Her Wedding Night Surrender

He was right, of course, and now she felt like an even bigger idiot. It was bad enough that he thought her some kind of inexperienced prim virgin. Worse when she confirmed those thoughts by acting just like one.

‘I know that,’ she snapped, resuming her journey down the stairs, moving quickly to stay ahead of him.

At the bottom she moved ahead—not waiting for him, not wanting him to think that she saw this as a joint venture. He wanted to swim and she wanted to swim. That didn’t mean they would be swimming together.

The air on the deck was noticeably cooler, but it was still a sultry, muggy night. It felt as though a huge bandage was pressing down on Rome, holding in its heat, making breathing difficult.

Emmeline dropped her towel onto a lounger and turned towards the pool—just as Pietro dived into the water, his body strong and flexed as he hit the surface and went underneath.

He was like a god, tanned and muscular, as if he’d been carved from stone. She watched the water separate as if to welcome him and then conceal him again, almost by magic. Her breath was held again inside her lungs—waiting, apparently, for the moment he reappeared at the other end of the pool when she let out a slow sigh.

‘Well?’ He turned to face her. ‘Are you joining me, Mrs Morelli?’

Her eyes met his, and if she’d known about the look of anguished surrender in them she would have tried harder to conceal her feelings. But she didn’t.

The moonlight sliced through her as she moved to the water’s edge and dipped her toe in. As she’d hoped, it was deliciously cool.

She sat on the edge and then eased herself into the water. It reached up to her waist and enveloped her in its thick, luxuriant relief.

She didn’t swim. Rather she walked across the pool, her face deliberately averted from his. He might have found it entertaining if he hadn’t already been frustrated beyond belief. The idea of a cold swim had been essentially to serve the same purpose a cold shower might have. Instead his wife was swimming with him, her pert breasts outlined by the light cast from the moon, her enigmatic, aristocratic face tilted angrily away from him.

Was she angry with him? And, if so, why did he like the idea so much? Why did he want to inspire that hot, fierce temper in her?

He dived underwater and swam the length of the pool, pretending not to notice as he passed her by and splashed water in her general direction.

When he surfaced she’d moved to the other end of the pool.

Was she hiding from him? The idea of her being the mouse to his cat was like a red rag to a bull. He dived underwater again and swam beneath the surface, stealthy and silent, and had the pleasure of seeing surprise on her face when he lifted himself up right beside her.

‘Nice evening?’ she murmured, her eyes scanning his face, her anger flashing more visibly now.

‘Not really,’ he said noncommittally.

Without developing some kind of mystical psychic ability she had no idea what he meant by that. She turned her head away, her eyes soaking in the view of Rome in the distance without really seeing it. Even at this early hour of the morning the city was alive, its buildings outlined with light, all its ancient stories winding around themselves, whispering through the walls to those who wanted to listen.

‘Do you do this often?’ He turned to face her, his body achingly close.

‘No.’

‘Nor do I. Strange that we both had the same idea tonight.’

‘Not really. It’s been muggy as hell today,’ she pointed out logically. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

He nodded, but his eyes were speculative. ‘And in general?’ he prompted.

God, she looked young like this—bathed in moonlight and the salt water of his pool.

Her eyes were blank. ‘What do you mean?’

He compressed his lips. ‘Are you settling in well to Rome?’

‘Oh.’ She was grateful for the night, grateful that it hid her blush. ‘Yes. I’ve sent off my enrolment forms. I’ll start university next term.’

‘What will you study?’

‘Psychology.’ She looked away from his intense gaze, feeling that he saw way too much. ‘It’s always interested me.’

‘I see.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I would have imagined you doing history, or perhaps English literature.’

She lifted a hand and ran it over the water’s surface, feeling its thick undulations beneath her fingertips.

‘Why? Because I’m bookish? Because I look as though I’d be perfectly at home under bags of dust in an ancient library?’

His smile was perfunctory. ‘No.’

He moved closer towards her, and again she had the sense that he was chasing her. Ridiculous when they were simply floating at the same end of the pool. Besides, why would a man like Pietro Morelli chase her?