The Italian's Revenge

‘Not at the risk of your own life,’ he denied.

‘You said it,’ she agreed. ‘It is my life. I made a decision that might risk everything—but might also be risking absolutely nothing, depending on how my pregnancy goes. That’s a fifty-fifty chance either way,’ she told him. ‘Fifty-fifty odds are just too even for me to justify stealing from any child the right to survive them!’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ he rasped. ‘Your own mother died in childbirth, Catherine! What does that tell you about the risk you are taking!’

Tears burst into her eyes, making them glint like the diamonds she was wearing. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t frightened,’ she whispered shakily.

On the kind of curse that turned the air blue Vito snapped off the gushing water, then reached out to drag her against him.

‘You stupid woman,’ he condemned, but it was a darkly possessive and very needy condemnation. ‘How could you do this to us now, when we are actually beginning to know each other?’

‘I need you to be strong for me—not angry,’ Catherine sobbed against his shoulder.

‘I will be strong,’ he promised gruffly. ‘But not yet, while I still cannot make up my mind whether I want to kill you for doing this to us!’

Despite the tears, Catherine lifted her face to smile wryly at him. ‘That was a contradiction in terms if ever I heard one.’

He gave a muttered growl of frustration and bent to kiss her. Then, ‘Turn around,’ he commanded gruffly, and without waiting for her to comply he twisted her round himself, then began dealing with the sodden length of zip down one of her sides which helped hold the dress in place. With an efficiency that had always been his, he stripped her bare, and, leaving her clothes in a wet puddle on the shower floor, he led her out of the cubicle, found a towel and began drying her with all the grimness of a man still at war with himself.

Or with her, Catherine corrected as she gazed at the top of his dark head while he briskly dried her legs for her.

‘It might never happen,’ she huskily pointed out.

‘With our past record?’ His mouth took on a scornful grimace as he rose to his full height. ‘You are pregnant, Catherine,’ he announced as he wrapped the towel around her and neatly tucked the ends in between her breasts. ‘You know it and I know it. We don’t need to await the evidence to be that sure.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured yet again, with a glum sense of utter inadequacy.

‘But not regretful,’ he said, clearly not very impressed by the apology.

Catherine gave a mute shake of her head. He reached for another towel, which he tucked around his own lean waist, then grabbed hold of her hand to lead her back into the bedroom.

The bed awaited. He trailed her directly to it, bent to toss back the covers—then paused. ‘Your hair is wet,’ he observed belatedly.

‘Just the loose ends,’ she dismissed, not in the least bit interested in her wet hair because she was too busy waiting for whatever it was he had damped down inside him to come bursting through the restraints of his control.

‘I love you,’ she said, and inadvertently helped it to explode when he turned on her, grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her an angry shake.

‘You don’t deserve me, Catherine,’ he informed her darkly. ‘You give me nothing but arguments, heartache and grief and yet I love you. You mistrust me, leave me, and make me go through the horror of fighting to see my own son, and still I continue to love you!’

‘I didn’t know that then,’ she reminded him.

‘Well, you damn well do now!’ he grimly responded. ‘So now what do I have?’ he asked her. ‘I have you back where you belong, is what I have. I have you back in my home, in my bed and in my life, and what do you do? You tell me I have to go through the worry and stress and fear of losing you all over again because you hold your own life in lower regard than I do.’

‘It isn’t that simple—’

‘It is from where I stand,’ he informed her. ‘In fact it is elementary from where I stand! Because this time you are going to do as you are told. Do you understand me?’

His hands gave her another small shake. ‘Yes,’ she answered meekly.

‘No more working for money we do not need. No more fights to establish your precious independence. You will rest when I tell you to, and eat when I tell you to, and sleep when I tell you to!’

‘You’re being very masterful,’ she said.

‘You think this is masterful?’ he questioned darkly. ‘Wait until you have lived for nine months with me as your jailer and you will be very intimate with just how masterful I am going

to be!’

‘Sounds exciting,’ she said, her green eyes glinting up at him with the kind of suggestion that had him tensing.