Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride. Lee Wilkinson
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of his brilliant black eyes had taken her back to another time and another place—and mocked her with the lesson she had been learning ever since. That no other man could ever match up to him. And one look at him had reminded her exactly why.
Her mouth was dry and her breath was rapid, but she sucked in a deep breath and tried to stay calm. ‘Rupert, did you know he was going to be here?’
There was a pause. ‘Er…kind of.’
‘Kind of? And so did Emma, presumably—since she’s the bride?’
‘Yeah. Ralph’s family does a lot of business with di Arcangelo. You know that, Sorcha.’
Yes, she knew that—but it was one of those things you knew and kept pushed to the back of your mind. The same way that you knew natural disasters occurred, but you just didn’t spend your time thinking about them until you had to. ‘And it didn’t occur to any of you to have the decency to tell me he’d been invited, in view of our…our history?’
Rupert looked vaguely bored. ‘You went out with him a few years ago—what’s the big deal? And anyway—he asked me not say anything. He wanted it to be a surprise.’
She wanted to yelp—What do you mean, he asked you not to? I am your sister, and as such I take precedence over Cesare di Arcangelo—in spite of his affluence and influence.
‘Oh, it’s certainly a surprise,’ said Sorcha lightly—but if she said any more then Rupert would think she cared. And she didn’t. Not any more. She had to get things into perspective. Cesare was simply part of her past who would soon be gone, if not forgotten.
But why was he here? What possible reason could there be for re-establishing a family connection which had fizzled out years ago? Loyalty to her brother? Had they really been that close? Or was it just what it seemed—he was attending the wedding of a son of a business colleague?
It was like being caught in a trap which no one apart from Sorcha could see. Even though the sun was shining, and the church was picture-postcard perfect, and the bells were pealing out, inside she felt a bleak pang of regret. Time healed, that was what everyone said—and now it seemed that the rest of the world had been colluding in a great big conspiracy of lies.
But she played her part to the maximum and flashed a series of bright, happy smiles for the cameras until they wanted just couple shots of the bride and groom and she could escape.
She just wasn’t sure where.
With an odd kind of sixth sense, Sorcha suddenly became aware of being watched as surely as if eyes were burning into her back, branding her pale skin through the delicate silk-satin of her bridesmaid dress. And—try as she might—she couldn’t stop herself from turning round to see, even though she knew exactly who it was.
This was the true meaning of the word irresistible, she thought as she tried uselessly to pull against the power he exerted. As if she were a snake and he some charmer, summoning her against her will. And she looked round to find herself dazzled by the ebony gaze of Cesare di Arcangelo.
Stay away, Sorcha prayed silently—but her prayer went unanswered. Sunlight bouncing off his gleaming blue-black hair, he walked across the church path towards her, tall and dark and supremely confident—leaving a sulky-looking woman in a bright yellow dress glaring at his retreating back.
Sorcha felt a lump in her throat—as if someone had rammed in a pebble large enough to block her windpipe—and she briefly closed her eyes, imagining—almost praying—that she would pass out. What a merciful release that would be. To faint and discover when she opened her eyes again that Cesare had gone—as if he had never set foot here in the first place. Almost as if she had dreamt it all up.
But she did not faint, and there was no mercy. Or dream. Instead, the air came flowing back into her lungs as she stared back at him—and just the sight of him was the visual equivalent of a punch in the solar plexus.
‘Cesare,’ she said, and it came out as a whisper.
He was wearing a pale, formal suit in grey, made from some expensive fabric which hung and hugged his muscular body in all the right places. Whoever had designed it must have decided that hinting at a man’s raw sexuality was the way to go—or maybe it just had something to do with the man who was wearing it.
The grey contrasted with jet-dark hair which was thick and silky-straight—just like the outrageously thick black eyelashes which shielded eyes as rich as dark chocolate. He looked more like an international sex symbol than the millionaire entrepreneur he really was—who had taken the long-established wealth of the di Arcangelo family, transformed it into super-riches and made himself into a bit of a legend in the process.
Everything about him was perfect—even that slightly restless expression on his face, and the cold and quizzical eyes that hinted at an intellectual depth which lay beneath the charismatic exterior. She had once thought that it wasn’t possible for a man to be as gorgeous as Cesare, but somehow he had defied the improbable—and seven years had only added to his striking physical impact.
Somehow she managed to pull herself together—even though there was still some remnant of the lovestruck girl inside her who wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his gorgeous face down to kiss her, wriggle her untutored body restlessly against the hard perfection of his.
Her heart was hammering, but somehow she inclined her head politely—so that to the casual observer it would look as though the chief bridesmaid were greeting just another guest.
‘Well,’ she said coolly. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘Don’t you like surprises?’ he murmured.
‘What do you think?’
He smiled as he sensed the tension in her. ‘Ah, Sorcha,’ he murmured, his gaze travelling with slow insolence over the body of the only woman who had ever rejected him. ‘Bene, bene, bene—but how you’ve grown, cara.’
She wanted to tell him not to look at her like that—but that wasn’t entirely true, and she didn’t want to be branded a hypocrite. Because even while she despised that blatantly sexual scrutiny, wasn’t there some traitorous part of her body which responded to it?
She could feel it in the soft throbbing of her pulses and in the uncomfortable prickle as her breasts thrust against the lace brassière she wore—as if her nipples were screaming out to be touched. And Cesare would have noticed that. Of course he would. Once, in that protective way he’d had with her, he would have defused the sexual tension. But not any more. Now he was just taking his time and enjoying it.
And the time for social niceties was past. She had to protect herself. She had to know the truth.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded.
Black brows were arched. ‘What an appalling way to speak to an invited guest, cara,’ he answered silkily. Because now was not the time to tell her. Non ora. He was going to savour the timing of this, to maximise the impact when he dropped his bombshell straight into her beautiful lap. ‘Didn’t you know I was coming?’ he questioned innocently.
‘You know very well I didn’t—since my brother says you left instructions for it to be kept all hush-hush!’ Sorcha fixed him with a questioning look, reminding herself that this was her territory and that he was definitely trespassing. ‘So why all the cloak and dagger stuff? Do you want to be a spy when you grow up, Cesare?’
He gave a soft, appreciative laugh—for opposition always heightened the senses. He thought how much more spirited she had become with the passing of the years, and oh, but he was going to enjoy subduing that fire. ‘Why? Do you think I’d make a good one?’
‘No. You’d never blend into a crowd,’ she retorted, before realising that although it was the right thing—it was also the wrong thing to say. It might have sounded like a compliment, and that was the last thing she wanted. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Maybe