Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (21 page)

What he wanted was her unconditional surrender. To have her admit to the
strange, unwanted chemistry that existed between them, making the very air
crackle with tension sometimes. And then - then he could show her up to
herself; proving how weak was her fiercely professed fidelity to his brother
Carlo whom she insisted upon calling her fiance.

What he longed to do with her at this very moment was
 
to crush her slim, promiscuous body against
his, forcing her lips to part willingly under his, while he buried his hands in
thick masses of her polished-mahogany hair. That was what he should do — ending
once and for all this pointless farce she was
 
trying to prolong. And then, once he had had her and put
 
her in the right perspective, he could return
to his business and to Francine, his mistress, who waited for him in Paris.

'You have been sitting there just staring at me for the past five
minutes at least! Wouldn't you rather look at a picture that can't talk back?
Honestly, I really am rather tired, and if you don't mind, I'd really like to
go to ... upstairs.'

He had noticed the way she'd caught back the word 'bed' and substituted
'upstairs' instead. Really, her persistent enactment of a shy-little-virgin
role was a little ludicrous! Sara had not realised that she'd been holding her
breath until she saw him stand up with an exaggerated bow in her direction that
was belied by the almost contemptuous look in his eyes.

'Of course. You must find the quiet life here rather boring, eh?'

Was it to prove that it could be otherwise that he had insisted on
escorting her upstairs? Sara was all too much aware of the dark masculinity of
him beside her - the pressure of his fingers over her elbow that seemed to warn
her of the sheer futility of trying to run away. Was he aware, in his turn, of
her almost primitive fear of the very nearness of him - that she might lose
control over herself; lose a part of herself and all of the impossibly romantic
girlish dreams she'd grown up with? If he took her as he threatened, this
arrogant Sardinian Duke, it would be with no love and no regard. He would want
to use his body as an instrument with which to use her and punish her; and if
he whispered a name to her as he did, it would not even be her own name!

Sara fought against the strange feeling of fatalism that suddenly swept
over her. No! She mustn't give in - would not give in, no matter how her own
uncalled-for emotions might threaten to overwhelm her.

'It was kind of you to make sure I found my way, but I can manage
perfectly well now, thank you. There's a light on in my room, and –'

'Wouldn't you like to step out on to the terrace and look at the stars
for a while? They always seem exceptionally bright from up here.'

So now he was trying to be charming, was he?

'No, thank you,' Sara said firmly, adding for emphasis: 'With Your
Grace's permission, of course, your guest would really prefer to retire for the
night.'

Would he let her go? Sara wondered fearfully.

Should he end this stupid game they played right now or decide to
prolong it for a while longer? Marco's eyes narrowed slightly on her defiantly
shuttered face while he considered, and then he gave a mental shrug. What was
the hurry? She was here, and whether she knew it or not she wasn't going
anywhere unless he was ready to allow it. To win any contest too easily always
ended in boredom.

'So . . . maybe tomorrow . . .?'

He said the words aloud, deliberately letting her choose her own
interpretation of his meaning. 'And does my delightful guest have everything
she needs for tonight?'

'Your housekeeper is very efficient. Thank you . . .' Sara said with
deliberate blankness, wishing desperately he would tire of fencing with words
and leave her.

'Well, good night then . . . Delight.'

With a light, teasing finger he skimmed the outline of her jaw and then
her mouth, smiling rather mockingly when she jerked her head back as if he had
burned her.

'If you should change your mind - about watching the stars, that is - I
shall be working until late in my study downstairs. All you have to do is to
lift up the telephone by vour bed and dial the number seven. Good night again,
then. Sleep safely!' And with that last rather taunting admonition he had
actually left her!

Not caring what he thought, Sara almost fled into her room, leaning
against the door that she could not lock and feeling her knees tremble with the
weakness of reaction.

And of course that was all it was, she reminded herself sternly. If she
kept her head, and what Delight would call her 'cool', then she would
inevitably discover a way to extricate herself from this ridiculously gothic
situation. After

all it could only be a matter of time before her wicked Duke ( she
couldn't help the wry smile that touched her lips)

discovered that his precious half brother Carlo was no longer living
alone in Argentina and that he had, in fact, carried off the wrong sister! And
then the uninvited thought came: Oh dear - and then he'd probably kill me
anyway, so that no one will find out how completely he was fooled!

