Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (33 page)

Sitting just a bit too awkwardly, she managed to send him a false smile.

'Well, let's go? And I've watched a lot of Westerns, honestly. If you'll
just start off slowly enough so I can watch how you do it, then I'm sure I'll
be able to manage perfectly well. I pick up things really fast, you know!'

'And how should I know? I am sure there is still a great deal I could
learn about you!'

'Oh, but why bother? How boring for you if you knew every thing and I
was quite tame! I suppose you'd soon turn me in for a newer model.'

'It would be advisable for you to stop babbling inanities and pay
attention to that cute little filly you are riding - and to me. That is, if you
wish to remain in that saddle you are perched upon so gingerly. It might prove
embarrassing for you if you were thrown before you have gone any further than
this courtyard. We can continue our interesting conversation later.'

The big stallion was as impatient as its rider as it reared and pranced,
rolling dangerous red eyes at Fiametta who immediately began to behave in a
ridiculously skittish fashion; forcing Sara to take stern measures.

'Please!' she gasped with pretended apprehension as she let one hand
clutch at the horse's mane. 'Can't you keep your nasty brute under control? If
you'll just start off. . .'

His look consigned her to damnation before he snapped: 'Very well, then,
at your own riskl Andiamo.'

II Malvagio took off like his namesake, throwing a few temper tantrums
along the way that demanded all of Marco's attention. Sara, her rapport with
Fiametta established, shot by him with a beatific smile. This was freedom - and
sheer heaven! And she no longer cared what he thought, why should she? Sooner
or later he would have to find out that she had been playing a game of charades
with him, keeping up a clever deception that had taken him in almost too
easily.

The courtyard with its constricting walls gave way to a riding path that
actually led to a polo field. Fiametta, obviously used to limitations, began to
canter and then to gallop around the perimeters of the field with Sara leaning
forward against her neck, whispering soft encouragement.

And then, destroying her mood of contentment, she heard the pounding of
other hoofs behind her - pursuing relentlessly and catching up too soon;
ruthlessly strong fingers snatching the reins from her and sawing back on them
to bring everything to a halt.

Fiametta reared with displeasure, almost unseating her rider. Furiously,
Sara shook escaping strands of hair out of her eyes. 'Why did you have to do
that? she cried out at him without thinking. 'She's got such a soft mouth and
now you've probably hurt her, you devil!'

'Davvero?' The deceptively growling softness of his voice was belied by
the dangerous speculative look that seemed to linger on her mouth for far too
many seconds. 'You will have to explain to me later how you contrived to learn
so much about horses in such a short time - and you'll come up with a plausible
explanation, I'm sure! You've watched many, many Westerns, am I not right? And
of course - I had almost forgotten - you "pick things up" with
amazing facility!' He released Fiametta's reins with a sardonic inclination of
his dark head. 'And now that I am reassured that your mount was not running
away with you, shall we continue with our pleasant ride? You will then have a
chance to demonstrate more of your newly acquired skills, won't you?'

Glinting devil-lights in the depths of his black eyes warned her not to
answer his gibes. Not now - she might as well use the unexpected respite he
offered her for pure unthinking enjoyment before he decided it was time to go
for the jugular.

Sara kept expecting - half dreading - the inevitable moment when he
would drop all pretence of politeness and restraint. And then, of course, she
would have her chance to ... to demolish him. And especially his much-vaunted
family honourl How would his idolised stepmother who was such a good woman,
react? And above all, how would he ever find a suitable wife for himself who
would be willing to accept his tarnished name?

Ahh - sweet revenge! She really ought to feel more elated than she did;
but just let him start in first and then she'd have her righteous anger to
support her. And in the meantime - there was the sun pouring down as warm and
gold as honey and the hot wind in her face that smelled of crushed herbs and
aromatic mountain shrubs and the feel of motion and freedom. Why should she
think of unpleasant things? Why, just for these few moments, think at all?

