The Marchese's Love-Child. Sara Craven
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nearing the edge of panic. ‘I had no idea that she could be a relation of yours—or that you were even in the region. If I’d known, I wouldn’t be here.’
She flung back her head. ‘So, how did you persuade her to do your dirty work? Bribery—or blackmail?’
His mouth thinned. ‘You are not amusing, carissima. Be very careful.’
‘Why?’ she challenged recklessly. ‘I already know the lengths you’re prepared to go to—when there’s something you want.’
Or when you’ve stopped wanting …
You sent me away, she thought. So why are you here now, tormenting me like this—reviving all these unwanted memories?
Her throat ached suddenly at the thought of them. But that was a weakness she couldn’t afford, because the room seemed to be shrinking, the walls closing in, diminishing the space between them. A space she needed to maintain at all costs.
‘I wonder if that’s true.’ Sandro’s voice was quiet—reflective. ‘Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that hardly matters any more.’ She paused. ‘And I don’t think there’s much point in continuing this discussion either.’
His smile twisted. ‘Then we agree on something at last.’
‘So, if you can tell me where to find my shoes and jacket, I’ll go.’
‘Back to him? Your innamorato?’
‘Back to my life,’ Polly said, lifting her chin. ‘In which you have no part, signore.’
‘I can hardly argue with that,’ Sandro shrugged. ‘You will find your belongings in the bedroom, Paola mia.’
He did not, she noticed, offer to fetch them for her, as the Sandro she’d once known would have done.
Don’t fool yourself, she thought as she trod, barefoot, into the bedroom and paused, looking around her. As he said—you never really knew him at all.
Her jacket and bag were on a small sofa by the window, her shoes arranged neatly beneath it. As she reached them she was aware of a sound behind her, and turned.
Sandro had followed her, she realised, her heart missing a beat. She hadn’t been aware of his approach, because he too had discarded his shoes. But the noise she’d heard was the sound of the door closing behind him, shutting them in together.
And now he was leaning back against its panels, watching her with hooded eyes, his expression cool and purposeful as, with one hand, he began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt.
Polly felt the breath catch in her throat. With a supreme effort, she controlled her voice, keeping it steady. ‘Another game, signore?’
‘No game at all, signorina.’ Cynically, he echoed her formality. ‘As I am sure you know perfectly well.’
She had picked up her bag, and was holding it so tightly that the strap cut into her fingers. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Sandro tutted. ‘Now you’re being dishonest, bella mia, but I expected that.’ He allowed his discarded shirt to drop to the floor, and began to walk towards her.
She swallowed. ‘I think you must be going crazy.’
‘Possibly,’ he said with sudden harshness. ‘And I want to be sane again.’ He halted, the topaz eyes blazing at her. ‘You are under my skin, Paola. In my blood, like a fever that refuses to be healed. And that is no longer acceptable to me. So, I plan to cure myself of you once and for all—and in the only possible way.’
‘No.’ She stared back at him, her appalled heart thudding frantically. ‘No, Sandro. You can’t do this. I—I won’t let you.’
‘You really believe you have a choice?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I know better.’
She backed away until her retreat was cut off by the wall behind her. Until he reached her.
‘Please, Sandro,’ she whispered. ‘Please let me go.’
He laughed again, touching a finger to her trembling lips, before outlining the curve of her jaw, and stroking down the delicate line of her throat to the neckline of her dress.
‘Once I have finished with you, carissima,’ he drawled insolently, ‘you are free to go anywhere you wish.’
‘Do you want me to hate you?’ Her voice pleaded with him.
‘I thought you already did.’ Almost casually, he detached her bag from her grasp and tossed it to one side, his brows snapping together as he saw the marks on her skin.
He lifted both her hands to his lips, letting them move caressingly on the redness the leather strap had left.
‘I had almost forgotten how easily you bruise.’ His voice was low and husky. ‘I shall have to be careful.’
Her whole body shivered at the touch of his mouth on her flesh, the aching, delirious memories it evoked. And the promise of further, dangerous delights in his whispered words.
A promise she could not allow him to keep.
She snatched her hands from his grip, and pushed violently at the bare, tanned wall of his chest, catching him off balance. As Sandro was forced into a step backwards, she dodged past, running for the door.
With no shoes and no money, she was going nowhere, but if she could just get out of this bedroom it might be possible to reason with him—deflect him from his apparent purpose.
She flung herself at the door handle, twisted it one way, then the other, trying to drag the door open, but it wouldn’t budge an inch, and she realised with horror that he must have locked it too—and taken the key.
‘Trying to escape again.’ His voice was sardonic, his hands hard on her shoulders as he swung her relentlessly to face him. ‘Not this time, bella mia.’ His smile mocked her. ‘Not, at least, until you have said a proper goodbye to me.’
‘Sandro.’ Her voice cracked. ‘You can’t do this. You must let me go …’
‘Back to your lover? Surely he can spare me a little of your time and attention first. After all, he has reaped the benefit of our previous association, wouldn’t you say?’ He paused. ‘And, naturally, I am intrigued to know if your repertoire has increased since then.’
Her face was white, her eyes like emerald hollows, as she stared up at him, her skin seared by his words.
She said chokingly, ‘You bastard.’
‘If you insist on calling me bad names,’ Sandro said softly, ‘I have no option but to stop you speaking at all.’ And his mouth came down hard on hers.
She tried to struggle—to pull away from him, so that she could talk to him—appeal, even on the edge, to his better nature. Tell him that his actions were an outrage—a crime. But what did that matter to someone who lived his life outside the law anyway? her reeling mind demanded.
Her efforts were in vain. The arm that held her had muscles of steel. At the same time, his free hand was loosening the dishevelled knot of her hair, his fingers twisting in its silky strands to hold her still for the ravishment of his kiss.
Her breasts were crushed against his naked chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin penetrating her thin dress. Felt the heat surge in her own body to meet it.
She heard herself moan faintly in anguished protest—pleading that this man, to whom she’d once given her innocence, would not now take her by force.
But Sandro used the slight parting of her lips for his own advantage, deepening the intimacy of his kiss with sensual intensity as his tongue invaded the moist sweetness of her mouth.
No