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

At last he turned his head and looked at her, the hazel eyes cool and steady.

‘I will make a bargain with you, Emilia,’ he said. ‘Kiss me and I will ask nothing else from you tonight.’

Emily stared at him, then found a voice from somewhere, almost squeaky with surprise. ‘You’ll let me—just go to sleep—for a kiss?

‘I have just said so.’

‘But I thought you wanted…’ She didn’t just think—she knew. When he’d been holding her just now the evidence of his desire for her had been frank and unequivocal.

‘Undoubtedly I did.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But I find I am no longer in the mood to treat you as gently as I should, given your inexperience.’ He added coldly, ‘So perhaps I deserve a little of your gratitude, after all, if my only demand is a kiss. You are escaping lightly, believe me.’

He paused. ‘Do you accept my offer, Contessa?’

‘I—I suppose so.’

‘Bene.’ He waited for a moment, watching her, brows raised. ‘But you will need to come closer, cara mia,’ he added, his tone almost bored. ‘Sadly, it is impossible for you to reach me from such a distance.’

Biting her lip, Emily edged warily across the bed. When she was within range, she leaned over him, her lips brushing swiftly and awkwardly against his in the most fleeting of contact.

There was a tingling silence, then he said softly, ‘That may be your idea of a kiss, Emilia, but it is not mine. There is ice enough outside the house at this time. I do not require it here in my bed.’

She stiffened, needled by the faint derision in his voice. ‘I’m sorry if you’re not satisfied…’

‘Now that, as we both know, is a lie,’ he said. ‘But now is not the time to discuss my level of satisfaction, or lack of it, and what you might do to improve it.’ He allowed her a moment to assimilate that, then added, ‘At the moment, you are simply required to—try a little harder.’

He raised a hand, cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, so that she could not pull away. ‘So, kiss me again, cara mia,’ he invited quietly. ‘Kiss me as you did on that long ago night in your father’s house.’

‘But—but that was when I thought you were—someone else.’ Her voice was a breath.

‘Did you truly, bella mia?’ Raf asked cynically. ‘I have often wondered how that could be possible. But, if it is easier for you, pretend once more that I am someone else. I promise I will not even ask his name.’

His hand was impelling her down to him, bringing her ever nearer to his waiting mouth.

And this time, as her lips touched the firm warmth of his, she found herself allowing the contact to lengthen—even to linger. Because, she told herself in growing confusion, this was what he wanted. And it was such a minor demand for him to make after—after all those others.

Suddenly he moved, reversing their positions smoothly and swiftly, so that she was lying on the pillow, looking up at him, her startled eyes widening.

And then he was kissing her, his mouth moving on hers slowly and achingly at first, then with a hard, deepening urgency—a hunger that made the soft, trembling contours of her lips feel bruised.

Until she could scarcely breathe. Or think rationally any more.

Or why else would she have found that, against all expectation, she wanted to return the sensuous pressure that he was subjecting her to? That she needed to learn the lines of his mouth as thoroughly as he was exploring hers? And, maybe, even more…

And then, with almost shocking suddenness, it was over, and he was lifting himself away from her.

‘A great improvement,’ he said in a tone so impersonal that Emily, still dazed, almost expected him to give her marks out of ten. He ran a careless finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘Now, sleep well, cara,’ he added lightly. ‘And may all your dreams be sweet.’

He turned to switch off the lamp, leaving her with an unwanted, but potent image of the long, supple line of his naked back before the room was plunged into darkness.

Emily turned away too, almost scuttling to the opposite side of the bed, lying, taut and breathless, on its furthermost edge as she waited for her heartbeat to regain its normality.

She was shaken to the core by her own reaction. Bitterly ashamed of her own weakness. And surprised too that Raf had actually kept his word, had not taken further advantage of her.

Yet Emily knew she had by no means escaped unscathed. That there was an even more worrying aspect of the situation that she somehow had to confront.

That long ago night…

Those were the words that were now coming back to haunt her. His unfounded but still disturbing suggestion that she might have gone into his arms knowing full well that he was not Simon.

Indicating that her female instinct should have stopped her before she’d got within a yard of him, let alone thrown herself at him.

But that’s nonsense, she told herself. It was dark, and I was very young and very stressed—nervous as hell—not thinking straight. Besides, it was Simon I was expecting. No one else. Because Raf was with Jilly. I—I knew that. Knew that, if she had her way, there was no reason to expect him back before breakfast.

And, anyway, as soon as I realised my mistake, I pushed him away instantly—immediately, she thought defensively. Of course I did. Although I admit that it should not have got to that stage. That obviously I should have known as soon as he first touched me. And that it should never—ever—have gone as far as it did.

But it was an honest error. And Raf has no right and no reason to imply anything different. As if I’d wanted to find out what being in his arms—being kissed by him—might feel like.

Which, she told herself hotly, is a shameful inference to draw from an—an innocent blunder.

Yet suddenly Emily found she was shivering, wrapping her arms round her body in an involuntary gesture of self-protection.

Because she was bitterly aware that she’d never been able to forget that brief moment in time, no matter how hard she’d tried. That she’d seen it as a warning not to allow him anywhere near her again.

But was that because she could not trust him, as Raf himself had proved only last night, justifying all her worst fears? Or was it—could it be—because she was afraid she might not be able to trust herself?

Could it be possible that there’d been one second—one infinitesimal moment on that long ago night when she hadn’t wanted to step back? When, incredibly, she’d wanted to press herself closer to the hardening danger of his body and offer her parted lips for his deeper exploration?

She hadn’t been unfaithful to Simon—of course not. But instinct had told her she’d approached some danger zone that she hadn’t known existed till then. So she’d buried all the doubts—the unanswered questions far, far down in her psyche.

But now Raf’s mocking challenge had brought them all raging back to the surface to torment her, testing the validity of her claim of ‘an honest error’.

Yes, it was still a terrible mistake to have made, but whether it was ‘honest’ or ‘innocent’ was now wide open to question.

Because she’d never managed to completely erase the memory of that barely discernible flicker of physical excitement.

And, if she was being truly honest, it wasn’t the only time that she’d reacted in that particular way.

My wedding night in Italy, she thought, swallowing. When I saw him walk into the bedroom and felt myself start to tremble inside. Yes, I was scared, at first anyway, but that wasn’t all of it, and I—I knew it.

Because I suddenly found myself remembering that other night and his arms holding me—the touch—the taste of his mouth. And wondered…