Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride

‘You are disgusting!’ she breathed.

‘You weren’t saying that a minute ago.’

Distractedly, she tugged at her skirt and straightened her blouse over her swollen breasts. It was like waking up from a dream when she hadn’t even realised she’d been asleep.

What the hell would he think of her now?

Yet he had started it—set the ball rolling with that almost punishing kiss. And you let him. Egged him on. Incited him in a way which was almost wanton. Was it any excuse to say that she hadn’t been able to stop herself? That once she had felt Cesare’s lips on hers it had been like falling down a well straight into paradise?

She ran her tongue over her parched lips. ‘That should never have happened,’ she said hoarsely.

‘Shouldn’t it?’

Briefly, she closed her eyes. ‘Not at the office!’

Cesare bit back a little murmur of satisfaction. The location had only added to its allure—but it was neither the time nor the place to tell her that her sudden capitulation to his kiss and its subsequent repercussions had been among the most erotic things to happen to him in a lifetime of erotic situations. That piece of knowledge would make her a little too powerful, and he liked to be the one with all the power.

And what was it about her that she should weave such magic over him even now? Because his desire for her had eaten away at him over the years? Or because she was so unexpectedly responsive? He swallowed down the bitter taste of jealousy—for that would not further his cause. He wanted her, and he intended to have her, and angry accusations about the men before him would not help his cause. And why should he feel jealousy over a woman for whom he felt nothing?

‘And what about you?’ she whispered, suddenly aware of how selfish she must seem—as if her own pleasure was the only thing which counted. This might not be a love affair made in heaven, but Cesare must be going out of his mind with frustration. ‘Don’t you…? Don’t you…want…?’

‘Sorcha—do not look so fraught. Let us acknowledge what we have—the chemistry between us is incredibile,’ he murmured. ‘Of course I want you—but I do not want our first time to be marred by a lack of time. By wondering if the phone will ring or one of the secretaries will knock on the door. Yes?’ He lifted her onto the ground, enjoying the scarlet flush to her cheeks. He lifted her chin with his finger. ‘Yes?’ he said again.

His words only reinforced how stupidly she had behaved—without even a thought of what this could do to her career. This was the career she had sacrificed so much for, was it? She could afford to throw it away—along with her self-respect—just because sexy Cesare di Arcangelo had touched her?

She pushed his arm away. ‘This is crazy,’ she whispered.

‘Crazy?’ He gave a slow smile. ‘That is not the definition I would have used, mia bella. It was stupore—amazing. And it is going to be amazing again. In fact, it’s going to happen in my hotel room tonight. You know it is.’

He silenced her protest with a finger placed over the soft cushion of her lips, and she could smell her own raw scent on him and her eyes closed helplessly.

And when he took the finger away, she did not argue with him.

CHAPTER SIX

SORCHA’S mobile began to ring, and her green eyes narrowed as she looked at the unknown number. Cesare. She would bet money on it.

Cesare.

After he had gone off to meet Rupert, she had been completely distracted by what had taken place in the boardroom. Had that been his intention? To show off his sexual wizardry and rub in exactly what she’d been missing out on? Hoping perhaps to reduce her to a shivering jelly—as she lived out that erotic encounter, moment by moment? Was he also hoping that she would be unable to work properly so he could tell her that she was no longer required by the company? Perhaps his bizarre idea about having her front the Whittakers advertising campaign was nothing more than a double bluff?

No. Cesare might be underhand and devious—but she doubted whether even he would stoop so low as that.

But she had to claw back some of her self-control—to show him that she wasn’t just some malleable female he could twist and pull like one of those rubber cartoon characters she’d used to play with as a child. She pulled the sheet of figures she’d been working on towards her, so that at least she was properly armed with a few facts in case he tried to interrogate her about how she’d spent her day.

She cleared her throat and clicked the button. ‘Sorcha Whittaker.’

‘Hello, Sorcha Whittaker,’ purred the rich Italian accent down the tinny line of the mobile. ‘What are you doing?’

