Her Passionate Italian: The Passion Bargain / A Sicilian Husband / The Italian's Marriage Bargain

She knew that, but it didn’t stop what was beginning to break up inside. ‘What am I going to do?’ she whispered tragically.

His hands moved again, coming to frame her face so he could tilt it up to receive his next warm kiss. When she responded with a small sob he caught the sound with the lick of his tongue. Each stifled sob after it was gently robbed from her; in between he placed words, low, dark, seductive words that made her want to cling.

‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I will deal with it. Trust me to get you through this.’

‘But why should you want to?’ she asked, realising it was a question she should have asked a whole lot sooner than this. ‘Why should it interest you at all?’

His answering smile was the cynical one. ‘Come on, Francesca, the answer to that one must be perfectly clear,’ he mocked as he moved one of his long thumbs to send it on a sweep of her now pulsing not quivering mouth. ‘I want you for myself,’ he told her grimly. ‘Therefore I will do what it takes to get you.’

Then he was lowering his mouth again to show how much he wanted her with yet another full-blooded mind-blowing kiss.

Everything he did now was laced with intimacy. Every touch, every look, every small gesture was staking claim. And the worst of it was that she let him. She felt so vulnerable and weak and drawn to his passion that she had a terrible suspicion he could spread her out on the desk across the room and have his way with her and she wouldn’t try to stop him.

It was a dreadful admission. It shocked and appalled her but didn’t make her pull away from him. Where was her pride, her dignity?

Not where her mouth was anyway. It clung and encouraged, like her fingers where they lifted and clung to his nape, smoothing, stroking, and her hips as they arched into the masculine bowl of his. And the whole hot, sensuous embrace was so slow and deep and intoxicatingly rousing, she moved with it, soaked in it, and didn’t even hear the door flying open until a stunned voice rasped, ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’

CHAPTER FIVE

SHOCK wired her up to a live cable. She felt its electric fingers frisson her skin. On a choked gasp she tried to break free but Carlo was in no hurry to let that happen. He took his time easing the kiss, lingering long enough for Angelo to be in no doubt as to what he was witnessing here.

‘As you can see, a great deal is going on,’ he then murmured with smooth, slick—diabolical composure. And he said it without moving his eyes from Francesca’s hot, kissed-hazed, dismayed face. He even dared to compound on his statement by shaping yet another warm, excruciatingly possessive kiss to her gaping mouth.

‘Leave her alone!’ Angelo bit out hoarsely. ‘Francesca—come over here. I can’t believe that you are doing this with him while everyone out there is waiting for our announcement!’

That last part really said it all, Francesca thought heavily. For here she stood, caught red-handedly wrapped in a passionate embrace with another man, and all Angelo could think about was getting his ring on her finger.

My God, that hurt.

‘There will be no announcement,’ Carlo declared smoothly. ‘Francesca doesn’t want you any more. You are out, amico, and I am in. You may announce that if you wish.’

It was an unbelievably cut-throat, throwaway comment, and Francesca could only stare up at the smooth, challenging face.

‘I told you I would deal with it,’ Carlo reminded her gently then placed a finger beneath her chin and calmly shut her still gaping mouth.

Angelo seemed incapable of saying anything. She could feel his confusion, his blank, bubbling bewilderment. She turned her head to look at him. He was standing two strides into the room with the door swinging wide open so he was framed by glaring white marble from the hall beyond. People were milling about, moving to or from one of the many rooms that had been opened up for tonight’s party. Some halted and stared when they saw the little trio standing in Alessandro Batiste’s study, making her aware suddenly of other things like the way her slender arms were still coiled around Carlo’s neck and the front of her body resting intimately against his.

Culpable heat flooded up her throat and into her cheeks. ‘Close the door,’ she breathed on a stifled whisper.

Angelo’s blue eyes flared to life and he spun about to see for himself the way they were being stared at. His arm shot out and the door slammed into its housing then he was twisting back to them again to pin her with a furious look.

‘Explain to me what the hell you think you are doing with him,’ he gritted.

It was like looking at a complete stranger. Nothing about him was familiar to her any more. His smooth golden features that had once looked beautiful to her now looked hard and selfish. The glitter in his eyes one of mercenary greed not tender possessiveness. How could she have missed all of that? she wondered painfully. Everything about him, from the contrived streaks in his tawny blond hair to the angrily petulant curl to his mouth, bore no resemblance to the man she’d thought she loved. An ache throbbed in her stomach; she had never felt so deceived—by herself. Blinded by smooth, deliberate lies and a pitiable desire to be loved.

A pair of hands slid around her waist. She looked back at Carlo and saw hardness and toughness and a strength of will in his face that promised to devour her if she let it. But she also saw truth. He was hiding nothing, pretending nothing.I want you, he’d said, nothing more—nothing less than that. But at least it was honest.

