It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
and held out a hand. ‘The soap, sposa mia, if you please.’
Numbly, she handed it to him, finding a voice from somewhere. ‘It doesn’t matter to you that I might prefer some privacy?’
‘And you may have it, once I no longer have to act as water carrier.’ He was briskly lathering his shoulders and chest. ‘But, until the power returns, we share.’ He scooped up handfuls of water, spilling the shining droplets over his head.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’ve finished.’
It was awkward leaving the bath under his sardonic gaze, but she managed it, winding the waiting towel round her like a sarong, covering herself against him.
‘Would you care to wash my back before you go?’ he asked.
Emily bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said, stonily. ‘I wouldn’t.’
His mouth twisted. ‘You did not find touching me so distasteful last night, mia bella.’
‘Because,’ she said, ‘I was still pretending you were someone else, signore.’ She added coolly, ‘I find it works very well.’
And she walked out of the bathroom, the edge of the towel following her like a train.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMILY sat curled up despondently in the corner of the sofa. The chicken bones were simmering on the kitchen stove with some attendant vegetables, but whether they’d ever become edible soup was anyone’s guess.
What was more, she’d arrived downstairs to discover that Raf, in between his water heating activities, had taken the time to clean the grate and light the fire in the living room, so conditions weren’t as arctic as she’d anticipated.
Which made her parting shot to him in the bathroom seem even more ungracious.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to feel grateful to him. She wanted to keep her resentment alive. Needed to hate what he’d done to her, as well as what he had planned for her immediate future.
Last night, she’d slept, melded with him. Had become totally imbued with him. But how and why it had happened was beyond her. She supposed it must have been her subconscious reaction to that lingering kiss that had drawn her to him, and that, in itself, was deeply disturbing.
Except that it was over now, she reminded himself swiftly. This was another day altogether and she had to stay strong and not let herself remember the silken texture of his skin under her cheek—her mouth.
Or how her arm had encircled his lean waist. The way her body had seemed to fit with his, as if it had been designed for that purpose alone.
Above all, she had to blind herself to the sheer male physicality of him. In spite of herself, she could not ignore how sensational he looked without his clothes, and how the grace and strength of his nakedness turned her mouth dry and transformed her own body to an aching, melting heat that made her feel ashamed. And scared.
Which had made it so necessary to toss him that scornful comment and walk away just now.
Because she couldn’t let herself touch him, she thought. Not again. She couldn’t risk it, any more than she dared to allow him to touch her. The opportunities for self-betrayal were far too dangerous.
She sighed. She was certainly succeeding in turning this into the honeymoon from hell, yet, at the same time, it wasn’t the unalloyed triumph she’d expected.
She heard him coming downstairs and tensed, expecting some kind of repercussion, but Raf was zipping himself into his parka as he reached the bottom of the stairs and barely glanced at her. For one panicky moment she thought he might be cutting his losses and leaving, abandoning her here to her own devices, then realised he didn’t have his bag with him.
‘You—you’re going out?’ she ventured.
‘As you see. I shall walk down to the village and see what food is to be had,’ he said. ‘We cannot exist on a few chicken bones.’
‘Is it safe to do that—with all this snow?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Or I would not try.’
Emily stood up. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’
‘You have developed a sudden taste for my company?’ His mouth curled. ‘Impossible.’ He paused. ‘Or are you hoping to encounter your admirer, perhaps?’
‘Please don’t be absurd,’ she said. ‘It’s simply that I’m getting cabin fever cooped up like this.’
He looked at her sceptically. ‘It will be treacherous underfoot,’ he warned.
As if the conditions indoors were so ideal, she thought.
‘It is a pity I did not bring my skis with me,’ he went on. ‘Ah, but you do not ski, I believe, cara.’
Just in time she remembered she’d told him that when he’d invited her to spend his New Year holiday with him in the Dolomites the first year of their marriage.
‘A pity you did not tell your father so,’ he added silkily. ‘He spent a great deal on your school trips to Switzerland each winter, I understand, and all for nothing. It would have saddened him.’
He paused, watching the swift annoyed colour rise in her face.
‘However, there are some rubber boots in the cellar,’ he continued. ‘They may be too large, and the tops appear to have been chewed by rats, but they might be of assistance.’
She shuddered. ‘My own boots will be fine. I’ll manage.’
Only she didn’t. One minute she found herself skidding on a frozen patch, the next she was above her knees in soft snow, and forced to grab at Raf’s arm to stop herself from falling.
As soon as she’d recovered her balance, she apologised, her face flushing even more deeply.
‘This is a bad idea.’ He sounded faintly bored. ‘I will take you back, cara, before you break something.’
As she reluctantly accepted his assistance to turn awkwardly and make her sliding way back to the cottage, she could only wish it would be his neck.
But, standing by the window, watching him disappear down the track and out of sight, she found herself feeling oddly forlorn and regretting that she hadn’t tried the rat-nibbled wellies after all.
He seemed to be gone for ever and she was on edge the whole time, imagining that her ill-wishing had somehow taken effect and he was lying in a drift with compound fractures and acute hypothermia.
‘And then what would I do?’ she demanded aloud, defending any concern she might have purely on the grounds of self-interest.
She began wandering almost compulsively from room to room, inventing tasks for herself, like dragging the heavy fur rug that lay in front of the fire to the door and shaking it so vigorously that she almost fell over again.
However, her chicken bone concoction seemed to be smelling more appetising by the moment, which was mildly encouraging.
She was prodding it doubtfully with a fork, when she finally heard the door open and flew into the living room to find Raf heaving two carrier bags on to the table.
But she swallowed back her instinctive Thank God, replacing it with a tart, ‘You took your time.’
His brows lifted in hauteur. ‘Perhaps you wish to go in my place on the next occasion? You are welcome to do so, although I doubt you will do any better. The good Signora provides a limited choice.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘No garlic, no fresh herbs, no olive oil worthy of the name and no pasta except something in a can.
‘It is little wonder that Marcello and Fiona bring supplies with them and eat out as often as possible,’ he added grimly. ‘But for the weather, we would have done the same.’
How