Had he guessed she’d been thinking about him—or was this just par for the course with a man like Cesare? She swallowed, closing her eyes, trying to rid her mind of the image of his dark, mocking face—the feel of his mouth against hers and his hands brushing against her skin.

How had this happened when it had never happened to her before? That a man could start making love to you and suddenly you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

In the intervening hours he had obsessed her. It was as if he pervaded her every thought and action—as if nothing she could look at in her immediate surroundings would not remind her of Cesare.

‘I’ve been working,’ she said.

‘How very disappointing. I thought you’d be thinking about what I was doing to you a few hours ago,’ he said softly. ‘I know that I have.’

‘Cesare—don’t.’

He leaned against the wall of the Whittakers factory, alone now that the last of the staff had just trooped off home for the day. ‘But it should be interesting to see what you’ve come up with. I’ll pick you up at seven. We are having dinner tonight, remember?’

He had said nothing about dinner—he had merely intimated sex in his apartment. Sorcha shivered. With distance between them it suddenly seemed easier to say no.

‘I don’t know if it’s such a good idea,’ she said quietly.

There was a pause. ‘You haven’t changed, have you, Sorcha? You still like to tease men until they’re going out of their mind. Promising, and then failing to deliver.’

The accusation hit her like a poison dart—but didn’t some of what he’d said ring true? She could not take what she wanted from him like a greedy child and then back away, scared that she was going to get hurt. But if she didn’t want to get hurt then she was going to have to protect herself—and that meant ruthlessly eradicating the side of her that wanted to beg him to be sweet to her, to pretend that he really cared for her. Because if there was no pretence, then she wouldn’t start building up any foolish hopes, only to have them shattered by the harsh hammer of reality.

‘Actually, I wasn’t attempting to tease you at all,’ she said coolly. ‘I was speaking the truth, if you must know—I really don’t think it’s such a good idea. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to come.’

His relief that she wasn’t backing off was only heightened by her cool response, and Cesare closed his eyes and bit back a sensual retort, recognising that he was skating on very thin ice—and that she was unpredictable. But if she thought that adopting an air of faint resignation meant that he might relent and call the whole thing off then she had underestimated him very badly indeed. She owed him—in more ways than one.

‘I will pick you up at seven,’ he said.

‘Make it seven-thirty.’

He was left staring at the phone after she had severed the connection, and it occurred to him that he simply wasn’t used to being left hanging on. Goodbyes to women he was intimate with were invariably protracted, with Cesare usually coming up with the let-out clause: I have to go. Someone’s trying to get through to me. And then he would receive a breathless apology or a pouting little protest on the lines of Oh, Cesare—you’re always so busy!

But he was only busy when he chose to be. He had reached a position of power and authority when it was always possible to delegate. These days he cherrypicked his jobs with the same ruthlessness which had taken him to the very top of the tree.

He had inherited much from his overambitious mother and father—including a need to make it in his own line of business, despite the vast amount of wealth he had inherited after their deaths.

His eyes narrowed suddenly as he glanced around the empty car park and the concrete jungle beyond, inexplicably comparing the scene with his orchards back home in Italy, and suddenly he felt a great pang of homesickness.

He drew out a set of keys from his pocket and looked up at the sky. By travelling the world he was missing all the seasons, he realised—the natural pace of the world was passing him by.

He thought about the August crop of damsons which grew in the gardens of his villa. About how they became so plump and ripe that they tumbled from the trees—glowing on the grass like purple jewels with succulent golden flesh inside. They would be out soon, he realised.

How long since he had bitten into their sweetness and let their juice run over his lips? How long since he had given himself time to gather in the harvest?

And why had this place suddenly made him start thinking about home? Cesare frowned as he thought about the rural retreat he’d bought as an antidote to the cold splendour of the Roman mansion in which he had spent a lonely childhood.

I need sex, he thought, as he loosened his tie and headed towards his car. Just sex.

And tonight you are going to get it, he thought with a slow smile of satisfaction as he climbed in behind the steering wheel of his sports car.

Sorcha stared out of the window to the front lawn, where a peacock was strutting and fanning its deep shiny turquoise feathers, squealing like a newborn baby.

