All shaken up, she lay there quivering under him, scared to speak, scared to do anything in case it was the wrong thing. It was as if her whole life was up for grabs, there to be lost or gained on a single shake of the dice, for that was what he meant to her. In Corfu, when she had been without him, every day had stretched like an endless grey sea in front of her, empty and without colour.
He kissed her breathless and she clung to him, her own need surging higher than ever, instantly recalled, instantly reawakened. He teased the most sensitive spot in her entire body until she cried out, wanting more, driven by impulses much stronger than she was and a need that was more than she could bear. He shifted in a lithe rearrangement and employed his expert mouth on her instead.
From that point on, thought was too great a challenge and she was enslaved by her own frantic, feverish responses, her hands twisting through the thick silk of his hair, helpless cries breaking from her throat. By the time he rose over her, settled his long, muscular frame between her spread thighs, excitement had deprived her of all control. He entered her with a sure, forceful thrust and sent her spinning into a convulsive climax. Out of her senses with that sudden, shocking overload of pleasure, she cried out his name at the peak of ecstasy.
‘And now you do that again, cara,’ Rafaello instructed thickly as she came drifting back down in a sensual daze into her own body again.
‘Again…’ Glory echoed, ‘I can’t—’
‘You can.’ He surged deeper into her again, all virile male and hungry dominance. Her tender flesh was so sensitive she moaned out loud. The raw excitement snatched her up again, her heart thundering in her ears as he drove her back into the grip of pure, mindless pleasure where nothing mattered but that he not stop, where all that guided her was her own overwhelming need. And, without feeling she had anything to do with the development, she hit another shattering climax that totally wiped her out.
Glory stirred and lifted heavy eyelids to focus on the bedside light burning at what appeared to be a very low setting.
Never quick to regain her wits on first wakening, she lost a minute or two computing the fact that she had never seen that particular lamp before. She was in Rafaello’s bedroom in his penthouse apartment. The recollection of their passionate lovemaking made her face burn, but she turned cold again almost as quickly as she recalled the angry, bitter frustration he had revealed and the manner in which he had rejected her impulsive declaration of love.
Rafaello felt trapped. Of course he did. Her gabbling like some dizzy teenager about love probably made him feel even more trapped, she thought wretchedly. He might still find her attractive and he might want their baby to have a father, but that was a long way from wanting to marry her. But what other choice did he have? If Benito Grazzini was so keen to establish a relationship with Sam, relations between their families would have to be good and smooth. Glory’s being pregnant by Rafaello and unmarried would make relations exceedingly rocky.
The sound of a door opening startled her. She rolled over to see Rafaello emerging from the bathroom. He was freshly shaven but with his hair still damp from the shower, and his sheer masculine impact took her breath away. He was already dressed in a crisp cotton shirt and dark tailored trousers. His back to her, he paused in front of a dressing mirror to fix his tie, his bold bronzed profile taut, half in shadow, half in light.
‘What time is it?’ she whispered.
Rafaello tensed and only half-turned to flick her a glance. ‘Almost seven. I was about to wake you. Marcel is making dinner for you—’
‘Marcel?’
‘My chef. He’ll travel down to Montague Park with you when you decide to leave town. He has instructions that you have to eat three times a day minimum—’
Glory eased herself up slowly and clutched the sheet as if she was cold. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I have urgent business in Rome tomorrow. My life’s been on hold for the past week,’ Rafaello reminded her. ‘Unfortunately, Grazzini Industries doesn’t run itself. On the way to the airport I’ll call in with Archie to announce our nuptials—’
‘Our…what?’ Glory could feel the distance in him again and she was super-sensitive to that rather sardonic edge to his cool drawl.
‘Our wedding. I applied for the special licence this afternoon and I’ve booked the church down at the Park for ten days from now—’
‘Ten…days?’ Glory parroted in shock and then she pinned her lips shut again, for she had no desire to argue on that timing.
‘The sooner we’re married the better. I spoke to your father’s consultant earlier as well,’ Rafaello revealed, reaching for his jacket and swinging round to face her. ‘By the time I get back from abroad, Archie should be up to attending our wedding in a wheelchair at least.’
‘But I haven’t even said I’ll marry you yet…’ Glory believed he ought to take note of that point and hoped it would puncture his cool.
‘I rather took agreement for granted, cara mia.’ Rafaello focused on the tumbled bedsheets with suggestive intensity before skimming his glittering dark gaze back up to her hotly flushed face. ‘But, of course, if you’re willing to watch World War Three break out between our families, go ahead and turn me down. This is one decision you have to make on your own.’
The silence simmered. Her tummy flipped. He was hitting her on her weakest flank. Love and hatred twinned ins
ide her. ‘You know I’m not going to turn you down.’
In an abrupt movement he swung away from her again, his jawline set at an aggressive angle as he made what seemed to her a quite unnecessary further adjustment to the knot on his silk tie. ‘Do I?’
‘Just tell me…what do you get out of marrying me?’ Glory asked tightly.
‘Great sex and a baby. As long as you leave the love stuff out of it,’ Rafaello drawled with cutting clarity, ‘I’ll have no complaints.’
At that reminder, she flinched.
‘Jon will be in touch with you about the wedding arrangements,’ he continued. ‘He’ll sort out the caterers et cetera. All you have to do is buy something brilliant white and float down the aisle in it looking like an angel—’
‘I can’t wear white in this condition!’