Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (20 page)

So he was testing her again?

'Isn't that the kind of place that you've sent him this time? Argentina
. . . ugh! But I guess I'll survive - as I'm surviving here!'

'I am glad to hear that - and since you are bored with nothing more than
taking the sun and an occasional game of tennis I will certainly try to make
arrangements to provide some kind of ... suitable entertainment for you.'

'Thank you!' He rewarded that effort with an outright scowl and,
encouraged, Sara proceeded just as blithely, 'I was beginning to feel as if ...
like I'd been locked up in Bluebeard's castle - something like that - no
offence, of course!'

'Bluebeard . . .!'

'Yes!' Sara said helpfully. 'You'll remember he was the man who used to
kill his wives when he got tired of them and then keep their mutilated bodies
in this little room he used to keep locked up, and -

'Please! Enough!' He rapped out the words, the dark scowl he directed at
her even more pronounced. 'Yes. I happen to have heard of this famous Bluebeard
as a matter of fact, but I must say that I fail to see the comparison between
Bluebeard's last wife and you! I have no secret room where I hide the bodies of
all my past innamorate for you to discover, and moreover - ' his voice becoming
slightly menacing - 'should I ever wish to get rid of you, there could always
be an accidental fall from the high turret, all the way down to the black rocks
and the hungry waves below . . .'

'Are you . . . are you threatening me?' Sara hoped there hadn't been a
quaver in her voice. She stared at him wide-eyed across the table, trying to
control the agitated thumping of her heart. In his veins, after all, ran the
cruel vengeful blood of both Moor and Spaniard. Had he brought her here
thinking that she was Delight, thinking to take her out of his brother's life
forever?

There was a depth to the greenness of her eyes in which lay a fine
shower of gold, barely escaping from making her eyes appear hazel. Sun-flushed
cheekbones high enough to shadow her face, especially in the leaping orange and
gold candle flame. And a mouth . .. Dio! he swore at himself in his mind. Why
must he always look at her mouth and want to capture it and crush it with his
again - and then remember how many other men had used those same red lips and
been used by them.

She had been needling him for days, her tiny sweetened barbs getting
under his skin until it had been hard not to seize her slim shoulders between
his hands and shake her violently.

She had actually had the final temerity to beat him at tennis - his game
- playing like an Amazon and returning his most vicious slams. He had snarled
at her unpleasantly then: 'I must confess myself surprised at your game - but I
suppose I should have remembered that tennis is the "in" game these
days!'

She had been too elated then to acknowledge his ill-disposed comment,
but now he had managed to make her afraid - and he had a good mind to let her
stay in that frame of mind. The little bitch certainly deserved it! Not only
had she all but enticed him into bringing her here, but in spite of the way in
which she'd responded to his kisses and his touch she continued to voice her
devotion to his brother! Scenting his inheritance, no doubt - the girl had
hardly any money of her own and a famous father who had never bothered to
acknowledge her. Well, he had brought her here to teach her a lesson and to
force Carlo to see at last what kind of woman he'd actually wanted to marry.

Marco had been studying her broodingly, almost consideringly,, had not
troubled to answer her blurted-out accusation that he threatened her. Let her
start to cower! Let the same look of fear spring into those great green eyes
that he had seen in the eyes of animals who knew they were about to die. Let
her be afraid of him, for a change - it might alter her disposition and make
her more eager to please him! 'Oh!' Hating both his ominous silence and the way
in which his eyes seemed to pierce her coldly, Sara sprang to her feet, snapping
the building tension between them with her impatient cry.

'Ohh .. .you! If you think you can frighten
 
me, then you're quite wrong! And if I started
to tell you exactly what I think of you, why I... I... I'd probably take all
night! And I don't think I want any more dinner, thank you. In ... in fact I'd
like to leave - very early tomorrow, please!'

In her eagerness to leave the room and Marco's detestable presence, Sara
almost knocked over her chair, ignoring the impassive footman who sprang
forward to retrieve it. Damn him for a devil who was even worse than the one
Delight had described to her. Now she had to escape him.

