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There had always been willing women—and at that time it had seemed that the supply of them was endless. It was almost as if his icy indifference had turned them on, providing them with the challenge that they might be the one to break through that cold heart to find the warmth of the man beneath. They never had, of course—and Cesare had turned away more than he had slept with. He had felt like a gorged child who had been given permission to spend the night in a sweetshop.
'It sounds like every man's idea of heaven,' said Sorcha, hoping that her voice didn't sound sour—because how he lived his life was his business, not hers.
'It wasn't’ he said flatly. 'Predictability is boring, and when something is so easy to get, it d
oesn't have the same value.'
Sorcha went very still. 'You didn't have to fight very hard to get me into bed/ she said in a small voice.
His voice was cool and mocking. 'You don't think so? This seduction actually started seven years ago—and, using those sums, I'd say that you were actually the hardest of all.' Black eyes hardened, became watchful. 'And what about you, Sorcha, since this seems to be true confession time?'
"What do you want to know? Actual numbers, like in that film—where I go through my conquests one by one and make you laugh?'
Laugh? He winced, knowing that the fierce stab of jealousy which shot through him was unreasonable—but then, he had never been accused of being a reasonable man.
"No," he grated, and, unfolding his big, lean body, he got out of bed. 'Let's have a drink.'
Had he suggested that to distance himself? Because the conversation had taken a distinctly confessional turn? She watched while he went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne, efficiently disposing of foil and cork before handing her a fizzing glassful.
Sorcha sat up in bed, sipping at the cool champagne while Cesare climbed back in beside her, thinking that she really ought to be enjoying this moment. Imagine if she wrote about it in a postcard home. In bed, overlooking Regent's Park. Fabulous sex. Fabulous man. Fabulous wine.
So why was there this terrible ache of emptiness inside her?
'It wouldn't take very long,' she said.
Cesare frowned as he took a long draught—he who never drank in the middle of the
day, but who suddenly wanted something to take the edge off his heightened senses.
"What wouldn't? '
To list my lovers. ’
'I don't want to hear about them, Sorcha,' he clipped out.
'Him.'
His eyes narrowed. "What? '
'Him, not them. Singular, not plural. Just one. Before you, that is.' She wondered why she was bothering to defend herself—because that was really what it amounted to. Why his opinion should be so important to her. Was it just that she needed him to know that she had acted in an extraordinary way with him—or rather reacted? And didn't she run the risk of looking rather pathetic—like someone who was setting out her stall, saying, Look how relatively untouched I am?
'One? ' he repeated incredulously.
That surprises you? '
'Of course it does. It isn't many for a woman your age.'
'I didn't realise I was defying some kind of national average.'
"Why did you tell me?' he demanded suddenly.
"Why do you think?' She clutched her glass in two hands in case she spilled wine all over the bed. 'I couldn't bear it if you imagined that I did...well, what I did with you...with lots of men.'
There was a pause, and he knew that in light of her honesty he had to be honest in return. 'I didn't think that, Sorcha,' he said slowly. 'There was such a...' He shrugged. 'That kind of combustive sexual chemistry is rare, believe me—I know.'
He put his glass down, took hers from her hands and placed it beside his, and then drew her into his arms and down onto the bed.
His mouth was cool and tasted of wine, and his body was warm, and Sorcha felt a sudden and overwhelming wave of real yearning which transcended mere sexual desire. She kissed him back, long and deep, and then she rolled out from beneath him, kneeling beside him as she bent her tongue to his nipple.