Half-afraid that he might change his mind, Sara completed her ablutions
as hurriedly as she could, slipping into a sheer white lawn nightdress that
reached down to her ankles and had been patterned after a nineteenth-century
chemise with its camisole top and white lace and blue ribbon trimmings.

Watch the stars with him indeed! Sara almost snorted aloud as she began
to brush her hair, counting strokes. That would have been an invitation to
disaster. There was nothing romantic or considerate about Giovanni Marco
Riccardo Marcantoni, Duca di Cavalieri, for all that his titular name implied.
Hadn't he jeered at the trait of gentleness tonight? No, he wasn't gentle - he
was crude and demanding and cruel and ruthless, a man obviously used to taking
what he wanted without a qualm as to the means he used. If he had taken her on
to her small terrace with the tiled floor that would still be warm from the
heat of the sun under her bare feet he would have . . .

She must be mad to let her thoughts follow such a dangerous direction!
Springing to her feet Sara flung down her brush. Rather think of how she would
contrive to avoid him tomorrow, she cautioned herself grimly as she turned off
the small, dim light. And she could star-watch by herself if she wanted to -
much safer!

Rationalisation took her to bed and impulse took her out of bed again to
fling aside the heavy curtains that shut out the sunlight streaming in from the
terrace during the day; hesitating here on the threshold of a warm black night
dense with the perfume of night-blooming flowers. Yes, the floor here was warm
under her feet; and yes indeed the stars formed an almost blindingly bright
pattern of pin-pointed lights against the blackness of the sky. A wave of
longing shook her for something, she didn't quite know what - yet.

Maybe she was better off not knowing. Or . . . was it not really a
yearning she had felt, but rather a sense of de'ja vu ? A sudden, strange
feeling that this had happened before, her standing here hesitating, torn
between going forward and holding back. She wanted to step outside, to lean her
back against the warm stone wall and look up at the stars, imagining what it
must be like to float among them. And if anyone whistled or called softly from
below she would not turn her head, of course. She would stay where she was,
gazing upwards at the stars like drops of quicksilver she could never trap,
never have, and must never dare yearn for.

It was almost as if Sara's feet carried her forward of their own accord.
The feeling of strangeness kept deepening in her, as if every step she took, every
move she made had already happened. There was a slight trace of moistness in
the warm air - a faint smell of the sea mingling with all the other odours of
the night. Leaning there against ancient stone with her face turned up to the
stars, Sara found herself waiting. For the signal. (Why had her mind thought
that?) For something - or for someone.

Chapter 19

The whistle that first startled her might have belonged to a night bird.
Sara ignored it, although goose bumps had started to erupt along her arms and
legs. She had begun to have a very uneasy feeling about the odd compulsion that
had drawn her out here. The low, trilling whistle came again and the palms of
her hands became clammy. It had to be a bird! And in any case she was going
back in to bed!

 
'Psssssf!'

That was no bird and the sound
 
snapped her head around, even if her feet had become anchored in place.
"No screaming, huh? All I'm after is talk - believe me!'

Sara had to close her eyes tightly and blink them open again before she
could convince herself that she wasn't imagining things. From out of the
blackness of a Sardinian night - a Brooklyn, New York, accent of all things?
That wretched Marco had probably ordered her wine drugged, and now she was high
on acid or something equally dangerous . . .

Did the voice belong to anyone or had that been the Cheshire Cat? And
then, out of the corner of her eye, Sara saw a dark shape detach itself from
the darker shape of the roof, to land lightly at her feet.

'Hi!' The voice said softly and with incongruous cheer. 'Sure was nice
of you not to scream. And I guess you're wondering who I am and what I'm doing
here!'

At least he continued to keep his distance and hadn't made any moves to
attack her. The thought emboldened Sara enough so that she was able to mumble
shakily: 'Well, I suppose that would help - as a beginning! You .. . you gave
me quite a scare, you know! I though this ducal castle was impregnable!'