Her hand fluttered to her throat to play with the pearl which hung from a fine golden chain, and she could feel a pulse beating at the base of her neck. It was almost as if she needed to touch herself to check that she was real—for she felt curiously detached, as though this evening was happening to someone who wasn’t really Sorcha Whittaker, someone who had taken over her body for a while.

Because the real Sorcha Whittaker didn’t have gasping orgasms across the boardroom table from a man she was certain despised her. Nor would the real Sorcha Whittaker have changed her outfit four times this evening until she was sure she had struck just the right balance.

Except that she still wasn’t sure she had made the right choice, and there was no opportunity to try another because the long silver bonnet of Cesare’s car was nosing its way up the long gravel drive.

The bell rang, and she ran downstairs and opened the door to see Cesare standing there, his head slightly to one side. He had taken his tie off, but otherwise he looked the same as he had done at work—save for a hint of dark shadow at his jaw.

With the evening sun behind him his olive skin looked almost luminous, and his thick hair was as darkly glossy as one of the ravens which sometimes strutted across the lawn before being chased away by the peacocks.

‘Hello,’ she said, and suddenly she felt confused. This felt like a date, and yet she was damned sure it wasn’t a date. It was nothing more than a sexual liaison—a settling of old scores. But she felt as shy as a woman might feel on a first date—and that was even more peculiar—because how could any woman in her right mind feel shy after what had happened between them today?

Maybe because she wasn’t in her right mind.

Cesare’s eyes flickered over her. She was wearing some floaty dress in layers of green, with tiny little gold discs sewn into the fabric, her hair was loose down her back and she wore gold strappy sandals to flatter her bare brown legs. ‘Pretty dress,’ he murmured.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re ready?’ He could see the wary expression in her eyes as she followed him out to the car and he told himself that it was inappropriate to ravish her on the doorstep—particularly since her mother and her brother might be around. Of course they might not be—but if he asked, then it would make him sound…

As if he was abusing the hospitality they had offered yesterday—just as they had offered all those years ago?

But it was actually more complex than that—because Cesare realised that he hadn’t taken memories into account. He hadn’t realised that they were such a powerful trigger into feeling things you didn’t want to feel—until you reminded yourself that memories were always distorted by time. They had to be. They weren’t constant—because no two people’s memories were ever the same, were they?

Yet being with Sorcha like this mimicked a time when life had felt so simple and sweet—when he had felt unencumbered by anything other than the long, hot summer and the slow awakening of his senses.

But there was that distortion again—because that hadn’t been part of Sorcha’s agenda, had it? While he had been handling her with kid gloves she had been leading him on—playing with him with the clumsy confidence of a child who had mistaken a tiger-cub for a kitten. And she was just about to discover what it was really like in the jungle…

‘Music?’ he questioned, once they had strapped themselves into the car.

Sorcha sank into the soft leather of the seat. ‘If you like.’

He slid a CD into the player as the car pulled away in a spray of gravel, but Sorcha almost wished she could tell him to turn it off again as the most heartbreakingly beautiful music swelled up and resonated through the air, so that you could hear nothing else but the voice and the song.

It was a man, singing in Italian, and she couldn’t understand a word of it—but maybe she didn’t need to. All she knew was that it was the most beautiful and sad song she had ever heard. It made her think of love and loss—and pain and happiness—and the man beside her. Sorcha closed her eyes.

She had to pull herself together—because it was pointless to feel things which would only be thrown back in her face, to want things which could never be hers.

Cesare glanced down at the hands which were clasped in the lap of her dress—at the way her fingers interlocked, the way they gripped when the music reached a crescendo—and he bit down on his mouth, hard, in an effort to dispel his own frustration.

Because unless he stopped imagining himself pulling over into a lay-by and slipping his fingers between her legs, this was going to be a very long and uncomfortable drive.

The car drew up outside the only hotel in the village—the Urlin Arms, which was run by a slightly dotty ex-admiral who rated eccentricity over efficiency. It was his old family home, which had been converted, and the fact that the place had ‘character’ compensated in a small way for the constant stream of junior staff who were always flouncing out in a huff and leaving the Admiral in the lurch.

