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

‘But there’s no hot water. I can’t even have a bloody bath.’ She raised two clenched fists. ‘Oh, God, why did I ever come to this hellish place?’

‘I think, Emilia mia,’ he drawled, ‘that is a question you should answer for yourself rather than troubling Il Signore.’ He paused. ‘Your father told me once he feared he had over-indulged you. I have often thought since that he was right.’

‘Don’t you dare mention my father,’ she flared. ‘What do you imagine he’d think of you, if he knew you’d broken your word about this marriage?’

‘He asked me to give you time,’ he said. ‘He did not expect me to wait for ever. So he would assume we had reached some accommodation with each other at last and already have begun to look forward to his grandchildren.’ His tone was brusque. ‘Now, let us leave your flights of fancy and be practical.’ He opened a cupboard and extracted several large saucepans, along with a huge preserving pan.

‘If you wish to bathe, you may do so. It will not be luxurious, naturalmente, but it is the best that can be managed.’

Emily’s nose wrinkled doubtfully. ‘You mean we’re going to carry hot water—all the way upstairs—in pans?’

‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going to do it for you, so you will not be inconvenienced in any way, Contessa.’ He took out a much smaller pan. ‘And before you ask, this is to boil water for coffee. I think I may need it.’

She bit her lip. ‘That’s why I came downstairs to—to make coffee…’

‘I think not.’ His smile was swift and ironic. ‘You came down, cara mia, because you realised you had spent the night nestling against me in a way it took all my self-control to resist and you found the discovery an embarrassment.’

He walked past her to the sink and began to fill the preserving pan with water.

‘I suggest you wait upstairs,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘And be sure to put some cold water in the bath first. I would not wish you to be scalded.’

She was scalded already, Emily thought furiously, as she marched out of the kitchen. Burning from head to foot. And not just because he clearly believed she was running scared after last night’s gaffe. The claim that she was some kind of spoiled brat rankled even more, implying that he and her father had calmly discussed her faults and failings before the marriage.

I’m surprised he didn’t ask to see my school reports or examine my teeth, she fumed under her breath as she climbed the stairs, trying not to trip on the trailing nightgown.

And if he has some idea that finding my arm round him in the night meant anything, he can think again—and fast.

But she took his advice about the cold water before retiring to the bedroom and assembling her clothing for the day. As many layers as possible, she thought. Warm tights under her cords and a long-sleeved T-shirt under her thickest sweater. And dismissed the sly inner voice which suggested that she could be wrapping herself against more than the weather.

She had just finished making the bed when Raf appeared in the doorway.

‘Your bath awaits, signora.’ He paused. ‘It reminds me that I must instruct Gaspare to engage a personal maid for you. A girl with muscles.’

‘That,’ said Emily coldly, ‘is entirely unnecessary.’

‘I disagree.’ He gave her nightgown another long look. ‘She will also conduct a complete review of your wardrobe and list what is required.’ He added softly, ‘I shall choose your lingerie myself—and it will not be black.’

He doesn’t forget a thing, Emily thought bitterly. She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you, but my existing clothes are perfectly adequate for my life.’

‘But not for the life you will lead with me,’ he told her with finality.

‘And where am I expected to shop for this new wardrobe?’ she challenged. ‘At Valentina X, maybe?’

There was the faintest of pauses, then Raf said softly, ‘Of course, if that is what you wish. Although I think Signora Colona may cater, perhaps, for more sophisticated tastes.’

He allowed her to assimilate that, then smiled at her. ‘But the choice is entirely yours, cara. Every designer in Italy will welcome the Contessa Di Salis.’

‘How very exciting for me,’ she said. ‘Now, excuse me please, or my bath will be getting cold.’

But of course it wasn’t. In fact the temperature was perfect and, annoyingly, he had even added some of her favourite bath oil.

Swiftly, she shed her nightgown and stepped in, reaching for the soap and rubbing it fiercely into her skin in a vain attempt to conceal the fact that she was smarting already.

Confronting Raf about his mistress had achieved nothing, she thought. He’d remained completely unfazed. Whereas she’d probably sounded young and silly. But not jealous, she prayed, closing her eyes. Oh, please, not jealous. Because it wasn’t true—it wasn’t true at all…

The creak of a board brought her abruptly back to the here and now and the realisation that Raf had walked into the bathroom, carrying another large pan.

‘It’s all right, thank you,’ she said, trying to fold herself into startled invisibility. If she lived to be a hundred, she thought, she would never become accustomed to his casual attitude to nudity—hers or his. ‘The water’s fine as it is.’

‘But not for me, carissima,’ he said silkily. ‘I like the temperature raised a little.’ He poured the contents of the pan carefully into the bath, dropped the towel he was wearing and joined her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She hated the breathless note in her voice as she tried to retreat into some distant corner of the bath that didn’t actually exist.

‘Washing,’ he said and held out a hand. ‘The soap, sposa mia, if you please.’

Numbly, she handed it to him, finding a voice from somewhere. ‘It doesn’t matter to you that I might prefer some privacy?’

‘And you may have it, once I no longer have to act as water carrier.’ He was briskly lathering his shoulders and chest. ‘But, until the power returns, we share.’ He scooped up handfuls of water, spilling the shining droplets over his head.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’ve finished.’

It was awkward leaving the bath under his sardonic gaze, but she managed it, winding the waiting towel round her like a sarong, covering herself against him.

‘Would you care to wash my back before you go?’ he asked.

Emily bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said, stonily. ‘I wouldn’t.’

His mouth twisted. ‘You did not find touching me so distasteful last night, mia bella.’

‘Because,’ she said, ‘I was still pretending you were someone else, signore.’ She added coolly, ‘I find it works very well.’

And she walked out of the bathroom, the edge of the towel following her like a train.

EMILY sat curled up despondently in the corner of the sofa. The chicken bones were simmering on the kitchen stove with some attendant vegetables, but whether they’d ever become edible soup was anyone’s guess.

What was more, she’d arrived downstairs to discover that Raf, in between his water heating activities, had taken the time to clean the grate and light the fire in the living room, so conditions weren’t as arctic as she’d anticipated.

Which made her parting shot to him in the bathroom seem even more ungracious.

On the other hand, she didn’t want to feel grateful to him. She wanted to keep her resentment alive. Needed to hate what he’d done to her, as well as what he had planned for her immediate future.

Last night, she’d slept, melded with him. Had become totally imbued with him. But how and why it had happened was beyond her. She supposed it must have been her subconscious reaction to that lingering kiss that had drawn her to him, and that, in itself, was deeply disturbing.