CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER TEN
W EAKNESS WASHED THROUGH HER . It was as if every bone in her body were dissolving...as if the room around them were vanishing...the whole world vanishing...evaporating...and all that existed was Vincenzo’s gaze on her...consuming her.
Memory flared, hot and instant, sending colour coursing into her cheeks, then draining it from them just as swiftly.
He had looked at her like that before, with those long-lashed, hooded eyes of his, so dark, so impenetrable, yet with an open message in them that had made her very bones, then as now, dissolve... He’d looked at her as they had finally finished dinner that night at the Falcone, knowing there was only one way the evening was going to end...and that end was coming. Coming as he had got to his feet, his eyes never leaving her, their sensual glance weakening her, so that when he’d held out his hand to her she had put hers into his, and he’d drawn her to her feet, and she had gone with him...
And now it was happening again...
She felt the fatal weakness wash through her, more dissolving still...
She must fight it. Surely she must give it no room, no space. She must deny it...resist it. Because how could she not? How could she let happen again what had happened before? She must reject it...find the strength to do so.
But she had no strength—none...
His lidded gaze was on her still, holding hers, and heat flushed through her still. She was helpless to pull her eyes away. Quite helpless...
A voice beside her spoke. ‘May I offer you some coffee?’
It was one of the waitresses, coffee jug in hand, smiling politely at her.
Siena turned her head, clutched at the lifeline.
‘Oh...er...um, have you got tea instead?’ she asked. ‘A mint tea?’
Did she sound breathless? She must, surely. She fought for composure, to beat down the flaring of heat inside her.
‘Of course.’ The waitress smiled. Then turned her attention to Vincenzo. ‘Coffee for you, sir?’ she enquired.
‘Thank you,’ he answered.
His voice was mechanical, Siena could tell. But his gaze—his disastrous, dissolving gaze—had been switched off. She realised her heart was beating in an agitated manner, and sought to subdue it, to subdue the colour flushing in and out of her cheeks.
The waitress poured coffee into Vincenzo’s cup, offered milk, which was refused, then promised Siena she would return with her mint tea. She moved off to the next table.
Urgently, Siena cast about for a safe thing to say, to take them away from the moment that had been so dangerous...
No, don’t think it—don’t allow it in—don’t even think about thinking it. Just go... Before it’s too late...
She felt herself get to her feet. ‘I think I’ll pass on the mint tea after all,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day. I’ll head up to bed. Enjoy the rest of your apple brandy. Thank you for dinner.’
Her voice was staccato, and she knew it, but it was the best she could do.
With a smile that took more effort than she’d thought she was capable of she turned away, heading towards the dining room doors, walking rapidly, wanting only to get away...
Because she must.
Because anything else was too dangerous...
Far, far too dangerous.
But even as she fled, footsteps came after her.
Vincenzo had knocked back the last of his apple brandy and got to his feet, and now he strode after her. She’d paused by the lift, and his eyes went to her. She was running from him—and he did not want her to.
Silhouetted against the metallic doors of the lift, she was more beautiful than ever, with her long hair curving over her shoulders, the lacy fall of her wrap, the soft drape of her summer dress, her slender calves, bared arms...
So beautiful...
He felt the breath tighten in his lungs as he came up to her. She started at his approach, her head turning swiftly to him, eyes flaring.
‘Let me see you to your room,’ he said.
He could hear a husk in his voice...knew why. She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, and in them was apprehension—and something else entirely.
‘No...no, it’s fine...really...’
He ignored her. The lift doors were opening and she stepped inside. He followed her. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest. He stabbed the button for their floor. His room was at the far end of the corridor, but hers was closer to where the lift disgorged them, and as she walked to her door, her gait quickening, fumbling for the key in her handbag, he closed in on her.
He did not speak. Then, as she turned the old-fashioned key in the lock, he said her name, his voice more husky yet.
She turned, lifting her face to him. Her eyes were wide. Pupils dilated.
‘Vincenzo...’ Her voice was faint, so faint. ‘No—we can’t...we mustn’t...’
He took no notice. And as her hand pushed open the door, he reached out his hand to her...
She had no breath in her body—none. His hand was curving around the nape of her neck. He said her name. Low and husked. She saw his eyelids dip down over his eyes, watched him lowering his mouth to hers.
It was velvet on her lips...soft, infinitely seductive...and as his mouth moved on hers he pulled her to him, drawing her inside her room. A thousand sensations blinded her as he shut the door behind them. A low, helpless moan came from her, and she felt her limbs dissolving as the velvet of his mouth weakened everything about her. Her hands went around him, to hold and support her, for she had no strength at all. The hard wall of his chest pressed against her breasts, and she felt, with a dim sense of helpless fatality, how they engorged and flowered...
