetting her jeans even more.
Oh, this was fun—kicking the water up before her, she danced further and further from the shore, heedless of the way that the sea soaked into the legs of her jeans, dancing, whirling spinning, the clear blue of the sky with its white puffs of clouds revolving round and round her until she felt dizzy. Her breath was coming in shaky, breathless gasps, laughter bubbling up inside her, as she turned faster and faster and…
‘Oh!’
It was a cry of shock and panic. Already further out than she had expected, she hadn’t realised that there was a sort of shelf at the edge of the sea, where the land fell away beneath her feet. Stumbling down it, she missed her footing, twisted her ankle, fell, shocking and hard, down into water that was suddenly up past her waist, her breasts.
She landed with a gasping splutter, tumbling head first into the chilly waves, feeling the sting of salty water break over her head, soaking into her hair.
‘Oh, help!’
She had to get up. Had to get to her feet. But the current was stronger here, swirling round her, tugging at her clothes, dragging her down. The soaking jeans were heavy and clinging, the T-shirt drenched. Her hair was in her eyes and the sting of salt water made her blink hard, vision blurring, tears forming.
‘Help!’
A real panic was setting in now. She scrabbled at the sand, felt it slip and slide away from her as she tried to push upwards to her feet. But just as she thought she was going to manage it, another bigger, fiercer wave thundered towards her, rearing up, the curves at the top frothing white and angry-looking, blotting out the sky. And at the same time the ebb of the tide beneath her tugged away the faint hope of a grip she was getting, knocking her back down again in a rush.
‘No!’
It was a wail of despair, one that was silenced shockingly, blotted out under the heavy fall of water that tumbled over her head, into her eyes, flooding her open mouth. Gasping and choking, she could only give in for the moment, letting herself be carried down, down, deep under the waves, tugged by the undertow, thrown up again to the top…
‘Help!’
She was going to drown…going down again. What was it they said about the third time? Oh, dear heaven—please…
She tried to snatch in a deep breath, hoping to hold it under the water, but only succeeded in inhaling more stinging, burning water, choking on it. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t…
‘I’ve got you…’
The words came to her through the roaring in her head. She could only hear them as another, different sound, one she didn’t really believe in because there couldn’t be anyone else here, couldn’t be someone who had come to her rescue, couldn’t—
But