The Sicilian's Wife (8 page)

‘And it's not over yet—our wedding day, I mean.'

It was as close as she dared come to saying exactly what was in her heart, the stinging excitement that ran through her at just the thought of what was to come.

‘But I think I would feel better if I could freshen up—draw breath, take a shower.'

‘Of course. Your cases were brought over earlier, so everything you need is upstairs.'

He led her up the great curving staircase and into an enormous room decorated in tones of green, light and dark, a huge bay window overlooking the park-size garden at the back of the house.

‘The bathroom's through there…'

He indicated a door leading off at the far side of the room.

‘There are fresh towels there and everything you should need. But if you want anything, just give a shout.'

‘Mmm.'

It was all that she could manage. The sight of the king-size bed, big, like everything else in this man's life, had dried her throat painfully, closing it up against any words.

Yes, she might tell herself that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. And she might feel excited at the anticipation at what was to come between them. But that anticipation was mixed with a shivering tension that gripped her harder when confronted with the reality of the place where it was to happen. With the bed in which Cesare would take her, make her his. Now she truly did feel as nervous and unsure of herself as any virgin bride on her wedding night.

Would excitement be enough? Would the passion that flared between them when they kissed carry her through and into the fulfilment and the pleasure that sexual intimacy was supposed to bring? She felt that it would. Instinct told her that with Cesare she would find that satisfaction. Because the truth was that with Gary she had never even come close.

His lovemaking had been uninspiring, to say the least. In fact she had been so disturbed by her own lack of response that she had been forced to wonder if there was something wrong with her. Now, her suspicions were of the opposite. That in fact he had not taken the trouble to arouse her, or give her any real enjoyment.

Which left her totally unsure of how she could react to the man she loved.

‘You'll feel more comfortable if you get out of your finery and into something more relaxed.' Cesare was still totally concerned with practicalities. ‘Take your time about everything.'

‘Thank you.'

He was heading for the door but suddenly he paused and swung back, dark eyes going straight to her face.

‘Did I tell you that you looked beautiful today? More
than that—you looked stunning. I was so proud when I saw you walking down the aisle towards me.'

‘And I was proud to be walking to you,' Megan managed though her voice croaked embarrassingly.

Why did he just stand there, keeping a distance between them? The width of the carpet might be only a metre or two, but the expanse of it seemed as huge and unbrideable as if they were on either side of the Grand Canyon, totally unable to reach the other side. If only he would touch her, hold her…

She tried to will him to do so in her thoughts, struggling to telegraph wordless messages to him with her eyes, but he seemed totally impervious to her unsettled mood.

‘So is there anything else you need?'

‘N-no. I think I have everything.'

It couldn't be further from the truth. What she truly needed was for him to take her in his arms and hold her tight. She longed for him to caress her, kiss her senseless, to drive away all the fears and uncertainties she was a prey to and replace them with the yearning, aching, shivering hunger that had taken her over that day in the library. Then she had been unable to think but only to
feel.
And she wanted to experience all those sensations over again.

But clearly Cesare thought that he was being considerate. That he was showing a patience and sensitivity he thought she needed. And she didn't have the nerve to tell him he couldn't be more wrong.

‘Then I'll leave you in peace.'

‘Thank you.'

Disappointment made it stiff and tight. A disappointment that grew deeper and more bitter as she watched him walk away from her again. But the memory of the way he had rejected her at the New Year party was clear and cruelly
sharp in her mind, coming between her and any attempt to try and call him back.

This was supposed to be their wedding night. The night when they consummated their relationship by making love with each other. But Cesare's attitude had made it painfully plain that in his mind there wasn't a relationship to consummate at all. He had declared that he wanted her physically and that hunger had been enough to drive him to marry her, but there was nothing else, nothing emotional for him to offer her at all.

Sighing miserably, she kicked off her shoes and padded over the soft carpet towards the bathroom. She really needed this shower to make her feel human again. Her back ached terribly and her stomach was raw and tender.

‘
Porca miseria
!' Cesare cursed to himself as he made his way down the stairs. Would he ever get it right?

He had wanted to take everything so carefully. Give her time to adjust. But it seemed that she still regarded him as the enemy. As someone she feared and didn't trust. Would he ever live down the way he had behaved at New Year?

Reaching the living room, he headed straight for the drinks cabinet, then immediately paused, the bottle of red wine in his hands.

‘That's not the way, you fool!'

That had been his mistake on New Year's Eve. Determined to stick strictly to his promise to her father, he had had one glass—okay, more than one glass, too many, in the hope of distracting himself from the way she looked. It hadn't worked. If anything, it had made matters worse. The alcohol had heightened every one of his senses, bringing them into painfully sharp awareness of the brilliant beauty of her hair and eyes, the delicate texture of her skin, the slim lines of her body in the clinging gold slip of a dress. Even just to think of the scent she had been wearing made
his body harden, demanding to bury itself in the warm softness of her feminine body and abandon itself to the delights of loving her.

‘
Dio
!' he muttered again, furious with himself and with the circumstances he had found himself trapped in.

If only her birthday had been earlier in the year. Either that or her father had made the term of his promise last until her twenty-first birthday, not her twenty-second.

But Tom had married Barbara on the day she had turned twenty and he blamed all the unhappiness of his marriage on that simple fact. His wife had been too young to know her own mind, he had said. She had never really lived, never enjoyed herself, never known any true freedom. Within six months she had been pregnant with Megan and she had felt trapped by motherhood and domesticity. Before her daughter was ten years old, she had walked out on her marriage and her child, looking for the freedom she thought she was owed and breaking Tom Ellis's heart for ever in the process.

