Chapter Nine #2
‘Please don’t make me out to be the big, bad wolf just because it suits your narrative, Flora,’ he retorted, his eyes glittering. ‘If you really hadn’t wanted to come, then you wouldn’t be here. It isn’t as if I kidnapped you and transported you here rolled up in a carpet, is it?’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Yet you’re laughing,’ he observed dryly.
‘I am not laughing.’ She clamped her lips together, feeling the unwanted rise of her pulse in response to his soft statement.
Because something in the way he was looking at her was making her blood fizz.
The smoulder of his eyes had ignited a slow fire, which was causing a sweet ache to unfurl low in her belly.
It was the sweetly potent lick of desire, she acknowledged weakly and wondered if he was feeling it too.
Did he want to pick up where they’d left off?
Yes, please, she found herself thinking.
‘Let me show you to your room,’ he said suddenly.
His cool assertion shattered her erotic thoughts and Flora was angry with herself.
How could she have allowed herself to be that vulnerable when she had known—or rather, guessed—they wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom?
He hadn’t touched her since he’d blazed into her London life and turned it upside down, had he?
His stated intention to bring her here had sounded more like a powerful man negotiating a business deal.
It hadn’t been tinged with any affection, or desire, and he had gone out of his way to emphasise the transitory place she held in his life.
He had regarded her with nothing but caution since he’d found out about the pregnancy—as if she was a ticking time bomb which could go off at any second.
She’d even tried convincing herself she would be outraged if he suggested having sex again.
But deep down she knew that was a big, fat lie and there had been a moment back then when she’d been overcome with it.
Chemistry, or lust—or whatever you chose to call it.
The inconvenient attraction which had got them into this crazy situation in the first place.
In truth, she’d wanted him to pull her into his arms and ravish the hell out of her, while he had been as cool as a cucumber.
Somehow, she maintained her rictus of a smile. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’
Her room overlooked the square. A bed as big as a football pitch, floaty drapes which hung beside the floor-to-ceiling windows and vibrant artwork on the walls.
Flora walked over to the window and stared down at the piazza.
It was late afternoon and people were crowding into the fashionable space—strolling and shopping.
Some were drinking early cocktails in select little bars and a couple of children were eating gelato.
Down there the normal and everyday was carrying on as usual—while up here, she found herself in the most extraordinary situation.
And suddenly she started longing for her old life with a pang which was almost physical.
She might have been poor and ordinary, but at least back in England she felt as if she fitted in.
She turned to see Vito watching her, his eyes narrowed.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘It’s wonderful,’ she said automatically.
He frowned, as if her lack of enthusiasm was not what he had been expecting. ‘I’ll have some tea sent up, and then you can get some rest before dinner.’
‘I’m not an invalid, Vito.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he agreed, his gaze skating over her with critical assessment. ‘But you look tired and it’s been a long day.’
And in a way his consideration was the worst of all possible worlds because it created the illusion that he cared and Flora had to keep reminding herself that he didn’t.
She was a burden. She’d brought something into his life which he resented.
If only she’d had the courage to tell him to stop behaving so solicitously towards her, but he was already closing the door behind him and in truth, she was tired.
Really tired. She drank the camomile tea which Mafalda brought her and the older woman’s kindness as she began to fuss around with the pillows made Flora feel stupidly emotional and she grew impatient with herself.
Why choose now of all times, to feel sentimental about not having a mum when she’d managed so well for all these years without one?
At least the fancy bathroom provided a welcome diversion, with its sparkling mirrors and rows of fancy toiletries—though the images reflected back seemed to reinforce her outsider status.
Her clothes weren’t too bad. She was still able to fit into Amy’s stuff—just about.
But her hair could do with a wash and her comfy trainers had seen better days.
Tipping in a generous amount of scented oil, she ran a deep bath, stripping off her clothes, before gingerly lowering herself into the fragrant bubbles.
It was bliss—and as different from the lukewarm trickle in the bathroom of her Ealing flat as it was possible to imagine.