‘You know this place?’ asked Cesare as he opened the car door for her.

She clambered out of the low car and stood beside him, looking up at it. ‘Yes. Of course. I remember when it was first converted.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘I love it. It’s just…’

‘Surprising that I’ve chosen to stay here?’ he observed wryly.

‘A bit.’

His black eyes mocked her. ‘You thought I would have rented a glass and chrome extravaganza in London, did you?’

‘Why, Cesare—are you a mind-reader?’

‘No, I’m just good at reading body language,’ he murmured. ‘Especially yours.’

But Sorcha’s poise was in danger of slipping as she followed him inside—where the Admiral was having his customary gin and tonic and regaling a tyre salesman from Humberside with the problems in the modern Navy.

‘Evening, Admiral,’ said Sorcha, forcing a smile and hoping that he was as man-of-the-world as he always claimed and wouldn’t mention to her mother or Rupert that she’d been caught sneaking up to a hotel bedroom with Cesare di Arcangelo.

Why?

Because it felt wrong?

Because he was her boss?

They went upstairs to where he had obviously rented the best room. There were some fine pieces of furniture—a grandfather clock with a sonorous chime, a beautiful sandalwood chest, and faded silk rugs sprawled on polished floorboards.

Sorcha walked in and felt frozen to the spot, not sure what she was expected to do or say as Cesare pushed the door shut and leaned on it, studying her. And then his eyes narrowed and he turned and began walking towards a wooden drinks cabinet. ‘Drink?’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Drink?’ she echoed blankly.

He reappeared at the door. ‘Wine? Or did you think I was going to leap on you as soon as you set foot inside the door?’

Sorcha swallowed. ‘How would I know? I’ve never been in this kind of situation before.’

Their eyes clashed. ‘Me neither,’ he said softly.

Some of the tension eased out of her. ‘Wine, please.’ She walked around the room, picking things up without really looking at them, trying not to look nervous when inside her stomach was tied up in knots.

Cesare came over and handed her a glass of red wine.

‘Thanks.’ She sipped it, and then took a bigger mouthful. ‘Gosh—it’s delicious. The Admiral must have better taste than I thought!’

He smiled. ‘Actually, it’s mine. My wine, that is. It is made from grapes which are grown in my own vineyard. The vines will be growing heavy now—with great clusters of grapes growing darker under the sun.’

His voice was dreamy enough to hurt, and suddenly Sorcha couldn’t bear it. If she had married him she would have been mistress of those vineyards, too—as proud of their yield as he was—while instead she was standing awkwardly in a slightly scruffy hotel room, making small-talk while the real agenda simmered away unspoken. The elephant in the sitting room.

She put her glass down with a hand which she was suddenly afraid was going to start shaking. And he must not sense her reservations or her nervousness—because that would surely tell a man as clever as Cesare that she was vulnerable. If he thought that this was simply about a powerful sexual attraction which had never been properly explored then wouldn’t she be safe? Maybe she would. For when they had taken their fill of one another perhaps they would discover that nothing remained.

She curved him a smile—a deliberately provocative smile she had no memory of ever smiling before. Where did a smile like that come from? Did you learn it from watching films? she wondered. Or was there just a moment in life when you met the only man for whom it was appropriate?

Cesare put his glass down beside hers, and for a moment he just savoured the anticipation of what was about to happen. At last. At last.

And then he beckoned to her. ‘Venuta,’ he said softly, and held his arms out. ‘Venuta, cara mia.’

She did as he told her, went into them and felt them tighten round her. His breath was expelled from him in a hiss—like air being released from a pressure cooker.

‘Cesare,’ she breathed, on a note which sounded broken.

And that was when he began to kiss her. Her arms fastened around his neck as hungrily she pressed her body closer to his—and as he kissed her he began pushing up the filmy dress. Up over her bare thighs, his fingers luxuriating as they kneaded the soft flesh, as if they were reacquainting themselves with an old friend.

