The Helen Bianchin And The Regency Scoundrels And Scandals Collections. Louise Allen
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of his reaction.
‘Careful with your claws, my little cat,’ Stefano warned softly. ‘Or I may choose to unsheathe my own.’
There was nothing she could add, so she didn’t even try. Instead, she turned and walked towards their suite, and once inside she carefully closed the door.
He didn’t follow, and she moved into the en suite and shed her clothes, then took a long shower, and, towelled dry, she pulled on a thin cotton shift and emerged into the bedroom, to stand hesitantly, unsure which of the two beds she should occupy.
Dammit, she swore softly. With her luck, she’d choose the wrong one, and then Stefano would be cynically amused by her mistake.
There was only one solution, and she caught up a towelling robe and slid it on, then walked through to the sitting-room, activated the television, and sank into a comfortable chair.
If necessary, she determined vengefully, she’d sleep here, rather than slip into the wrong bed!
Sunday evening television offered the choice of three movies, an intellectual book review, or a play spoken entirely in Hungarian. A karate-kickboxer epic wasn’t her preferred viewing, nor was a terminator blockbuster, and she wasn’t in the mood for a chilling thriller. After switching channels several times, she simply selected one for the sake of it and allowed her attention to wander.
At some stage she must have dozed, for she was aware of a strange sense of weightlessness, a desire to sink more comfortably into arms that seemed terribly familiar.
A small sigh escaped her lips, and she burrowed her face into the curve of a hard, muscular shoulder, then lifted her hands to encircle a male neck.
It felt so good, so right, and she murmured her appreciation. Her lips touched against warm skin, moving involuntarily as they savoured a texture and scent her subconscious recognised—not only recognised, but delighted in the discovery.
Except that she wanted more, and the tip of her tongue ventured out in a tentative exploratory tasting, edging up a deeply pulsing cord in search of a mouth she instinctively knew could bestow pleasure.
Then the barriers between unconsciousness and awareness began to disperse, bringing a horrifying knowledge that, although the arms that held her belonged to the right man, it was the wrong time, the wrong room, and her dream-like state owed nothing to the reality!
For a moment her eyes retained a warm luminescence, a musing witchery, then they clouded with pain before being hidden by two thickly lashed veils as she struggled to be free of him.
‘Put me down!’
‘I was about to,’ Stefano drawled as he placed her between fragrantly clean sheets, and her lashes swept up to reveal intense anger.
His touch was impersonal, yet she felt as if she was on fire, with every separate nerve-end quivering into vibrant life, each individual skin-cell an ambivalent entity craving his touch.
Carly snatched the top sheet and pulled it up to her chin in a defensive gesture. ‘Get away from me!’
His eyes speared hers, darkly mesmeric as she forced herself not to look away.
‘You’re as nervous as a kitten,’ he drawled musingly. ‘Why, when we’ve known each other in the most intimate sense?’
Reaching out, he brushed gentle fingers down the length of her cheek to the edge of her mouth, then traced the curving contour with a stray forefinger. ‘What are you afraid of, cara?’
‘Nothing,’ Carly responded carefully. ‘Absolutely nothing at all.’
Liar, she derided silently. No matter how hard she tried she was unable to still the fast-beating pulse that hummed through her veins, seducing every nerve and fibre until she felt incredibly alive.
His smile was wholly cynical, and his eyes held a gleam of mockery as they conducted a deliberately slow appraisal of her expressive features, lingering over-long on the visible pulsebeat at the base of her throat before travelling up to meet her gaze.
‘Goodnight, Carly,’ he bade her lazily. ‘Sleep well.’
She mutinously refused to comment, and she watched as he turned and walked from the room. Damn him, she cursed silently. She wouldn’t sleep in this bed, this room!
Anger fuelled her resolve, and she flung aside the covers, grabbed hold of her robe, then retreated quietly to an empty suite near by.
It held a double bed—made up in readiness, she discovered—and she slid beneath the covers, then switched off the bedside lamp.
Quite what Stefano’s reaction would be when he found her missing wasn’t something she gave much thought to for a while. She was too consumed with numerous vengeful machinations, all designed to cause him harm.
By the time she focused on what he might do, she was drifting off to sleep, too comfortable and too tired to care.
At some stage during the night she came sharply awake as a light snapped on, and she blinked against its brightness, disorientated by her surroundings for one brief second before realisation dawned. Except that by then it was too late to do anything but struggle as hard hands lifted her unceremoniously to her feet.
The face above her own was set in frightening lines, jaw clenched, mouth compressed into a savagely thin line, and eyes as dark as obsidian slate burning with controlled anger.
‘You can walk,’ Stefano drawled with dangerous softness. ‘Or I can carry you.’ His eyes hardened with chilling intensity, and Carly felt immensely afraid. ‘The choice is yours.’
He resembled a dark brooding force—lethal, she acknowledged shakily, noting a leashed quality in his stance that boded ill should she dare consider rebellion.
‘I won’t share the same bedroom with you,’ she ventured with a brave attempt at defiance, and saw his eyes narrow for an instant before they began a deliberately slow raking appraisal of her slim curves.
It was terrifying, for her skin flamed as if he’d actually trailed his fingers along the same path, and her eyes filled with futile rage. Her fingers curled into her palms, the knuckles showing white as she restrained herself from lashing out at him.
‘We agreed to a reconciliation,’ he reminded her with icy detachment. ‘For Ann-Marie’s benefit.’ His dark gaze seared hers, then struck at her heart. ‘I think we each realise our daughter is sufficiently intelligent to know that happily reconciled parents don’t maintain separate bedrooms.’ He knew just how to twist the knife, and he did it without hesitation. ‘Are you prepared for the questions she’ll pose?’
Carly’s slim form shook with anger, and her eyes blazed with it as she held his gaze. ‘If you so much as touch me,’ she warned as she collected her wrap and slipped it on, ‘I’ll fight you all the way down to hell.’
It took only seconds to reach the master suite, and only a few more to discard her wrap and slip into one of the two beds dominating the large room. With determination she turned on to her side and closed her eyes, uncaring whether he followed her or not.
She heard him enter the room and the soft decisive snap as the door closed, followed by the faint rustle of clothes being discarded, then the room was plunged into darkness, and she lay still, her body tense, until sheer exhaustion triumphed and she fell asleep.
Monday rapidly shaped up to be one of those days where Murphy’s Law prevailed, Carly decided grimly, for whatever could go wrong did, from a ladder in her tights to a traffic jam en route to the city.
On reaching the office, there appeared to be little improvement. She didn’t even manage coffee mid-morning, and lunch was a salad sandwich she sent out for and washed down quickly with apple juice as she checked and double-checked details required urgently for an eminent client.
Given normal circumstances she excelled under pressure, regarding it as a challenge rather than nerve-destroying,