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‘You’ve had all the excitement you can take for one day.’ Luc whipped her purposefully off her feet when she showed signs of straying in the direction of an open doorway. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’
‘Because I feel as though I’ve died and gone to heaven and—’ she hesitated, sending him an adoring look ‘—I love you so much.’
Dark blood seared his cheekbones, his jawline hardening. Unconcerned, she linked her arms round his throat. ‘I’m not a plaster saint,’ he breathed.
‘I can live with your flaws.’
‘You’ll have to live with them,’ he corrected. ‘Divorce won’t be one of your options.’
She winced, pained by that response. ‘It isn’t very romantic to talk about divorce before the wedding.’
‘Catherine…as you ought to know by now, I’m not a very romantic guy. I’m not poetic, I’m not sentimental, I’m not idealistic,’ he spelt out grimly.
‘You make love in Italian,’ she said in a small voice.
‘It’s the first language I ever spoke!’
For some peculiar reason, he was getting angry. She decided to let him have his own way. If he didn’t think sweeping her off to a castle in Italy and marrying her within days was romantic, he had a problem. It might be wise, she decided, to share a little less of her rapture. But it was very difficult. Feeling weak and exhausted didn’t stop her from wanting to pin him to the nearest horizontal surface and smother him with grateful love and kisses.
At the top of that unending staircase, Luc paused to introduce her to a little man called Bernardo, who rejoiced in the title of major-domo. Catherine beamed at him.
‘Do you think you could possibly pin those dizzy feet of yours back to mother earth for a while?’ Luc enquired sardonically.
‘Not when you’re carrying me,’ she sighed.
Thrusting open a door, he crossed a large room and settled her down on a bed. It was a four-poster, hung with tassels and fringes and rich brocade. She rested back with a groan of utter contentment, lifted one leg and kicked off a shoe, repeated the action with the other. It was definitely her sort of bed.
His expressive mouth quirked. ‘I’ve arranged for a doctor to see you in half an hour. Do you think you could manage to look less as though you’ve been at the sherry?’
‘What do I need another doctor for?’
A smile angled over her. ‘Amnesia is a distressing condition, or so the story goes. I’ve never seen you like this…at least,’ he paused, ‘not in a long time.’
‘You’ve never asked me to marry you before,’ she whispered shyly.
‘A serious oversight. You’ve never tried to seduce me in the back of a limousine before, either.’ Golden eyes rested on her intently and then, abruptly, he took his attention off her again. ‘I don’t think you’ll find Dr Scipione too officious. He believes that time heals all.’ He strolled back to the door, lithe as a leopard on the prowl. ‘Bernardo’s wife will come up and help you to get into bed.’
‘I don’t need—’
‘Catherine,’ he interrupted, ‘one of the minor advantages of being my wife is being waited on hand and foot, thus saving your energy for more important pursuits.’
Her eyes danced. ‘And one of the major ones?’
Hooded dark eyes wandered at a leisurely pace over her, and heat pooled in her pelvis, her stomach clenching. ‘I’ll leave that to your imagination, active as I know it to be. Buona sera, cara. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ She sat up in shock.
‘Rest and peace.’ Luc made the reminder mockingly and shut the door.
She stared up at the elaborately draped canopy above her. You were flirting with him, a little voice said. What was so strange about that? She couldn’t ever recall doing it before. As a rule, she guarded and picked and chose her words with Luc in much the same fashion as one trod a careful passage round a sleeping volcano. Only at the beginning had she been na;auive enough to blurt out exactly what was on her mind.
But she wasn’t conscious of that barrier now, hadn’t been all day or even last night. She was no longer in awe of Luc. When had that happened? Presumably some time during this past year. And yet Luc had said he had never seen her like this in a long time. What was this? This, she conceded, hugging a pillow dripping lace and ribbons to her fast-beating heart, was being wonderfully, madly and utterly without restraint…happy.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE rails of clothing in the dressing-room bedazzled Catherine. Encouraged, the little maid, Guilia, pressed back more doors: day-wear, evening-wear, leisure-wear, shelves of cobwebby, gorgeous lingerie and row upon row of shoes, everything grouped into tiny bands of colour. Co-ordination for the non-colour-clever woman, she thought dazedly. Luc had bought her an entire new wardrobe.
Such an extensive collection could not have been put together overnight. Overwhelming as the idea was, she could only see one viable explanation—Luc must have been planning to bring her to Italy for months! As her fingertips lingered on a silk dress, Guilia looked anxious and swung out a full-length gown, contriving to be very apologetic about the suggested exchange.
