It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

And that was the most welcome sound of all, she thought, her slim body sagging in relief.

She put the guard in front of the fire and extinguished the lights before going quietly upstairs herself.

She’d expected to find the bathroom a wet-floored shambles, but it was amazingly neat, his damp towel hanging on the hot rail.

There was a small ramshackle bolt on the door, which was more than could be said for her bedroom, and she slid it into place before beginning to refill the tub. Just a precaution, she told herself, and she was probably just being paranoid.

Raf was here on a face-saving exercise, that was all. His male pride had been damaged and perhaps, in retrospect, she’d been unwise to deride it. Maybe it would do no harm to apologise. Explain she’d spoken in the heat of the moment. Show that she could be reasonable.

All the same, her bath was not the long leisurely affair she’d originally planned. She dried herself quickly and put on one of the nightgowns she’d brought with her—a relic from her school-days, voluminous in brushed cotton, but warm, which was all that mattered.

As she went on tiptoe back to her room, she hesitated for a brief moment at the door opposite, but there wasn’t a sound. So maybe he was already sound asleep.

She closed her own door and leaned against it, suddenly aware that she’d been holding her breath, listening to the unbroken quiet.

After a moment she went over to the window and drew the curtain aside, wrinkling her nose at the swirl of white flakes dancing in front of her. It seemed to be snowing harder than ever, she thought, and while a sanctuary, however fragile it had proved, was one thing, being stranded by snowdrifts was something else completely.

Shivering, she dashed back to the bed and hopped in, pulling the duvet up to her chin as she waited for the first chill to subside. She stared up at the ceiling, letting thoughts, impressions, snatches of conversation tumble headlong through her mind.

Which achieved precisely nothing, apart from making her feel more on edge than ever. What she really needed was to turn off the lamp and go to sleep, she told herself firmly. Because things always looked better in the morning—didn’t they?

And at that moment her door opened with a faint creak and Raf came in. He was wearing a black silk robe, casually belted at the waist, and the rest of him was tawny skin as he moved towards her with an unhurried purpose that brought all her worst fears choking to the surface.

Propped on an elbow, Emily stared at him. ‘What—what do you want?’

‘We have matters to discuss,’ he said. ‘If you remember.’

‘But tomorrow.’ In spite of herself there was a quiver in her voice. ‘You said we’d talk tomorrow.’

‘It is already tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And have you never heard of pillow talk?’

His hands went to the sash of his robe and she shrank.

‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘No, Raf, please. You can’t do this. You promised me…’

‘At that time, I was dealing with a terrified child,’ he said softly. ‘But you told my lawyers that you were planning to remarry, so it seems you have outgrown your virginal fears and are a woman at last.’

‘But there’ll be no other marriage,’ she protested. ‘You—you know that.’

His brows lifted. ‘And you think that makes a difference? It does not.’

His voice hardened. ‘I have been astonishingly patient with you, Emilia, but you went too far with your demand for an annulment. And I intend to make quite certain you will never insult me in that way again.’

He shrugged off the robe and slid, naked, into the bed beside her.

He added softly, ‘I am sure you understand me.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘MY GOD.’ Emily almost choked as she flung herself away from him across the bed, her heart juddering against her ribs, like a bird trapped in a cage. She was hideously aware that she’d closed her eyes a split second too late and that a unwanted image of Rafaele Di Salis without his clothes was now engraved on her memory.

Aware too of the sudden warmth of his body in the intimacy of the bed—his nearness. And felt the breath catch in her throat.

‘Don’t you dare come near me. And don’t touch me,’ she added wildly, trying to wrench herself free as his hands descended on her shoulders.

‘Now you are being foolish.’ Calmly but inexorably, Raf pulled her round to face him, his brows lifting as he studied the high-necked nightgown with its demure row of pearl buttons, the long sleeves and the lace-edged collar and cuffs.

‘I see the nuns’ training has prevailed in the bedroom as well as the kitchen, cara,’ he murmured, not bothering to hide his amusement. ‘So—will you remove this grotesque garment, or would you prefer me to do so?’

‘This is revenge, isn’t it?’ she said shakily. ‘Because I had the bad taste to prefer another man and let you know it.’

‘They say revenge is sweet.’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Perhaps, tonight, we will both discover if that is true.’

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t do this. You—you don’t really want me. You know that. And you’ve punished me enough already. So just—let me go.’

‘Without having tasted the pleasures of marriage?’ Raf said mockingly. ‘I don’t think so, my sweet wife. There are so few novelties in life, after all.’

She drew an uneven breath. ‘You’ll make me hate you.’

‘But I thought you already did, mia cara,’ he said. ‘So what have I to lose?’ He paused, fingering the collar of her nightgown. ‘Now, which of us is it to be?’ he questioned softly.

‘I’m not taking it off!’ she flared.

‘As you wish.’ As he began to unfasten the buttons, Emily made a grab for his hand, intending to sink her teeth into it.

But he was too quick for her. ‘Wildcat,’ he accused, laughing, as he captured both her wrists with one lean hand and raised them above her head so that she was helpless. ‘If you wish to bite me, Emilia mia, then I will gladly show you how and—where. But later. For now, my attention is fully occupied with these buttons, as I refuse to make love to you in this—tent.’

She stared up at him, her eyes enormous in her pale face. She said unevenly, ‘How dare you use the word “love”?’

‘What would you prefer?’ Raf asked, as the last button gave way.

‘Some Anglo-Saxon crudity?’ His shrug was cynical. ‘You will find it all means much the same thing.’

‘You are vile,’ she said passionately.

‘You would naturally think so.’

He released her wrists, but only so that he could whip her nightgown over her head with a speed and deftness that appalled her and toss it to the floor beside the bed.

She tried to pull the duvet up to her chin, but Raf forestalled her.

He said quietly, ‘No, mi amore, I wish to look at you,’ and threw back the covers so that she too was naked in the lamplight.

Emily turned her head away blindly, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

If I don’t look at him, she thought with a kind of desperation, if I don’t see him looking at me, I can pretend that this—this isn’t happening.

And I can bear it—somehow, especially if I think about something else.