His Reluctant Bride - Sara Craven Mills & Boon M&B

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he added grimly.

      He went to the door, unlocked it, then turned.

      ‘Remember this, mia bella.’ His voice grated across her taut nerve-endings, just as his contemptuous gaze flayed her skin. ‘Even if I had taken you there on the floor like the sciattona you are, it would still not have been rape.’ He smiled at her with insolent certainty. ‘You know it as well as I do, so do not fool yourself.

      ‘Now, get out of my sight,’ he added curtly, and left, slamming the door behind him.

      SHE had missed her plane, but eventually managed to catch the last flight of the evening, thanks to a no-show.

      Her escape from the hotel had been easier than she could have hoped. She had dressed quickly, her shaking hands fumbling so badly with the buttons on her dress that she had to begin again.

      Then she’d wasted precious moments listening tautly at the door for some sound from the room beyond. Dreading that Sandro might be waiting there for her, still angry and possibly vengeful.

      But when she had finally risked taking a look, the room was completely deserted, and she left on the run. The hotel commissionaire had summoned a cab for her, allotting her dishevelled state a discreetly impassive glance.

      She had prowled around the airport, her eyes everywhere. Terrified that he might change his mind, and come to find her. To prevent her from leaving. Even when she presented her boarding card, she was half expecting his hand to reach over her shoulder and take it from her.

      When the plane finally took off, she was almost sick with relief. She ordered a double brandy from the stewardess, and fell asleep before she’d drunk half of it.

      She took a cab from the airport to her flat, unlocking the door and falling inside in the same movement. There was a strange empty chill about the place that she had never experienced before, that seemed to match the cold hollow inside her.

      A voice in her head whispered, ‘You’re safe—you’re safe …’ But somehow she couldn’t believe it. She even found herself picking her way in the darkness to her living-room window, and drawing the curtains before she switched on the lights.

      Then she sank down on the sofa, and tried to stop trembling.

      I didn’t suspect a thing, she thought. To me, the contessa was simply another very demanding client, nothing more—but it was all a trick.

      She had to be deeply in Sandro’s power to agree to something like that, Polly told herself, and shivered as she remembered how nearly she’d surrendered to that power herself.

      Oh, God, she thought. He only had to touch me …

      But it had always been like that. From the first time his hand had taken hers as they walked together, her body had responded with wild yearning to his touch. She had hungered and thirsted for his mouth on hers—for the brush of his fingers over her ardent flesh. For the ultimate mystery of his body joined to hers.

      Sandro had enraptured her every sense, and she had mistaken that for love. And he had cynically allowed that—had said the words she wanted to hear—whispered the promises that would keep her enthralled until he chose to leave her.

      She’d been just one more girl in his bed, easily discarded, instantly replaced. Except that he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of her on television and discovered, for some inexplicable reason, that he still wanted her.

      Sandro Domenico, she thought painfully. A man rich enough to pay for his whims, and powerful enough to pull the strings that would satisfy them.

      And yet he’d let her go, outraged at the idea that he could rape her physically, but too arrogant to realise he’d already done far worse damage to her emotionally.

      Still, it was over now, and she had nothing more to fear. She’d insulted his sense of honour, such as it was, and he would never come near her again.

      In fact, she’d got off comparatively lightly, she told herself. Yes, she was bruised by his anger and disgust, but she’d recover from that—given time. And her future held plenty of that.

      In some ways, it all seemed like a bad dream—some torment dredged up from the depths of her unconscious. But the faint lingering tenderness of her lips forced her to face reality.

      Wincing, she touched her mouth with her fingertips, telling herself that it could all have been so much worse. That at this moment, she might have been in his bed, and in his arms, with a whole new cycle of heartbreak and regret to endure.

      For all she knew he could be married to someone ‘suitable’. A dynastic union from the criminal network he belonged to, she thought with a pang.

      But she—she was all right, she rallied herself. She’d had a narrow escape, that was all.

      Just the same, her vague plans for a change of location had become a firm resolve as a result of the past twenty-four hours.

      She and Charlie would move, somewhere anonymous and preferably far away. And, to ensure she could never be so easily traced again, she’d find out the legal implications of changing her name.

      Drastic measures, she thought, but, in view of her recent scare, perfectly justified.

      She stripped in her tiny bathroom, putting her clothing in the laundry basket, then took a shower, scrubbing herself from top to toe, and even shampooing her hair to make sure she erased every trace of him.

      She only wished she could wash away the memories of the heated pressure of his mouth, and the familiar, arousing scent of his skin just as easily.

      Dear God, she thought, towelling her hair with more than necessary vigour, that is—frighteningly pathetic.

      She put on her cotton housecoat, belting it securely round her slim waist, and trailed into the kitchen.

      She needed a hot drink, but not with the additional stimulus of caffeine. She’d have enough trouble sleeping as it was through what little was left of the night.

      No, she’d have a herbal tea instead, she decided. A tisana at bedtime was a habit she’d acquired in Italy. One of the good ones, she amended wryly.

      While the kettle was boiling, she wandered back into the living room, and, for reasons she couldn’t properly explain, crossed to the window, and pulled back the edge of the curtain slightly.

      The road below seemed empty, or was there an added density among the shadows opposite, in a gateway just out of the range of the street light?

      No, she thought, hurriedly letting the curtain fall back into place. It was simply her imagination. Sandro had traced her through her work, simply and easily, so there was no need for him to compile a complete dossier on her.

      Because if he’d done so, he’d have realised at once that her ‘live-in lover’ was pure invention, and told her so. And he’d have known, too, about Charlie …

      She turned her head, staring at the chest of drawers, and the framed photograph that occupied pride of place. Charlie, on his second birthday. His father’s image smiling at her.

      Sandro’s out of your life, she told herself feverishly. He’s gone.

      Nevertheless, on the way back to the kitchen, Polly found herself taking Charlie’s portrait off the chest, and stowing it in the top drawer instead.

      Better, she thought, safe than sorry, and shivered again.

      Polly slept badly, in spite of her tisana. When morning came, she telephoned Safe Hands, said quite truthfully that she felt like death, then crawled back into bed and slept until lunchtime.

      She woke with a start, thinking of Charlie. Why was she wasting time, when she could have the bonus of a whole afternoon in his company without the distractions of shopping and housework?

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