His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven
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the eve of his wedding with Teresa and Ernesto, who were going to act as their witnesses, so she would just have to catch him first thing in the morning before he left, she told herself.
Charlie had already been collected by Julie, and taken down to the dining room for breakfast, when she woke, so she had the bathroom to herself.
She bathed and put on one of her new dresses—primrose silk with a scooped neck, and slightly flared skirt. Nailing her colours to the mast, she thought with faint defiance as she crossed the drawing room to his door.
‘Avanti.’ The response to her knock was cool and casual, and Polly, drawing a deep breath, opened the door and went in.
The curtains were drawn back, filling the room with sunlight, and Sandro was in bed, lying back against the piled-up pillows, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee from the breakfast trolley beside him. His skin looked like mahogany against the pristine dazzle of the white bed linen.
He glanced up, his brows snapping together as he saw her.
‘Buongiorno,’ he murmured after a pause. ‘You will forgive me if I do not get up,’ he added, indicating the sheet draped over his hips which was quite clearly his only covering. ‘Would you like coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’ Polly shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, praying she would not blush, and wondering if it was possible to look at someone without actually seeing them. And certainly without staring. And particularly without feeling that treacherous excitement slowly uncurling inside her. ‘I’ve had breakfast.’
‘How virtuous of you, cara,’ he drawled. ‘They bring an extra cup each morning, presumably because they hope I will eventually get lucky. I think I shall have to tell them to stop.’ He refilled his own cup. ‘So—to what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure?’
Polly gritted her teeth. ‘I—I’ve come to ask you a favour.’
His brows rose. ‘You fascinate me, bella mia. Especially when you choose my bedroom to make your request.’
‘Well, don’t read anything into that,’ Polly said shortly. ‘It’s just that I seem to see so little of you these days.’
Sandro moved, stretching slowly and indolently, letting the concealing sheet slip a little. ‘You are seeing enough of me this morning, carissima,’ he drawled. ‘Or do you want more?’
She glared at him. ‘No.’
‘You disappoint me,’ he murmured. ‘But if it is not my body, I presume it is money. How much do you want?’
‘Money?’ Polly repeated in bewilderment. ‘Of course it isn’t. I haven’t spent half the allowance you made me.’
‘I would not grudge more.’ Folding his arms behind his head, Sandro studied her through half-closed eyes, frankly absorbing the cling of the silk to her body, a faint smile curving his mouth. ‘You seem to be spending it wisely.’
She flushed under his scrutiny. ‘Thank you—I think.’
‘Prego.’ He continued to watch her. ‘I hope you do not wish me to persuade your mother to attend the wedding. I should hate to disappoint you.’
She bit her lip. ‘No. I’ve accepted that it’s a lost cause. Besides, she wouldn’t listen to you. You—you seem to make her nervous.’
‘Mi dispiace,’ he returned without any real sign of regret. ‘I seem to have the same effect on you, cara mia. So—what is it?’
She swallowed. ‘I’d like Julie to stay in Italy with us, and go on looking after Charlie—please.’
Sandro moved slightly, adjusting the sheet to a more respectable level. He sent her a meditative look.
He said, ‘Paola, I have a houseful of staff who are dancing for joy at the prospect of looking after the future marchese. He will not lack for attention, I promise you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But he’s used to Julie, and he likes her. Anyway, the others will speak Italian to him, and he might feel lost at first.’ She hesitated. ‘And I like Julie too, and I can talk to her in English. In spite of Teresa’s coaching, I’m going to feel pretty isolated.’
‘Davvero?’ His tone was sardonic. ‘You do not feel that you could talk to me, perhaps?’
That was what Teresa had said, she thought, biting her lip again. She looked at the floor. ‘That isn’t very likely,’ she said constrictedly. ‘After all, we’re not marrying for any kind of companionship, but for Charlie’s sake.’
‘Does one rule out the other?’ He was frowning slightly.
‘I think it has to,’ Polly countered, with a touch of desperation. ‘And after all, you—you won’t always be there,’ she added, feeling dejectedly that she was losing the argument. ‘You have your work—your own life to lead.’
‘No,’ he said, quietly. ‘That is true.’ He shrugged a naked shoulder. ‘Va bene. If that is what you want, I agree.’
‘Oh.’ Polly found herself blinking. ‘Well—thank you.’
‘Is that all? I am disappointed.’ The topaz eyes glinted at her. ‘I was hoping for a more—tangible expression of gratitude.’
Polly stiffened. ‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘And I think you do.’ He smiled at her, and held out a hand in invitation. ‘Is one kiss too much to ask?’
She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but there was too much riding on this transaction.
She said coldly, ‘You’re not as generous as I thought.’
‘And nor are you, carissima,’ he said gently. ‘Which is why I have so far asked for so little. Besides, you will have to kiss me tomorrow at the wedding. It is tradition.’ His smile widened. ‘And you certainly need the practice.’
There was a taut silence, then Polly trod awkwardly to the side of the bed. Ignoring his proffered hand, she bent to brush his cheek with swift, unyielding lips.
But before she could straighten, Sandro had grasped her wrists in an unbreakable hold, and she was being drawn inexorably downwards, losing her balance in the process. She found she was being turned skilfully, so that she was lying across his body, the outrage in her eyes meeting the mockery in his. Mockery mingled with something altogether more disturbing. Something that, in spite of herself, every pulse in her body leapt to meet.
He said softly, ‘But I will not settle for as little as that, Paola mia.’
And her instinctive cry of protest was stifled by the warmth of his mouth on hers.
He kissed her deeply and thoroughly, holding her imprisoned in one arm, while his other hand twined in her hair to hold her still, defeating any attempt she might make to struggle. Forcing her to endure the sensuous and unashamedly possessive invasion of his tongue, as his mouth moved on hers in sheer and unashamed enticement.
Robbing her, she realised numbly, of any real desire to fight him. Awakening very different memories—and longings.
The heat of the sun pouring through the window—the unforgettable scent of his naked skin—the pressure of his lithe, muscular body against hers sent the last three years rolling back, and they were lovers again, their bodies aching and melting to be joined together in the ultimate intimacy, yet deliberately holding back to prolong the sweetness of the final moments.
He had always wooed her with kisses, she remembered dazedly, arousing her with a patient, passionate tenderness that splintered her control, and sent her reason spinning, so that she clung to him mutely imploring his possession.
Why else had she been unable to see that bringing her to eager, quivering acquiescence was the work of a practised seducer?
Yet