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He stood abruptly, moving around the table. He stopped beside her and crouched down on his powerful haunches so that the fabric of his pants pulled across his strong thighs. She forced herself to look away, but not before the effect of his nearness had imprinted on her consciousness, reminding her of how she had felt pinned beneath those legs, pinned beneath him.
Her mouth was dry, her temperature skyrocketing.
He lifted his fingers to her chin and forced her face back to his, lifting it up so that their faces were level.
‘This conversation is redundant. It changes nothing about what we both want now.’
His lips crushed down on hers, shocking her at the same time it answered every single ache that was ripping through her. She surrendered to his kiss even when she knew she ought to fight him. To fight their attraction.
But she was selfish, she was hungry and she had been denied his touch for so long. She needed his touch. It was on the tip of her tongue to whisper the word that was chasing round and round in her mind—please—but out of nowhere his words bubbled through her.
‘You’ll be begging me to take you in no time. And I’m going to enjoy it, Mrs Vin Santo.’
So she said nothing. She kissed him, because she wasn’t strong enough not to, but she didn’t beg, even when her heart was doing just that.
CHAPTER SIX
SKYE FLIPPED ONTO her back and listened to her meditation even harder, concentrating so much on being relaxed that she became even more agitated when sleep didn’t come. And, the more she concentrated on needing to sleep, the harder it became to make peace with the fact that she was still awake, so that she clicked the recording right back to the beginning and focused even harder.
To no avail.
After an hour of breathing deeply, and picturing a still ocean with a single ray of light shimmering across its surface, she was agitated and cranky.
She reached for her phone, silenced the patronising recording and checked the time.
It was just after midnight, and she was wide awake.
With a rustle of the silk sheets, she slipped out of bed, padding across the bedroom to the window. Ancient timber shutters blocked out the noise and lights of Venice. She pushed them outwards—they groaned a little in complaint before opening wide. Just beneat
h the window was a planter box overflowing with bright red geraniums. They were on almost every window sill in Matteo’s villa—though some boasted lavender as well. The fragrance was heady, especially in the spring when an army of bees would swarm across the blossoms, picking them over for sustenance.
Skye reached down and plucked a geranium stalk, twirling it around and then bringing it to her nose. There was an almost metallic fragrance that brought back such memories of her first few weeks in Italy, when she’d picked small bunches and placed them on either side of their bed so that they were the second thing she saw each morning—after Matteo.
He’d teased her for doing it. ‘Melania can get you anything you want from the market, you know. Much prettier flowers that will make much bigger arrangements.’
‘I like these,’ she had insisted with a shrug. ‘They’re bright and sunny and they grow right outside the window. They’re our flowers.’
She had, at the time, liked the way that had sounded. Ours. As though the stupid word could infer a degree of seriousness on them that hadn’t actually existed.
She tossed the bloom carelessly from the window, leaning forward by a small degree to watch its progress. The air offered little resistance to such a robust bloom. It dragged quickly to the ground, dropping with a soft thunk into the water below. It hovered on the surface for a moment, as though looking at her accusingly, before falling further, dropping downwards and disappearing for good.
Even the most beautiful things met their end eventually.
Their marriage should have been one of them.
Their marriage should never have happened, she corrected herself inwardly. That damned hotel! It was one of many properties owned by her family trust. If he hadn’t made such an obvious effort to move it to his own possession, she wouldn’t have particularly known it existed.
Was there any excuse that could justify what he’d done? Marrying to secure a piece of property?
Sleeping with her—being her first lover as well as her first love?
Could she ever forgive him that duplicity? Did she dare even try?
A warm breeze rustled in the open windows. She angled her face upwards, giving the air full access to her front, letting it loosen her hair, pulling it back from her face. And she breathed in deeply. Geraniums, people, ice-cream, Venice... It was all so familiar.
Her restlessness grew.
She pressed her fingers to her tummy, thinking of their baby. ‘Is this your doing?’ she whispered. ‘Are you making Mummy wake up when it’s time to sleep?’
