His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All

Because his lips might still be gentle as they explored hers, but they were also warm and unashamedly determined, and they demanded a response. The desire she’d seen in his eyes had now become a physical reality.

Prove it…

Warning her quite explicitly that he was tired of waiting. That the next step was there to be taken.

In the full and certain consciousness of this, she let her mouth move under his slowly and sweetly, offering him a reply that was shy but willing.

His fingers were tangling in her hair, unfastening the silver clip and letting the scented strands tumble over her shoulders.

He sighed against her mouth and his kiss deepened, his tongue probing her lips, seeking her surrender to a new and disturbing intimacy.

Tarn was not aware of moving, but suddenly her body seemed to sink into his, one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping the nape of his neck as her lips parted for him.

Then, between one heartbeat and the next, she was lost, the scent of him, the taste of him swamping her astonished senses, as her tongue lapped almost frantically against his, and her teeth grazed his mouth in turn.

They swayed together, his hands sliding down to her hips, pulling her even closer. She could feel the hardness of him against her thighs, triggering a sweet drenching surge of longing in her own body, which sent shock waves to her reeling mind by its very intensity.

Caz raised his head, looking down at her, his eyes burning under half-closed lids as he studied her flushed face.

His hand swept the dress from her shoulder, and he bent to kiss her bared skin, his lips tracing the delicacy of her bone structure, before moving down to the lace which shrouded her breast, and closing on the deep rose of her nipple, suckling it with sensuous delight.

Tarn’s head fell back and she moaned softly at this unfamiliar mingling of pain and pleasure. Every sense, every nerve-ending she possessed was in turmoil, warning her that if he was to push her back against the wall and take her, she would not be able to deny him.

And suddenly she was more afraid than she’d ever been in her life. More even than of being sent away from Wilmont Road as an unwanted child again. Because she had never felt like this before. Never experienced the blazing force of sheer physical need. The overwhelming urge to be taken and give endlessly in return.

But that would ruin everything. She couldn’t jettison her aims for the brief satisfaction of the moment. She had to retrieve the lost ground and resist him. Had to…

‘Caz—no.’ Her voice was small and husky. ‘Stop—please. You—I can’t…’

For a breathless moment, she thought her protest was going to be ignored, then, slowly and reluctantly, he straightened.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he restored her dress to order, then ran a finger down the heated curve of her cheek in a gesture that was as much reassuring as tender.

He said very quietly, ‘Are you telling me you don’t want me?’

Mutely, she shook her head, knowing it would be useless to attempt to lie.

‘Then what is it? Has someone in the past treated you badly—hurt you?’

How can you ask that? she wanted to cry aloud. You of all people? Where was all the gentleness and concern for Evie?

‘Tell me, sweetheart, was it this guy in the States?’

‘Howard?’ It was a struggle now even to remember his name, she thought with shame. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s just that I don’t… I haven’t—ever…’ She stumbled to a halt, staring down at the carpet. ‘Ludicrous, isn’t it?’

Caz said gravely, ‘Do you hear me laughing?’ He shook his head. ‘My darling, being a virgin isn’t some kind of stigma. And, anyway, I should have realised. It explains some of the contradictions I’ve sensed in you.’

He took her back into his arms, holding her close, his cheek resting on her hair. ‘So, at some future time might I be able to persuade you to reconsider your present stance?’

‘I don’t know.’ And that, too, was no more than the truth. ‘I—I’m so confused.’

‘Then it looks as if I’ll just have to go on waiting,’ he said. ‘And hoping…’

Remembering his words, the wry husky tone of his voice, sent a slow voluptuous whisper of sensation rippling through her body. She found herself remembering his hands—his mouth. Felt her flesh stir—her breathing quicken…

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Of all the men in the world, Caz Brandon, why must you be the one to make me feel like this? When you’re the one who needs to be driven crazy with unfulfilled desire.’

And knew that in order to defeat him, she faced the fight of her life.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_8552963b-ae4b-5e2b-95ba-3998572baede)

‘IT’S not fair,’ Mrs Griffiths complained fretfully. ‘All this talk about human rights, and I can’t even see my own daughter.’ She gave Tarn a mulish stare. ‘It’s about time you did something.’

‘I have tried.’ Tarn made herself speak gently. She’d spent a restless night interspersed with wild and disturbing dreams, then woken very early when the sky was barely streaked with light to discover with shock that her arms were wrapped round her pillow, holding it closely to her body as if it were flesh and blood rather than feathers and down. And realised that she was glad she couldn’t remember her dreams in detail.

She’d known from past experience that she would not go back to sleep, yet was unwilling to simply lie there, staring into space, while she reviewed yet again the events of the previous evening and tried to make sense of them. Or rationalise her reaction to them.

Instead, she’d got up, dragged on some track suit bottoms and a T-shirt, and conducted a cleaning blitz on the flat, losing herself in sheer physical hard work.

When she’d finished, the whole place gleamed and she surveyed it with a sense of real satisfaction.

She showered and washed her hair, then, with the faintest hint of gritted teeth, she reminded herself that she almost certainly owed her foster mother a visit and took a bus to Wilmont Road before heading off to the supermarket for the Saturday morning shop.

‘But clearly you haven’t tried hard enough.’ Mrs Griffiths was like a dog with a bone, and not to be put off. ‘I need her, and Evie needs me at a time like this. You have to tell those doctors so. You must.’

I can talk to the Professor until I’m blue in the face, but it won’t make the slightest difference, Tarn thought, suppressing a sigh. Aloud, she said temperately, ‘I’ll go down there tomorrow and see what I can do.’

‘I’ve bought her a dress,’ Mrs Griffiths said. ‘Her favourite turquoise. And I want to give it to her myself. Tell them that. Make it perfectly clear.’

Tarn nodded as she got up from the kitchen table and walked to the door, where she paused as a thought struck her. ‘Talking of clothes, what happened to Evie’s wedding dress? Is it here somewhere, because there was no sign of it at the flat. I don’t want her to ask me about it, and not be able to answer her.’

Aunt Hazel shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. I certainly never saw it. Another of her surprises, poor baby. But when she described it, I wasn’t convinced that satin was the wisest choice she could have made.’

‘I think that was probably the least of her worries,’ Tarn said, then stopped, her brows drawing together in a swift frown. ‘Did you say it was satin? I thought—she said in one of her letters that it was cream lace and chiffon.’

‘Satin,’ said Aunt Hazel. ‘And oyster. I think she looked at quite a few before she made up her mind.’

‘Yes,’ Tarn acknowledged, still frowning. ‘I suppose that must be it.’

‘And you’ll go down to see her. You won’t let that Della talk you into doing something else.’

‘Della’s away this weekend, visiting her family,’ Tarn said with faint weariness.

Mrs Griffiths sniffed. ‘Well, aren’t they the lucky ones. Of course, I should have insisted you stay here instead of moving in with that flighty piece.’ She paused, giving Tarn a critical stare. ‘As it is, you look as if you’ve been burning the candle at both ends for a week.’

Tarn bit her lip. ‘I simply had a bad night, that’s all.’

‘Just the same, I expect you slept better than my poor girl, locked away like that,’ was Mrs Griffiths’ parting shot, accompanying Tarn down the hall to the front door.