Hot-Blooded Italians. Sharon Kendrick
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He felt her body clenching around him and forced himself to hold back for just long enough to watch her wild abandon as her head fell back and her nails dug into his shoulders. And then he let go and took his own pleasure and he could never remember it washing over him with such strength—making him completely powerless in its wake. It seemed to go on and on as if it were never going to stop—and even after it was over and had subsided he stayed inside her for a moment while the final spasms ebbed away.
He looked down at her flushed face, at the strand of hair which clung to one damp cheek. In the past he might have pushed that strand away and curled it around his finger, but not now—for such a gesture would imply some kind of tenderness, and tenderness was the last thing he was feeling.
He pulled out of her and moved away, getting up from the sofa and walking over to pour himself a glass of water, lifting it to his lips and drinking from it, his black eyes capturing her gaze over its rim. ‘Do you realise that we were so up for it—as you might say—that we failed to consider contraception?’ he mocked. ‘But, as we both know, that is not a subject which needs trouble us.’
Disbelievingly, Emma stared across the room at him, trembling now. How unimaginably cruel. Had he saved the most wounding barb of all for last—to say something as confrontational as that, after they had just shared the greatest intimacy of all? To try to cold-bloodedly hurt her as nothing else could? Well, he was wrong—as he was about to discover—but wasn’t his brutality at such a moment a timely reminder not to weave any foolish fantasies about Vincenzo Cardini?
‘That remark was completely unnecessary,’ she said stiffly.
‘Was it?’ he mocked. ‘But it’s the truth.’
Surely he was never going to believe her when she told him how very wrong he was? Emma reached for her bra and pants. She was going to have to tell him, but she was damned if she was going to be naked when she did so.
He watched her getting dressed but was disinclined to stop her. If he wanted her again then he would simply undress her quickly—but right now all he felt was distaste. How quickly the urges of the body could mask the reality of a situation, he thought—and once passion had been spent all you were left with were the cold, hard facts.
Emma was nothing to him now other than a duplicitous wife who had just submitted to sex in order to secure a speedy divorce deal! He began to pull his own clothes on, eager now to be away from her.
‘Vincenzo.’ Emma finished pulling her dress down over her head and pushing her disarrayed hair back from her flushed face before turning to face him. ‘You remember I said that I had something to tell you.’
He barely flicked her a glance as he finished buttoning his shirt and slipped his shoes on. ‘I can hardly wait,’ he said sarcastically.
She drew a deep breath. How many ways were there to say it? Only one—because the words were so powerful that nothing, nothing was ever going to be able to lessen their irrevocable impact. But how could she tell him—how could she?
‘Vincenzo. You’ve got…I mean…we’ve got…’ Emma cleared her throat, aware of the furious, frightened hammering of her heart. ‘The thing is, you see—we have a son. A son. You have a son.’
FOR a moment Vincenzo thought that he must have misheard her, though something in the strangled quality of Emma’s tone alerted his senses to something far more complicated than a mere misunderstanding. Narrowing his eyes into disbelieving shards, he stared at her. ‘What did you say?’ he questioned menacingly.
Emma swallowed. ‘You’ve…you’ve got a son, Vincenzo. Or, rather, we’ve got a son. His name is—’
‘Shut up—just shut up!’ he bit out in disgust, his words silencing her and his hands clenching into fists by the powerful shafts of his thighs, caught up in the grip of a rage fiercer than anything he could remember. For a moment he wanted to storm across the room and shake her, but he didn’t trust himself. His mouth twisted into a cruel curve of contempt. ‘You can have your damned divorce, Emma—after all, you’ve just earned it. The sex was laughably brief, but as a cathartic measure it was probably worth it—just please don’t spin me any more of your damned lies.’
Emma shook her head, blocking out his insults and trying to focus solely on the truth. ‘But it isn’t a lie—I swear, it isn’t.’
‘You swear it?’ His eyes were blazing black fire. ‘How do you dare claim such a thing to me in view of our history?’ he demanded, his mind spinning as he tried to pluck facts from her unbelievable statement. And one fact leapt out from all the others. He frowned. ‘You say you have a child?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that is not possible.’ He took an unwise step closer, his voice tight with gritted fury. ‘You are infertile, Emma. You can’t have children. The doctor told you so in one of your private consultations. He sent you a letter stating just that, which I still have in my possession. Surely you haven’t forgotten that?’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten—’
‘Then how in hell’s name can you have a baby, and how can I possibly be the father?’ he roared.
Emma swallowed. ‘Can we please talk about this calmly?’
‘Calmly?’ Vincenzo’s voice was like black ice. ‘Are you out of your mind? You drop a lie—’
‘It’s not a lie!’ she repeated desperately. ‘Why the hell would I lie to you about something like that?’
‘I can think of a pretty good reason,’ he retorted sourly. ‘Missing my wealth and deciding you want a sizeable chunk of it might be enough to make you go ahead with some kind of scam—’
‘Scam?’ she echoed in horror. ‘You think I’m some kind of…some kind of…cheap con-merchant?’
He shrugged, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. ‘You’ve already proved that, Emma. You fooled me into believing that we were still trying for a baby, when all the time you knew that it was impossible. If that isn’t conning someone, then I’d be interested to hear your definition of the word, cara.’
Never had a term of supposed affection carried with it such a wealth of withering scorn, and Emma almost recoiled from the look of disdain which sparked from his black eyes. Her tongue snaked around lips which suddenly felt like crumpled parchment. ‘I never meant to deceive you,’ she whispered.
‘No?’
‘I was frightened to let you know what the results were,’ she said.
‘So you treated me like a fool!’ he accused. ‘You just thought you’d keep me in the dark about something as important as that?’
‘No. Of course not. It wasn’t meant to be like that. I was going to tell you—’
‘And what precisely were you going to tell me, Emma?’ he questioned in a suddenly silken voice.
Emma relaxed a little. ‘That I couldn’t…couldn’t have a baby.’
‘Yet now you are telling me that the doctor was wrong? That all those months of trying vainly to conceive were an illusion—and that you could conceive after all?’
‘Yes! My obstetrician said that these things do happen occasionally—’
‘Miraculous,’ he commented sarcastically. ‘And when did this marvel occur? How old is the child?’
A part of her wanted to tell him to forget it—that she wasn’t going to beg him to acknowledge his son, and that she had more than enough love to go round.
But