It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
chose to discuss the subject with her.
Only he never had.
But when we’ve been together before, we’ve barely had conversations, thought Emily, let alone discussions. Talking is a sharing thing, and I must have known even then that it was dangerous to share. That I needed to keep him at arm’s length.
I wish I’d also realised how unwise it might be to make him angry.
For a moment it was as if her eyes blurred suddenly and she ran an impatient hand across them. She couldn’t afford any sign of weakness. She’d tried rejection and she’d tried pleading with him, all to no avail. Now, all that was left to her was survival.
I will get through this, she told herself, and I’ll walk away when it’s over without a backward glance. I have to.
The living room was empty when she went in to set the table but, just as she’d finished arranging the cutlery, Raf appeared from the cellar with a handful of candles and a selection of pottery holders.
‘Oh.’ Emily hesitated as he put two of them on the table and lit them. ‘Isn’t that a little extreme? After all, this is hardly formal dining.’
‘You saw the lights flickering, si?’ There was faint impatience in his tone.
‘Well—yes.’ So it hadn’t been her eyes, after all.
‘I think we may lose the power,’ he went on. ‘And I thought it would be safer to make other arrangements now rather than later.’ He paused. ‘I would rather not test the cellar steps in the dark.’
‘No,’ she said with constraint. ‘Of course not.’
His brows lifted. ‘You don’t like candlelight?’
She shrugged evasively. ‘I’d prefer it not to be a necessity.’
His glance was faintly mocking. ‘You favour romance over practicality, cara? How very sweet. I am encouraged.’
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘given the choice, I’d like you to fall down the cellar steps and break your neck, signore.’ And heard his low laugh follow her back to the kitchen.
As a meal, it turned out better than she could have hoped. What the chicken lacked in flavour, it made up in succulence, and the vegetables were perfectly cooked. And Emily discovered, to her great surprise, that she was ravenous.
‘There isn’t a great deal left for tomorrow,’ she said ruefully, eyeing the carcass.
He shrugged. ‘The bones will make soup. So do not worry, Emilia, and drink some more wine.’ He refilled her glass. ‘Believe me, I will not allow you to starve.’
There was a silence, then she said slowly, ‘Will you tell me something?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Ask me and I will decide.’
It didn’t sound particularly hopeful, but she ploughed on.
‘My father told me you’d offered to marry me because you owed him—big time.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m just curious to know my—market value.’
There was a silence. Then, at last, ‘The debt is immeasurable,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘But it was the only repayment he ever asked of me, so I could not refuse. Does that content you?’
‘How can it?’ Her voice sounded stifled. ‘When it would have been so much easier on both of us if you’d simply—found the money from somewhere.’
His faint smile twisted. ‘And even easier to be wise in retrospect, cara.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Now I will make some coffee.’
Once the clearing away was done, in actual hours and minutes it seemed a long while until bedtime, but Emily found the time passing with disquieting speed as she turned the pages of the thriller she was trying to read with only the sketchiest idea of what was taking place in print.
She could not concentrate. In spite of herself, her eyes kept straying to the neat wooden clock in the centre of the mantelpiece, watching the inexorable movement of its hands. The countdown to the inevitable moment when she would have to submit to him all over again in that big bed upstairs, she thought, her throat tightening.
Seated opposite her, Raf appeared to have no such concerns. He seemed totally absorbed in his own book as he lounged in the corner of the sofa, reaching every now and then for his wineglass.
And how dared he be so relaxed, when she was like a cat on hot bricks?
And the worst of it was that she really wanted to go to bed. She was being assailed by wave after wave of drowsiness, which she had to conceal at all costs, she thought resentfully, putting her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle yet another yawn.
‘Why don’t you stop struggling, carissima, and admit you are tired?’
He was watching her, she realised angrily, with open amusement and had probably been doing so for several minutes, book discarded, hands loosely clasped behind his head as he leaned back on the cushions.
‘I’m not a bit tired,’ she denied hurriedly and saw his smile widen.
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he told her softly. He got up and put the guard in front of the fire, then moved round the room, checking the door and turning off the lamps. Making the usual preparations for the night, as if he’d done so a hundred times before. Whereas, in fact…
Her mind closed off at that point. She sat where she was, unmoving, her whole body taut, aware of the uneven barrage of her heart against her ribs.
At last he came to her in the fire glow, reaching down for her small, cold hand and drawing her to her feet.
‘It is time for bed, mia bella,’ he said quietly and led her upstairs to the room where the shadows waited.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY stood in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor, anticipating the moment when he would touch her and the fight to resist the lure of her senses would start once again. Along with the realisation that she was by no means sure of victory.
Rafaele came to stand behind her and she felt him remove the band that confined her hair and begin to free it from its tight braid. His fingers were gentle and very thorough, combing through the silky strands until they hung loose about her face and shoulders.
In some strange way, she thought dazedly, her skin warming, it was one of the most intimate things he had ever done to her. Almost more so than sex itself.
Then he lifted the scented auburn mass in both hands and she felt his lips caress the exposed and vulnerable nape of her neck.
Her entire body shivered at the brush of his mouth and she wondered if he knew this, and realised it was all too likely. That he knew everything about female bodies, their responses and reactions. Knew—and exploited his knowledge. So any sign of weakness on her part could be her ultimate downfall, and she must never forget that. Never.
It also seemed, from the smoothness of his skin against hers, that he’d had the promised shave—presumably while she’d been preparing dinner.
Advance planning, she thought, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. He said softly into her ear, ‘Don’t make me wait too long, cara,’ and moved away, but only, she realised at once, to undress. She knew, too, that he expected her to do the same, there in front of him. And that there was no real reason to hesitate, because he’d already seen her naked. Had already touched and kissed every inch of her, his astonishing patience pitched against her stubborn will.
She had nothing left to hide from him, but her hands were still slow and reluctant as she tugged her sweater over her head and tossed it on to the nearby chair. She unzipped her cords and eased them down over her hips, stepping out of them in order to do the same with her tights, all the time keeping her back resolutely turned to him.
His approach was soundless.