‘Tell him, cara,’ he prompted softly.

Her breasts heaved on a tense little breath and she looked back at Angelo. ‘I’m not going to marry you,’ she announced obediently then was shocked by how easily the words came out. ‘You don’t love me. You never even tried to.’

Then she looked back at Carlo. He didn’t love her but at least he didn’t say that he did. He kissed her gently. Maybe he could sense the aching threat of tears still working in her throat.

‘Will you stop kissing her like that?’ Angelo rasped out. ‘Francesca—amore,’ he pleaded huskily, ‘of course I love you. How could you think I do not?’

A picture of an all-consuming open-mouthed kiss and an urgent hand sliding blue silk away from a slender thigh closed her eyes on a wave of thick anguish. She heard the sound of shrill words declaring, You don’t want her! You don’t even like her that much! echoing their bitter poison into her head.

‘Listen,’ Angelo planted into the swirling mists of that fading image, ‘if this is a case of pre-engagement panic, Francesca, I can understand that. Come to me,’ he urged. ‘We will go somewhere private so we can talk about it…’

He was very good, Francesca acknowledged and even felt herself start to tremble inside because she was hearing that other Angelo again, the quiet and tender one she’d fallen in love with. Maybe they should discuss this without a third-party witness. Maybe she—

‘Careful, amore,’ a soft voice cautioned. ‘Seduction can take many formats.’

He was right. She was being seduced by Angelo’s tender charm again. How easy she must have made it all for him, she thought with a self-deprecating dismay that sent her swaying closer to this tall, dark man who was her only truly honest support right now because she certainly could not rely on herself!

Her mouth accidentally brushed the cleft in his chin, sending tight tingles of awareness skittering across her skin. She sucked in a soft gasp, shocked at how sensitised she had become to everything about him. His voice, his touch, she could even taste him—drew greedily on his subtle male scent.

Anger roared at her from across the room.’ Puttana!’

She blinked, too dazed and disorientated by what she was feeling to really take the retort in, and she turned her head to find herself facing a man pulsing with biting contempt for her. The change from bewildered and pleading lover to this was startling. Golden eyes were flashing silver steel. A dark flush had mounted his skin. His teeth were showing, bared as if he were a riled wolf preparing to pounce.

Carlo had turned his head also. In the throes of all of this hostility it struck her that it was the first time he had bothered to look at Angelo. ‘Be very careful whom you insult,’ he warned with a soft-voiced snarl. ‘Or I might decide to bring your house tumbling down like the flimsy pack of cards it is.’

And Francesca’s skin began to prickle because if Angelo was a wolf then he was a mere puppy compared to this very dangerous man. Seeming to recognise that, Angelo instantly backed down, an unsteady sigh hissing from his lips as he ran a shaking set of fingers through his hair. He was floundering in a brain-numbing state of shock, she saw, and knew exactly what it felt like.

‘But she can’t to do this to me,’ Angelo groaned out unsteadily.

‘She can and she is.’ It was so cold and brutal that she shivered, bringing his attention back to her again. Long fingers gently crushed silk chiffon against the sensitive skin at her waist as he lowered his head to brush his lips across the frown-creased bridge of her nose.

There was a sound of disgust as Angelo threw his back to them.

The door flew open. ‘Angelo—Francesca, what are you doing in here? Your guests are …’

The words were cut off when she saw Carlo, her eyelashes flickering when she took in the scene. Angelina Batiste was blond and golden like Angelo but unlike Angelo it didn’t take her more than a few seconds to understand what was really happening here and her face became a perfectly blank page.

‘Leave us, Madre,’ Angelo bit at her. ‘I am dealing with this.’

But his mother was not going to leave. She was too busy seeing a terrible scandal staring her in the face and surprised everyone by turning on her son.

‘What have you done?’ she demanded accusingly.

‘I’ve done nothing,’ he growled, sounding like the puppy wolf again. ‘Look to them for your culprits.’ He tossed a hand out. ‘The way they cannot stop kissing each other speaks for itself.’

‘At least we do it with a lot more finesse than you were using on Francesca’s flatmate, amico. And we sought privacy, not the garden, where anyone who wanted to could view your technique…’

Francesca closed her eyes as the world swayed at this next stark revelation. For a moment she thought she was going to faint. Angelina Batiste almost choked on the shocked gasp that rose in her throat.

Opening her eyes again, she saw Angelo had spun round to stare at them. He looked shattered. He’d had the high ground ripped from beneath him by a man with a lethal penchant for ruthlessness. It left him with no argument to pursue, nothing for him to say in his own defence.