Public Wife, Private Mistress

When he finally rolled away from her and covered his eyes with his forearm, she felt bereft.

She swallowed, risked a glance sideways and in­stantly regretted the impulse.

If ever a man was in torment then it was he.

If she'd been expecting soft words of love and the gentleness that so often followed on from such an ex­plosive release of passion, then she was doomed to dis­appointment. There was no gentleness. No prolonging of the intimacy that they'd shared. Only an aura of self-recrimination that thickened the atmosphere until she could almost taste it. Clearly he felt he'd sullied himself by giving in to his own needs and touching her.

Without a word or a glance in her direction, he sprang to his feet and strolled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

And then she let the tears fall.

It was symbolic, that closed door. Symbolic of the barriers that Rico Crisanti always put between himself and the women in his life. And she was no different. He might have married her but he shared nothing but his body. She'd chosen to fall in love with a man who kept himself locked away and he didn't need to close a door to create a barrier between them. She'd been noth­ing more than a mistress with a ring on her finger. Le­galized sex.

She heard the hiss of the shower running and imag­ined the stream of water cascading over his sleek black hair, washing the evidence of his torrid encounter from his body. The knowledge that he felt the need to do that cut her to the bone. And the knowledge that she would never be able to free herself of the feelings that she had for him made the pain almost unbearable.

Quickly she turned on her side, curling into a ball and pulling the sheet over her in a protective gesture. She loved him with a force that would never be recip­rocated. Somehow she was going to have to deal with that.

Dio, he had not intended that to happen.

Still aroused and despising himself for that weakness, Rico stood under the shower, allowing the freezing wa­ter to sluice over his heated flesh. His eyes were closed, his wide shoulders braced against the tiled wall as he attempted to wash away the guilt and shame.

He'd been rough.

No matter that she'd writhed and sobbed in ecstasy. The knowledge that he'd lost control did not make him feel good. In fact the realization that he had very prob­ably hurt her appalled him. Whatever she'd done to him, no woman deserved that.

Realizing that no amount of cold water was going to assuage his guilt or the insistent throb of certain parts of his body, he cut the flow of water and reached for a towel.

Why had he behaved like that?

He cleared the water from his eyes and knotted the towel around his lean hips.

Perhaps it was a pride thing, he mused, pacing across to the mirror and registering the degree of dark stubble on his jaw with a frown. She'd left him, so he wanted to show her that he was more of a man than any of her lovers. That no man understood her body as he did.

At that thought his fingers clenched on the edge of the basin until his knuckles showed white.

It was nothing to do with pride. He just couldn't cope with the image of another man's hands on her.

On his woman.

Despite the cold shower, beads of sweat shone on his brow and he cursed softly, recognizing the ravenous, tearing emotions inside him for what they were.

Jealousy. A primal male jealousy that had driven him to take possession of what was his.

But she wasn't his any more.

She'd left and he'd let her go, so consumed by his own emotions that he hadn't even considered a different option.

Was that why he'd been so quick to agree to the doctor's request that Stasia be brought to visit Chiara? Had he subconsciously wanted the chance to take a dif­ferent route?

He breathed deeply and stared at his reflection in the mirror. From the moment Chiara had uttered Stasia's name he'd known this would happen. There had never been even the slightest chance that they'd be able to exist alongside each other without responding to the white-hot chemistry that had always connected them.

He remembered their first date. He'd taken her for dinner in his palazzo in Rome and she'd spent the eve­ning telling him that she wouldn't be staying, pretend­ing to both of them that she was going to be spending the night alone in her hotel room. But her protest had lacked conviction and both of them had known it. Their fate had been sealed from the first moment they'd locked eyes in the marbled foyer of the headquarters of the Crisanti Corporation. Sex between them had had a delicious inevitability that had simply fuelled the ex­citement and anticipation.

And from the moment he'd discovered that she was a virgin there had been no way that he was ever letting her escape. He'd wanted to keep her. And he did it by offering her the one thing he'd never offered another woman.

Marriage.

He'd given her everythi