Sara was constantly aware of him, his fierce stallion some times riding
flank to flank with her mount and some times racing ahead with a fluid length
of stride and speed that poor Fiametta could never hope to match. She knew he
watched her but refused to meet his eyes. Not now - not yet. There was no need
for the inevitable conflict between them to spoil a day like this and a time
like this. Was it possible that he might feel the same way?

From racing back and forth across the grassy expanse of the field, they
had both slowed their mounts to a canter. Her hair was falling down, its smooth
chignon ravished by the wind, her tortoiseshell comb hanging down at her neck.
Automatically, Sara put one hand up to hold it before it fell, but her fingers
were brushed away and, with a feeling of stark, unreasoning terror that made
her gasp, she felt the pressure of his thigh against hers as he leaned over to
take the comb from her hair.

'Hold still! There's no need to jump like a scared cat!' His touch was
warm and far too lingering against the back of her neck as he deliberately made
long work of disentangling the comb from thick strands of hair that had become
wrapped around it.

'It's . . . you don't have to -

'It's a pretty comb, and you would have lost it. But I like your hair
better this way ...' He raked his fingers through it to send it tumbling down
to her shoulders with pins flying in all directions - quite ignoring Sara's
indignant outcry. 'It's quite beautiful now that you've let that ugly permanent
grow out.'

Fiametta was becoming difficult to hold, taking all of her attention for
a few seconds so that all she gave him was a coldly sarcastic 'Grazie! I'm
flattered that you noticed!'

'Prego!' She looked up at last to see him regarding her with that
slightly twisted smile she had come to know so well. And instead of giving her
comb back to her he had put it in his pocket, the wretch!

He appeared to be studying her quite intently, from her slim, jeans-clad
legs to the clinging red shirt that now clung even more closely to her
sweat-dampened body, and his look suddenly made her feel self-conscious and
awkward -and suddenly prey to all kind of confused emotions. Damn him - blast
his black devil's soul to hell! Why did he have the power to keep her staring
back at him as if she were mesmerised, when just one cutting word would put a
safe distance between them again?

It was he who spoke abruptly to break the sudden, strangely tense
silence: 'Since you seem to be quite capable of handling Fiametta without my
help, I thought you might like to ride further afield - that is.. .' His dark
eyes lingered on her bare head of richly coloured hair with all its subtle
shading of colour brought out by the hot sun and he frowned, stone-dark eyes
flicking back to her face with a look of disapproval. His voice was dry. 'You
are not wearing a hat, I notice, and our Sardinian sun is far hotter tha most
foreigners expect - or know of. Perhaps – '

'Oh, please!' Thankful that her breathing no longer felt constricted
Sara leaned forward eagerly, forgetting her pride-. 'Please, I ... I'm really
quite used to going btreheaded under hot tropical sun, and I just love riding!
And
 
the horses are still quite fresh,
too - can't we?'

With a gesture that was strangely foreign to him, Marco run his fingers
through his wind-ruffled black hair, still frowning with irritation. Why in
hell had he yielded to the sudden impulse to take her with him to the
mountains? After everything she'd done to irritate him, the little cheat! And
now here she was with those wide green eyes wiped clear of hate or fury and
shining with anticipation for a change, while she pleaded with him like a
little child might do, begging for a treat. What he should do with her was ...

It was the need to change the direction of his thoughts that
 
made him give her a curt nod as he reined his
horse around.

'Very well, then. But if you get sunstroke remember that the
responsibility was yours! And since you seem to know so much about horses, try
to stay close behind me. Some of the trails are very narrow and wander in all
directions - it would be too easy to get lost.'

Following him meekly (at the prescribed ten paces! she thought,
furiously) Sara fought the impulse to utter a sarcastic retort and settled for
sticking out her tongue at his back. Very undignified, but nevertheless
satisfying. What an utterly infuriating man! How would any unsuspecting woman
stand to be married to him with his lordly airs and his caustic, biting tongue
and his pompous arrogance . Running out of adjectives, Sara shook herself
mentally as she watched those wide shoulders ahead of her. Why should she care
who he married? He wasn't going to be her problem once she'd left here!

