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

Except that it was over now, she reminded himself swiftly. This was another day altogether and she had to stay strong and not let herself remember the silken texture of his skin under her cheek—her mouth.

Or how her arm had encircled his lean waist. The way her body had seemed to fit with his, as if it had been designed for that purpose alone.

Above all, she had to blind herself to the sheer male physicality of him. In spite of herself, she could not ignore how sensational he looked without his clothes, and how the grace and strength of his nakedness turned her mouth dry and transformed her own body to an aching, melting heat that made her feel ashamed. And scared.

Which had made it so necessary to toss him that scornful comment and walk away just now.

Because she couldn’t let herself touch him, she thought. Not again. She couldn’t risk it, any more than she dared to allow him to touch her. The opportunities for self-betrayal were far too dangerous.

She sighed. She was certainly succeeding in turning this into the honeymoon from hell, yet, at the same time, it wasn’t the unalloyed triumph she’d expected.

She heard him coming downstairs and tensed, expecting some kind of repercussion, but Raf was zipping himself into his parka as he reached the bottom of the stairs and barely glanced at her. For one panicky moment she thought he might be cutting his losses and leaving, abandoning her here to her own devices, then realised he didn’t have his bag with him.

‘You—you’re going out?’ she ventured.

‘As you see. I shall walk down to the village and see what food is to be had,’ he said. ‘We cannot exist on a few chicken bones.’

‘Is it safe to do that—with all this snow?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Or I would not try.’

Emily stood up. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘You have developed a sudden taste for my company?’ His mouth curled. ‘Impossible.’ He paused. ‘Or are you hoping to encounter your admirer, perhaps?’

‘Please don’t be absurd,’ she said. ‘It’s simply that I’m getting cabin fever cooped up like this.’

He looked at her sceptically. ‘It will be treacherous underfoot,’ he warned.

As if the conditions indoors were so ideal, she thought.

‘It is a pity I did not bring my skis with me,’ he went on. ‘Ah, but you do not ski, I believe, cara.’

Just in time she remembered she’d told him that when he’d invited her to spend his New Year holiday with him in the Dolomites the first year of their marriage.

‘A pity you did not tell your father so,’ he added silkily. ‘He spent a great deal on your school trips to Switzerland each winter, I understand, and all for nothing. It would have saddened him.’

He paused, watching the swift annoyed colour rise in her face.

‘However, there are some rubber boots in the cellar,’ he continued. ‘They may be too large, and the tops appear to have been chewed by rats, but they might be of assistance.’

She shuddered. ‘My own boots will be fine. I’ll manage.’

Only she didn’t. One minute she found herself skidding on a frozen patch, the next she was above her knees in soft snow, and forced to grab at Raf’s arm to stop herself from falling.

As soon as she’d recovered her balance, she apologised, her face flushing even more deeply.

‘This is a bad idea.’ He sounded faintly bored. ‘I will take you back, cara, before you break something.’

As she reluctantly accepted his assistance to turn awkwardly and make her sliding way back to the cottage, she could only wish it would be his neck.

But, standing by the window, watching him disappear down the track and out of sight, she found herself feeling oddly forlorn and regretting that she hadn’t tried the rat-nibbled wellies after all.

He seemed to be gone for ever and she was on edge the whole time, imagining that her ill-wishing had somehow taken effect and he was lying in a drift with compound fractures and acute hypothermia.

‘And then what would I do?’ she demanded aloud, defending any concern she might have purely on the grounds of self-interest.

She began wandering almost compulsively from room to room, inventing tasks for herself, like dragging the heavy fur rug that lay in front of the fire to the door and shaking it so vigorously that she almost fell over again.

However, her chicken bone concoction seemed to be smelling more appetising by the moment, which was mildly encouraging.

She was prodding it doubtfully with a fork, when she finally heard the door open and flew into the living room to find Raf heaving two carrier bags on to the table.

But she swallowed back her instinctive Thank God, replacing it with a tart, ‘You took your time.’

His brows lifted in hauteur. ‘Perhaps you wish to go in my place on the next occasion? You are welcome to do so, although I doubt you will do any better. The good Signora provides a limited choice.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘No garlic, no fresh herbs, no olive oil worthy of the name and no pasta except something in a can.

‘It is little wonder that Marcello and Fiona bring supplies with them and eat out as often as possible,’ he added grimly. ‘But for the weather, we would have done the same.’

How could he talk like that, she wondered with a pang, as if they were a normal couple, enjoying a break together? She lifted her chin. ‘But for the weather, I would be long gone, signore.’

His voice was soft. ‘If it comforts you to think so, signora.’

He began to unpack the bags, producing vegetables, apples, bread rolls, milk and some pallid-looking sausages, along with tins of tomatoes and haricot beans plus a couple of packs of meat.

‘They’re frozen,’ she discovered. ‘How can that be?’

‘The shop operates an emergency generator.’ He took out a packet of very pink ham, fashioned into squares, and looked at it with a faint sigh.

‘However, the Signora tells me the power will be restored by the end of the day and also that a thaw is expected later in the week.’ The firm mouth curled. ‘I refer only to the weather, you understand.’

She said with difficulty, ‘Raf, don’t—please. I—I can’t help the way I am.’

‘I do not agree. I think you have no idea how you could be, mia cara.’ His tone was hard. ‘Nor will you permit yourself to find out. But that is your choice.’

He walked towards the door. ‘Now I am going to dig paths to the log store and the place where the coal is kept in case you need them.’

She tried to say, ‘Thank you,’ but the words wouldn’t come, so she nodded and turned away.

Alone again, she began to put the groceries away, aware that her hands were shaking and that her eyes kept blurring.

But what was there to cry about, she wondered, when, as he’d said, she’d made her choice? And when all she had to do was stick to it.

Because, for him, it was just a game, like chess. He made a move, she blocked it somehow. And even this would pass, she whispered to herself, if she simply—stood firm and waited for him to tire of this perpetual stalemate.

As he surely would, she thought, and tasted the acrid tears in her throat.

It was not the easiest day she had ever spent. Raf busied himself outside, and she made sure she followed his example indoors. Because that was the best way to stop herself from thinking.

She strained the chicken stock, adding potatoes and leeks as well as the remaining meat to the mixture, then let it cook slowly, producing a soup that was thick and surprisingly flavoursome, and heating some of the rolls to go with it.

‘That was excellent,’ Raf said as he finished his second bowl. ‘Working in the air makes you hungry.’

‘Have you finished all your digging?’