It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Julia James
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of steel. He said harshly, ‘An hour, you say? I think not. After all, we shall not be making love, so a few minutes only will suffice. And we do not need a bed.’
Before she could move or protest, he was lifting her off the sofa and down on to the thick hearthrug, kneeling over her as he unfastened her cord trousers, dragging them down from her hips together with her underwear, then wrenching at his own zip.
Gasping, Emily tried to struggle—to push him away. ‘What are you doing?’
He controlled her effortlessly, nudging her thighs apart with a knee. ‘How does it seem?’ he countered harshly. ‘You are not open to any form of persuasion, signora. You prefer to close your heart and mind against me, so this is what you must expect.’
‘Oh, God, you don’t mean this…’ Her voice broke as she felt the hardness of him seeking her moist and yielding heat, then entering her with one strong, implacable thrust.
She lay beneath him, stunned, trembling while he proceeded swiftly, almost perfunctorily to his release.
When he had finished, he lay still for a long moment, then she heard him say quietly in a voice she barely recognised, ‘This—this cannot be endured.’
There was another silence, then he moved, lifting himself away from her and pulling her clothing back into place with a kind of casual indifference that chilled her.
She wanted to be angry—to call him names—to fling something hateful and hurtful at him. Something that would punish him eternally for his shameful treatment of her. But no words would come. Besides, she thought as pain lanced through her, hadn’t she insulted him enough? And not just tonight, either?
Hadn’t it been her desire to shake his cool arrogance—to wound him that had brought her to this moment in the first place?
Suddenly she felt numb and frightened, as if she was standing on the edge of some abyss. And sad. Above all—sad.
She felt an urge to reach out a hand. Speak his name. But she didn’t get the chance. Because Raf spoke first.
‘And now get out of my sight, per favore.’ His voice was harsh as his expression as he stood, refastening his jeans. He did not look at her. ‘You said you wished to sleep. Bene. Go to bed and do so. You will not be disturbed.’
Emily scrambled to her feet and fled to the stairs. Once in her room, she closed the door, leaning back against its panels, aware of the wild thunder of her heart—and the forlorn ache of her hungry body, trapped in its self-imposed fast.
He’d wanted to seduce her and she’d prevented him. Objective achieved. Job done.
But at what a cost.
It would have been a relief to her feelings if she could have called him a brute—an animal. But it wouldn’t have been true. In its way, what he’d done to her had been a demonstration of almost passionless efficiency. There had not been one kiss or caress. Which made it somehow worse.
You prefer to close your heart and mind against me… His words came back to haunt her. Because that was indeed what she’d set out to do from the first, deliberately and precisely. And tonight she’d reaped the bitter harvest of her actions.
This is what you must expect…
Dear God, she thought, was that going to be true? And, if so, how could she bear it?
This could not be how he treated the other women in his life, so she could only hope he would soon grow tired of this sterile and one-sided arrangement. Return to his old ways—old loves, she thought, and flinched.
In the meantime, she couldn’t allow herself to be found here brooding like this when Raf came to bed. It was vital not to let him see that anything he might do mattered to her. Or that she might have anything to regret.
She undressed quickly and got into bed, turning her back to the door and thumping the pillow into shape. She wouldn’t be asleep when he arrived or, probably, for hours afterwards, but she could pretend. And he’d said he wouldn’t disturb her.
And from now on she would keep strictly to her own side of the bed.
It seemed an eternity before she heard him come upstairs and walk past on his way to the bathroom. She burrowed further under the covers, closing her eyes so tightly that tiny stars danced behind her lids, and waited for his return. For the moment when her door would open.
Then, softly but very definitely, Emily heard a very different sound—the subdued click of the spare room door closing just across the passage.
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