Tall, Dark and Italian: In the Italian's Bed / The Sicilian's Bought Bride / The Moretti Marriage. Carol Marinelli
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it in the face that she turned up to him. But, what the hell, he’d shocked himself, and that was far more disturbing.
‘You don’t mean that,’ she said, and he knew that this was his last opportunity to escape the consequences of his outburst. He had only to tell her he was teasing and he might be able to get out of this unscathed.
But he didn’t do it.
‘I do mean it,’ he said, the words coming even though his brain was trying desperately to silence him. ‘You are—enchanting. And beautiful. And I would not be a man if I did not find you desirable, mi amore.’
Her lips parted then, and, although he sensed she was as uncertain of the good sense of what they were doing as he was, she didn’t move away. Instead, she came a little nearer, her toes brushing the front of his loafers, those clear green eyes keenly searching his face. Almost involuntarily, it seemed, she lifted her hand and stroked the roughening skin of his jawline, and Rafe could no longer control the instinctive hardening between his legs.
‘So—do you want to kiss me?’ she breathed barely audibly, and the quicksands of passion moved beneath his feet.
‘Tess—’ he said hoarsely, and even then he thought he might have found the will to resist her. Yet when her hand dropped to the open neckline of his shirt and he felt those tentative fingers against his bare skin, he totally lost it. The groan he uttered was purely anguished, and his hands found her shoulders to haul her into his arms.
Her lips were already parted, inviting the hungry invasion of his tongue. He didn’t disappoint her. One hand moved to grip her nape, angling her face towards him as his mouth fastened greedily over hers. His kiss both enticed and seduced, drawing a response from her that sent his head spinning. He felt his own gnawing hunger controlling his actions as his senses whirled out of control.
Her arms wound around him, her palms spreading against the damp curve of his spine. She must have been able to feel the heavy weight of his erection throbbing against her stomach but she didn’t recoil from him. When his hand cupped her buttocks, bringing her into intimate contact with his arousal, she arched against him, letting him feel how responsive she also was to his touch.
A sexy little moan emerged from lips that were already wet and swollen from his kisses and his conscience resurfaced. Dio mio, he thought, if he didn’t stop this soon he would go all the way. He was in real danger of acting out the images that had been taunting him all morning, and while he couldn’t deny he wanted her, she was simply not for him.
She was too young, for one thing, and she probably saw this as just a pleasant adjunct to her holiday. She’d had a tough time of it so far, what with Ashley’s disappearance and her stepmother breathing down her neck. Not to mention his own less-than-subtle hints about what he thought of her family. He wasn’t conceited, but he could quite see that having him lusting after her might offer some compensation. Particularly if, as seemed likely, she had little experience with older men.
His own feelings were less straightforward. And however tempting making love with her might be, he still had enough sense to step back from the ultimate betrayal. He could do without any more complications in his life, he thought cynically. From his point of view, it would be a recipe for disaster.
Which was why, when he lifted his mouth from hers, he didn’t succumb to the urge to slide his hands beneath the hem of her tank top and let his thumbs caress the undersides of her breasts. He wanted to. Dio, he wanted to feel her pert nipples taut against his palms and to take those firm mounds of flesh into his hands. Instead, stifling a groan, he gripped her forearms and put her gently away from him, feeling every kind of a heel for having led her on in the first place.
Her confusion was obvious and he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t been able to hide his body’s reaction to her and in her book there was probably only one conclusion to this affair. But when he met her troubled gaze with eyes that were deliberately regretful, she soon got the message. She took a stumbling backward step before turning and hurrying away along the beach.
‘Cara!’ He couldn’t use her name, that would be too familiar. ‘Cara,’ he called again. ‘I am sorry. I do not know what came over me.’
She muttered something then, but she was too far away for him to hear it. But he could imagine it wouldn’t be complimentary and who could blame her? He had behaved abominably and she deserved so much better. She was bound to think he had as little respect for her as he had for her sister.
Chapter Eight
THE wind chimes woke her.
Tess had thought that she wouldn’t sleep, but surprisingly enough she’d fallen into a deep slumber as soon as her head touched the pillow. Perhaps it had been the heat or the tiring quality of the journey, she mused, rolling onto her back and staring up at the dust motes dancing in the rays of sun seeping through the blinds into the bedroom. Or more likely it had been the stress, she thought bitterly, as the remembrance of the previous day’s events hit her. Oh, God, she had behaved so stupidly. And that after the embarrassment she’d suffered at Maria Sholti’s hands.
Pushing herself up into a sitting position, Tess rested her elbows on her knees and pushed frustrated hands into her hair. The whole outing had been a mistake, from start to finish. Castelli should never have taken her with him, and, just because he had, she shouldn’t have run away with the idea that he was attracted to her.
How had that happened? All right, he’d given her some pretty smouldering looks, but he was an Italian, for God’s sake. Italians were supposed to be the most romantic race in the world, weren’t they? She’d obviously read more into it than he could possibly have meant. She should have been on her guard. After that scene at the Sholtis’ hotel, she should have been wary of any uncharacteristic behaviour on his part. A man who could treat his daughter so coldly was surely not to be trusted.
Yet what had happened on the beach hadn’t been entirely her fault, she consoled herself. She’d provoked him, yes, and he’d responded. It had been as simple—and as complicated—as that. She should have let him take his walk alone.
She should never have tagged along. If she’d stayed and finished her salad she wouldn’t be berating herself now.
And she wouldn’t be facing the ignominy of further humiliation when she saw him again.
If she saw him again, she amended, though she really had little expectation that she wouldn’t. Ashley was still missing; Marco was still missing. And until that particular problem was solved, she was going to have to live with it. And with him.
She threw back the sheet and slid her legs off the bed. Sitting here brooding about it wasn’t going to achieve anything. The gallery wouldn’t open itself, and, despite her anger with Ashley, she had promised to look after the place in her absence.
All the same, as she stood in the shower she couldn’t help reliving the agony of the ride home. Although Castelli had attempted to restore their earlier camaraderie, he had been fighting a losing battle where she was concerned. Her own responses had been monosyllabic, she remembered, cringing at the way she’d blocked his every overture. She’d let him see exactly how hurt she’d been, and he must have been so relieved when they’d reached San Michele and he’d been able to drop her at the gallery. She’d probably convinced him she was no better than Ashley, after all. He no doubt considered he had had a lucky escape.
With thoughts like these for company, Tess didn’t spend long in the shower. Towelling herself dry, she contented herself with running a comb through her hair before dressing in a lemon chemise top and a green and blue Indian cotton skirt. Canvas boots completed her outfit and, after viewing herself without enthusiasm in the mirror of the carved ar-moire where Ashley kept her clothes, Tess left the apartment.
The morning passed, thankfully without incident. The only visitor she had who wasn’t a would-be customer was Silvio and he seemed to find nothing amiss with her appearance.
‘Cara,’ he exclaimed, his use of the familiar endearment reminding her painfully