LITMIR.BIZ

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London couple. He was something in the City, and she wanted to play the country lady.’ Cory frowned slightly. ‘I didn’t like them much, and nor did my grandfather. He said they’d find it too big, and too isolated. In fact, he told them so, and the agents were furious. But they came up with the asking price, so they got it.’

      Rome said slowly, ‘Only it seems they didn’t keep it.’

      He brought the car to a halt beside a big estate agency sign attached to the front wall with ‘Sold’ blazoned across it.

      And, in smaller letters, ‘Acquired for the Countrywide Hotel Group.’

      ‘A hotel. Oh, no, I don’t believe it.’ Cory sat for a moment, rigid with dismay, then scrambled out of the car. She peered through the tall wrought-iron gates. ‘They haven’t just sold it, they’ve actually moved out and left it empty. Look—the garden’s like a jungle.’

      She pushed at one of the gates, and it opened with a squeal of disuse.

      ‘Countryside Hotels came sniffing around when we put the house on the market, but Gramps turned them down flat. He wanted it to remain a private home. That’s why he sold to the Jessons.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell him. He’ll be so upset.’

      ‘Perhaps not,’ Rome said quietly as he followed her up the overgrown drive. ‘After all, he said it himself. Too big and too isolated. Maybe the Jessons gave it their best shot.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Cory, are you sure you wish to do this? Shall we go back to the car and drive up the coast?’

      Her voice was subdued. ‘We’ve come all this way. So I may as well say goodbye. And it could be worse,’ she added, with a forced smile. ‘It could have been bought by Sansom Industries and pulled down.’

      She was half expecting a question or a comment, but Rome said nothing. Just gently removed his hand as they walked on towards the house.

      It was redbrick, built on three storeys, with tall chimneys and mullioned windows.

      ‘It’s a good house,’ Rome said, as they walked round to the rear. ‘Simple and graceful. It doesn’t deserve to be empty.’

      ‘My room was up there. The window on the end.’ Cory pointed. ‘I chose it because at night I could hear the sound of the sea. Usually it was gentle and soothing, but when there were storms it would roar, and Gramps said it was a monster, eating back the land.’

      ‘Didn’t that give you nightmares?’ Rome asked drily.

      ‘No.’ She shook her head decisively. ‘Because I knew I was safe and loved. And the monster would never reach me.’

      Or not then, she thought, with a pang. Her nightmare had begun with Rob…

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      She started almost guiltily. Rome was watching her, frowning a little.

      ‘Nothing—why?’ She forced a smile.

      ‘Your face changed,’ he said. ‘One moment you were remembering. The next you looked sad—almost scared.’

      Cory paused. Shrugged. She said quietly, ‘Maybe Memory Lane is a dangerous place.’

      His mouth twisted. ‘You think the future holds more security?’ There was an odd note in his voice—almost like anger.

      No, she thought with sudden desolation. Not if it holds you…

      She said quietly, ‘I try to live one day at a time—and not look too far ahead.’

      She moved off determinedly along the stone terrace. ‘Now I’ll show you my grandmother’s sunken garden. She used to grow roses there, and the most marvellous herbs.’

      She reached the top of the stone steps and stopped dead, drawing a swift painful breath. Because the garden, with its tranquil paths and stone benches, had gone. In its place was a swimming pool, surrounded by an expanse of coloured tiles. Even the old summer house had been supplanted by a smart changing pavilion.

      Cory’s throat tightened. She turned and looked up into Rome’s cool, grave face.

      She said, like a polite child, ‘Thank you for bringing me here, but I’ve seen enough and I’d like to go home, please.’

      Then her face crumpled and she began to weep, softly and uncontrollably, the tears raining down her pale face.

      Rome said something quiet under his breath. Then his arms went round her, pulling her close. His hand cradled her head, pressing her wet face into the muscular comfort of his chest.

      She leaned against him, racked by sobs. He smelt of fresh air and clean wool, and his own distinctive maleness, a scent that seemed at the same time alien and yet totally familiar. She breathed him, filled herself with him, as her hands clung to his shoulders, her fingers twisting feverishly in the fine yarn of his sweater.

      As she cried, he murmured to her, sometimes in English but mostly in Italian. While she didn’t understand everything he said, instinct told her they were words of endearment, words of comfort.

      And she felt his lips brush her hair.

      She lifted her head and looked up at him, a sob still catching her throat, her eyes bewildered—wondering.

      The long fingers touched her drenched lashes, then gently stroked her cheek, pushing back the strands of dishevelled hair. And all the time she watched him silently.

      She felt him straighten, as if he was going to put her away from him, and whispered, ‘Please…’

      For a moment he was still. Taut. The dark face was stark, the blue eyes narrowed, suddenly, and burning.

      And when he moved it was to draw her close again. But not, this time, for consolation.

      He kissed her forehead, then, very softly, her eyes, as if he was blotting her tears with his lips.

      She sighed, her body bending like a willow in his arms in a kind of mute offering. And then, and only then, he found her mouth with his.

      She was more than ready. She was thirsting, starving for him. Her lips parted, welcoming the heated thrust of his tongue. Their mouths tore at each other in a kind of frenzy. She forgot to think, to reason, or to be afraid. There was nothing—nothing—but this endless kiss. This was what she’d been born for, and what she would die for if need be, she told herself, her brain reeling.

      When he lifted his head at last, she was shaking so violently she would have collapsed but for his arm, like an iron bar, under her back.

      He said her name swiftly, harshly, then bent his head again. He was more deliberate this time, more in control, his lips exploring her wet cheeks, the hollow of her ear and the leaping pulse in her throat, lingering there as if he was tasting the texture of her skin.

      Then he kissed her lips again, fitting his mouth to hers with sensuous precision, letting his tongue play with hers, teasing her lightly, wickedly, into uninhibited response.

      His free hand slid inside her sweater and moved upwards, pushing the encumbering folds away and seeking the soft mound of her breast. Stroking her gently, feeling the aroused nipple hardening against his palm under the thin camisole she wore, as she arched against him.

      He lifted his head and stared down at her for a long moment, his eyes slumberous, urgent, as he studied the effect of his caress.

      For a moment she returned his gaze, then her lashes swept down, veiling her eyes, as she waited for him to touch her again.

      This time she experienced the shuddering thrill of his mouth against her, suckling her scented, excited flesh through the silk covering. Circling the rosebud peak with his tongue, coaxing it to stand proud against the damp and darkened fabric.

      Cory could feel the heat of him—the male hardness—against her thighs in implicit, primitive demand, and heard herself moan swiftly and uncontrollably in need and surrender.

      It

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