Another moan came from her and her mouth opened to his as his kiss deepened, her hands winding around him, holding him against her. He said something to her, low and husky in his native language. A kind of madness was coming over her, and as he scooped her up into his arms she let him do so. The room had disappeared, the world had disappeared, the whole universe had disappeared. There was only this...only now...only Vincenzo. He was carrying her to her bed, lowering her down upon it, coming down beside her, his mouth never leaving hers.
She was in meltdown—she knew she was. It was as if she had been taken to another existence, one in which only the sweet bliss of now was real. For bliss it was, and sweet it was, and all that she craved...
Somewhere, dimly, in what was left of her consciousness, she knew that this time with Vincenzo was far different from the way it had been before. Then it had been an urgent, burning flame, fierce, white-hot, incandescent, sensual, ecstatic, with each of them feeding upon the other, hungry for each other, unleashed upon each other. There had been no time for anything else. Desire—raw, visceral, physical desire—had burned, had blazed between them, wreathing them in its flames, stripping the clothes from their bodies, making them uninhibited, greedy for the sensations that naked intimacy aroused between them, their bodies winding around each other, flexing and writhing, feasting wantonly and wildly.
Now there was no wildness, no hungry urgency. Now there was a slow, sensuous coming together, with each touch of his lips, his fingers, his tongue, his palms, celebrating the beauty of her body—a body that ripened under his as his hands splayed out over her abdomen, smoothing its soft roundness. His mouth lowered to trace its gentle contours, softly and sensuously. Then his hands were lifting to her breasts, filling his curving palms.
She felt her limbs loosen, his body moving over hers. And in the darkened room, their clothes long shed, she gave herself to him, taking him in return, his long, lean body covering hers, hers yielding to his. They did not speak, and yet she heard soft murmurous Italian from him as his mouth kissed her breasts, her throat, her lips. His kisses were deep, impassioned, yet without frenzied urgency, only with slow, sweet bliss. A bliss he drew from her as he moved his body within hers, setting not a raging fire but a low, warm flame, melting and dissolving her, fusing her to him and him to her.
And when her moment came, it was a warmth, a sweet, liquid pleasure, that spread from her very core to every cell in her body, even to the tips of her fingers, with a honeyed glow that made her cry out softly...so softly...her body lifting to his, her hands pressing the sculpted contours of his back to hold him close, so close...
She felt him surge within her, felt her own body flex and pulse, drawing him in yet deeper, fusing with him, becoming one with him, as still her own moment went on and endlessly on.
And when it finally ebbed, tears were wet upon her cheeks.
Tears for so, so much...
Vincenzo stirred, sleep gradually leaving him, consciousness gradually returning. Daylight was filling the room—the curtains were undrawn since the night before. His arm reached out across the double bed.
The empty double bed.
Instantly, he was fully awake, his eyes searching the room. The empty room. The door to the en suite bathroom stood open.
The empty en suite bathroom.
He swung himself out of bed.
‘Siena?’ His voice was sharp, urgent.
No answer came.
No answer was going to come.
Siena had gone.
He slumped back against the pillows, staring out into the room. Heart thudding.
He heard his phone—still in the pocket of his discarded jacket, dropped somewhere on the floor near the bed. Instantly he went to it, snatched it up. A text—from Siena.
He read it, and frowned, then dropped the phone on the tangled bedclothes. But the words in the text were crystal-clear in his head.
I can’t do this. I can’t do any of it. I’m sorry—I just can’t. I’m sorry.
Siena sat in the railway carriage, heading back to London. Words were going over and over in her head, in rhythm with the wheels of the train over the track.
I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I’m sorry.
It was all that was in her head. All that she would allow. All that she dared allow.
She urged the train onwards. She had to get to London before Vincenzo could. Had to get to the apartment he’d taken for her. Had to get there, pack her necessities, and get out. The holiday clothes she’d taken to the seaside would have to be packed by one of the hotel maids, unless Vincenzo did it. And either he would bring her small suitcase with him, her newly purchased sketchbook and pencils, or have it sent on to her.
Wherever she was.
But where would that be?
Into her head a new question formed, repeating over the relentless sound of the train wheels.
Where can I go? Where can I go? Where can I go?
She did not know. Not yet. But she must think of somewhere. She must.
She must ...
Vincenzo was in Milan. He might as well be. There was no point being in England. Not any more. Siena had made that clear. Crystal-clear. He knew where she was, and for now that must do. He was not out of touch with her—not completely. She sent him brief monthly updates, reports from the midwife appointments she went to. Her pregnancy was progressing healthily—that was all he knew.
He knew he must allow her this. Allow her time and space and distance.
Because she does not want anything more from me.
He felt emotion stab at him, but he crushed it back down. There was no point allowing it...permitting it.
I have to accept that she wants nothing more than what she has made clear—completely clear.
And he must respect that—he had no choice but to do so. All he could do was what he was doing now. Leave her be.
The way she wanted.
Until...
When her time comes I shall be there. Be there for her.
On that he would insist.