Hot-Blooded Italians. Sharon KendrickЧитать онлайн книгу.
lose his rag in the middle of some fancy hotel. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Ciao,’ said Vincenzo in a silky voice as he replaced the phone.
Emma dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She was going to have to ring Joanna and tell her she’d be later than planned and then she was going to have to find some way of occupying herself for the afternoon. To work out the best way to tell him that he had a child. She dreaded to think what Vincenzo’s reaction would be—but, no matter what he threw at her, she must face it. She must be strong and take it. For her own sake—but, more especially, for Gino’s.
EMMA spent the afternoon walking aimlessly around the city and ended up window-shopping in the glitziest department store she could find, taking advantage of one of the rest rooms to wash her hands and fringe and apply a lick of make-up.
Vincenzo’s comments of earlier had made her feel scrawny and unattractive—and that was the last thing she needed as she was about to walk into one of the capital’s smartest hotels and drop this particular bombshell.
Her heart was thundering as she walked into the Bay Room bar and she could see Vincenzo standing talking to a member of staff—looking tall and eye-catching in his dark suit, and totally at home in this upmarket venue.
Nervously, she glanced around. Seated at the trademark triangular tables with their distinctive turquoise velvet seats were the movers and shakers of the city. Women wearing amazing sleek and expensive clothes and gravity-defying high-heeled shoes.
And, despite her newly washed fringe and the liberal amount of scent and hand lotion with which she’d doused herself in the rest room, Emma had never felt quite so out of place in her life. She felt like one of those characters from a Victorian novel—a scruffy little urchin who’d taken a break from selling matches on a street corner outside—and if there had been a choice, she would have turned around and walked straight out. But she didn’t have a choice, not any more.
Vincenzo watched her walk in, his black eyes giving nothing away as they flicked over her in brief assessment. So she hadn’t spent the afternoon buying herself something new to wear, he noted—as most women who were planning to sleep with a man again would do. Which must mean that she really was broke—or that she was still very confident about her sexual allure over him. His mouth twisted. Or both.
‘Ciao, Emma,’ he murmured as she approached.
‘Hello,’ she said, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, aware of the bizarreness of the situation and the fact that the member of staff was looking at her as if some alien had just dropped in through the ceiling.
‘The maître d’ has just been telling me that, unfortunately, all the tables are taken,’ Vincenzo was saying smoothly. ‘But that he has arranged drinks for us on the rooftop terrace.’
‘You will find the view from the terrace infinitely superior sir,’ said the maître d’ with the affable smile of a man who had just been handed a large wad of money. ‘I will have someone accompany you to the penthouse.’
He snapped his fingers and a man in uniform who looked about twelve began to lead the way towards one of the lifts.
Emma’s eyes told Vincenzo that she didn’t believe a word of it and the mockery in his black eyes told her that he didn’t care. But how could she possibly object with a third party present—and had he been banking on that? Or was it just that he was aware of his bargaining power and that she must play to his rules if she wanted her divorce settlement?
The silence was suffocating as the lift rode upwards and it seemed to grow more and more oppressive as the bell-boy showed them into what was clearly a very large suite of rooms dominated by a vast sitting room studded with dramatic arrangements of flowers. It was true that the view was magnificent—a floor-to-ceiling firework display of glittering stars and skyscrapers against the indigo backdrop of the sky. But more glaringly obvious was a set of double doors which led through to a room dominated by the biggest bed she had ever seen. Emma bit her lip. It was an insult—a blatant and glaring insult.
‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘No, that will be all, thanks.’
She waited until the boy had shut the doors behind him before turning on Vincenzo, who was taking his jacket off. ‘You said a drink. This is a suite!’ she accused.
Vincenzo smiled as he loosened his tie. So she wanted to play games, did she? ‘The two aren’t mutually incompatible, surely?’ With a careless hand, he indicated the ice-bucket containing champagne. ‘Drink all you like, cara.’
‘Are you saying that a table wouldn’t magically have become available if you’d asked for one?’ Emma asked, wishing she could rid herself of the terrible nerves which were criss-crossing through her stomach and beginning to tie it up in knots.
‘I could have asked for one,’ he conceded. ‘But you cannot deny that up here it is so much more comfortable—and so much more private, of course.’ He poured out champagne, which fizzed up like pale gold into two tall flutes, his eyes glittering with insolent challenge—wondering how long she was going to carry on playing the innocent. ‘Take off your coat and lets have a drink. You said you had something you wanted to tell me.’
Nerves had suddenly clutched at her throat as if someone had placed their hands there and were squeezing all the breath from her body. Emma nodded, slipped her coat off, perched on the edge of the sofa and took the drink from him, although she noticed that he didn’t pick up a glass himself.
It had been a long time since she’d drunk champagne and its sudden heady rush reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She felt dizzy. Weakened by his proximity and the way that he was looking at her. So tell him.
‘Vincenzo…this is very difficult.’
He sat down beside her. He could see her trembling and his lips curved into an arrogant smile. Had an earlier taste of his kisses reminded her just what she’d been missing? She really did want him. ‘Is it?’ he questioned, with soft arrogance.
Taking the half-drunk glass from her unprotesting fingers and putting it down on a table, he ran a thoughtful finger along the too-severe jut of her collar-bone, feeling her shiver beneath his touch. ‘It’s only difficult if we make it so. If you try and dress it up to be something it isn’t. Why not just admit that we’re still physically attracted to one another and that we both want this?’
Emma stared at him in rapidly escalating horror. He thought…he really did think she’d come back to strike the deal—a quick divorce in exchange for a night of sex. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
But Vincenzo wasn’t listening. He was hungry for her, transfixed by the way her rapid breathing was making her breasts rise and fall—and he was feeling more fired up than he could remember feeling since that last time he’d made love to her. His mouth hardened. Or, rather, had sex with her. There had been no love involved in that last frantic coming together that day in Rome. Maybe there never had been. Maybe thunderbolts were merely the indiscriminate strikings of lust.
‘I don’t care,’ he said deliberately. ‘In fact, I don’t care about anything—only this.’
His mouth came down on hers—a slow, drugging kiss with all the passion he’d displayed earlier in his offices, but this time there was a difference. This time they were not on his territory with the possibility that his assistant might wiggle her way in at any moment. And this time Emma knew that she was beaten—in every way. In a few minutes’ time she was going to tell Vincenzo something which would change his life irrevocably.
She was going to have to learn to live with his anger and the contempt she knew deep down that he was keeping on ice because at this moment he wanted her. And didn’t she want him, too? If she was