It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

My wedding night in Italy, she thought, swallowing. When I saw him walk into the bedroom and felt myself start to tremble inside. Yes, I was scared, at first anyway, but that wasn’t all of it, and I—I knew it.

Because I suddenly found myself remembering that other night and his arms holding me—the touch—the taste of his mouth. And wondered…

And, for a moment, I almost forgot that he’d married me solely out of a sense of obligation to my father. Although Rafaele soon reminded me, of course. Spelled out chapter and verse, then walked away.

While I told myself I should be relieved that he didn’t want me and even more thankful that I hadn’t made a fool of myself by smiling at him, or giving any other indication that he might be welcome to stay.

And yet there’d been times during that first year of marriage when Raf’s constant visits had been difficult to bear. Dreams, too, that she’d burned to remember.

But, eventually, as he’d begun to stay away and the rumours that he’d resumed his bachelor lifestyle had begun to circulate, Emily had been able to convince herself that it had all been a temporary aberration on her part, with no connection to the future she was planning for herself.

And when Simon came back and told me he’d never stopped loving me, she thought, I felt justified somehow. I was glad I could tell him that there’d never been—anyone else for me, and that we could start again—together. That I’d belong to him—and him alone.

Fine words, yet, so far, I haven’t shed a single tear for him. Is it possible that I always suspected, deep down, that I was just a means to an end? My father’s credulous heiress, looking for love in increasingly hopeless places?

Because I haven’t been very lucky in either of my suitors. One of them sold me out and the other used me to repay an old debt.

Which doesn’t leave me with many illusions about myself and maybe I will be able to cry about that one day. Before I begin to sort out exactly who I am and what I really want. But not yet.

Because I have to get through this somehow and I can’t afford tears or self-pity. I need to survive.

She closed her eyes resolutely, then opened them again.

That long ago night…

It occurred to her suddenly that this was the first time Raf had ever mentioned it. Up to now, he’d always behaved as if it had never happened. But then, she thought, he’d never required her to kiss him before either.

Not that it meant anything, she added hastily. It was just another way of asserting his male dominance. Another ploy to humiliate her, as she’d embarrassed him over the annulment issue.

But she would never let him see that it mattered. Not that—or anything else he might do to her. She would shore up the control she’d so painfully acquired. And there would be no more moments of weakness or inappropriate curiosity about how it might be if she ever surrendered herself completely to his lovemaking, she told herself fiercely.

Because, one day soon, he would become tired of this fruitless battle of wills and decide to let her go and she wanted to be able to walk away, her head held high.

And now, she thought, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, I have to stop thinking about him and try to sleep.

She dozed eventually, but it was no peaceful rest. She was assailed by snatches of dreams peopled by shadowed figures with faces she did not recognise, who turned away as she struggled to reach them across bleak and barren landscapes.

In the end she was never sure what woke her. But as she opened her eyes to the pale grey light filtering through the curtains, she had a overwhelming impression of being warm, relaxed and deliciously comfortable. All this, she thought drowsily, in total contrast to her miserable night with its fragmented dreams.

Yet, as her awareness increased, several disturbing facts made themselves evident. For one, she was no longer lying on the far side of the bed, clinging to its edge as if stranded on the north face of the Eiger.

Somehow, in the night, she had moved back across the broad expanse of the mattress to where Raf was lying.

But she wasn’t just next to him, for heaven’s sake, but right up against him as if she’d been glued to his spine. Her legs had somehow become entangled with his and her body had adapted every inch of itself to fit the long, lean curve of his back, her breasts crushed against its hard muscularity, and her arm draped round his waist. Moreover, her face was pressed between his shoulder blades, so that her nose and mouth were filled with the warm, clean scent of his skin.

Emily lay for a moment, hardly daring to breathe, intensely conscious of the violent, erratic beat of her heart. Out of one nightmare into another, she thought with horror. Dear God, I’m practically inside him.

But how could it possibly have happened? It had to be her own doing, because Raf clearly hadn’t moved an inch and, fortunately, was still sleeping deeply and peacefully.

