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‘No, this is my veryfirsttime ever intoxicated,’ Maya told him with precision. ‘Take that as you will.’
‘Not a compliment.’
‘Wasn’t intended to be.’
‘Was the idea of sex with methatoffensive?’ Raffaele growled in apparent disbelief.
‘I know that you want me to say that it wasn’t but the way I think, it would be wrong,’ she framed apologetically.
‘You’re my bride! This is our wedding night,’ Raffaele countered with startling ferocity.
‘But you feel like a stranger,’ his bride admitted in colloquial Italian before she passed out.
CHAPTER FIVE
MAYAWAKENEDWITHa groan, tormented by the waking nightmare of the night she had passed.
Dawn light illuminated surroundings that were still only vaguely familiar. A big room, a glimpse of the sea through a window, a slight rolling gait in tune with the swell of the sea something else to be regretted alongside the amount of alcohol she had imbibed the day before. She scrambled out of bed, her head aching and still swimming, shame almost choking her. But the mortification of her splintered shards of memory was indescribably worse...
She recalled floundering like a landed fish on top of a pale marble floor and wanting to die, literallydie. Worst of all, she recalled throwing up in that bathroom with Raffaele tugging her hair out of the way. She recalled Raffaele tucking her into bed, trying to get tea down her, failing because her stomach wasn’t up to anything but water and even drinking that had been a challenge, she remembered with a shudder. Raffaele had looked after her; she remembered in shock that he had bothered, that he hadn’t just stuck her in a yacht cabin to be sick without him as an audience. What did it say about her that she dearly wished he had simply abandoned her to her sufferings?
Sal was out on deck at dawn having a cigarette when Raffaele emerged from the couple of hours of sleep he had snatched and stepped onto the terrace with a cup of black coffee in his hand.
‘So?’ Sal challenged, smooth as glass. ‘Marriage not quite what you expected?’
Raffaele breathed in deep and slow and strove to resist rising to the bait, but the temptation was too great. ‘I thought she had more sense.’
‘You blackmailed her... I can’t imagine why she would be so sensitive,’ Sal murmured softly.
Raffaele clenched his teeth together and said nothing at all, waiting until the older man went back inside before making the same move.
Maya emerged from the bathroom, every inch of her washed and shampooed and freshened, her slender body clad in denim shorts and tee shirt, but nothing could take the awful memories away. Her head was still sore. She winced as the cabin door opened. Cabin, she repeated ruefully to herself, for such an ordinary word in no way described the shining expanse of the wooden floor, the opulent upholstery, the glorious built-in furniture or the patio doors that led out onto a private terrace that was also splendidly equipped. When she glanced up to see who had entered and saw Raffaele carrying a tray, her knees gave way and she dropped down on the side of the bed sooner than look him in the eye.
‘Feeling pretty rough?’ Raffaele murmured flatly.
‘Let’s be frank... I deserve it,’ Maya muttered. ‘I can only say sorry—there’s not much else I can say.’
Raffaele extended a glass of water to her. ‘Painkillers,’ he proffered, dropping a couple on her lap. ‘No need to suffer if you don’t need to.’
Maya snatched in a steadying breath and took the pills, imbibing the water slowly, still terrified that she would start feeling ill again. Mercifully that phase of her recovery seemed to be over. ‘I don’t usually do stuff like this,’ she sighed.
A table settled in front of her and a tray appeared on it. ‘Eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘The food will help.Eat,’ Raffaele repeated insistently. ‘You speak Italian,’ he added, switching languages. ‘You didn’t mention it.’
‘It didn’t seem important. You’re happy speaking English.’
‘But more at home with Spanish or Italian,’ Raffaele told her gently.
Maya buttered a piece of toast and ate the egg on offer. She poured the tea, passing him a cup and saucer as he crouched down in front of her, cruelly enforcing eye contact.
And itwascruel, she reflected numbly, because in the daylight flooding through the windows they were wickedly beautiful eyes the colour of caramel or melted honey.
‘If that wasn’t the norm for you, I need to know why,’ Raffaele murmured almost softly, as though he was trying to be persuasive or, at the very least, non-threatening.
Maya swallowed her tea. ‘It’s just the whole situation,’ she mused ruefully. ‘I let it get to me. I won’t let that happen again.’