And Sorcha realised that she could not play passive. Not this time. This was the command performance—for one night only! Remember that, she urged herself. Don’t be lulled by sweet sensation and unrealistic wishes just because his lips are soft and his kiss passionate enough to make you start indulging in make-believe.

She slid her hand between his legs and he groaned. Gently, she rubbed her palm down over the hard heat of his arousal and the pressure of his kiss increased—until he drew his head away, his black eyes looking as opaque and distant as a man in the midst of a fever.

‘You think I am going to do it to you here?’ he questioned unsteadily. ‘Is that what you want? You are one of those women who like it any place except in bed?’

One of those women. He might as well have slapped her. Sorcha shook her head. ‘No,’ she breathed.

He scooped her up without warning and carried her through into the bedroom, laid her down on the bed—and perhaps he sensed that his words had been clumsy, for he started to stroke her and soothe her, and anoint her skin with feather-light kisses, and speak to her in words of soft Italian.

He worked her up into such a pitch of longing that Sorcha was barely aware of the gauzy drapes which fell in soft folds over the imposing four-poster bed. Quite honestly it could have been a bare mattress on the floor of a downtown apartment she wanted him so much—and suddenly she was tearing at his shirt, pulling at it in a frenzy.

He started laughing as a button went bouncing across the floorboards, but he lifted a shoulder to help her shrug him out of it, and when his chest was bare she touched it wonderingly, curling her fingers in the dark whorls of hair which grew there.

‘You are hungry? Like a tiger?’ he murmured.

But his laugh grew slightly unsteady as she unzipped him, pulling off his trousers as best she could and murmuring as she skated her fingertips over the dark silk of his boxers.

His eyes snapped open. ‘Don’t,’ he warned.

‘Or what?’ she questioned breathlessly.

‘Or this.’ It was time to take back control—before he was fooled into mistaking this unique situation for something else. With a fluent efficiency born out of years of practice he peeled her dress off and tossed it aside, then unclipped her bra and sent it across the room in a lazy arcing movement. And then, with a hard smile of enjoyment, he caught the fabric of her mint-green panties between his hands and ripped them apart.

Sorcha’s mouth dried and her eyes widened. ‘Cesare—’

‘Do you know how many times I’ve fantasised about doing that?’ he grated as he pulled her down onto the bed, peeling off his boxers as he bent over to straddle her. ‘And this?’ he whispered, as he cradled his erection and pushed it close to her.

He paused only to reach for a condom, which it seemed he had conveniently placed ready beforehand, and Sorcha began to get a terrible feeling of panic. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Oh, she had known exactly what was going to happen, and her body was crying out for him, but it all seemed so…so…mechanical.

All those dreams she had cherished were about to be dealt a fatal blow. But maybe that was best—it was only forbidden and impossibly perfect dreams which made it impossible to move on. Reality was a much safer beast.

He felt her tension and kissed her with slow deliberation until he felt all her apprehensiveness dissolve—even though the effort it took nearly killed him. ‘I want you,’ he ground out. ‘And I want you now.’

‘You’ve…you’ve got me.’

He entered her slick tightness and he was lost—as if he had found himself in the middle of the sea and a mist had come down so that he couldn’t see any more, could only feel.

And—Madre di Dio—could he feel her! For a moment he felt shaken by the power of each perfect thrust.

Was she doing okay? she wondered as feverishly she kissed his shoulder. Was it acceptable for her to float away on this sensual bubble? Because it had never felt like this before—never, never, never.

Like an adult who had just got back on a horse after years of abstinence, Sorcha tried to remember the moves which pleased most, and she wrapped her ankles around his back and writhed her hips.

For a moment he froze. He looked down at her and his eyes were black, almost…hostile.

‘What? What is it, Cesare?’

‘Oh, but you are…good, cara,’ he said unevenly. ‘Very good. I thought you would be.’

So why did it sound like an insult? And why did something alter from that moment? The pitch and intensity of his movements changed, and he drove into her like a man who had been starved of sex all his life. You and me both, she thought. And—even though she tried to fight it—she felt herself swept away by the longest and most powerful orgasm of her life.