Slowly, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, she began to detach herself from him, little by little, before edging stealthily backwards, every nerve-ending attuned to the possibility that he might wake up, and then…

But she wouldn’t consider that. She’d just concentrate on freeing herself. All the same, it seemed an eternity before she could slide out from under the covers altogether and she stifled a gasp as her warm skin encountered the icy air in the room.

Tiptoeing about, trying to avoid any sound, she found her nightdress and pulled it on. It might not be picturesque, and it certainly wasn’t sexy, but it provided a much-needed layer of insulation, she thought, topping it with a quilted gilet for good measure.

Noiselessly, she drew back the curtains and looked out. It had snowed again in the night, she saw without pleasure, and there were still a few flakes whirling past the window from the slate-grey sky.

And small wonder that it was freezing, she thought, testing the radiator with a cautious finger. The heating wasn’t on, which meant there was probably something wrong with the boiler.

She groaned silently. This was all she needed.

She went softly out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Coffee was the priority, she told herself as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. Strong and very hot.

She wandered into the living room, opening the curtains, shaking up the sofa cushions and collecting the glasses from the previous evening.

The kettle should have been boiling by the time she returned to the kitchen, but there was no cheerful sound of seething water or any trace of steam from the spout and it was stone-cold to her cautious touch.

She suddenly remembered Angus’s casual warning about power failures and the way the lights had flickered the night before and said aloud, ‘Oh, no…’

She tried the light switch by the door, again with no result, then returned to the sink and turned on the hot tap, willing there to be at least some hot water left in the tank, but it was like putting her hand into the ice of a mountain stream and she bowed her head defeatedly.

‘You are feeling the cold, carissima?’

The softly spoken words made her turn quickly to see Raf lounging in the archway, his dark face alight with amusement as he studied how she was dressed.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she snapped defensively, observing that, by contrast and in spite of the temperature, he was wearing nothing but a towel knotted loosely round his hips.

His grin widened. He strolled across, sliding both arms round her waist, his lips nuzzling her neck. ‘Then you should have stayed in bed with me,’ he whispered. ‘I find I am in a much better mood this morning.’

‘Then I hope it continues,’ Emily said bitterly, trying to free herself from his clasp. ‘Especially when I tell you we have no electricity.’

‘Davvero?’ He sounded more interested than perturbed. ‘Well, it is not the end of the world.’

‘No?’ She wrenched herself away and stepped backwards. ‘You enjoy being without heat or light, do you? I don’t think so.’

‘We have a fire, candles and a stove to cook on.’ He shrugged. ‘Life goes on.’

‘But there’s no hot water. I can’t even have a bloody bath.’ She raised two clenched fists. ‘Oh, God, why did I ever come to this hellish place?’

‘I think, Emilia mia,’ he drawled, ‘that is a question you should answer for yourself rather than troubling Il Signore.’ He paused. ‘Your father told me once he feared he had over-indulged you. I have often thought since that he was right.’

‘Don’t you dare mention my father,’ she flared. ‘What do you imagine he’d think of you, if he knew you’d broken your word about this marriage?’

‘He asked me to give you time,’ he said. ‘He did not expect me to wait for ever. So he would assume we had reached some accommodation with each other at last and already have begun to look forward to his grandchildren.’ His tone was brusque. ‘Now, let us leave your flights of fancy and be practical.’ He opened a cupboard and extracted several large saucepans, along with a huge preserving pan.

‘If you wish to bathe, you may do so. It will not be luxurious, naturalmente, but it is the best that can be managed.’

Emily’s nose wrinkled doubtfully. ‘You mean we’re going to carry hot water—all the way upstairs—in pans?’

‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going to do it for you, so you will not be inconvenienced in any way, Contessa.’ He took out a much smaller pan. ‘And before you ask, this is to boil water for coffee. I think I may need it.’

She bit her lip. ‘That’s why I came downstairs to—to make coffee…’

‘I think not.’ His smile was swift and ironic. ‘You came down, cara mia, because you realised you had spent the night nestling against me in a way it took all my self-control to resist and you found the discovery an embarrassment.’

