Bedded For Revenge. Sharon Kendrick
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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 I knew how much you would have opposed my being here,’ he observed.
‘You were right.’
‘And maybe I wanted to see your face when you did. To see your first genuine reaction. Do you remember the last time we saw one another, my love?’
In spite of the sarcasm which dripped from it, the word made her heart clench. Until she reminded herself that it was a redundant word as far as they were concerned—as unreal as everything else about their relationship. The engagement that never was, the happy-ever-after which never happened. How could something which had never really existed, have hurt so much?
She gave him a blank look. ‘I don’t believe I do.’
‘Liar,’ he said huskily, black eyes sliding over the tight aquamarine silk bodice and the exuberant thrust of her pert breasts. His gaze lingered long against the tiny tips of her nipples, which looked so startlingly sharp against the shining material, and he wished that he could take his tongue to them. ‘Do you remember how it felt to be in my arms and to have my tongue inside your mouth? Are you regretting now that we didn’t ever get around to having full sex?’
She flinched as if he had hit her. As if he had led her down a predictable path and she had failed to see where it was heading—except that Cesare had never been explicit like that with her before.
Yet she was letting his words wound her, and she was in danger of making a fool of herself. People were already starting to turn round to look at them—as if the almost tangible tension between them was setting them apart. Murmured questions were buzzing around the high-society guests, and Sorcha’s gaze darted around to meet frankly curious stares.
His black eyes followed hers. ‘Do you suppose they’re thinking what an attractive couple we make?’ he murmured. ‘Do you suppose that they are imagining the contrast of your pale skin being pinned down by the darkness of mine? Are you imagining it too, cara mia, just as I am? Do you think that they would be disappointed if they knew the reality of our lovemaking?’
Her pulse rocketed. ‘Cesare—stop it. Just go. Please! Why are you doing this?’
This was better, much better. Her lips parting in breathless appeal, her eyes darkening at his erotic taunt. With a cruel pleasure which excited him, Cesare continued to play with her as a cat would a helpless mouse. ‘What a way to greet the man you once claimed to adore.’
Sorcha felt the blood rushing to her ears so that they were filled with a roaring sound, like the ocean. ‘I was young and stupid then,’ she said hoarsely.
‘And now?’
‘Now I’m old enough to realise the lucky escape I had.’
‘Well, then, we are agreed on something at least,’ he answered evenly.
Sorcha hesitated. Maybe she had got him all wrong. Maybe he wanted to make peace. Maybe…She peered over his shoulder to where the brunette in the biliously coloured outfit was still standing staring at him and her heart pounded. ‘Is that your…girlfriend?’
He heard the acid tone in her voice even though she did her best to disguise it, and turned his head to glance over at the woman, who wiggled her fingers at him in a wave. ‘Sindy?’ He gave a slow smile. ‘Jealous, Sorcha?’
‘Not at all.’ But she was lying, and Sorcha wondered if Cesare realised that. She found herself wanting to lash out like a little cat—to say that the woman’s skin was sallow, that she was wearing the wrong colour, that she was not fit to be his girlfriend. But that was all wrong—she shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not now.
‘Have you spoken to my mother?’
‘Not yet. I’ll catch up with her at the reception.’
Sorcha froze. ‘You’re coming to the reception?’ she whispered.