Bedded For Revenge. Sharon Kendrick
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of vows which will probably be broken before the year is out?’ he questioned cynically. ‘I may not be a big fan of weddings, but nobody can deny that they offer an opportunity to indulge in some of the more pleasurable aspects of life. And I shall look forward to being back in your house.’
The black eyes glittered in a way which took her right back to forbidden territory—more emotional than erotic, and all the more dangerous for that.
‘Shall we dance together later, Sorcha?’ he finished. ‘Perhaps even go for a swim, just like the old days—si?’
But the old days were gone—long gone. She wanted to convince herself that the person she was then had been markedly different—so that if the younger Sorcha had walked up and said hello she wouldn’t be able to recognise her. And yet while in many ways she was different—in others she felt exactly the same. Why else would there be such a dull ache in her heart when she looked at the man she had believed herself to be in love with?
‘I would tell you to go to hell,’ she said slowly, ‘if I didn’t think you’d already taken up a permanent berth there!’
‘Why? Do you want to come and lie in it with me?’
His soft mocking laughter was still ringing in her ears as Sorcha pushed her way through the crowds to where a dark limousine was waiting to whisk the bridesmaids and pageboys back to the reception. Four young faces pressed anxiously against the glass as Sorcha gathered up armfuls of tulle and silk and levered herself in next to them.
The bridegroom’s niece scrambled onto her lap and planted a chubby finger right in the middle of her cheek.
‘Why are you cryin’, Sorcha?’
Sorcha sniffed. ‘I’m not crying. I just got a speck of dust in my eyes.’ She dabbed a tissue at her eye and then beamed the worried child the widest smile in her repertoire. ‘See? All gone!’
‘All gone!’ they chorused obediently.
Sorcha bit her lip and turned it into another smile. How simple it was to be a child in a world where things vanished just because an adult told you they had. The monster under the bed had gone away because Mummy said so.
But memories were like those childhood monsters—always lurking in dark places, waiting to capture you if you weren’t careful. And some memories burned as strongly as if they had happened yesterday.
SORCHA had met Cesare di Arcangelo the summer she’d turned eighteen, the hottest summer for decades. It had been the year she’d left school and the year most of her classmates had finally rid themselves of the burden of their virginity—but Sorcha had not been among them. Her friends had laughed and called her old-fashioned, but she’d been holding out for someone special.
But that summer she had felt as ripe and ready as some rich fruit ready for picking—and hormones had bubbled like cauldrons in her veins.
She’d arrived home from a final school trip to France on a baking hot day with a sky of blinding brightness. There had been no one to meet her at the station, and no reply when she’d phoned the house, but it hadn’t particularly bothered her. She’d had little luggage, and because it was beautiful and so green, and so English after the little mountain village of Plan-du-Var, she had decided to walk.
The air had been unnaturally still and the lane dusty, but the sky had been the clearest blue imaginable—with birds singing their little hearts out—and suddenly Sorcha had felt glad to be home, even if she was slightly apprehensive about the future.
Up until that moment everything had been safely mapped out for her—but with the freedom which came from leaving school came uncertainty too. Still, she had worked hard, and she’d been offered a place at one of the best universities in the country if her exam results were as good as had been predicted.
She’d approached the house by the long drive—the honey-coloured mansion where Whittakers had lived since her great-great-grandfather had first got the bright idea of marketing his wife’s delicious home-made sauce. From humble terraced house beginnings, her great-great-grandma’s unique recipe had become a national institution, and soon enough money had poured in to enable him to satisfy his land-owning longings and buy himself a real-life stately home.
But of course that had been in the days before a croissant or a bowl of muesli had become staple breakfast fare—in the days when a full fry-up with Whittaker Sauce had been the only way to start the day. The slow, gradual decline in the family fortunes had soon begun, but it had been so slow that you didn’t really notice it, and it was much easier to ignore something if it just crept up on you.
Sorcha had given a small sigh of satisfaction as she’d looked towards the house, because in that moment it hadn’t looked stately, it had just looked like home. From this far away you didn’t really notice that the walls were crumbling and the roof needed replacing, and of course in the summer months it really came into its own.
Come winter and there would be so much frost on the inside of the windows you could write your initials in it and see the steam of your breath as it rushed out against the cold air. Anyone else might have capitalised on the house’s assets and sold it, but not Sorcha’s mother, who was hanging on to it with grim determination.
‘It’s a huge asset,’ MrsWhittaker always pronounced, and no one could argue with that. Rural it might look—but a few miles beyond its expansive grounds lay a road which took you straight into London in less than an hour.
Pushing open the oak front door, Sorcha had gone inside to an echoing silence, where dust motes had danced in the beams of sunlight which flooded in through the stained glass. She’d seen a man’s cashmere sweater lying on one of the chairs—beautiful and soft in palest grey—and raised her eyebrows. A bit classy for Rupert! Her brother must have given himself a pay rise.
The house had been empty—so she’d gone up to her bedroom, with its schoolgirl echoes of prizes—rosettes won at horseriding and shiny silver cups for swimming.
From there she could see the pool, and to her astonishment she’d seen that it had been cleared—instead of turgid green water with leaves floating on it like dead lilies it was a perfectly clear rectangle of inviting aquamarine.
Pulling open a drawer, she’d found a swimsuit and squeezed herself into it—she must have grown a lot since last year. Overnight, she’d seemed to go from being a beanpole of an adolescent to having the curvy shape of a real woman. She was going to have to go shopping.
The water had felt completely delicious as she’d dived in and begun to swim, length after length of slicing crawl, each stroke taking her further and further into a daydream. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the man who was standing there until she had come up for breath, exhausted, sucking in the warm summer air as the water streamed down her hair in rivulets.
Sorcha had started. For a moment all she’d registered was jet-dark hair and silken olive skin, but as she’d blinked the water out of her eyes she’d seen that it was a stranger—and a disturbingly handsome stranger, to boot.
In a pair of faded jeans and an old black T-shirt, he’d looked like one of the gardeners her mother employed to try and make a dent in the overgrowth at the beginning of every season. Unfortunately, he’d also had the arrogant and mocking air of a man who was supremely sexy and who knew it. His black eyes had gleamed and suddenly Sorcha had felt unaccountably shy.
‘Who…are you?’ she questioned.
She rose out of the water like a nymph and Cesare froze, his mouth drying as he saw the firm flesh, green eyes and the lush, perfect curve of her breasts. Madre di Dio—but she was exquisite.
‘My name is Cesare di Arcangelo,’ he murmured, in a velvety-soft accent which matched his exotic looks.
‘You’re Italian?’
‘I