He walked past her to the sink and began to fill the preserving pan with water.

‘I suggest you wait upstairs,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘And be sure to put some cold water in the bath first. I would not wish you to be scalded.’

She was scalded already, Emily thought furiously, as she marched out of the kitchen. Burning from head to foot. And not just because he clearly believed she was running scared after last night’s gaffe. The claim that she was some kind of spoiled brat rankled even more, implying that he and her father had calmly discussed her faults and failings before the marriage.

I’m surprised he didn’t ask to see my school reports or examine my teeth, she fumed under her breath as she climbed the stairs, trying not to trip on the trailing nightgown.

And if he has some idea that finding my arm round him in the night meant anything, he can think again—and fast.

But she took his advice about the cold water before retiring to the bedroom and assembling her clothing for the day. As many layers as possible, she thought. Warm tights under her cords and a long-sleeved T-shirt under her thickest sweater. And dismissed the sly inner voice which suggested that she could be wrapping herself against more than the weather.

She had just finished making the bed when Raf appeared in the doorway.

‘Your bath awaits, signora.’ He paused. ‘It reminds me that I must instruct Gaspare to engage a personal maid for you. A girl with muscles.’

‘That,’ said Emily coldly, ‘is entirely unnecessary.’

‘I disagree.’ He gave her nightgown another long look. ‘She will also conduct a complete review of your wardrobe and list what is required.’ He added softly, ‘I shall choose your lingerie myself—and it will not be black.’

He doesn’t forget a thing, Emily thought bitterly. She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you, but my existing clothes are perfectly adequate for my life.’

‘But not for the life you will lead with me,’ he told her with finality.

‘And where am I expected to shop for this new wardrobe?’ she challenged. ‘At Valentina X, maybe?’

There was the faintest of pauses, then Raf said softly, ‘Of course, if that is what you wish. Although I think Signora Colona may cater, perhaps, for more sophisticated tastes.’

He allowed her to assimilate that, then smiled at her. ‘But the choice is entirely yours, cara. Every designer in Italy will welcome the Contessa Di Salis.’

‘How very exciting for me,’ she said. ‘Now, excuse me please, or my bath will be getting cold.’

But of course it wasn’t. In fact the temperature was perfect and, annoyingly, he had even added some of her favourite bath oil.

Swiftly, she shed her nightgown and stepped in, reaching for the soap and rubbing it fiercely into her skin in a vain attempt to conceal the fact that she was smarting already.

Confronting Raf about his mistress had achieved nothing, she thought. He’d remained completely unfazed. Whereas she’d probably sounded young and silly. But not jealous, she prayed, closing her eyes. Oh, please, not jealous. Because it wasn’t true—it wasn’t true at all…

The creak of a board brought her abruptly back to the here and now and the realisation that Raf had walked into the bathroom, carrying another large pan.

‘It’s all right, thank you,’ she said, trying to fold herself into startled invisibility. If she lived to be a hundred, she thought, she would never become accustomed to his casual attitude to nudity—hers or his. ‘The water’s fine as it is.’

‘But not for me, carissima,’ he said silkily. ‘I like the temperature raised a little.’ He poured the contents of the pan carefully into the bath, dropped the towel he was wearing and joined her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She hated the breathless note in her voice as she tried to retreat into some distant corner of the bath that didn’t actually exist.

‘Washing,’ he said and held out a hand. ‘The soap, sposa mia, if you please.’

Numbly, she handed it to him, finding a voice from somewhere. ‘It doesn’t matter to you that I might prefer some privacy?’

‘And you may have it, once I no longer have to act as water carrier.’ He was briskly lathering his shoulders and chest. ‘But, until the power returns, we share.’ He scooped up handfuls of water, spilling the shining droplets over his head.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’ve finished.’

It was awkward leaving the bath under his sardonic gaze, but she managed it, winding the waiting towel round her like a sarong, covering herself against him.

‘Would you care to wash my back before you go?’ he asked.

Emily bit her lip. ‘No,’ she said, stonily. ‘I wouldn’t.’

