And the way he immediately deepened the kiss, his answering groan as his hands slid down and urgently shaped the ripe curves of her body, inflamed her so she didn’t know what she was doing—until, abruptly, he moved away from her wild embrace. When she could focus at all she saw that she had almost ripped the shirt from his body in her frantic need to feel his skin against hers, his flesh against her flesh.
Portia’s face turned bright red with deep mortification and she shuddered irrepressibly. What on earth would he be thinking of her? That she was sex-crazy, anybody’s for the asking?
How could she have done that? Oh, how could she? She had practically ravished him on the spot, and if he hadn’t called a halt, been turned off by that rapacious response, then goodness only knew what might have happened!
And how could she long so desperately to be back in his arms yet at the very same time wish she was a million miles away? She put a shaky hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying out.
‘I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.’ Lucenzo’s voice was flat, but she noted that his fingers weren’t quite steady as he slotted the buttons that were left back into their holes and tucked his shirt firmly into the waistband of his trousers.
Swallowing jerkily, deeply and
quite horribly ashamed of what she’d done, she looked away from his now silent scrutiny. He was right. Of course he was right. That kiss should never have happened. It had made her feel wonderful, out of this world, but it had created more barriers than it had broken down.
‘I’m going in,’ she imparted when she could not endure the spiky silence one moment longer. Her voice was stiff with embarrassment as she forced herself forward, treading the maze of paths in an angst-ridden trance.
She did her level best to console herself as she mounted the steps to the sun-drenched terrace. At least what had happened had put an effective stop to the way he’d been insisting on her staying here and had put that dreadfully insulting slant on her motives for telling him she wanted to leave.
And further cemented her decision to do just that.
‘This way.’ His hand, cupping her elbow, prevented her from crassly, unthinkingly, walking back through the open French doors that led into Eduardo’s room.
Disorientated by the mistake she’d been about to make, by the electric touch of his warm hand against her skin, she tried to ignore the way her stomach muscles coiled and tightened. By dint of sheer will-power she managed to pull herself together sufficiently to do her best to freeze him with a look, to pluck his fingers away, one by long, lean one.
Lucenzo stared back at her, a wash of colour creeping along the jutting line of his austere cheekbones, his eyes dark with simmering anger. ‘Don’t panic. I’m not about to try to have my wicked way with you,’ he drawled, and immediately regretted the uncalled for sarcasm as he watched her face go white, the long sweep of her lashes quickly veil her eyes.
Cursing himself for that unfathomable need to lash out at her for rejecting what he’d meant to be a friendly gesture, for acting as though his touch disgusted her, he tightened his jaw in self-revulsion. She had every right to object to what she would possibly see as further unwanted intimacy.
‘Come.’ He knew better than to attempt to touch her, invade her personal space again, but waited until she fell in step beside him and slowly paced towards the far end of the terrace. He deliberately lightened his tone as he told her, ‘I must give you a guided tour some time. You need to be able to find your way around.’ To which came no reply.
He really shouldn’t have kissed her, he told himself, his thoughts heavy with self-disgust. Heaven knew, it had started out as a simple need to comfort, an instinctive and caring response to the sensitive, hurting side of her, the side that had so genuinely protested against causing any of them any more distress by her being here.
And as a kind of atonement, too. For his former attitude towards her, especially that earlier snide accusation of blackmail.
It had started out that way, as an intention to give comfort, a brotherly peck, a consoling cuddle. But, madre de Dio! It had all got wildly out of control. She’d stood, trembling slightly, as his mouth had taken hers, her full lips opening softly for him, like the petals of a rose in the strengthening rays of the sun, and she’d tasted of the sweetest nectar, the headiest wine. It had been then, if he was to be honest with himself, that he’d heard danger signals, loud and shrill, and had decided to call a halt.
But then, right at the significant moment, she’d responded, really responded, and all hell had broken loose inside him. If he hadn’t at last somehow found the strength to batten down that raging torrent of lust he would have made love to her there and then, been no better than his brother. Taking and never giving anything that really mattered in return.
Vittorio had inherited his mother’s genes, and the inability to love anyone other than himself. While he, himself, had had the ability to love knocked out of him after the death of Flavia, his wife of two short years, and the death of his unborn child. Standing at the graveside, he had vowed never to love again. It hurt too much. Nothing was worth the kind of pain he’d suffered then. Nothing!
He dragged a deep steadying breath. He was not going to relive that time in his head. Life went on.
Leading Portia past the corner of the sprawling villa, down the shallow flight of steps that led to level ground and the path beneath the iron arches covered with tiny, rioting, sweet-smelling roses, would give him enough time to get his head straight.
He had no intention of getting emotionally involved with Portia Makepeace, or any other woman for that matter, and was in no danger whatsoever of breaking the vow that had been so easy to keep for ten long years.
Which meant that touching her again was taboo. So was even thinking about it, because she wasn’t one of those smooth, sophisticated bimbos who hung around the rich and the powerful, willing to do anything so long as the pay-off was hefty. She was vulnerable, and mustn’t be hurt or betrayed any more than she had already been.
But his need to atone for the hard times he’d given her, for judging her so harshly without asking for her side of the story, coupled with the desire to help her come to terms with the situation she found herself in, had him confiding, ‘It might help you to know that whatever feelings Vittorio and Lorna had for each other died a long time ago. They had what is called an open marriage. I don’t know about Lorna, but I know my brother had one affair after another. If a woman caught his eye he had to have her, and once he had he quickly lost interest. It was a game to him.’
He shrugged expressively, but his eyes were dark with a mixture of contempt and pain.
He had loved his half-brother, but had hated what he’d seen as Vittorio’s moral bankruptcy. ‘Naturally, I made sure my father knew nothing of this. He has high moral standards and would have hated to know any son of his could have behaved so badly. And I thank you, Portia, for your thoughtfulness in keeping the way my brother used you from him.’
As they entered the welcome coolness of the marble-paved hallway Portia’s soft mouth fell open and the squirm of pleasure in the region of her heart made her feel quite giddy.
Lucenzo believed her! He was actually praising her! His spectacular dark eyes were soft, a deep dark liquid velvet, and she could drown in them. Trying to break the mesmeric spell, she lowered her lashes—but her gaze only dropped as far as his mouth, and stubbornly stayed there.
Such a beautiful mouth, long and sensual, and she knew what it felt like: sexy, seductive, utterly captivating. Just remembering that kiss, when she’d promised herself she’d put the whole embarrassing sequence of events right out of her mind, made her shiver in reaction.