The Forced Marriage (8 page)

His kiss was raw and passionate, and her surrender was total, dominated by the renewed demands of her own fevered flesh.

The rasp of his breathing was echoed by her own. She felt as if she was poised on the edge of some abyss, and he must have felt it too, because he spoke to her, his voice hoarse and urgent. ‘Come for me,
mia bella—mia cara
. Come now.’

And, deep within her, as if answering his cue, Flora felt the first sharp pulsation of rapture. She moaned aloud, burying her face against him, biting his shoulder, as the moment took her and sent her spinning out of control into some limbo where pleasure bordered on pain.

Marco flung his head back, his eyes closed, his face taut with the same kind of agony, and she felt his entire body shudder like a tree caught in a giant wind as he came in his turn.

When it was over, they lay together quietly. Flora tried to steady her breathing, to make sense of what had happened to her.

‘I didn’t know.’ Her voice was a thread. He didn’t answer, and she turned her head to look at him. He was lying, staring up at the ceiling, his profile as proud and remote as a Renaissance carving.

She felt her throat tighten. ‘Marco—is something wrong?’

He turned his head slowly, and smiled at her. ‘What could possibly be wrong, Flora
mia
?’

‘You looked a thousand miles away.’

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘I was thinking how ironic it is that I should have come all this way to find my perfect woman.’

‘Truly?’

‘You doubt me?’

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s just—that was a happy thought, and you didn’t look very happy.’

‘And you,
mia bella
, look as if you need to stop imagining things and sleep.’ He gathered her closer, so that her head was pillowed on his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart, still slightly uneven, under her cheek.

He was not, she thought with satisfaction, as cool as he seemed. And she closed her eyes, smiling.

She slept deeply and dreamlessly, and awoke with reluctance. For a moment she lay still, feeling oddly disorientated—as if her faintly aching body no longer belonged to her. And then, like a thunderbolt, her memory returned and she sat up.

Oh, God, she thought desperately. I’m in bed with Marco Valante.

Except that wasn’t strictly true. Because no sleeping man lay beside her. Nor, she realised, was there any sound from the bathroom, or any sign of his clothes either.

She said aloud, ‘He’s gone.’ And her voice sounded small and desolate in the emptiness of the room.

She lay down again, pulling the tangled sheet up over her body, aware that her mouth was dry and her heart was thumping.

Well, Flora, she told herself. It seems you’ve just had your first one-night stand. Now you have to live with that, and I just hope you think it was worth it.

And, to make matters a million times worse, you’ve had unprotected sex with a stranger. A man who’s probably left his notch on bedposts in every major capital of the world, and several small towns as well. And that’s something else you’ll have to deal with.

She pressed her clenched fist against her mouth, to stop herself from moaning aloud.

She had no one to blame but herself, whatever the consequences. After all, she’d gone out last night undressed to kill, flinging down a challenge to his sexuality that no red-blooded man could have ignored. And all because of a fit of pique.

She stopped right there. Because that was too easy—too glib an excuse for what she had done.

From that first glimpse of him, Marco had intrigued her. Had tantalised his way into her dreams, sleeping and waking. He himself had been the challenge—and the ultimate prize.

And she had hardly been short-changed. In a few brief hours Marco had taught her more about her body and its needs than she could have believed possible.

And she would never be the same again.

The girl who had had the rest of her life mapped out, with a sensible marriage and a secure future, had disappeared for ever—if she’d even existed at all.

What was it Hester had said? ‘Heaven, hell and heartbreak’?

Well, she’d had the heaven, and now she was faced with the hell of knowing that, for him, it had been just a casual sexual encounter—another girl in another bed. And, although she was currently feeling numb, she knew the heartbreak would surely follow.

And then there was Chris, whom she had betrayed in the worst possible way.

I can’t tell him, she thought miserably. I can’t hurt him like that. He doesn’t deserve it. I’ll have to find some other excuse for calling off the wedding. Tell him I’ve been having second thoughts—that I prefer my career—my independence.

His mother will be pleased, anyway. She never thought I was good enough for him—always dropping hints about modern girls not knowing how to be homemakers.

She groaned, pressing her face into the pillow. No amount of self-justification was ever going to excuse what she’d done. She’d had no right to have dinner with Marco Valante, let alone allow him to make a feast of her in bed.

And now he’d walked away without a backward glance, and she knew she had no one to blame but herself.