His mouth twisted. ‘You did not find touching me so distasteful last night, mia bella.’

‘Because,’ she said, ‘I was still pretending you were someone else, signore.’ She added coolly, ‘I find it works very well.’

And she walked out of the bathroom, the edge of the towel following her like a train.

CHAPTER EIGHT

EMILY sat curled up despondently in the corner of the sofa. The chicken bones were simmering on the kitchen stove with some attendant vegetables, but whether they’d ever become edible soup was anyone’s guess.

What was more, she’d arrived downstairs to discover that Raf, in between his water heating activities, had taken the time to clean the grate and light the fire in the living room, so conditions weren’t as arctic as she’d anticipated.

Which made her parting shot to him in the bathroom seem even more ungracious.

On the other hand, she didn’t want to feel grateful to him. She wanted to keep her resentment alive. Needed to hate what he’d done to her, as well as what he had planned for her immediate future.

Last night, she’d slept, melded with him. Had become totally imbued with him. But how and why it had happened was beyond her. She supposed it must have been her subconscious reaction to that lingering kiss that had drawn her to him, and that, in itself, was deeply disturbing.

Except that it was over now, she reminded himself swiftly. This was another day altogether and she had to stay strong and not let herself remember the silken texture of his skin under her cheek—her mouth.

Or how her arm had encircled his lean waist. The way her body had seemed to fit with his, as if it had been designed for that purpose alone.

Above all, she had to blind herself to the sheer male physicality of him. In spite of herself, she could not ignore how sensational he looked without his clothes, and how the grace and strength of his nakedness turned her mouth dry and transformed her own body to an aching, melting heat that made her feel ashamed. And scared.

Which had made it so necessary to toss him that scornful comment and walk away just now.

Because she couldn’t let herself touch him, she thought. Not again. She couldn’t risk it, any more than she dared to allow him to touch her. The opportunities for self-betrayal were far too dangerous.

She sighed. She was certainly succeeding in turning this into the honeymoon from hell, yet, at the same time, it wasn’t the unalloyed triumph she’d expected.

She heard him coming downstairs and tensed, expecting some kind of repercussion, but Raf was zipping himself into his parka as he reached the bottom of the stairs and barely glanced at her. For one panicky moment she thought he might be cutting his losses and leaving, abandoning her here to her own devices, then realised he didn’t have his bag with him.

‘You—you’re going out?’ she ventured.

‘As you see. I shall walk down to the village and see what food is to be had,’ he said. ‘We cannot exist on a few chicken bones.’

‘Is it safe to do that—with all this snow?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Or I would not try.’

Emily stood up. ‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘You have developed a sudden taste for my company?’ His mouth curled. ‘Impossible.’ He paused. ‘Or are you hoping to encounter your admirer, perhaps?’

‘Please don’t be absurd,’ she said. ‘It’s simply that I’m getting cabin fever cooped up like this.’

He looked at her sceptically. ‘It will be treacherous underfoot,’ he warned.

As if the conditions indoors were so ideal, she thought.

‘It is a pity I did not bring my skis with me,’ he went on. ‘Ah, but you do not ski, I believe, cara.’

Just in time she remembered she’d told him that when he’d invited her to spend his New Year holiday with him in the Dolomites the first year of their marriage.

‘A pity you did not tell your father so,’ he added silkily. ‘He spent a great deal on your school trips to Switzerland each winter, I understand, and all for nothing. It would have saddened him.’

He paused, watching the swift annoyed colour rise in her face.

‘However, there are some rubber boots in the cellar,’ he continued. ‘They may be too large, and the tops appear to have been chewed by rats, but they might be of assistance.’

She shuddered. ‘My own boots will be fine. I’ll manage.’

Only she didn’t. One minute she found herself skidding on a frozen patch, the next she was above her knees in soft snow, and forced to grab at Raf’s arm to stop herself from falling.

As soon as she’d recovered her balance, she apologised, her face flushing even more deeply.

‘This is a bad idea.’ He sounded faintly bored. ‘I will take you back, cara, before you break something.’