'Your manners are atrocious! Come back here.' If his steel-edged voice
was meant to bar her half-running, half-stumbling progress across the
impossibly large formal dining-room it would not succeed.

'Go to hell!' Sara flung over her shoulder without pausing. Let him just
try to throw her over that broad stone wall, so innocuously hung with
flowering, perfumed vines that smelled of the tropics. The least she'd do was
take him with her, locked closely together on that long, last fall to the sea.

Rage propelled her forward over the last few steps to the ornately
carved doors, hardly hearing the command his voice snapped out in the harsh Spanish-Italian
dialect his servants used. She stopped before the doors, wondering why the two
servants who would normally open them before she reached them had instead
stationed themselves before the doors, barring her passage - and then the
meaning of his order became apparent, even before he spoke again, his voice
harsh.

'You will only embarrass yourself even more if you attempt to continue
in this mad flight of yours! Come back here and sit down.'

Sara stood staring at the doors with their winking gold handles that
were always to be touched with gloved hands. She didn't want to turn around to
face him — he couldn't make her!

'And . . . and if I don't want to? If I refuse, will you have your
feudal servants carry me bodily back to my chair? I tell you, I want to leave
here. This place - and your presence! Hlow dare you treat me like .. . like an
inmate of a Moorish harem who is not allowed the privilege of freedom?'

'If you had truly been a harem woman, my dear Delight, I think you would
not want to leave, for you would be too busy trying to make yourself your
master's favourite plaything! But if you were stubborn . . . then you would
have been either whipped or drowned. Be thankful that I don't intend to do
either — unless you push me too far! And now - please come back here and take
your seat again. Why humiliate yourself?'

There was no help — not so much as a flicker of feeling — in the faces
of the two men who faced her with their eyes fixed on some spot far above her
head. No help anywhere. For a split second Sara weighed choices, and then with
a bitterness that seemed to stick in her throat she took the obvious one.

'Very well. You haven't left me with an alternative, have you?'

Squaring her shoulders like a young soldier on parade Sara swung around,
with the silken skirt of her short, bare-shouldered dinner dress brushing her
knees. Her chair was pulled back for her smartly, and she accepted the
attention with a curt nod before she sat down once more, holding her back
rigid, her face stony. Damn him! What did he think to achieve by this piece of
high-handedness? What else did he think he could force her into doing?

Chapter 18

'Do you usually have to force women into keeping you company at the
dinner table? Or... or abduct them for your amusement? Why am I really here?'

From the other end of the table those night-black eyes, whose scrutiny
Sara had already begun to fear as well as hate, seemed to eat through her
poorly erected defences.

'Why?' his caustic voice drawled at her as his long fingers cut a slice
of cheese and balanced it on the edge of his knife. 'Why do you think, Delight?
Perhaps I could not help wondering whether you would live up to your name . . .
perhaps I wanted to find out how much you realty love my brother. Do both my
answers agitate you? I can see the breath fluttering in your throat!' And now
his voice took on an edge that was almost as sharp as the knife he played with.
'Come, let's be honest with each other, carissima! After all, I did not exactly
abduct you. I recall clearly, even if you claim not to, that you came along
with me quite willingly . , . Didn't you say that my invitation "sounded
like great fun"? And you even left a message on your Uncle Theo's tape . .
. surely you remember that? I had to remind you that if you did not stop
giggling so hard he would not be able to understand one word you said when he
played it back later.So why are you suddenly ready to run away from me so soon?
Or was this temper tantrum of yours a typically feminine way of reminding me
that I should devote more time to you?'

Sara dragged a deep, ragged breath into her lungs, her chin tilting
defiantly. No, she wouldn't allow him to play .cat-and-mouse with her. She'd
face him down no matter what he tried to do with her, the brute.

'You are saying things to me now that are meant to hurt and humiliate,
aren't you? And I wonder why. Are you angry because I beat you at a match of
tennis? Or because I so obviously prefer your brother's lovemaking to yours?'