Act like a tart and you’ll get treated like a tart, she thought drearily.

She pushed away the encircling sheet and got up. It was the morning after the night before, and she simply had to get on with her life. She would have a bath—wash away the taste and touch of Marco Valante—get dressed, then start to dismantle the arrangements for the wedding that were already in place. Florists, caterers and printers would all have to be notified, and the church cancelled. She would need to make a list, she thought, trailing into the bathroom and turning on the taps in the tub.

And somehow she would have to tell her mother, and endure the inevitable wailings and recriminations.

On the plus side, she thought wanly, I will not have the nephew from hell following me up the aisle, although I expect that Sandra will have something to say about her little darling’s disappointment.

She poured a capful of her favourite bath essence into the steaming water.

There was going to be a lot of music to face, she thought frowningly, but only if she chose to do so. She could always take the weeks she’d booked off for her honeymoon and move them up. Get right away for a while and put herself back together again.

Some of the clients she’d planned to see might not be too happy if she went missing for a couple of weeks, but Melanie would simply have to make new appointments for them.

It’ll be good for her, she thought, testing the water. Show what she’s made of in a crisis.

And she was ready to bet that most of the clients would be prepared to wait for her return. Because she was good at her job.

I wish, she thought, as she stepped into the tub, that I was equally as good at life.

She settled back into the scented water with a little sigh and closed her eyes.

She’d made a monumental fool of herself, and taken a terrible risk, but she didn’t have to allow it to cloud her entire future, she told herself firmly. Everyone was surely allowed one serious mistake—and Marco Valante was hers. That was all.

She heard a slight sound, and turned her head sharply.

Her serious mistake was standing in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder negligently propped against its frame. He was fully dressed, but tieless, and his shirt was open at the throat.

He said softly,
‘Buon giorno.’
And began to walk towards her, discarding his jacket as he did so. ‘I thought you would sleep until my return,
cara
.’

‘Your return?’ Her voice was a stifled croak. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Your refrigerator was full of food, but nothing for breakfast, so I went shopping.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘We have fresh rolls, orange juice, cheese and some good ham.’ The green eyes glinted as they surveyed her. ‘All of which we will have—later.’

Flora realised he was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He reached down and took the soap from her unresisting hand.

‘Stand up,
mia bella
,’ he directed quietly.

Somehow she found herself mutely obeying, her eyes fixed on his face, aware that her throat had tightened with mingled panic and excitement.

Marco lathered his hands with the soap and began to apply the scented foam to her skin, starting with her shoulders and working his way downwards, massaging it into her body very slowly, and very thoroughly.

His gaze was reflective—almost dispassionate—as he worked—like a sculptor judging his latest work, she thought confusedly as her senses began to riot.

Everywhere he touched her—and he didn’t seem to miss an inch—was tingling and burning. An agonised trembling had ignited deep inside her.

Her breasts were aching with desire as his fingers lingered over their rosy tips. She quivered as he moved with exquisite precision down the length of her spine to her rounded buttocks.

When he touched her thighs, and the soft curls at their apex, Flora had to bite her lower lip to prevent herself from whimpering out loud.

When he’d finished, he took the hand spray from the shower unit and rinsed away the soap, just as carefully. The water droplets felt like needles piercing her over-sensitised skin as they cascaded over her small round breasts, making the nipples stand proud.

At last, when she was beginning to think she could bear no more, he turned off the spray and reached to the towel rail for a bath sheet. He took her hand and helped her out of the water, then wrapped the soft towelling round her.

‘Dry yourself,
carissima
,’ he ordered softly. ‘I would not wish you to catch a chill.’

Chill? Flora thought, as she started, dazedly, to pat herself dry under his unwavering scrutiny. She was already running a high fever. Her legs were shaking so much that she thought she might collapse and her blood was on fire. And he had to know this.

When she had finished, she paused, her eyes asking a question. He nodded, as if she had spoken aloud. He took the edges of the bath sheet, using them to pull her gently towards him. His arms enfolded her and his mouth came down on hers in a slow, deep kiss that sent her already reeling senses into free fall.

When he raised his head, his own breathing was ragged. He drew the edges of the bath sheet apart and began to kiss her body, his lips drifting soft as thistledown from her throat down to her breasts, then travelling over her ribcage to the faint concavity of her abdomen.

