‘Jazz...’ he breathed hoarsely, standing beside the side of the bed, wrenching at his shirt.
Jazz sat up abruptly. ‘Come here,’ she told him with a sigh. ‘You just ripped a button off your shirt.’
And he dropped down on the edge of the bed and she unbuttoned the shirt, full pert little rose-tipped breasts shifting beneath his mesmerised gaze with every movement. He tossed the shirt, stood up, unzipped his pants, thrust it all down, ran irritably into shoes and socks while wondering how any male could be so impatient for one woman that he forgot how to undress.
Jazz spread herself back luxuriantly against the pillows.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Vitale enquired almost curtly, feverish colour scoring his high cheekbones.
‘You look gorgeous,’ she told him truthfully, admiring every long, lean, powerfully muscular line of his big body and most particularly the potent proof of his hunger for her.
Vitale could feel his face burn because no woman had ever said that to him before. He had never encouraged that kind of familiarity in the bedroom but that would not inhibit Jazz, who would say exactly what she felt like saying. There was something wonderfully liberating about that knowledge. He didn’t know what it was, but it put to flight the stress of the long day and the very uncomfortable phone call he had just shared with his father.
‘You married Jazz?’ he had said. ‘Your mother will throw a fit.’
But Vitale could not have cared less at that moment as he hauled Jazz up to meet his mouth, all dominant male powered by seething hormones. His hunger currented through her like a wake-up call, setting every skin cell alight with his passion. And Jazz revelled in that awareness of his desire for her. It acted as a soother for other slights and insecurities. Nobody had ever wanted her the way Vitale seemed to want her. True, she hadn’t given any other man the chance, she conceded, but Vitale’s passion made her feel ridiculously irresistible. His sensual mouth greedily ravished hers, a knot of warmth already curling at the heart of her in welcome.
And then his hands roved over her, those sure skilled hands, fingertips plucking gently at her swollen nipples, stirring an ache between her slender thighs that dragged a moan from her because her whole body felt amazingly sensitised, amazingly eager, over-the-top eager, she adjusted in shame, squirming below his caresses, back arching as he began to employ his carnal mouth in a sweet tormenting trail down over her twisting length.
‘Don’t stop...’ she exclaimed helplessly, her narrow hips writhing and rising until he caught them in firm hands and stilled her to withstand the onslaught of his sensual attention.
‘Per l’amor di Dio,’ Vitale groaned against her where she ached unbearably. ‘If I had known I was this welcome, I’d never have kept my distance—’
‘Pregnancy hormones,’ Jazz cut in shakily. ‘That’s all it is.’
‘Possibly multiple pregnancy hormones,’ Vitale teased with unholy amusement dancing in his stunning eyes. ‘Bring it on, bellezza mia. That aspect went unmentioned on the website I read.’
‘Maybe it’s just me,’ she mumbled uncomfortably, her face hot as fire.
‘No, it’s intriguing to know a piece of me is in there,’ Vitale growled, splaying his fingers across her stomach. ‘It makes me feel like you really belong to me...weird,’ he added for himself.
‘All of it feels weird because it’s wonderfully new to us,’ Jazz reasoned, her fingers delving through his luxuriant black hair. ‘I still can’t quite believe it.’
Vitale let a fingertip trace lower and her head fell back, the power of speech stolen by an unexpectedly powerful flood of sensation that made her legs tremble. He bent his head and employed the tip of his tongue and her entire body jerked and shifted, little sounds of delight breaking from her throat that she couldn’t hold back. And then there was no more talking because she was trapped in the relentless need for fulfilment, need controlling her, hunger roaring through her like a greedy tempest, craving more and crying out in wonder as he gave her more and the all-consuming clenching of her body powered her into an unstoppable climax.
‘In bed, you’re my every dream come true,’ she whispered shakily, still rocked by the final waves of pleasure.
‘It’s the same for me,’ Vitale admitted raggedly as he rose over her, forging a strong path into the tender flesh he had prepared to take him. ‘It’s never been this good for me.’