‘I was too old for Barbara—or she was too young for me,' Tom had said when, unable to hold back any longer, Cesare had blurted out the intensity of his feelings for his friend's daughter. ‘Either way, we messed up our relationship and made each other desperately unhappy. I want better than that for my Meggie.'

He'd
wanted better for her too, Cesare told himself, kicking a chair out of the way as he paced up and down the elegant room, trying to find a way to fill in the time until Megan reappeared. And above all else he'd wanted to make sure that the relationship he hoped for didn't end up on the rocks for the same reasons her parents' had done.

And so he'd understood when Tom had asked him to wait. To at least let Megan have her time at university, and
the freedom and the experiences her mother had been denied, before he had told her of the way he felt.

And he'd managed fine while she was still young enough to find him boringly old and uninteresting, when she had kept her distance. But at Christmas it had been hell on earth keeping to his promise. From the start of the holidays, it had been clear that Megan had changed. She had grown up for one thing, developing from a lovely girl into a beautiful young woman. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. And she had known it. She had flirted outrageously with him at every possible opportunity. And then at New Year she had done more than flirt.

She had thrown herself at him. She'd told him that she'd ‘fancied him rotten' for years. That there was no one else in the world for her. That she
loved
him. And then she'd enticed him into a quiet, dark corner where she'd flung her arms round him, kissed him until his head was spinning and his loins were throbbing with hot desire. And she'd whispered that they could go to her room. That no one would notice…

Porca miseria
! No!

He would drive himself mad if he remembered the fight he had had to resist her. The struggle with his conscience and his promise to her father. That night he
had
turned to the bottle. He'd pushed her away from him. Lied through his teeth to her, telling her that he didn't want her; that he wasn't interested in kids; that he wanted a real woman in his life, not a half-grown baby. It hadn't been kind. In fact, it had been downright cruel, but he hadn't been able to think of any other way to escape from her and still hold true to the promise he had made to her father.

And then he'd gone home and got desperately, stupidly, totally drunk. It hadn't helped.

And it wouldn't help now. Because tonight he had to
remain perfectly sober. He had to be completely in control and able to function at his best. Because tonight he was going to start the campaign to win Megan back from that
bastardo
Rowell.

Tonight he was going to make love to Megan with all the skill, all the finesse, and all the gentleness he could manage. He was going to seduce her, entice her into his bed, strip all the clothes from her body, and then he was going to kiss her all over. Press his mouth to every perfect inch of her. He was going to awaken every sensual nerve in her body, caress her until she was delirious with pleasure, incapable of thought, and begging him to take her—
now
! And when he did make love to her he was going to make sure that he erased all thought of Gary Rowell from her mind. That he would drive her to such ecstasies that she would only ever have room for him in her mind and she would never—
never
—think of her former lover again.

Dannazione
. He had sworn that he would wait, but he couldn't take any more. He had to be with her; had to see her again. Surely she had finished her shower by now.

Striding from the room, he mounted the stairs two at a time, pushing open the bedroom door in a rush of uncontrolled enthusiasm.

‘Megan, I…'

She wasn't there. The room was still empty; the door to the bathroom still closed. But the shower had been switched off and no sound of running water reached him through the door.

Bene
! She would be out soon. All he had to do was wait. But first…

The jeweller's box was in the top drawer of the dresser. Taking it out, Cesare opened it and checked the contents then cast a searching glance around the room.

He wanted somewhere where she wouldn't find it at once
but where—just at the right moment—he could reach for it.

With a small sound of satisfaction he smoothed the soft, downy feather pillows on what would be Megan's side of the bed and placed the small box carefully on the top of them. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.

And waited.

Still she didn't come and after a few minutes he felt restless again, this time mixed with a disturbing sense of unease.

‘Megan!' he called, pitching his voice so that it would carry through the wood of the door. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Mmm…' She sounded unsettled, distracted. ‘Just give me a minute.'

Smiling to himself, Cesare settled back again. Nerves, he told himself. And that had to be a good sign. Very probably it meant that the rat Rowell hadn't been much of a lover. Well, he'd soon put that right. He'd show Megan just what making love was really like. He'd woo her, and he'd win her…

If only she would come out of that damn bathroom!

‘Megan!'

Getting to his feet he moved rapidly across the room, rattled at the door handle.

‘Megan! What the hell are you doing!'

No, impatience was a bad idea. He didn't want to frighten her. Didn't want to make her any more nervous than she already was.

Forcing himself back to sit on the bed, he looked at the jewellery box again and frowned, dissatisfied. Lifting the pillows, he pushed the gift out of sight underneath.

As he did so, his hands tangled in the delicate ivory silk and lace that formed the flimsy, sexy garment that would
be laughingly described as a night
gown
and his smile grew wider, more sensually satisfied.

Why had she bought the enticing thing, if not because she wanted to feel sexy when she was with him? Because she wanted to please him, tantalise him—seduce him too.

The thought was so delightful, so exciting, that when he heard the jerky slide of the bolt, the door opening behind him, he turned, eager as a boy, longing to see the one, the only love of his life.

He knew that something was terribly wrong as soon as he looked into her face. If he had thought she looked worn and pale earlier, then she was ashen now. Washed out and colourless. Even worse than she had looked that night in the library when she had told him how appallingly Rowell had treated her.

Shocked and stunned, he lurched to his feet and started forwards, his hands coming out to support her as she swayed weakly in the doorway, clutching the pale-green towel to her.

‘Meggie—what is it?' he demanded. ‘Tell me…'