He sank down on one knee, his hands holding her hips as the trail of kisses continued downward. When he reached the division of her thighs, and parted them, she gave a little startled cry as she felt his mouth on the burning core of her, the silken eroticism of his tongue as he pleasured her tiny secret bud.

She wanted to tell him that he must not do this—that he should stop. But she could not speak.

She was conscious of nothing but the exquisite sensations rippling through her as he continued his intimate caress. Every atom of her being was focused almost painfully on her growing delight. And then, almost before she was aware, her body imploded into orgasm, the pulsations so strong she thought she might faint.

There were tears running down her face. He wiped them away with the edge of the towel, then picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the door.

‘Where are we going?’ Her voice was a breathless squeak.

‘Back to bed.’

‘But we were going to have breakfast.’

‘I think now that is going to be—very much later.’ He bent and kissed her mouth, fiercely, sensually. ‘Don’t you agree,
mia cara
?’

Flora pressed her lips against the triangle of hair-darkened skin revealed by his unfastened shirt. ‘Yes, Marco.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Oh—yes—please.’

A
LONG
time later, lying in his arms, Flora said dreamily, ‘I think we’ve missed breakfast—but it could always become lunch.’

Marco tipped up her chin and looked down at her, brows raised austerely. ‘You mean I am not enough for you? You want food as well?’

She gave a soft giggle. ‘I think I need to keep my strength up—if this is how you mean us to spend our time.’

She felt the arm that encircled her harden with sudden tension, and realised, with shock, that she’d spoken as if they had a real relationship. That she’d made unwise assumptions about a future which almost certainly did not exist.

She turned away quickly as her face warmed in helpless embarrassment. ‘Anyway—I—I’ll get us something to eat…’ she added with determined brightness.

She pushed away the covering sheet, then hesitated as she remembered that her robe was in the bathroom.

It was ludicrous, she thought with bewilderment. This was the man with whom she’d been intimately entwined for the best part of twelve hours, who had explored and kissed every inch of her body, and yet, in the space of a drawn breath, everything had changed. And suddenly she was reluctant to walk around naked in front of him.

Lack of inhibition was different when it was fuelled by passion. She’d given herself to him again and again in unthinking delight. Learned to bestow pleasure as well as receive it.

But now reason had intervened.

And it was still nothing more than a one-night stand, no matter how she might try to justify it. There’d been no commitment of any kind between them. It had been—just sex. A transient pleasure. And now the sex was over she felt awkward and bewildered—unsure how to behave.

Because Marco, in so many ways, was still a stranger to her, she acknowledged unhappily. Someone who had walked into her life a few days ago and who would soon be leaving in the same casual way.

And it was naïve of her to have supposed—or hoped—that anything that had happened had any real importance in the great scheme of things.

As a lover Marco was gifted, patient and imaginative, luring her into areas of sensuousness she had not know existed.

But she knew that no amount of pleasure would ever be matched by the pain of watching him leave.

It’s so easy for a man, she thought sadly. He can just get dressed and go. Whereas I—I’ve slept with Marco once, and now I want to make him a meal. Next I’ll be wanting to have his baby.

Behind her, Marco moved. ‘Is something wrong?’ He brushed his lips gently across the small of her back. ‘You are not having—regrets?’

‘No—of course not.’ She spoke bravely, not looking at him. ‘I was just wondering—where I’d left my dressing gown.’

She heard the smile in his voice. ‘Does that really matter?’

She said shortly, ‘It does to me.’

There was a silence, then he said slowly, ‘
Cara
, are you trying to tell me you are—shy?’

She bit her lip. ‘Is that so extraordinary?’

He said, ‘A little, perhaps, considering what you and I were doing to each other a little while ago.’ He paused. ‘Would it make things easier for you if I promised to shut my eyes?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed with a touch of defiance. ‘Yes, it would.’

He sighed. ‘Just for you, then,
mia bella
.’

Flora slipped out of bed and made for the door. As she reached it something prompted her to look back over her shoulder.

Marco was propped up on an elbow, watching her with undisguised and shameless appreciation.

‘Oh,’ she choked furiously, and flew to the bathroom, followed by his laughter.

By the time she had prepared lunch, adding fresh fruit and a dish of black olives to the food he’d provided, and choosing a bottle of wine, she was feeling altogether more composed.

While he’d been in the bathroom she’d snatched the opportunity to dress, in a brief blue skirt and white tee shirt, and give her hair a vigorous brushing.

