Wounds of Passion

‘You aren’t carrying all this upstairs!’ Patrick curtly told her, picking up most of the cases and beginning the long climb up the ancient marble stairs.

‘I can see you don’t find him as easy to deal with as madame‘s nephew!’ Lucia cackled, her black eyes watching Antonia with witch-like amusement.

Antonia picked up the small cases Patrick had left for her to carry and went after him, her face very flushed.

He was waiting for her at the start of another long, shadowy corridor room with doors opening off in all directions. ‘Which room is yours?’

She walked ahead to the high, dark, varnished door of the suite, which stood open, went inside, and put down what she was carrying. Patrick followed, put down her cases, and looked around the sitting-room in which they stood, then gave a long whistle of disbelief. ‘This is magnificent. What a huge room. But there’s no bed.’

‘That’s next door; I have a whole suite.’ She was childishly rather pleased to tell him that, but if she had expected to impress him she was disappointed.

Patrick gave her a steady look, and walked off to explore the other rooms in the suite. Antonia followed him, watching the vivid blue eyes flick everywhere with that sharp, perceptive gaze, but unable to tell what he was thinking.

‘So this is the palace your absentee fiancé is going to inherit one day!’ he drawled, turning at last, his brows lifted derisively.

She nodded warily, knowing he was going to make some biting comment.

‘I can see why you find him so attractive!’

The insult sent the blood rushing to her head. ‘That’s a vile thing to say! I’m not interested in Cy’s money; that’s not why I’m going to marry him! I would marry him if he hadn’t a penny in the world!’

Patrick’s blue eyes watched her flushed, angry face remorselessly. ‘So long as he didn’t try to make love to you?’

That was too close to the truth to be bearable. She hit out blindly, but Patrick was too quick for her. As her hand came up he caught her wrist and pulled her roughly towards him.

‘You weren’t going to hit me, were you, Antonia? Careful, you’re starting to lose control, and that would never do, would it? You have to keep your natural impulses on a very tight rein or you might betray the fact that you’re a woman with all a woman’s instincts and needs.’

‘Let go of me!’

‘In a minute,’ he said softly. ‘But first...’

The kiss that took her mouth was so powerful that it forced her head back, made her instinctively clutch at him to stop herself falling over. His mouth was hot and relentless, making it hard to breathe let alone talk. She resisted feverishly, feeling like a straw swirling into the centre of a maelstrom, helpless to break free and dizzy with the pull of the tide dragging her deeper.

He let go of her hands, but only to draw her closer with one arm around her waist. She could have broken away then, but his mouth held her like a magnet; she quivered, drawn irresistibly to that tender north, her own mouth parting, yielding to the passion of his kiss.

She felt his hand moving, moulding her body, like a sculptor making a figure out of formless clay, firmly following the angles and curves, possessively shaping her, exploring her, learning her, his fingers warm and sensitive. She began to ache for closer contact, for his hands on her naked flesh; she was shaking, moaning with closed eyes, her fingers curling into his shirt with helpless excitement.

The aroused sensuality of her blood began to beat under her skin, through her veins, around her body, following everywhere his hands went. She was only wearing a brief, sleeveless top ending at the midriff; he pushed it up and unclipped her lacy bra to cup her breasts with his hands, his fingers stroking and caressing.

Antonia was aching to touch him as intimately; she shakily began to pull his shirt open, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin material, and then, at last, slid her hands inside, finding the firm, muscled flesh, the smooth brown shoulders, the flat stomach, her fingers twisting in the short, goldy brown hair which ran down his body.

Patrick was breathing raggedly, a groan of pleasure in his throat; he slid his mouth down her neck, kissing her feverishly.

Their bodies were breast to breast, hip to hip, thigh to thigh; every movement was igniting wild sparks of desire inside her. She shifted restlessly; her hand crept round his neck, caught strands of his hair; she groaned, her thigh moving instinctively against his in explicit invitation.

Patrick broke off the kiss, darkly flushed. He looked down at her, his eyes dark with passion. ‘Now, maybe, you’ll admit the truth! You aren’t in love with Cy Devvon; you’ve never wanted him like this, have you? If you marry him, you’ll ruin his life, as well as your own!’

Antonia stared up at him, stricken, realising that it was true.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CY RANG Antonia that evening, after dinner, at the palazzo, to check that her move had gone smoothly. His aunt had gone out for dinner; Antonia had eaten alone, and was in her room, already in bed. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you,’ Cy said, sounding anxious. ‘Has moving exhausted you?’

‘It was tiring; I thought I’d go to bed early,’ she said, and went o

n over-brightly to tell him that she had already unpacked her cases, put away her clothes, and had settled comfortably into her new home. All the time she talked, though, she was trying to think of some way of telling him what was really on her mind, but it seemed impossible to raise the subject out of the blue, on the telephone. She wished he weren’t so far away; she wished he were here, so that she could see him face to face, but wouldn’t that be even harder? Oh, she wished she weren’t such a coward.

Her voice must have betrayed her, because when she stopped talking in her husky, uneasy voice a brief silence followed, then Cy asked, ‘Is something wrong, Tonia?’