He plunged into her and withdrew in a timeless rhythm as old as the waves in the sea. Erotic excitement gripped her as she gripped him, little gasps racking her, tiny muscles convulsing around him. She quivered with sheer anticipation as his pace quickened, stirring every atom of her being, driving her back up to the heights with every thrust until the bands low in her body began to tighten and she strained until he drove her over the edge again into glorious release. She watched him reach the same satisfaction as he shuddered over her, his lean, muscular body taut and damp and beautifully virile as he lifted himself at the last possible moment, striving not to crush her with his weight.
‘I feel good now,’ Vitale husked, sliding off her and pausing to drop a kiss on her brow before moving away.
‘I’m so pleased about that,’ Jazz said laughingly.
‘You can hug me if you want. I’ve got used to it,’ Vitale assured her arrogantly.
Jazz rolled her eyes at the ceiling. There he was making allowances for her again but not actively joining in. She had taught him to tolerate being hugged but it wasn’t enough for her. She needed him to grab her and hold her close and he wasn’t going to do that. But at the same time she couldn’t be a gift that kept on giving for ever. Shows of such affection from her would be thin on the ground from here on in, she told herself firmly.
‘Are you in a mood?’ Vitale asked quietly, leaning over her and gazing down at her with a very wary cast to his lean dark features.
‘No.’ Jazz stretched slowly and smiled. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Agnella is holding dinner for us,’ he volunteered.
‘Holding it? You mean it’s ready?’ Jazz exclaimed in dismay. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s fine. I told her you were in the bath,’ Vitale explained with the carelessness of a male accustomed to staff who worked to his timetable rather than theirs.
‘And how long ago was that?’ Jazz groaned, sliding hurriedly out of bed to head for the bathroom at speed. ‘We should be more considerate, Vitale.’
‘It’s our wedding night,’ Vitale reminded her, stepping into the spacious shower with her. ‘That’s different.’
‘Don’t you dare get my hair wet,’ Jazz warned him as he angled the rainforest spout. ‘It takes for ever to dry.’
Vitale laughed out loud and watched her wash at speed and step back out again.
‘You know there are other pastimes you can enjoy in the shower,’ he husked, humour sparkling in his dark eyes.
‘We’re going downstairs for dinner,’ Jazz told him squarely, leaving the bathroom to root through the tangle of garments she had tossed out of her case earlier and find fresh comfortable clothing.
Their evening meal was served on an outside terrace shaded by vine-covered metal arches. A silver candelabra illuminated the exquisitely set table in a soft glow of light.
The first course arrived and Jazz tucked in with appetite, conscious of Vitale’s scrutiny. ‘What?’ she finally queried in irritation.
‘I like the fact that you enjoy food. So many women don’t.’
‘No, I think there’s a certain belief out there that a healthy appetite in a woman is a sin and that it’s somehow more feminine to pick daintily at food,’ she told him, watching and copying what he did with his bread roll, still learning the little things she knew she needed to learn before she appeared at the fancy dinner that would precede the ball. Without warning, the concept of doing anything that could embarrass Vitale in public made Jazz cringe.
‘You must have been appalled by my table manners when we were children,’ she remarked u
ncomfortably.
‘No. You were always dainty in your habits. But I will admit that I envied your freedom. You did as you liked and you said what you liked, just like Angel,’ Vitale pointed out ruefully. ‘I only ever had that luxury during those holidays. My childhood was in no way normal at the palace. My mother expected me to have the manners and outlook of an adult at a very early age.’
‘I don’t want our children growing up like that,’ Jazz told him bluntly.
Vitale lounged back in his chair, all sleek, sophisticated male in the candlelight and devastatingly handsome. ‘In that aim, we are in complete agreement,’ he admitted. ‘I want them to enjoy a normal happy childhood, free of the fear that they have to be perfect to be loved.’
‘Does it matter to you whether they are boys or girls or even one of each?’ she asked curiously.
