Never Gamble With a Caffarelli (Those Scandalous Caffarellis 3)

And what a time it had been.

He and Angelique had made love not just in the bedroom but the bathroom and the sofa in the sitting room; the morning room; the linen room; the utilities room and the kitchen four or five times over. Angelique had delighted him, shocked him, teased and tantalised him until he only had to look at her and his body would swell with lust.

He had lit a fire in the master bedroom. The flickering flames were casting their usual golden glow over the room. There was another fluttering of snow outside; he could see it falling silently past the windows in ghostly handfuls. It had been snowing on and off for a couple of days now but the roads were open again. He felt a niggling sense of disappointment as he had secretly harboured a fantasy of being snowed in with her for weeks on end. Maybe right up to and including Christmas.

Every couple of days they had driven to the village to buy supplies at the local store. He liked the normality of it, the hunting and gathering that was an everyday occurrence for most people. Angelique knew a few of the locals and had stopped and chatted to them, introducing him as her husband with a naturalness that made him feel like a fraud. If she felt the same way, she showed no sign of it.

Robert Mappleton had left by helicopter that afternoon after an overnight stay. Angelique had shown the class and grace he had come to expect from her. It seemed she could be whatever he wanted or needed her to be: a playful, adventurous lover; an intrepid hiker across the moors or through the forest; a gourmet cook in the kitchen and an engaging, convivial hostess. She had made the old man feel at home, plying him with fabulous home-cooked food and old-fashioned highland hospitality. Mappleton had been charmed—besotted would have been closer to the mark. He had spent most of the time chatting to Angelique and had only given Remy his attention—and cursorily, at that—to sign the papers to hand over the Mappleton chain for a princely sum.

Remy knew he should be feeling happy. Proud. Satisfied. Victorious.

But his mind was restless.

It was time to put an end to this madness but Angelique had a photo shoot lined up in Paris the following day to kick-start her new modelling career. He could hardly walk out on her when so much was at stake for her. As least modelling bridal wear would be better for her than swimwear. There would be less pressure on her to be rail-thin all the time. Over the last few days he had noticed her eating a little more than usual. It had delighted him to see her enjoy her food instead of seeing it as an enemy.

Talking of enemies...

He was having more and more trouble thinking of her as an opponent. He looked at her lying next to him; at the way the light fell on her cheekbone as she was lying with her head resting on one of her hands. She looked so peaceful. Relaxed and sated.

He felt a little free-fall inside his stomach as he recalled the way she had crawled all over him earlier that night. His body was still humming with the aftershocks of having her ride him.

Was there no end to this driving lust he felt for her? He kept waiting to feel that flat feeling of boredom, the tinge of irritation that nearly always occurred about now in his relationships. He would look at the woman in his bed and wonder: what was I thinking?

But when he looked at Angelique in his bed, he thought: how can I keep her there?

Angelique made a sleepy sound from the tangle of sheets and then opened her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

‘Late. Or early. I guess it depends on whether you’re a night owl or a lark.’

She sat up and pushed her dark hair back over her naked shoulders. ‘I’m not sure what I am any more. I think I’ve crossed too many time zones or something.’

Remy pushed himself away from the mantelpiece. ‘I’m cooking breakfast this morning. I think it’s time you had a break from the kitchen.’

Her brows lifted. ‘Wonders will never cease. I never thought I’d see the day when you put on an apron.’

He grinned at her. ‘Not only that, I actually picked up a towel and hung it back on the rack. How’s that for becoming domesticated?’

She gave him a beady look. ‘Toilet seat?’

‘Down.’

She gave a slow smile. ‘Wow. That’s pretty impressive. Maybe there’s hope for you as a husband after all. Some girl in the future is really going to thank me for training you.’ She tapped her finger against her lips musingly. ‘Maybe I should think about opening a school for future husbands. There could be a big market for that: give me your man and I’ll whip him into shape. What do you think?’

‘Did you say whip?’

‘I meant that metaphorically.’

‘Pity.’

Her eyes danced with mischief and hi

s blood raced. ‘You don’t really want me to beat you, do you?’ she asked.

He came over to the bed and tipped up her chin with the end of his finger. ‘I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever know the real you. You’re full of surprises.’

Her look was all sexy siren. ‘Who do you want me to be?’

He dropped his hand from her chin. He felt strangely dissatisfied by her answer. He was all for playing games when it suited him, but he wanted to know her: the real Angelique Marchand. What she felt and thought and believed in. What she valued.