In the meantime, she might as well enjoy the scenery about her, Sara
thought as they followed a path through a wooded area and emerged abruptly into
a clearing with a stone hut. Two men lounged on wooden chairs outside it, but
they were not asleep as Sara had thought at first — leaping up with their hands
on guns.

Cops and robbers! Sara thought incredulously. It's the famous Mafia!
Should she scream, or would that make them shoot her? She must have made some
muffled sound that he, with his animal hearing, had caught, for his body
twisted in the saddle as he turned to frown at her again. 'What did you say?'

'I ... I really didn't say anything!' Sara stuttered. She couldn't have
said it aloud! At his sceptical look she added quickly, 'I was just. ..
coughing! The dust, I suppose - but that's all right, I'm just fine now!' Her
voice had brightened when she'd been able to see that those men knew Marco. In
fact, they too kept calling him 'II Duca'. Perhaps he was the head of the local
chapter, like the Godfather.

Sara hoped that none of her thoughts showed too obviously on her face as
he studied her loweringly for a few seconds longer before turning back to the
men. 'You can stay mounted,' he flung back at her over his shoulder as he
dismounted with lithe-bodied ease and whispered a word of

command in his stallion's pricked ear that held the big
 
horse in place as if he'd been tethered
there.

More orders, Sara thought resentfully, although she as well as his horse
both obeyed. At least he accorded her a grudging, 'I won't be long' before he
disappeared into the hut with one of the men; leaving the other to keep an eye
on her no doubt! Resentment deepened and she bit her lip. What did he think she
might do — try to run away with his horse? Hah! She wasn't that much of a fool
as to imagine she'd get anywhere except lost. And it was beginning to get
slightly unnerving for her to have a swarthy, dangerous-looking man who wore a
gun in a black leather holster standing a very few feet away from her and - and
watching her! As if she'd been a dangerous prisoner . . .

And then even her thinking froze as Marco emerged from the hut with a
very efficient-looking gun that he also wore in a holster. Standing there with
a gunbelt strapped around his waist and his white shirt open more than
 
halfway down his chest, his night-black hair
slightly rumpled so that it fell partially over his forehead, he looked ... he
looked as if he belonged
 
in
.another
  
century
  
of
 
brigands
  
and mercenary armies
and robber barons. Just as dangerous,just as ruthless, just as unscrupulous and
cruel. She gave a slight shiver of mingled fear and fascination. The same
feelings
 
she might have if she was ever
confronted by a real wolf-
 
wanting to
run like the wind, without daring to look back; and frozen in place all the
same, not able to stop staring
 
at the
primitive, snarling beast that looked back at her.

'Well — what is the matter with you now?' His voice was distinctly
abrasive as he paused to cock an eyebrow at her before he mounted. 'Does the
gun scare you?'

'Of course not!' Sara snapped back, irritated with herself R for
continuing to indulge in wild flights of fancy. 'It's just that ... that
wearing that gun makes you look like a bandit!'

'Unfortunately, that is the reason why I have to wear a gun when I ride
the mountain trails. In these days, one never knows. And that is why I employ so
many guards. I have them stationed everywhere.'

That last significant reminder was meant for hert Sara supposed and was
not able to restrain herself from asking with a falsely candid look of
interest, 'Oh, really? And are they supposed to keep people out or in?'

The narrow-eyed look he turned to give her over his shoulder was
warning.

'Both - if necessary. And now, if you will follow me without wasting
time in pointless questions . . .'

Chapter 31

If she hadn't been actually enjoying her ride Sara would have ended up
screaming at him or throwing something at him — preferably one of those
boulders that were lying around everywhere like carelessly scattered pebbles.
He was insufferable! Once they had gone some distance from the clearing and had
started up a narrow path he pointed out, he made her change places with him,
sending her up ahead where he could direct her as to which of the many twisting
trails they were to take — and criticise her riding skills as well. He'd even
had the temerity to inform her that her jeans were too tight - so tight, in
fact, that they looked vulgar. And then he ordered her not to chatter so much.