In the Italian's Sights

She barely noticed that he had moved her into the room and shut the door, and in spite of all she had said, all she knew, she felt no panic, only a desire to get closer and closer to the man she loved. His thighs were hard against hers and his heart was pounding like a sledgehammer as they swayed together in the dark room, her hands moving as hungrily as his over the hard planes and powerful muscles of the male body.

She felt him shudder in pleasure and felt a wild exultation, accepting his hands, his mouth, with no thought of drawing back. No thought of anything besides Vittorio.

When they fell on the bed she was beneath him, but his mouth hadn’t left hers for one moment. She felt his hands on the skirt of her dress and the silky material obeyed him instantly, moving up her body so the full length of her tanned slim legs was exposed. As he touched her thighs she was galvanised with such blistering sensation that she arched beneath him in an action as old as time—an action that begged for total fulfilment.

When he drew back from her she couldn’t believe it at first. For a

moment or two she thought he was divesting himself of his clothes, but he was strangely still, his breathing as ragged and sharp as her own, and when she lifted her arms to pull him back to her he slid off the bed, standing tall and dark in the shadowed room.

It was another few moments before he spoke, and by then she had regained enough sense to pull down her dress and sit up, trembling uncontrollably. He had stopped. Why, why had he stopped?

As though in answer to her unspoken thoughts, he said, ‘I will not have you like this.’ Despite everything, his voice was steady and controlled, with just the faintest tremor betraying the desire which still had him in its grip. ‘I did not mean for this to happen when I came up the stairs. You must believe that. I had no intention of taking your will captive.’

Her brain wouldn’t compute at first. She stared at him, blinking, absolutely shattered and utterly bereft. ‘I—I don’t understand,’ she whispered at last.

‘I promised myself weeks ago that I would not rush you.’ He shook his head, whether in annoyance at himself or her she couldn’t tell. ‘Your innocence is a terrible weapon, do you know that?’ he murmured grimly. ‘But, no, of course you do not. That is the problem. You do not play games or act the coquette.’

She had no idea of what he was talking about. All she knew was that he had stopped making love to her. That he was able to control this sexual attraction he had for her to the end. She was that unimportant. She was going to cry, and it would be the final humiliation if he saw.

Somehow she pulled herself together enough to whisper, ‘Will you go now? Please.’

‘Cherry—’

‘Please.’

And he went. He walked across the room, opened the door and left. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared across the dark expanse, unable to believe for a moment that he had really walked out.

And then the tears came.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHERRY fell asleep some time before dawn simply through exhaustion, but could only have slept for an hour or two before the burgeoning light of a new day touched her senses. She opened heavy eyes and immediately a crushing weight descended on her heart and mind as the events of the night before surged in. And it was Sophia’s wedding day. She groaned, burying her head in the pillow for a minute or two and wishing she could go to sleep again and never wake up.

Enough. She sat up, throwing aside the cotton covers which always smelt of fresh air and flowers. Today wasn’t about her. It was Vittorio’s sister’s day, and all the hard work of the last weeks was about to come together. She had promised Sophia she would help her with her dress and veil, along with her make-up and hair, and there would be a hundred and one things to check throughout the day. She was going to be busy and that was great—work would get her through this day—and then tomorrow…

She couldn’t think about tomorrow. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment and then padded into the en-suite bathroom—only to come to an abrupt halt as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Horror-struck, she stared at the demented woman looking back at her. Bird’s nest hair, swollen blotched skin and pink-rimmed eyes. Car crash, or what?

It took an hour of hard work, but by the time the sun was well and truly up in a brilliant blue sky she looked presentable. Not exactly herself, she thought, on her final check in the mirror before she left the bedroom, but no one would notice. And all eyes were going to be on Sophia today anyway.

For once Sophia was up enjoying an early breakfast when Cherry walked into the breakfast room. Vittorio was sitting at the table, but Sophia’s excited squeal as she saw Cherry and then the barrage of comments and questions that followed took the edge off what could have been an awkward moment.

From that point it was all go. Sophia had turned into a whirling dervish, full of a nervous energy that was at distinct odds with her tiredness of the last weeks.

All the bridesmaids and pageboys were going to be waiting at the church for the horse and carriage that would transport Sophia to and from the church—first with Vittorio, who was giving her away, and then after the service with her new husband. It was the tradition that most wedding parties followed the bride and groom back from the church on foot, with the newly married couple leading the way, but in view of the fact that the Carella estate was some little way from the village they’d decided that Sophia had a legitimate excuse for doing away with this custom—which in view of her pregnancy wasn’t ideal.

By mid-morning, when Sophia was ready to leave for the church, Vittorio’s sister looked beautiful in the frothy, white lace and satin creation which had been her mother’s wedding dress and which suited her dark Italian looks perfectly. Sophia was very emotional, and had cried happy tears on and off all morning, but Cherry found she was all cried out. She was working on automatic, saying the right things, smiling in the right places, but always with a churning stomach and leaden heart. Nevertheless, her acting ability was such that Sophia didn’t suspect anything was wrong.

Apart from at breakfast she hadn’t seen Vittorio, having been closeted with his sister in Sophia’s bedroom before hastily getting ready herself, but as she followed the bride down the stairs to the hall—with handfuls of Sophia’s magnificent lace train draped over her arms—he was waiting.

It was a nasty moment. She hadn’t seen him in his wedding suit and he looked like every girl’s Christmases rolled into one—a dark, brooding, wildly handsome Heathcliff who was as sexy as hell.

He stepped forward, taking Sophia’s hand as his sister reached him, smiling as he said, ‘You look beautiful. Our mother would have been so proud of you today, wearing her dress to perfection, and our father would have felt like a king giving you away. I am a poor substitute, but I love you—you know this?’

The tears had started again. Cherry could tell by the sniff Sophia gave before she whispered, ‘And I you.’

Vittorio looked over her head to where Cherry was standing. ‘And you too look beautiful, mia piccola,’ he said, very softly.

It was almost too much. She was holding herself together by a thread. She managed a smile, but didn’t trust herself to speak, and then Sophia saved her by turning round and saying, ‘You need to go before us, Cherry,’ as though she didn’t know.