Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (19 page)

'Well, I'm not on screen now, am I? And I'd really appreciate it if you
left, so I can get out and get dressed. I'm sure Carlo wouldn't like the idea
of my traipsing around naked in front of you - he has such respect for you!'

Advantage Sara. At least this time around. Sitting later in the mirrored
dressing room while she tried to decide if she should use any rnake-up or not,
Sara tried to compose herself for the match of wills and wits that would surely
follow their earlier encounter and his none-too-willing retreat.

Staring back at her triple-mirrored reflection she was struck all over
again by the unreality of the predicament she found herself-in. Love's Essence
indeed! How long could she go on playing Delight? And - worst thought of all -
what would he do with her when the masquerade was ended?

Be like Scarlett and think about it tomorrow! Sara told herself;
deciding that she was far too pale and needed some colour in her face. He
wouldn't like it - the thought prodded her into applying a touch of blusher to
her cheekbones; Lancome's Glace D'Or lip gloss that made her mouth look full
and inviting.

Her hair fell as far as her shoulders in heavy waves, and Sara ran
impatient fingers through it. So much for the 'natural' permanent she'd had to
get in order to be Delight. She hoped Delight and Carlo had had their happy
reunion and were safely married by now. And what would Delight think if she
knew what had happened?

She'd probably laugh hysterically, Sara reminded herself wryly. She tied
her hair back from her face with a silk scarf and stood up, twirling around
once in front of the mirrors in her pale-green tennis dress; smiling at herself
because she knew she looked good. Beyond that, she preferred not to think.

'Excuse me, signorina . . .'

Flushing, Sara whirled around to face the impassive-looking housekeeper.

'If you're ready, I have been instructed to take you outside. It is
difficult to find the way unless you have been here some time.'

'Thank you . . .'

What did the thin, stone-faced woman really think? How long had she been
here, serving the family of II Duca di Cavalieri? On an impulse, Sara added:
'Do you know Carlo? My . . . fiance?'

There was still no expression in the woman's voice as she said, 'Since
he was a little boy. If you will please follow me, signorina?'

'Goodness, it is difficult to find one's way around, isn't it? How kind
of you to come and show me.'

'I was instructed . . .' the woman repeated stiffly, although the rigid
set of her shoulders seemed to relax slightly.

'By Marco? Have you known him since he was a boy too? What was he like?'

Sara didn't quite know why she persisted in her questioning as she
hurried in the wake of the black-clad housekeeper; only this time she was
rewarded by a sideways look that seemed to reassess her.

'I have been with the family since just before the coming of the second
Duchessa . . . Duca was then a boy of about seven. Please be careful of the
steps, signorina . . .'

She would probably never be able to find her way about this rabbit
warren of a palazzo on her own! There were rooms leading into passageways that
led into more rooms -and then suddenly they emerged into a gallery that was
hung with portraits, most of them very old. Twin marble staircases led
downwards to an enormous, vaulted hall in the centre of which was a swimming
pool that looked more like a Roman bath, with steps leading down to the
shallower part and a ledge running all along three sides. The pool itself was
blue-tiled, giving the water in it the illusion of a miniature sea.

'How lovely!'

There was an artfully contrived waterfall at the deep end of the pool;
the water seeming to gush out of the wall, falling over polished stones.

'The water comes from a stream high in the mountains. It is caught first
in a cistern on the roof, where the sun warms it. In case the signorina wishes
to swim, the water is always warm enough.'

'It's solar heated — marvellous!'

'This way, please . . .'

The sunlight was almost blinding after the cool darkness of the house.
Sara shaded her eyes, squinting them against the glare.

To one side of the twin tennis courts there was a comparatively shady
area where trees had been planted, and huge umbrellas shaded tables and chairs.

Marco, Duca di Cavalieri, rose to his feet with exaggerated politeness.

'How good of you to join me! And I see you are dressed ' for tennis —
good. Grazie, Serafina.'