She looked different, she realised with a sense of shock as she glanced at herself in the mirror. There was a new glow to her creamy skin, a woman’s shining secrets in her eyes. She was no longer the innocent of twenty-four hours ago, and everything about her proclaimed it.

All she needed to do now was develop a persona to go with her new-found sexual sophistication, she thought wryly. Find something hip and flippant to accompany her smile when she waved Marco goodbye. Proving beyond doubt, she hoped, that she’d always known this was a strictly casual encounter.

When she was alone she ate at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, but for guests she kept a folding table in the walk-in cupboard in the hall. She’d set this up in the corner of the living room, with the directors’ chairs which accompanied it.

She was just opening the wine when Marco came to the door.

‘Bello,’
he approved softly. ‘A feast.’ He indicated the towel draped decorously round his hips. ‘See, I am sparing your blushes,
cara
.’

Flora bit her lip. ‘You must think I’m awfully stupid…’

‘You are wrong. I find you a delight.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come to me.’

She went over to him and he drew her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head while she inhaled the clean, fresh scent of his skin.

After a moment she stood back, studying a discoloured mark on his shoulder. ‘What’s that?’

He grinned at her. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Oh,’ she said, discomfited. ‘I—I’m sorry.’

‘Then don’t be. I like my battle trophy—and its memories.’

‘Is that how you see making love—as a war?’ She laughed, but she felt faintly troubled too. ‘Then who is the victor and who the vanquished?’

He kissed her, his mouth moving on hers with tender warmth. ‘At a moment like this,’ he murmured, ‘it hardly seems to matter.’ He paused, stroking the hair back from her face. ‘And don’t look at me like that, Flora
mia
,’ he added softly. ‘Or lunch might become dinner.’

Her glance didn’t waver. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

‘Then let me be wise for us both.’ His smile was rueful. ‘I think it is time I also put on some clothes.’

He kissed her again, and went soft-footed back to the bedroom.

It was a quiet lunch. Marco seemed lost in thought more than once. Or perhaps, thought Flora, he was just exhausted…

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘Nothing in particular.’ She took a hasty swig of wine. ‘Why?’

‘Because you are blushing again. I thought it might be—significant.’

‘Not really.’ Flora fanned herself with her napkin. ‘It’s probably the heat. It’s such a beautiful day.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some more wine?’

‘No, I thank you.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must get back to my cousin’s house. And I shall be driving later.’

Oh, Flora thought flatly. So—that was that, after all. And she couldn’t pretend it was a surprise.

‘It would be good to get out of the city,’ he went on. ‘I thought I would hire a car.’ He smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you could suggest a suitable destination.’

She sat rather straighter. ‘I really couldn’t advise you.’

‘No? You disappoint me.’

‘I don’t really know your tastes.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you like—looking at things?’

‘I like to look at you.’ The green eyes met hers with cool directness. ‘As for the rest, I am not a sightseer, but I thought we might find a pleasant hotel in some beautiful part of England and spend the remainder of the weekend together there.’

He paused, running a hand over his chin. ‘I need to shave, and we both have bags to pack. When I return you can tell me where you would like me to take you.’

She said quietly, ‘After paradise, anywhere else will seem rather tame.’

There was an odd silence. Flora saw his mouth tighten, and the green eyes become suddenly remote. It was as if she had made him angry, she thought in bewilderment.

But when he spoke his voice was light. ‘You flatter me,
carissima
. But you should beware of paradise. It can so often conceal a serpent.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I should not be longer than an hour or two.’ He came round the table and dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘Have our route planned.’

There was a nightgown in her drawer, a sheer, lacy thing wrapped in tissue, that she had bought for her honeymoon with Chris.

The betrayal was complete now, she thought, as she put it carefully into her weekend case. And the wretchedness of telling Chris would be her punishment.

She thought of phoning Hes. You’re a witch, she’d say lightly. You wished it on me and it’s happened. Passion to die for.
And then loneliness to last a lifetime.
Only she wouldn’t say that.

Nor did she make the call. There would be plenty of time for confession in the weeks to come, she thought without joy.

But she did not have time to brood because, surprisingly, Marco was back within the hour, driving a low, sleek open-topped sports car.

Flora gaped at it. ‘Someone let you hire that?’ she asked incredulously.