'You gave me quite a scare too, let me tell you! For a moment there I
thought you was her ghost! But, hey . . .! You're certainly no ghost and you're
the one I come to see. Just to talk to, of course! I promise you I'd never try
nothing else - I'm not that kind of guy who takes — you know - advantage.
Okay?'

'If you don't tell me - '

'Sure, sure — I was coming to that, Miss Adams. It is Miss Delight
Adams, ain't it? One of Miss Mona Charles's little girls? Well - I'm related to
the Duke!' Sara thought she could hear his soft, almost soundless laugh before
he added, 'The name's Angelo, although there are some folks who'd say that the
name don't hardly suit me! And in case you're wondering how I learned to speak
American so good, it's because they sent me to school over there. Had an uncle
in New York, and then - Pop and I decided to try it too. Like I said-the family
paid our way there. My mother's family, that is. They had the connections.
Lived in New York more than fifteen years before I decided to come back home.
And now they wouldn't let me leave anyway - hah!' Sara glimpsed a flash of
white teeth and decided she didn't understand anything.

'Well... er... Angelo ...' Sara tried to choose her words carefully
because she didn't want to offend him, whoever he was. 'What I don't really get
is — who is they and why won't they let you leave here if you wanted to?'

'Ah - I suppose it's because I'm considered to be one of these bandits
they are always writing up in the newspapers.' He added quickly as if to
reassure her, 'That's why it's better that you don't get too close a look at my
face, you understand? But everyone says I look like Marco — the Duke, that is.
He's my half brother, you know.'

'No ... I really didn't know. Does he know?' Sara wondered if she
sounded as hysterical as she felt.

'Marco? Sure he knows! But it's something he don't like to admit — or
even think about, I guess . . . considering the cicumstances of my birth!'
Again that soft, almost silent chuckle. 'Not that I really blame him - it must
be embarrassing to be reminded that one of your parents wasn't satisfied with
the other and went looking. You know what I mean?'

'Yes, at least I think so. But why – '

In addition to being an acrobat, able to leap parapets and
 
scale roofs and unscalable walls, this Angelo
must also be a mind reader.

'You're wondering why I wanted to talk to you? Because I'm a number-one
fan of Mona Charles, that's why! Always have been - still arn.. I even got real
close to her once — close enough to smell her perfume, that famous one they say
she always wears, even to bed. She wrote me a letter too, a real nice one, and
I still got that, and the picture she signed personal to me. And you're her
daughter — look a bit like her too, don't you? I've seen a bunch of pictures of
you too. Not too many of your sister though - the English one.'

Dear God! Mama-Mona's fans tended to pop up in the strangest place, but
this was stretching the imagination a bit.

And he knew the whole family history too. Great! Sara thought grimly.
What if he recognised her as Mona's other daughter?

Thank God for the darkness of the night that hid her face from him as
effectively as it hid his from her.

'You're one of Mama's fans? Wonderful - I'll be sure and tell her, the
next time we run into each other. And ... I don't suppose you have an address —
I mean, because of them of course - but if you had I could probably ask her to
write to you again and send you a more recent picture . . . You know, she'd
probably enjoy meeting you!'

'She is going to be making her new picture here ! I thought you surely
must know - but you don't? Well - ' he cleared his throat before going on -
'they will be shooting scenes in Cagliari - that's our capital - and also in
Sassari, that's not too far from here. Now, I was thinking that if you planned
to see your mother while she's here - which I'm sure you'll want to do now that
you know about it - and if you needed an escort or a bodyguard because of these
dangerous times, well, nobody dares mess with me, and that's a fact that even
my half brother the Duke can't deny. Why do you think he turns a blind eye to
my existence and to my comings and goings on his property? At least he retains
a sense of family ties and family obligations, to give the devil his due! Yes
-1 can get in here any time I care to, as long as I keep up a show of sneaking
in, if you know what I mean. Not that I'm not good at that too, because I used
to be what they call a second-storey man in New York, and most of the time no
one knows when I get in or when I leave.'