The woman bobbed her head and disappeared into the comparative coolness
of the house, and Sara sat unwillingly in the chair that he had pulled out for
her. Were they supposed to forget about their earlier meeting today? Perhaps it
was just as well! She noticed, irrelevantly, that he had changed into a pair of
brief white denim shorts that fitted him almost too closely. His pale-blue
cotton shirt was open almost to the waist. With his high-boned corsair's face
and those brooding black eyes that narrowed as they rested on her face he
looked devastatingly handsome, Sara thought and then caught back her own
thought with a feeling of annoyance. She mustn't forget that he was the Enemy!
Nor that they had an unspoken bet going . , .

'You slept well?' Sara had to tear her eyes away from the wolf medallion
that winked in the sun, almost blinding her to reason.

'Yes, thank you. I was very tired.' She made her voice cool, but her
fingers played nervously with the short hem of her finely pleated skirt.

'And now? Your bath refreshed you I trust?' In the grating roughness of
.his voice was the memory of the way he had seen her this morning soaking in a
marble tub with strands of hair escaping from a careless knot to cling to the
curve of her neck and shoulders - outline of firm young breasts only partially
concealed by the steamy water. In the darkness of his eyes, as they swept
deliberately over her, lingering on her bare arms and legs, Sara could sense
the crouched animal that waited, only half-hidden; sure enough of his prey to
give her room to run free for a while longer.

Would she be able to escape?

Chapter 17

'I'm surprised that you don't have a moat and a drawbridge to keep
yourself really cut off from the rest of the world!' Skewering an ice-cold
melon ball on her fork, Sara popped it into her mouth; looking across the
length of the candle-lit table with a trace of sarcasm in her voice. 'How can
you be sure that your walls are high enough and your stone gatehouse strong
enough to hold off. . . whoever it is you are hiding from? Are there really
bandits in this pan of the world?'

Her face was slightly flushed, both from the searing heat of the
Sardinian sun and from her victory over him in their last tennis match this
evening. Oh, but he had been furious, looking at her through those obsidian
eyes of his as if he would have burned holes into her too-pale skin, if he
could. But now, as he played casually with the stem of his wineglass, his face
might have been a dark mask, giving nothing away as he answered her with lazy
tolerance: 'Bandits? A few fugitives from the law, perhaps — some men who make a
livelihood from stealing what others work for. But my stone gatehouse and my
guards with their guns are to ward off terrorists, who are not as romantic
sounding as bandits and much more dangerous. Why do you ask all these
questions? Has something happened to make you nervous?'

'Of course, I'm not nervous! Just curious, that's all,' Sara retorted
flippantly. 'I've been reading a little about Sardinia's history, that's all.
You have some nice books ...' And then, remembering her role she added hastily,
'Those with pictures in them, anyway!'

'I see!' How she hated the caustic tilt of his thick black brows. 'You
read Italian then?'

'One of my mother's husbands - Pietro Ferrero - was Italian, and he
stayed around long enough so that I picked up a few words here and there.'

'How useful. But if you are actually interested in the history of
Sardegna, perhaps I can help you. For instance ...'

'Oh - I guess the history really doesn't matter!' Sara smiled brightly,
knowing from the almost imperceptible tightening of his face that she had
succeeded in annoying him again. 'What I'm really interested in is the Costa
Smeralda, which I've heard is a very swinging place! Can't we go there?' She
pouted. 'It's been ages since I've danced, and I'm sure Carlo wouldn't mind —
if I was with you! Besides . . . I've already been here for what seems like
ages instead of just days!'

She must go on being her sister, acting as her sister would. And she
must continue to keep him at arm's length with her flippant tongue and her
independent attitude. This morning, rising early, she had wandered out on to
the small terrace her room opened on to, determined to let the sun lend some
colour to her pale skin and he had found her lying out there in her briefest
bikini. Again, she had almost forgotten her part; not expecting to see him so
early and halfway between waking and dozing Sara had left the powerful
transistor radio he'd allowed her on a classical station that played opera. Of
course he'd had to make some sarcastic comment, which she had brushed away with
the explanation that the station must have changed while she was asleep. And
then, as if he had had to find something to attack her about, he'd begun to
lecture her about falling asleep in the sun, and the consequences it could
have.

