Claimed by the Italian: Virgin: Wedded at the Italian's Convenience / Count Giovanni's Virgin / The Italian's Unwilling Wife

Such had been her emotionally muddled state that she’d actually been on the point of searching the room to find him and tell him she would marry him. Partly for Fiora’s and Great-Aunt Edith’s sake, but mostly, she knew, because she couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. Then that dreadful woman had come up to her and spilt out her spite. Spite that had a firm basis in fact, reminding her that Paolo would never love her, just use her to ease his conscience where his mother was concerned. She didn’t know how she could love a man like that. But, for her sins, she did.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, annoyed with herself. Her brain was hurting. She didn’t want to think of any of it, wanted just to close her mind and enjoy this brief period of silent tranquillity.

‘You are quiet, my Lily.’ His voice was like a caress, setting tiny shivers to sensitise her skin.

‘I’ve switched my mind off,’ she confessed.

She registered his amused, ‘Ah—that I can understand!’ just loving being this close to him. Strangely, she felt unthreatened now. He had rescued her from that pawing idiot back there, whisked her away from all those curious stares, from his friends and family probably trying to work out how plain, ordinary her had snared a guy who was so anti-marriage it was legend. Did they all think, as that creepy cousin of his had crudely suggested, that she was so fantastic in bed that he had to hang on to her? The very thought made her go hot all over.

All she wanted to do was not think of any of it, make a renewed effort to empty her stubborn mind of all those knotty problems and enjoy the silence and the solitude.

He was matching his pace to hers, not talking, his arm around her waist, thankfully keeping his mouth shut on the subject of marriage—because right now she was sure she couldn’t handle it.

His hand resting on the curve of her hip felt so right. The air was full of the gentle scent of the flowers and wild herbs of the hillside, the moonlight gleaming on the stands of silvery eucalyptus, turning the night to the sort of soft magic that talking would destroy.

Determined that nothing would come between her and this so desperately needed period of tranquillity, she didn’t protest, didn’t even think of trying to when, at the end of a path she hadn’t explored before, they came across a summerhouse festooned in climbing roses in early bud.

‘We will sit a while.’ Leading her to a wide padded bench seat that ran along the full length of the far wall, he eased her down, laid a hand against the side of her face, turning her head so that he could see her eyes in the dim silvery light. ‘I didn’t see you relax with a drink in your hand all evening. Would you like me to phone through to the house and have someone bring us champagne?’

Instinctively nuzzling into his hand, she let a smile thread her voice as she said, ‘Such decadence! Thank you, but no. I don’t need to have alcohol to relax.’ She didn’t add that being with him here, like this, was intoxicating enough. She’d been arguing with him ever since they’d met and she was tired of it. Just for a few moments—until they returned to the villa and normal battle-ready positions were resumed—she wanted to sink into this feeling of real closeness.

For some reason her answer seemed to please him. She felt him smile. Now, how could that be? Could she really be that closely attuned to him? she pondered, with a little shiver of awe.

‘You are cold?’ His voice had a strange rough edge as he turned her head towards him. Moonlight bathed them with a faint silvery glow, casting his features into harsh relief, all planes and angles, but his eyes were soft—what she could see of them before he dipped his head and used his sensual mouth to close one pale eyelid and then the other, his lips drifting down to lay a feather-light kiss on one corner of her mouth.

Without understanding how it happened, only that it had to, Lily’s lips parted as she sought his teasing mouth. She loved his kisses, and taking one tonight couldn’t be wrong—could it?

He laced his long fingers in her hair as he took her soft pink lips in a kiss that knocked out her senses, promised heaven, made her feel fully alive and yet weak with hunger for him all at the same time.

Her hands came up to cling to his broad shoulders for support, her peaking breasts pressed against the cool fabric of his shirt, and she felt him stiffen, a tremor racing through his perfectly honed body as he lifted his mouth from hers.

A tiny mew of frustration escaped her. She felt like a starving orphan, deprived of warmth and succour. Greedily, she tugged at his shoulders, reclaimed his mouth, and submitted to a surge of white-hot pleasure as with a groan Paolo took her swollen lips again and plundered the moist interior with explicit thrusts of his tongue.

Suddenly, for Lily, it wasn’t enough—not nearly enough.

Heat flamed deep in her pelvis as her restive hands moved from his shoulders to the sides of his face and down, thrusting at the parted sides of his white dinner jacket. Furiously her fumbling fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to touch his skin, explore the warmth, the strength of his superb male body.

It wouldn’t end with just touching. Lily knew that. But her sense of self-respect, of morality, was vanquished by the sheer power of his erotic hold over her senses. And as he lifted his mouth from hers, removing his jacket with a muffled oath, then caught her to him, burying his face in her hair as he tried to deal with the fastener at the back of the halter strap, his fingers were unsteady.

He was always so in control, but he was losing control now, Lily thought, a wave of tenderness washing over her. Just for tonight his needs came first, and she lifted her hands to release the stubborn clasp. She heard the heady sound of his indrawn breath as the silky fabric slid away to expose the pink-crested peaks of her breasts to his desire-hazed eyes.

‘Ah—bella, bella! How I want you!’ His voice was hoarse as he eased slowly away, putting space between them. ‘But my sweet Lily blossom—’

Reckless, fizzing need had her twining her slim arms around his neck, sliding forward and stopping his words as her mouth took his with helpless greed.

In the time it took to take a breath Lily felt him relax. The tension that had taken hold, tautening his powerful body, drained out of him, and now he was kissing her with totally erotic expertise. Her fingers worked with frustrated energy to release the buttons of his shirt, parting the fabric to splay her hands against the hard muscles of his chest, and she was hot with longing as he eased her back against the cushions and took one rosy nipple into his mouth, then moved to the other.

Her head arched back on her slender neck as hot, exquisite sensation flooded every nerve-ending, and he gave a deep groan of male appreciation as she helped him remove her dress with eager, scrabbling hands.

The dress disposed of, Paolo stood and removed the barrier of his clothes with haste, standing before her with the moonlight gleaming on the olive-toned skin that sheathed his male magnificence.

A feverish knot was tightening deep inside her, and with a shaky whimper she held pale, slender arms out to him. As he came to her she knew that her life had been leading up to this one moment of sublime intimacy with the man she loved. Just this one time—a time that would live for ever in her memory. To be treasured. And maybe the memory would surface sometimes for him, making him smile a little as he looked back and remembered …