Sharon Kendrik - Cruel Angel

It had taken a long time for her to even consider going out with another man after the breakup of her marriage, but David had seemed the perfect partner, the balm she needed to soothe her troubled spirit. He was everything she liked and respected in a man—and everything that Stefano was not. They liked the same things—primarily the theatre, but they also liked loading up their bicycles on to the roof-rack of David’s estate car and escaping from the rat race into the country, where Cressida would sit quietly reading, while David indulged his hobby of photographing birds. Most importantly for her, everything they did did not end up with them in bed together. Her face flamed, and a pulse began to throb insistently as she recalled Stefano’s idea of recreation. David was a gentleman. He was prepared to wait. But then a memory intruded—jarred and disturbed her—because so, too, had Stefano—at the beginning . . .

His kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced, on or off the stage. There had been no one special in her life—and at just nineteen that hadn’t been so very unusual. And even the on-stage embraces, where the current breed of up-and-coming actors prided themselves on simulating realism, kissing you with an intimacy that Cressida had found slightly repugnant and definitely unnecessary—none of them had even remotely resembled what this man was now doing to her.

His mouth cajoled her into instant response, so that she found herself somehow knowing that he wanted their tongues to lace together in erotic dance—the result of which sent her heart-rate soaring, and made her insides melt. She felt a tingling awareness in the tips of her breasts, a growing warmth in her groin. She found that she wanted to explore the substance of his taut, muscular body, so that when he pushed her up against the wall and ground his hips into hers, like a man who was out of control, she did not cry out her protest, but urged him on with a slurred and exultant, ‘Yes, oh, yes ,’ and his answer was to lightly brush his hands over her breasts, gently stroking each one in turn until he had her almost collapsing against him in agonised arousal, which was replaced with an equally agonised frustration when he suddenly stopped, his hands leaving her, but he himself not moving, just surveying her with dark eyes in whose depths were sparks she could not fathom.

He did not speak for a moment. Months later, he was to tell her that it was the first time in his life he had ever been rendered speechless. And when he did speak, it was with a rigid control which astounded her.

‘Not now.’ He shook his head. ‘And not in such a way. If you had not been wearing such a garment—’ he shrugged in the direction of the filmy green wrap ‘—then I should not have lost my head.’ He lowered his voice. ‘When I collect you tomorrow—at eight—you will wear something more—’ he seemed to muse for a second, and then he smiled, a smile which transformed the handsome, stern face into someone she knew she would die for ‘—suitable. Cover up a little, yes? Or I will not be responsible for my actions, cara . But not trousers. Promise me you will never cover up your legs with trousers?’

It was preposterous, but she found herself agreeing in delight, loving the mastery in his voice as he spoke. Had she been older, wiser, surely she would have steered clear of a man who, even at that early stage, had shown such a strong inclination to control her?

He was turning to leave, his hand on the door-handle, when something shocking had occurred to her. ‘Your—your name?’ she stammered. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

He gave her a long, unbelievably sexy smile, before leaning forward to plant on her mouth a slow kiss of such unbearably sweet promise that she trembled again. ‘Names are not important,’ he murmured. ‘But it is Stefano. Stefano di Camilla.’

She liked it, loved the way he said it. It had an imperious ring to it. Her green eyes widened as she replied, almost shyly—and this in itself was strange, for she was never shy as a rule. ‘And I’m Cressida,’ she said. ‘Cressida Carter.’

‘I know.’ His voice was soft. ‘You see, I know everything about you.’

Cressida closed her eyes as she stood beneath the piercingly cold jets of the shower, remembering how flattered she had been by his research. It seemed that he had gone to a great deal of trouble to find out about her. Somehow, he had tracked down where she lived, and with whom, and where she studied—and what. He had even discovered that her parents had followed the dictates of the late sixties, and had ‘dropped out’—living in splendid if somewhat basic isolation on the Balearic Island of Ibiza. She remembered running her fingers wonderingly through the thick, springy hair, and asking him how he had learnt so much about her in such a short time, but he had shrugged nonchalantly, and kissed away her questions, telling her that things like that were of no consequence to her.

What he had meant, of course, she thought grimly as she massaged more shampoo into her scalp to attempt to remove the stubborn lacquer, what he had meant was that she shouldn’t bother her pretty little head about things which didn’t concern her. For wasn’t that one of the maxims by which the di Camilla family lived—that women should just sit quietly and beautifully in the background, providing comfort and satisfaction for their men?

Cressida shook her wet hair as she stepped out of the shower and began to rub herself dry, her pale skin glowing with the friction of the rough towel. She pulled on a short cream satin dressing-gown and sat in front of the mirror at her dressing-table, the hairdrier blowing the dark red waves into angry fronds which echoed her mood, when there was a loud shrilling of the doorbell. Her brow creased momentarily. David, of course. He was early. Well, he would just have to wait in the sitting-room while she changed.

She ran lightly to the door, and pulled it open, the welcoming expression on her face dying immediately when she saw who it was who stood there.

‘No,’ she whispered disbelievingly.

‘Oh, yes,’ he contradicted softly, and then his eyes moved down, lingering slowly on the satin of her wrap, as he surveyed the fullness of her breasts which were tingling uncomfortably under his gaze—she could feel the taut peaks pushing against the silky material, and she automatically crossed her arms around her chest, shielding her betraying body from his gaze. And the movement caused the hard line of his mouth to twist in derision.

‘I see you still answer the door as alluringly as possible,’ he said harshly.

As he stared directly into her eyes, her imagination stupidly led her to think that she saw a flash of some deeper emotion than plain desire, a softening of the harsh mouth, but it was gone before she remembered that it had been a common fault of hers—crediting him with feelings which he did not possess. She hugged herself tighter as she looked down at the carpet, a lump in her throat, willing the idiotic tears not to spring to life.

‘Tell me, do you always dress to please, Cressida?’

His words were a grim challenge and her eyes were drawn unwillingly to his face. Sometimes she had wondered if he was made of flesh and blood as she was, and now she wondered anew. How could a face which could move with such animation, which could dissolve so sweetly with passion—how could such a face remain now as cold and as unreadable as a blank book? And yet she could still look on it and remember how much she had loved him.

The sharp reminder of her lost love pierced her heart like a sabre cut and, afraid that he would see and taunt her moment of weakness, she moved a step away. ‘You’ve got no right to come in here and criticise me—and you’ll have to go,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m expecting—’ she made her voice linger fondly ‘—someone.’