All the time he'd been speaking, Sara had been acutely, angrily aware of
the way his eyes seemed to range over her with deliberately insolent slowness,
lingering on the cleft between her breasts, the shadow between her thighs; and
since she did not have a wrap or a towel to cover herself with, it had been too
annoying! Especially when her heart had begun to thud unaccountably and her
breath caught in her throat, holding back the angry words she had been about to
fling at him.

'You had better put some more of that suntan oil on yourself if you mean
to stay out longer!' he had said finally, 'and keep the radio turned up louder,
on a station that plays music that will keep you awake in our hot sun!'

Rock music blasted out to assault her ears under the contemptuous flick
of his fingers before he had reached, surprising her, for the brown plastic
bottle of tanning oil, warmed by the sun.

'I don't need . . .' she had begun rebelliously — but she might have
known he would ignore her protests!

'Turn over.' If she had obeyed rather sullenly he would probably have
taken her by the shoulder and forced her around. 'You cannot manage to apply
the oil to your back by yourself. Lie still and I will oblige you.'

The pressure of his fingers had been strong and sure, massaging in oil until
it felt like silk against her burning skin. She wanted to pull away from the
man, run away from his maddening arrogance and subtle cruelty to the safety of
her room - but was there any place in this palace-fortress of his where she
would be safe from him? The crouching wolf, waiting to spring . . .

He'd noticed the shudder of strange apprehension her thought had
produced and had given one of his harsh, grating laughs. 'Were you afraid I'd
beat you for being a wicked little girl? Not this time at any rate . . . unless
you relax those tense muscles of yours! Don't you enjoy being massaged?' His
voice like sand under silk. His hands hard, and yet almost gentle as he
massaged the back of her neck, slid down the canyon of her spine to where she'd
knotted the two tiny red strings holding her minuscule top. ' Why do you think
you need to wear this ridiculous excuse for a bra? I am surprised at the
hypocrisy of women, especially those who preach liberation and equality! Didn't
you give an interview once in which you stated that you always sunbathe in the
nude or not at all, because you like your body to be the same colour all over?
I will see to it, if you wish, that you have complete privacy up here for as
long as you wish to sunbathe each day.' His hands slid down from her bra until
they cupped and lightly kneaded her tensed buttocks. He ignored Sara's
indignant 'Stop it!' - and moved his hands down the back of her thighs, and
then slid insidiously up the softness of their inner sides, while he murmured
softly: 'I can feel the vibration under your skin! What are you afraid of? That
having encouraged you to strip off your clothes and offer your fair body to the
sun I will play Apollo myself and rape you? When you came to lie out here this
morning, knowing that I would be the only man who would find you, did you think
that this would have stopped me if I'd been of a mind to exercise my droi tdu
seigneur?

Feeling the light brush of his ringers against her sensitivity had acted
like an electric shock, stunning her into awareness. 'No!' she had flung out
sharply, jerking away from his touch and bolting upright to glare at him
indignantly behind tumbled hair.

He had been hunkered down next to her and now his dark, inscrutable face
was far too close to her. 'No . . . what?' His voice taunted her deliberately,
and his eyes dwelt for a moment on the small, agitated pulse that leapt just
above her collarbone, before moving to her mouth.

If he touched her she would scream ... in spite of the fact that there
was probably no one who would hear her, or care if they did. But he hadn't
touched her, after all - leaving her with an abruptness that startled her.

Now, that same evening, Sara discovered on his face the same strangely
tense expression he had worn just before he left her with her frightened mouth
and both pieces of her bikini untouched. It was there for one moment only - and
then it had disappeared to leave his face expressionless.

'So you miss your discotheques? What would you do if I had to transfer
Carlo to some remote part of the world? There are places he might have to go to
that do not even have electricity!'