Julia James - It Happened In Rome - The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

He shrugged. ‘The bones will make soup. So do not worry, Emilia, and drink some more wine.’ He refilled her glass. ‘Believe me, I will not allow you to starve.’

There was a silence, then she said slowly, ‘Will you tell me something?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Ask me and I will decide.’

It didn’t sound particularly hopeful, but she ploughed on.

‘My father told me you’d offered to marry me because you owed him—big time.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m just curious to know my—market value.’

There was a silence. Then, at last, ‘The debt is immeasurable,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘But it was the only repayment he ever asked of me, so I could not refuse. Does that content you?’

‘How can it?’ Her voice sounded stifled. ‘When it would have been so much easier on both of us if you’d simply—found the money from somewhere.’

His faint smile twisted. ‘And even easier to be wise in retrospect, cara.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Now I will make some coffee.’

Once the clearing away was done, in actual hours and minutes it seemed a long while until bedtime, but Emily found the time passing with disquieting speed as she turned the pages of the thriller she was trying to read with only the sketchiest idea of what was taking place in print.

She could not concentrate. In spite of herself, her eyes kept straying to the neat wooden clock in the centre of the mantelpiece, watching the inexorable movement of its hands. The countdown to the inevitable moment when she would have to submit to him all over again in that big bed upstairs, she thought, her throat tightening.

Seated opposite her, Raf appeared to have no such concerns. He seemed totally absorbed in his own book as he lounged in the corner of the sofa, reaching every now and then for his wineglass.

And how dared he be so relaxed, when she was like a cat on hot bricks?

And the worst of it was that she really wanted to go to bed. She was being assailed by wave after wave of drowsiness, which she had to conceal at all costs, she thought resentfully, putting her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle yet another yawn.

‘Why don’t you stop struggling, carissima, and admit you are tired?’

He was watching her, she realised angrily, with open amusement and had probably been doing so for several minutes, book discarded, hands loosely clasped behind his head as he leaned back on the cushions.

‘I’m not a bit tired,’ she denied hurriedly and saw his smile widen.

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he told her softly. He got up and put the guard in front of the fire, then moved round the room, checking the door and turning off the lamps. Making the usual preparations for the night, as if he’d done so a hundred times before. Whereas, in fact…

Her mind closed off at that point. She sat where she was, unmoving, her whole body taut, aware of the uneven barrage of her heart against her ribs.

At last he came to her in the fire glow, reaching down for her small, cold hand and drawing her to her feet.

‘It is time for bed, mia bella,’ he said quietly and led her upstairs to the room where the shadows waited.

EMILY stood in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor, anticipating the moment when he would touch her and the fight to resist the lure of her senses would start once again. Along with the realisation that she was by no means sure of victory.

Rafaele came to stand behind her and she felt him remove the band that confined her hair and begin to free it from its tight braid. His fingers were gentle and very thorough, combing through the silky strands until they hung loose about her face and shoulders.

In some strange way, she thought dazedly, her skin warming, it was one of the most intimate things he had ever done to her. Almost more so than sex itself.

Then he lifted the scented auburn mass in both hands and she felt his lips caress the exposed and vulnerable nape of her neck.

Her entire body shivered at the brush of his mouth and she wondered if he knew this, and realised it was all too likely. That he knew everything about female bodies, their responses and reactions. Knew—and exploited his knowledge. So any sign of weakness on her part could be her ultimate downfall, and she must never forget that. Never.

It also seemed, from the smoothness of his skin against hers, that he’d had the promised shave—presumably while she’d been preparing dinner.

Advance planning, she thought, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. He said softly into her ear, ‘Don’t make me wait too long, cara,’ and moved away, but only, she realised at once, to undress. She knew, too, that he expected her to do the same, there in front of him. And that there was no real reason to hesitate, because he’d already seen her naked. Had already touched and kissed every inch of her, his astonishing patience pitched against her stubborn will.

She had nothing left to hide from him, but her hands were still slow and reluctant as she tugged her sweater over her head and tossed it on to the nearby chair. She unzipped her cords and eased them down over her hips, stepping out of them in order to do the same with her tights, all the time keeping her back resolutely turned to him.

His approach was soundless. She only realised he was standing close behind her when she reached round awkwardly to unhook her bra and felt him move her hands aside so that he could perform the task himself.

He slid the straps from her shoulders, kissing the faint marks they’d left on her skin, then removed the little garment completely, dropping it to the floor.

He drew her slowly back against him, her head resting against his bare chest, letting her feel the heat of his aroused body. His lips feathered kisses down the side of her throat as his hands cupped her small firm breasts, his fingertips drawing lingering circles round her nipples, making them rise proudly like dusky roses in bud.

‘Bellissima.’ His voice was husky. ‘Deliciosa.’

He let one hand move slowly downwards with smooth and deliberate purpose, his fingers slipping under the edge of her lacy briefs to seek the silken triangle at the joining of her thighs.

‘No.’ Her voice was a gasp as her hand fastened round his wrist, halting him, forbidding him to go any further. ‘Stop—please.’

He paused, his fingers splayed across the flat plane of her belly.

He said quietly, ‘Tell me something, Emilia mia. Why are you so afraid of pleasure?’

‘It has nothing to do with fear,’ Emily said stonily, aware that she was shaking inside. She pulled away from him, drawing a deep breath. Staring in front of her. Not at him. Not daring to look at him.

‘You take three years from my life, you destroy my hopes of future happiness, and then you take me.’ Her voice rose. ‘And I’m supposed to be grateful—and willing?’

She shook her head. ‘In your dreams, signore. Besides, being mauled by you is far from my idea of pleasure,’ she added defiantly.

For a long moment Raf did not move or speak. Then suddenly he was no longer holding her—touching her, and she was aware of him moving away across the room. Of the slight creak of the mattress as he got into bed.

For a few heartbeats she paused uncertainly, then fumbled off her briefs, putting them with the rest of her clothing.

Drawing a deep, jagged breath, she turned and walked to the bed, resisting the impulse to cover herself with her hands. But far from gloating avidly over her approach, Raf was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Emily slid hurriedly under the covers, pulling them up over her shoulders, then lay still, waiting for him to reach for her.

But he did not move and, as the long minutes passed, her tension grew and the deeper inner trembling intensified.