‘No. I have no preference. I will be very honest...’ Vitale regarded Jazz with cautious dark golden eyes surrounded by gold-tipped lush black lashes. ‘I have never wanted children but I have always accepted that I would have to have at least one for the sake of the throne. You have already achieved that requirement for me and to some extent, I can now relax, duty done...’
So, now I’m rent-a-womb, Jazz reflected, struggling not to react in too personal a way. He had told her the truth and she should respect that. Duty done? But he had never wanted children? That really worried her. His tender preparation of her bath had touched her heart and revitalised her but that blunt admission about never having wanted a child simply upset her again. All right, he was making the best of a bad job, as the saying went, but, as the woman playing a starring role and being made the best of, she felt humiliated and utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of Prince Vitale Castiglione’s life...
CHAPTER EIGHT
JAZZ WAS UNPREPARED for the barrage of journalists and photographers who awaited their arrival at the airport in the capital city of Lerovia, Leburg. The amount of interest taken in her arrival with Vitale was phenomenal and she was no longer surprised by his request that she remove her wedding ring before their flight landed. Amidst the shouted madness of questions, flash photography and outright staring, Jazz felt as though she had briefly strayed into some mirror world, terrifyingly different from her own.
‘The press know about the ball and my mother is too outspoken for there to be much doubt about its purpose, which was to find me a wife,’ Vitale told her very drily when they had finally escaped into the peace of a limousine with tinted windows and a little Lerovian flag on the bonnet. ‘So, obviously my arrival in Leburg with a woman is a source of great speculation.’
‘But surely you’ve brought other women here?’ Jazz exclaimed, still a little shaken up by her first encounter with the press en masse.
‘You’re the first. My affairs have always been kept off the radar and discreet,’ Vitale explained reluctantly. ‘Unlike Angel, I was never an international playboy and until today I have not been much troubled by the attentions of the paparazzi.’
‘Did I hear someone shout a question about the engagement ring?’
‘There were several, some in Italian and German,’ Vitale advanced. ‘That’s why I gave it to you.’
‘No, you gave it to me when you did because I was in a funk and you were trying to distract me,’ Jazz told him wryly. ‘Although I’ve no doubt you planned for me to arrive here flashing it.’
She liked the last word. His mother did as well. But somehow when Jazz cut in with one of her cute little last words, it didn’t annoy him to the same degree, although her ability to read his motives unsettled him and made him feel tense. His lean, strong face clenched hard because he had already been tense. He hated conflict with Queen Sofia because it was a challenge to fight back when he was forced to give his aggressor the respect and obligation due to his monarch. It could never be a fair battle.
Jazz was merely relieved that she had put on an elegant dress and jacket for her arrival in Lerovia and had braided her hair, which left loose could look untidy. It had not escaped her attention that Vitale had grown steadily grimmer the closer they got to the country of his birth. Did he hate living in Lerovia, she wondered, or was it simply the problems he had dealing with his mother, the Queen?
She peered out at the city of Leburg, which appeared to have a skyline that could have rivalled Dubai’s. It was an ultramodern, fully developed European city and a tax haven with very rich inhabitants, which she had learned from her own research on the internet. Furthermore, the man she had married, the father of her unborn twins, might be the heir to the Lerovian throne but he was also the CEO of the Bank of Lerovia. He hadn’t told her any of that but then Vitale had never been much of a talker when it came to himself, so she wasn’t the least offended by his omissions. In any case, she was perfectly capable of doing her own homework concerning the country where she was to live for the foreseeable future. Italian, German and English were widely spoken in Lerovia and many residents were from other countries.
The royal family had ruled Lerovia since the thirteenth century, which had disconcerted Jazz because for some reason she had always assumed that the Castiglione family were more recent arrivals. The ruling family, numbering only mother and son, lived in Ilrovia Castle, a white, much turreted and very picturesque building in the hills just outside the city.
Stealing a glance at Vitale’s taut bronzed profile, she suddenly found herself reaching for his hand. ‘You’re not on your own in this,’ she reminded him quietly. ‘We got married for the sake of the children. I’m as much involved as you are.’