As she reluctantly accepted his assistance to turn awkwardly and make her sliding way back to the cottage, she could only wish it would be his neck.

But, standing by the window, watching him disappear down the track and out of sight, she found herself feeling oddly forlorn and regretting that she hadn’t tried the rat-nibbled wellies after all.

He seemed to be gone for ever and she was on edge the whole time, imagining that her ill-wishing had somehow taken effect and he was lying in a drift with compound fractures and acute hypothermia.

‘And then what would I do?’ she demanded aloud, defending any concern she might have purely on the grounds of self-interest.

She began wandering almost compulsively from room to room, inventing tasks for herself, like dragging the heavy fur rug that lay in front of the fire to the door and shaking it so vigorously that she almost fell over again.

However, her chicken bone concoction seemed to be smelling more appetising by the moment, which was mildly encouraging.

She was prodding it doubtfully with a fork, when she finally heard the door open and flew into the living room to find Raf heaving two carrier bags on to the table.

But she swallowed back her instinctive Thank God, replacing it with a tart, ‘You took your time.’

His brows lifted in hauteur. ‘Perhaps you wish to go in my place on the next occasion? You are welcome to do so, although I doubt you will do any better. The good Signora provides a limited choice.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘No garlic, no fresh herbs, no olive oil worthy of the name and no pasta except something in a can.

‘It is little wonder that Marcello and Fiona bring supplies with them and eat out as often as possible,’ he added grimly. ‘But for the weather, we would have done the same.’

How could he talk like that, she wondered with a pang, as if they were a normal couple, enjoying a break together? She lifted her chin. ‘But for the weather, I would be long gone, signore.’

His voice was soft. ‘If it comforts you to think so, signora.’

He began to unpack the bags, producing vegetables, apples, bread rolls, milk and some pallid-looking sausages, along with tins of tomatoes and haricot beans plus a couple of packs of meat.

‘They’re frozen,’ she discovered. ‘How can that be?’

‘The shop operates an emergency generator.’ He took out a packet of very pink ham, fashioned into squares, and looked at it with a faint sigh.

‘However, the Signora tells me the power will be restored by the end of the day and also that a thaw is expected later in the week.’ The firm mouth curled. ‘I refer only to the weather, you understand.’

She said with difficulty, ‘Raf, don’t—please. I—I can’t help the way I am.’

‘I do not agree. I think you have no idea how you could be, mia cara.’ His tone was hard. ‘Nor will you permit yourself to find out. But that is your choice.’

He walked towards the door. ‘Now I am going to dig paths to the log store and the place where the coal is kept in case you need them.’

She tried to say, ‘Thank you,’ but the words wouldn’t come, so she nodded and turned away.

Alone again, she began to put the groceries away, aware that her hands were shaking and that her eyes kept blurring.

But what was there to cry about, she wondered, when, as he’d said, she’d made her choice? And when all she had to do was stick to it.

Because, for him, it was just a game, like chess. He made a move, she blocked it somehow. And even this would pass, she whispered to herself, if she simply—stood firm and waited for him to tire of this perpetual stalemate.

As he surely would, she thought, and tasted the acrid tears in her throat.

It was not the easiest day she had ever spent. Raf busied himself outside, and she made sure she followed his example indoors. Because that was the best way to stop herself from thinking.

She strained the chicken stock, adding potatoes and leeks as well as the remaining meat to the mixture, then let it cook slowly, producing a soup that was thick and surprisingly flavoursome, and heating some of the rolls to go with it.

‘That was excellent,’ Raf said as he finished his second bowl. ‘Working in the air makes you hungry.’

‘Have you finished all your digging?’

‘Not yet. I decided also to clear a path down to the road.’

‘You’ll be exhausted.’ She spoke without thinking and felt the colour storm her face when he laughed, getting to his feet.

‘I am sure you hope so, carissima, but you will be disappointed.’

He paused, then added lightly, ‘At least in that regard.’

Which was an unequivocal declaration of intent, Emily thought, staring after him, her heart beating uncomfortably, as he disappeared outside again. Sending out a clear signal that tonight he would not be satisfied with just a kiss.