Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

‘Yes.’ But he heard the odd catch in her voice and he looked at her more closely. ‘You’re trembling, Cassandra,’ he said softly. ‘Are you cold?’

Couldn’t he see how his words now hung like the sword of Damocles over her head? She was nothing like Gabriella—and yet Gabriella had been the woman that he’d loved. Had he looked at the two of them tonight and compared them? One so sleek and dark and sophisticated—and the other a young, pale foreigner who could never compete, not on any level. ‘A…little.’

‘Then let’s get you back.’ Leaning forward, he rapped sharply at the glass partition which separated them from the driver. ‘Piu velocemente!’ he ordered, his voice suddenly urgent.

The car drew up as close as it could get to their hotel, and they walked a little way in the crisp night air, back to their penthouse suite which overlooked the city’s famous Spanish Steps. In the mirrored confines of the elevator Cassie could see Giancarlo’s gaze raking over her assessingly and she wondered if he was thinking about the beautiful brunette they had just left. But then he placed his arm about her shoulder and drew her close to his powerful frame.

‘Tired?’ he questioned.

She shook her head. Her head was spinning from all that she’d seen and heard during dinner and the thought of sleep seemed impossible. ‘No. Actually, I’m wide awake.’

‘Me, too.’ He thought how clear her skin looked and how bright her violet eyes. He thought of the pain and the bitterness on his twin brother’s face as he had poured his heart out—and suddenly he wanted to blot it all out with Cassandra’s sweet kiss.

‘You know, you are really very beautiful,’ he said softly. ‘Sei molto bella,’ he repeated in Italian and began to kiss her—her stifled little cry of surprise sounding on his lips. For a split second she seemed to hesitate—as if the chemistry which had once burned between them were no more. And then she melted against him, opened her mouth beneath his as naturally as breathing and gave a little moan. He slid his arms around her waist and then brought her even closer, revelling in the sensation of her soft curves and the silken spill of her hair. How long had it been? he wondered hungrily—as his body gave a sudden urgent jerk of desire. Not since the night before she’d left London at Christmas…

‘Giancarlo—’ she said breathlessly.

‘I want to make love to you, bella. I want to make love to you so badly.’

Why now? she wondered desperately. Why now? She opened her mouth to ask him but once again his powerful kiss silenced her.

Flagrantly, he rubbed his arousal against her belly—leaving her in no doubt about how much he wanted her. The loud ping of the elevator did nothing but temporarily interrupt his deepening passion as, with a low growl, he led her into their suite. Kicking shut the door behind them, he pushed her coat impatiently from her shoulders, let it slither to the floor before lifting her up in his arms and carrying her along the corridor towards the vast master bedroom.

‘Put me down,’ she protested. ‘I’m too heavy.’

‘You’re as light as a feather,’ he contested as he lay her down on the bed. ‘Despite the fact that you carry my child inside you.’ But the reminder of that made his fingers halt in the trembling process of unbuttoning her dress—despite the desire which burned inside him. He thought of the tiny life inside her and he swallowed down the hot cocktail of lust which was heating his blood. ‘In fact, maybe this is not such a good idea after all,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Ironically, his momentary wavering killed her own uncertainty and she shook her head, her fingers clamping around his stilled hand. ‘You won’t. There’s nothing in the rule-book which says that pregnant women can’t have sex,’ she whispered, moving him back in the direction of her aching nipples and closing her eyes with pleasure as he began to touch them.

‘Isn’t there?’ he questioned unevenly. He bared her creamy breasts—fuller than he remembered them, and showcased perfectly in a filmy lace brassiere. Unsteadily, his fingers trailed over the outline of a tight, rosy nub and felt it pucker up beneath them, like a crushed petal. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Qu-quite sure.’

He peeled away her dress and slid off her stockings, bra and panties and then took off his own clothes—for he did not trust himself to wait while her trembling fingers tried to accomplish the task. And then, pulling her into his arms at long last, he groaned as their naked bodies made contact. She was all soft and giving flesh and he ran his fingers keenly over her skin, feeling the urgent jerk of his body in response.