She lay there for longer than she’d intended, staring down at the nipples which were just peeping through the white foam, thinking how much darker they were than before.
And despite her slew of concerns, she found herself studying her rapidly changing body with a degree of interest, until she began to yawn and knew she really needed to wash the oil from her hair and get out.
She wrapped herself in a fluffy white bathrobe and wondered if she ought to get dressed but the bed was as soft as a marshmallow and too inviting to resist. She thought of getting underneath the duvet but somehow she couldn’t seem to summon up the energy.
So she snuggled down and fell asleep—though at one point she could have sworn she felt something soft and warm drifting down on top of her, which made her murmur her appreciation.
And when she opened her eyes, the sky had grown dusky and she was lying beneath a cashmere throw and there was Vito on the other side of the room, staring out of the tall windows, his body as motionless as a dark and beautiful statue.
She blinked, her hungry gaze drinking him in, wondering if she was still dreaming.
His immaculate suit had been replaced by black jeans and sweater—and the fact that he had changed possessed a strange kind of intimacy all of its own.
They might not be sharing a bed but they were certainly sharing an apartment and Flora had never lived with a man before.
Silhouetted against the pricking lights of the darkening city, his body was the epitome of masculine power and Flora found herself responding to it on a purely instinctual level.
It felt so right for him to be in her bedroom.
So ridiculously right and, just for that split-second—it was all too easy to pretend they were still lovers.
‘What time is it?’ she enquired sleepily.
Vito turned away from the window, his throat growing dry as he surveyed the woman on the bed.
‘Nearly dinner time,’ he answered thickly.
‘I came to wake you.’ But she had looked so damned angelic that he hadn’t wanted to disturb her.
He hadn’t dared reach down to shake one slender shoulder, for fear that his fingers might stray beneath her robe, to caress the warm, swollen curve of her breast…
Brushing her fingers back through tousled curls, she sat up and yawned. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘Nearly two hours. You called out at one point—I think you were having a bad dream. I came in and you were shivering, so I covered you up.’
She looked down at the cashmere blanket and then smiled up at him. ‘Thanks.’
He wanted to tell her not to look at him like that, because it was making him want things he had cautioned himself against. To kiss her and stroke her. To make her wet and quivering until she was angling those delicious hips with urgent invitation as she waited for his thrust.
She shouldn’t have looked quite so alluring, he thought resentfully.
Not with her bare face still flushed with sleep and her hair sticking up at odd angles.
But alluring she undoubtedly was and all he wanted was to lose himself in her tight heat.
But he was supposed to be protecting her and, having convinced himself that behaving like a benign guardian was in her best interests, he knew that sex would be a mistake.
Of course it would. It would blur the boundaries.
It would create the illusion of togetherness and make her start to hope.
She would become besotted with him—as women invariably did.
He would end up hurting her and no way did he want to hurt her.
‘Dinner will be in half an hour,’ he said, clicking on the overhead light in the hope that additional illumination might shatter some of the sensual atmosphere. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
‘No. Don’t go yet, Vito. There are a couple of things I need to ask you first.’
‘Like what?’ he queried coolly.
‘What you’ve told people about me, and why I’m here.’ She shrugged as he continued to stare at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Your friends, for example—and your staff.’
He raked impatient fingers through his hair. ‘I have told them nothing.’
‘What?’ She stared very hard at him. ‘Nothing at all?’
‘No.’ Vito knew that her presence would provoke debate in the more fevered salons of the fashionable city, who surveyed the comings and goings of one of Italy’s most eligible bachelors with jealous scrutiny.
A pregnant stranger staying at the home of Vito Monticello was always going to whet the appetite of any gossip.
But he was powerful and resilient enough not to care what people said about him, because the worst had already happened in his life and nothing else could ever feel that bad again.
‘We don’t have to tell them anything,’ he concluded roughly.
She was staring at him as if he’d just grown a second head. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘What’s the problem?’