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

And then he was kissing her, his mouth moving on hers slowly and achingly at first, then with a hard, deepening urgency—a hunger that made the soft, trembling contours of her lips feel bruised.

Until she could scarcely breathe. Or think rationally any more.

Or why else would she have found that, against all expectation, she wanted to return the sensuous pressure that he was subjecting her to? That she needed to learn the lines of his mouth as thoroughly as he was exploring hers? And, maybe, even more…

And then, with almost shocking suddenness, it was over, and he was lifting himself away from her.

‘A great improvement,’ he said in a tone so impersonal that Emily, still dazed, almost expected him to give her marks out of ten. He ran a careless finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘Now, sleep well, cara,’ he added lightly. ‘And may all your dreams be sweet.’

He turned to switch off the lamp, leaving her with an unwanted, but potent image of the long, supple line of his naked back before the room was plunged into darkness.

Emily turned away too, almost scuttling to the opposite side of the bed, lying, taut and breathless, on its furthermost edge as she waited for her heartbeat to regain its normality.

She was shaken to the core by her own reaction. Bitterly ashamed of her own weakness. And surprised too that Raf had actually kept his word, had not taken further advantage of her.

Yet Emily knew she had by no means escaped unscathed. That there was an even more worrying aspect of the situation that she somehow had to confront.

That long ago night…

Those were the words that were now coming back to haunt her. His unfounded but still disturbing suggestion that she might have gone into his arms knowing full well that he was not Simon.

Indicating that her female instinct should have stopped her before she’d got within a yard of him, let alone thrown herself at him.

But that’s nonsense, she told herself. It was dark, and I was very young and very stressed—nervous as hell—not thinking straight. Besides, it was Simon I was expecting. No one else. Because Raf was with Jilly. I—I knew that. Knew that, if she had her way, there was no reason to expect him back before breakfast.

And, anyway, as soon as I realised my mistake, I pushed him away instantly—immediately, she thought defensively. Of course I did. Although I admit that it should not have got to that stage. That obviously I should have known as soon as he first touched me. And that it should never—ever—have gone as far as it did.

But it was an honest error. And Raf has no right and no reason to imply anything different. As if I’d wanted to find out what being in his arms—being kissed by him—might feel like.

Which, she told herself hotly, is a shameful inference to draw from an—an innocent blunder.

Yet suddenly Emily found she was shivering, wrapping her arms round her body in an involuntary gesture of self-protection.

Because she was bitterly aware that she’d never been able to forget that brief moment in time, no matter how hard she’d tried. That she’d seen it as a warning not to allow him anywhere near her again.

But was that because she could not trust him, as Raf himself had proved only last night, justifying all her worst fears? Or was it—could it be—because she was afraid she might not be able to trust herself?

Could it be possible that there’d been one second—one infinitesimal moment on that long ago night when she hadn’t wanted to step back? When, incredibly, she’d wanted to press herself closer to the hardening danger of his body and offer her parted lips for his deeper exploration?

She hadn’t been unfaithful to Simon—of course not. But instinct had told her she’d approached some danger zone that she hadn’t known existed till then. So she’d buried all the doubts—the unanswered questions far, far down in her psyche.

But now Raf’s mocking challenge had brought them all raging back to the surface to torment her, testing the validity of her claim of ‘an honest error’.

Yes, it was still a terrible mistake to have made, but whether it was ‘honest’ or ‘innocent’ was now wide open to question.

Because she’d never managed to completely erase the memory of that barely discernible flicker of physical excitement.

And, if she was being truly honest, it wasn’t the only time that she’d reacted in that particular way.

My wedding night in Italy, she thought, swallowing. When I saw him walk into the bedroom and felt myself start to tremble inside. Yes, I was scared, at first anyway, but that wasn’t all of it, and I—I knew it.

Because I suddenly found myself remembering that other night and his arms holding me—the touch—the taste of his mouth. And wondered…

And, for a moment, I almost forgot that he’d married me solely out of a sense of obligation to my father. Although Rafaele soon reminded me, of course. Spelled out chapter and verse, then walked away.

While I told myself I should be relieved that he didn’t want me and even more thankful that I hadn’t made a fool of myself by smiling at him, or giving any other indication that he might be welcome to stay.

And yet there’d been times during that first year of marriage when Raf’s constant visits had been difficult to bear. Dreams, too, that she’d burned to remember.

But, eventually, as he’d begun to stay away and the rumours that he’d resumed his bachelor lifestyle had begun to circulate, Emily had been able to convince herself that it had all been a temporary aberration on her part, with no connection to the future she was planning for herself.

And when Simon came back and told me he’d never stopped loving me, she thought, I felt justified somehow. I was glad I could tell him that there’d never been—anyone else for me, and that we could start again—together. That I’d belong to him—and him alone.

Fine words, yet, so far, I haven’t shed a single tear for him. Is it possible that I always suspected, deep down, that I was just a means to an end? My father’s credulous heiress, looking for love in increasingly hopeless places?

Because I haven’t been very lucky in either of my suitors. One of them sold me out and the other used me to repay an old debt.

Which doesn’t leave me with many illusions about myself and maybe I will be able to cry about that one day. Before I begin to sort out exactly who I am and what I really want. But not yet.

Because I have to get through this somehow and I can’t afford tears or self-pity. I need to survive.

She closed her eyes resolutely, then opened them again.

That long ago night…

It occurred to her suddenly that this was the first time Raf had ever mentioned it. Up to now, he’d always behaved as if it had never happened. But then, she thought, he’d never required her to kiss him before either.

Not that it meant anything, she added hastily. It was just another way of asserting his male dominance. Another ploy to humiliate her, as she’d embarrassed him over the annulment issue.

But she would never let him see that it mattered. Not that—or anything else he might do to her. She would shore up the control she’d so painfully acquired. And there would be no more moments of weakness or inappropriate curiosity about how it might be if she ever surrendered herself completely to his lovemaking, she told herself fiercely.

Because, one day soon, he would become tired of this fruitless battle of wills and decide to let her go and she wanted to be able to walk away, her head held high.

And now, she thought, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, I have to stop thinking about him and try to sleep.

She dozed eventually, but it was no peaceful rest. She was assailed by snatches of dreams peopled by shadowed figures with faces she did not recognise, who turned away as she struggled to reach them across bleak and barren landscapes.

In the end she was never sure what woke her. But as she opened her eyes to the pale grey light filtering through the curtains, she had a overwhelming impression of being warm, relaxed and deliciously comfortable. All this, she thought drowsily, in total contrast to her miserable night with its fragmented dreams.

Yet, as her awareness increased, several disturbing facts made themselves evident. For one, she was no longer lying on the far side of the bed, clinging to its edge as if stranded on the north face of the Eiger.

Somehow, in the night, she had moved back across the broad expanse of the mattress to where Raf was lying.

But she wasn’t just next to him, for heaven’s sake, but right up against him as if she’d been glued to his spine. Her legs had somehow become entangled with his and her body had adapted every inch of itself to fit the long, lean curve of his back, her breasts crushed against its hard muscularity, and her arm draped round his waist. Moreover, her face was pressed between his shoulder blades, so that her nose and mouth were filled with the warm, clean scent of his skin.

Emily lay for a moment, hardly daring to breathe, intensely conscious of the violent, erratic beat of her heart. Out of one nightmare into another, she thought with horror. Dear God, I’m practically inside him.

But how could it possibly have happened? It had to be her own doing, because Raf clearly hadn’t moved an inch and, fortunately, was still sleeping deeply and peacefully.