Soon after the words had escaped her, Sara found herself wondering
whether she had gone too far. He had eyes as black as the coals of hell that
would have consumed her if she- had let them. All the way across the table she
heard the hiss of his indrawn breath, and to stop herself from flinching she
challenged his fury instead.

'Of course I'm only a helpless female and no match for you physically -
and you do have your servants who obey you blindly too, don't you? Now that
you've reminded me that I'm completely at your mercy, might I ask you what
exactly you mean to do with me? Murder me? Rape me?'

'Enough!' With a voice that sounded more like a growl of thunder he
plunged the blade of his knife into the board before him. 'Enough of your
questions, your accusations, your insinuations and the challenge of your much-vaunted
sexuality, which you constantly throw in my face. Let me tell you this . ..'
Yanking the knife free of wood he pointed it at her in a way that made Sara
quake inside, wondering if he meant to throw it at her heart. 'Let me remind
you that I have already told you I had no intention of raping you —as much as
you might try to incite me to such an act. And let me
 
tell you too that I will have you in the end,
brother or no brother, hate or not; and when I do it will be as much your doing
and your wanting as mine.'

Unable to prevent it, Sara could feel a heated flush rise in her Face as
the meaning of what he'd just said registered belatedly. She found herself
staring at him silently with her lips slightly parted and her breathing
unpleasantly quickened — just like a terrified rabbit mesmerised by a snake,
she was to think later, with a rush of self-disgust.

He gave a short, ugly laugh. 'Maledizione! Have I actually startled your
sharp tongue into silence? You are looking at me as if you are waiting for me
to leap out of this chair in which I sit and pounce on you ... like this
crouching wolf I wear about my neck! Are you afraid ... or fascinated, my
fickle Delight?'

'Your . . .your . . . don't you dare call me yours! I'm not your
anything - I never will be yours not if you were the last man left on earth —
never of my own volition, never!'

'Is that a challenge or merely another piece of hypocrisy? For a young
woman of your experience who has "been around", as your expression
goes, you are certainly acting prudishly — unless you thought to impress me?'

He was absolutely the most despicable, most conceited man she had ever
encountered! The way he twisted all her words around . , .

'I would very much like to throw something at you!' Sara said in a
smothered voice. 'Preferably something very heavy or very wet . . .' Her eyes
went with longing to the heavy silver urn in the centre of the table that was
filled with a beautifully arranged assortment of exotic orchids, and she sighed
before she looked steadily back at him with spots of angry colour staining her
cheekbones. 'But my — I've been taught to try to act like a lady at all times,
even when I'm not in the presence of a gentleman!' Fingers gripping tightly
over the arms of her chair, Sara willed herself not to drop her eyes away.

'You speak your lines well, like the clever actress I'm sure you are!'
Savouring his second cup of espresso, he raised it to her in a sarcastic
acknowledgement. "And you are right about me, Delight... I am not a gentle
man. This land does not breed gentleness, nor does it tolerate weakness. Here
we have only extremes of nature, with nothing in the middle - and this is true
of the Sardinians themselves too. You might do well to remember that.'

There were times when her eyes became like sharp chips of green glass
that longed to gouge and cut. Marco leaned back in his chair, studying her
deliberately as he tried to gauge her readiness. In the end, he had no doubt
that she would give in, but in the meantime she had certainly managed to surprise
him with her stubbornness and her temper.

She had now chosen to erect a wall of icy, injured silence between them,
turning away from him with an exaggerated shrug of one bare, silky sheened
shoulder to play with a silver spoon. Damn her! She was nothing more than a
slut of a girl - an amoral creature with a good body, which she obviously knew
how to use in bed in order to gain her own ends. How dared she disrupt his life
- prove so stubborn that he'd had to resort to the extreme measure of bringing her
here? She was playing some kind of game with him, of course, alternately
leading him forward with her pretended shyness and coquettishness and then
fending him off with an exhibition of her temper or her infernal manner of
self-containment.