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tension left him. Some, but not all. 'Am I going crazy? ' he questioned softly. 'I don't know—are you?'
'Yes’ he groaned as he pulled her into his arms. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't supposed to be like this—he had thought he was going along in a straight line, yet he was encountering twists and turns all along the way.
'I find myself wanting to kiss green-eyed women in the middle of a busy street/ he murmured.
'Cesare—you can't.'
'Can't I?'
'Think of your reputation.'
"What about yours? '
Sorcha couldn't remember the last time she had been kissed in public. It didn't last long, and it wasn't one of those awful kisses which made other people feel sick—with the couple looking as if they were enjoying a three-course meal.
No, it was brief and hard and intense—in effect, it was a powerful stamp and a demonstration of Cesare's mastery, and when she drew back from it she was breathless, oblivious to the red double-decker bus which trundled by and the people who were turning to look at them.
'Now what?' she questioned.
'Let's find a hotel,' he said unsteadily.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sunlight streamed in through the windows and Sorcha sleepily opened her eyes and yawned. She had often wondered what kind of people spent the afternoon in bed in a hotel, and now she had discovered the answer.
People like her.
She glanced at the figure in the bed beside her. Cesare was sleeping, his magnificent body stretched out like an artist's model, the olive skin glowing against the rumpled tangle of white sheets. But while his muscular body was hard and lean, his face in repose had a curious softness about it. Thick black lashes formed two shadowy arcs, and the luscious mouth was curved into a sensual little pout.
How many beds had he lain in like this? she wondered. Had he spent anonymous afternoons in luxury hotels in all the major cities around the world? For this was a very different venue from the Urlin Arms, with its faded carpets and temperamental staff.
Here the drapes were pure lined silk, the chandelier French, and the writing desk antique.
How many women? Did they all blur into one eager and giving body? In a year's time would he have to frown to remember just where it was he had stayed with her?
There was a glint from between his half-closed eyes, and a hand reached out to rest with easy familiarity on her thigh. How well sex could mock real intimacy, thought Sorcha with a pang.
'You look lost in thought,' he murmured.
'I was.'
'Are you going to share it?'
What an emotive word share could be—did he know that? Did women leap on it like hungry little puppies because it hinted at something beyond the communion of bodies which had just taken place?
'You won't want to hear.'
'Try me’ he murmured, stretching his legs and making no attempt to hide his renewed stirring of desire.
'I was wondering if you made a habit of this.' This? '
There he was—already playing for time! 'Having sex with women in anonymous hotel rooms.'
He studied her thoughtfully. "What do you think? That every time I visit a city I pick up a beautiful woman and take her to bed?'
"Do you? '
He laughed. 'Once—a long time ago—I went through a stage of doing exactly that. ’ It had been when he had left her, when he had been hurting—not expecting to hurt, nor wanting to, as if he had a divine right to somehow be immune from the pain of relationships.