‘It belongs to Vittoria,’ he said. ‘She has lent it to me.’ He paused. ‘She also suggested somewhere we might go—unless, of course, you have thought of a place.’

She spread her hands. ‘I’ve been racking my brains, but I so rarely go out of London—except to Surrey, to stay with my mother and stepfather.’ And very occasionally to Essex and Chris’s family, she thought with a pang of guilt.

‘It is called the Aldleigh Manor Hotel,’ he said. ‘Vittoria says it is very comfortable, with beautiful grounds, and wonderful food.’

‘It sounds perfect,’ she said. ‘Like a dream.’

His brows drew together. ‘You would prefer somewhere else? That’s not a problem. We could tour around, maybe? Take our chances?’

‘Oh, no,’ Flora said swiftly. ‘Aldleigh Manor sounds really wonderful. But it might be fully booked.’

‘They have a room for us,’ he said quietly. ‘Overlooking the lake. I must confess I already made the reservation. Although it can always be cancelled if you wish?’

‘Certainly not.’ Flora threw him a wicked grin. ‘I can’t wait to see it. And if it’s anything short of paradise I shall know who to complain to.’

‘You’re very quiet,’ she commented as they edged their way out of London.

‘I am concentrating on my driving,’ Marco returned after a pause. ‘Remember that for me the gear shift—the road—everything is on the wrong side. And if I scratch Vittoria’s darling—
Madonna!
—I’ll be a dead man. And I have people depending on me back in Milan.’

‘Are accountants really that important?’ she teased.

‘Only when they are as good as I am,
mia bella
.’ He slanted a grin at her.

He really had no need to worry, she thought. He was a marvellous driver, considerate with other traffic, and not using the powerful car as an extension of his virility.

All she had to do was sit back and admire his profile, and bask in the envious glances of people toiling along hot pavements.

The hotel was important enough to be signposted.

‘Oh,’ Flora said. ‘It has a golf course.’

‘Well, that need not concern us,’ Marco said, turning the car between tall stone gateposts. ‘Unless you wish to hire clubs and play?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said hastily. It was just a reminder of Chris that she didn’t need, she thought, guilt piling in again. Well, perhaps she could find some reason to tell Marco she didn’t like the place, and persuade him to drive somewhere else.

But it was difficult to know what she could possibly object to, she thought, as the building itself came into view from the long curving drive. It was three storeys high, its grey stones lit by the late afternoon sun which gave the mullioned windows a diamond sparkle. The commanding entrance was made more welcoming by the urns of bright flowers which flanked it.

As Marco drew into one of the parking spaces allotted to hotel guests a porter instantly emerged to take their bags.

They were shown into a vast foyer, made cool by arrangements of tall green plants and dominated by a massive central staircase.

Through an open door Flora could see people sitting in a pretty lounge, enjoying afternoon tea.

She touched Marco’s arm. ‘That looks nice.’

He smiled at her. ‘I’ll have some sent up to our room. Wait for me here,
cara
, while I register.’

As he went to the desk Flora took off the scarf she’d been wearing and shook her hair free. She looked around her, noting where the lifts were and spotting discreet signs indicating the cocktail bar, the dining room and the leisure club. According to the brochure that she picked up from a side table, as well as an outdoor swimming pool the Manor boasted an indoor pool, together with a gymnasium and a sauna in its basement.

Perhaps I can interest Marco in some other form of exercise, she thought, suppressing a grin. Or, on second thoughts, perhaps not…

She heard her name spoken, and turned, the smile freezing on her lips as she did so.

Because it wasn’t Marco with the key, as she’d expected.

It was Chris. Standing there in front of her with three other men, all carrying golf bags. Looking astonished, and not altogether pleased.

‘Flora,’ he repeated. ‘What on earth are you doing here? How did you find me? Is something wrong?’

‘No, nothing.’
Or everything
, she thought desperately. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’ She gave a wild, bright smile. ‘But I’m not actually staying. So, please, don’t let me interfere with your game. Do go on, and I—I’ll see you on Monday.’

‘Oh, we’ve finished for the day,’ Chris said. ‘Not a bad couple of rounds at all. But you haven’t met the lads. Jack—Barry—Neil, this is my fiancée, Flora Graham, who seems to be just passing through for some reason.’ And he laughed with a kind of boisterous unease.

There was a chorus of greeting which faded into a bewildered silence, and Flora realised, horrified, that she’d actually taken a step backwards.