‘No, you won’t be. I won’t put you in the path of my mother’s spite. The Queen is my cross to bear,’ he said very drily, quietly easing his fingers free. ‘In any case, you’re pregnant and you shouldn’t be upset in any way.’
‘Nonsense!’ Jazz parried roundly, her backbone of steel stiffening but her pride and her heart hurt by the way he had instantly freed her hand. She gritted her teeth, inwardly urging herself to be patient and not to expect change overnight.
But even so, Vitale had been very different over their Italian weekend. He had been relaxed, not once retreating into the reserved and rather chilly impersonal approach that she was beginning to appreciate was the norm for him in public places or with strangers. Change had loomed only when they had landed in Lerovia, which really said it all, she thought ruefully. In her very bones, she was aware that she was soon to meet the mother-in-law from hell and that she had absolutely no defensive armour with which to fight back.
After all, she was the daughter of a humble housekeeper with no impressive ancestors, a little better educated than those ancestors but still without the official sanction of a degree even if she had almost completed one. And she was pregnant into the bargain, she conceded ruefully. She didn’t qualify as an equal in Vitale’s world. To put it bluntly, and Clodagh had, Jazz had married up in her aunt’s parlance and Vitale had married down. Well, she was what she was and perfectly happy on her own account but it seemed only reasonable to expect the Queen of Lerovia to be severely disappointed in her son’s choice of bride.
The car purred through a medieval stone archway guarded by soldiers, who presented arms in acknowledgement of Vitale’s arrival. Jazz struggled not to feel intimidated as they entered a giant, splendidly furnished hall awash with gleaming crystal chandeliers and grand gilded furniture. Vitale immediately turned left to head up a staircase to one side.
‘I have my private quarters in the castle. The Queen lives in the other wing and the ground houses the royal ceremonial apartments where official events are held and where we entertain,’ Vitale told her on the stairs.
‘You do realise that that is the only information you have ever given me about Lerovia?’ Jazz remarked drily.
Vitale paused on the landing, dark golden eyes visibly disturbed by that observation.
‘Oh, don’t worry. The internet made up for your omission,’ Jazz assured him ruefully. ‘I’ve picked up the basics. It was interesting. I
had no idea your family had been ruling here for so many generations or that gay people still live a restricted life here.’
He clenched his jaw. ‘The Queen will countenance nothing that goes against church teaching. Unfortunately, the monarch in Lerovia also still has the right to veto laws proposed by parliament,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t joking when I warned you that we lived in the past here.’
‘Some day you’ll be able to shake it up a little,’ Jazz pointed out as he guided her through a door into a hallway that was surprisingly contemporary in contrast to the rather theatrical ground-floor décor.
‘That day is a long way off,’ Vitale intoned with firm conviction. ‘The Queen will never voluntarily give up power.’
Jazz wandered round her new home, followed by two members of Vitale’s domestic staff, Adelheid the housekeeper and Olivero, the butler. Both spoke excellent English and she learned that Vitale’s wing had originally been the nursery wing devoted to his upbringing and in complete isolation from his mother’s living accommodation. Obviously, the Queen was not the maternal type, Jazz acknowledged, knowing that she would never accept her children being housed at such a distance from her and solely tended to by staff. The more little glimpses she gained of Vitale’s far from sunny childhood, the better she understood him.
Their spacious home stretched to three floors and steps led down from the big airy drawing room to the gardens. Jazz was smothering yawns by the time the official tour reached the master bedroom, which was decorated in subtle shades of green and grey. She was introduced to her maid, Carmela, who was already unpacking her luggage to fill the large, well-appointed dressing room off the bedroom. A maid, her own maid, she thought in awed disbelief.
Vitale entered after the maid had gone and found Jazz lying down on the bed with her shoes and jacket removed.
‘I thought I’d go for a nap before I start getting ready for the ball. I’m really quite sleepy,’ she confided, pushing herself up on her elbows, the braid she had undone to lie down now a tumbling mass of vibrant tresses falling over one shoulder, the arch of her spine pushing her breasts taut up against the fine silk bodice of her dress.