It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

She began to count in her head and had reached twenty before he spoke again.

‘Your body is like moonlight, carissima. Lovelier even than my dreams of you.’

‘Am I supposed to be flattered?’ She still didn’t look at him.

‘You don’t wish to be told you are desirable?’ He captured her chin, turning her to face him in spite of her resistance.

‘Only by the man I love,’ she said defiantly.

The dark brows lifted. ‘Dio, you still care about him, after what he has done? You astonish me.’

‘He must have been truly desperate,’ she said. ‘You—you have no idea what it’s like to be without money. You’ve always led this pampered life, with everyone dancing to your tune.’

‘You except yourself, do you, from this ludicrous generalisation?’ The note in his voice was almost one of disdain.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I danced too—when I was fool enough to marry you—and to think I could trust you when you said you wouldn’t touch me unless I—wished it.’

His smile was wry. ‘Perhaps I thought that, in time, you might change your mind.’

‘Then you were wrong.’ She was agonisingly conscious that he was propped on an elbow, his hazel eyes still intent on her exposed body, and that she felt not only horribly embarrassed by his continued scrutiny, but vulnerable. ‘May I cover myself?’ she requested curtly.

‘No, mia bella, not yet.’

‘But it’s cold.’

He smiled at her. ‘Then move closer,’ he invited.

She bit her lip. ‘Well—at least turn out the light.’

‘Later,’ he said. ‘When it is time for us to sleep. But for now…’

He bent and found her mouth with his.

It was the first time their lips had met since that night at the Manor, when she’d gone into his arms believing he was Simon.

Now the familiarity of his kiss shocked her. Scared her too. Even after all this time she suddenly found herself remembering the taste of him—the warm subtle scent of his skin.

Above all, his gentleness.

And it seemed that nothing had changed.

His lips were light but sensuous as they caressed hers, teasing the soft contours with unhurried persuasion. At the same time, his fingertips were stroking her neck, exploring the hollow beneath her ear and lingering at the base of her throat where the pulse leapt at his touch.

Emily was aware of a strange languor starting to permeate her senses while, deep within her, she felt a faint stirring, like the flutter of a butterfly wing or the slow unfurling of a rosebud.

She heard a small cold voice in her head whisper, So this is seduction.

And knew she was in real danger here.

Because Raf was a master of the game. He’d come here for her surrender and he would be satisfied with nothing less. At the same time, he would consider this initiation of his virgin bride no real contest for him. A foregone conclusion for someone of his experience. And that, before the night was over, she would be clinging to him, begging for more.

But she would make him think again, she told herself fiercely. Because she would fight him with every weapon she possessed—using her pride, her anger and her stubborn will to subdue her emotions—and especially that first kindling of unwanted sexual awareness that she’d just encountered.

She knew she would not prevent his physical possession of her. To struggle would be useless and demeaning. But she would make sure that his was a sterile victory—devoid of the response he would regard as his right. She had boasted to herself that she was immune to him. Now she would prove it by any means available. Retreat to some part of her mind where he could not reach her.

And she began to count to twenty all over again…

Raf allowed his kiss to deepen fractionally, took his mouth from hers for a heartbeat, then kissed her again, running the tip of his tongue delicately along the line of her lips, coaxing them to part for him. But they remained closed and unyielding.

He raised his head and looked down at her. ‘No?’ he asked on a note of mild curiosity.

She said nothing, just stared back with hostile defiant eyes.

His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Definitely—no,’ he murmured and drew her more closely into his arms.

Phase Two, thought Emily, and was tempted to say so aloud.

Only then his hand moved down to her breast, cupping its softness in his palm while his fingers played with her nipple in an enticement as pleasurable as it was calculated.

And for one blind, greedy moment she lost the power of speech along with the ability to think rationally. Her brain was in free fall, her body startled—pierced by a need she’d never known before—or even suspected could exist.

Then he bent and took one swollen rosy peak between his lips, stroking it delicately with his tongue, and as delight lanced through her she felt him smile against her skin.

And, with that, sanity returned, stifling the tiny moan in her throat. Oh, God, he was so sure of her, she thought with shock. So convinced that her inexperienced body would respond with gratitude and joy to this cynical exercise in sexual control.

Oh, why couldn’t he have assuaged his anger with some hasty, meaningless coupling, roughly accomplished, that would have fed her own resentment?

But he would never do that. Not when he knew so well how to tantalise and arouse, an ability he’d undoubtedly learned with so many other women, in so many other beds.

But not hers, she told herself with renewed and savage resolve. Never in hers.

Because she did not have to be at the mercy of her senses. She did not have to allow him to win.

Deliberately, she sank her teeth into her lower lip until she tasted blood, using the sharpness of the pain to distract her from the sensual drift of his mouth and hands over her body, the unexpected incitement of his aroused nakedness against her skin.

It would be so easy to yield, she realised, staring up at the ceiling over his shoulder and making herself count the beams. So easy and so fatal.

Because of him, all her dreams of a happy future life had been wrecked. Therefore she would deny him too.

Although she could not so easily control her own physicality, she realised with dismay, as the aching, melting sensation between her legs could attest.

Not even Simon, whom she’d loved, had ever induced this kind of reaction from her—made her feel as if she was about to vanish over the edge of the world.

Nor would she be able to hide it from Raf for much longer, because his knee was between hers, gently coaxing them apart, so that his sensuously exploring hands could gain the intimate access to her body that they sought.

As he began, softly and rhythmically, to caress the secret places of her womanhood, Emily tensed into rigidity, closing her eyes so tightly that coloured sparks danced behind her lids. But when he found the tiniest, most sensitive spot and started to circle it gently with a fingertip, she almost cried out under the force of the sensations he was creating. Realised that her iron determination was almost ready to collapse.

Frantically, she began to recite her twelve times table, verses of poetry she’d learned at school, even her Christmas card list—anything—anything—that would help her withstand the witchcraft of his touch and break the web of sensual promise he was weaving round her. Concentrating with such fierceness that she almost stopped breathing.