Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (18 page)

The little bitch! he thought consideringly. Was it possible that she was
deliberately trying to bait him? And if so, for what reasons of her own? He was
having an unusually difficult time keeping his temper under check -all the more
so because he had the annoying feeling that so far the advantage in their
contest of wills and words was hers.

If he hadn't been a man whose appetites had been jaded by too much being
available to him too easily for most of his life, he would have been tempted to
put her too easily professed devotion to Carlo to the test by forcing her to
yield to him ... he let his eyes dwell with open insolence on her mouth -
rewarded in part by her slight flush. But no, he thought, that would be too
easy. What he really wanted was for her to give up without coercion; yielding
to the demands of her own promiscuously passionate nature. No -when it was all
over and he had proved his point she would not be able to tell Carlo that his
older brother had raped her. He wanted to be able to show Carlo how easily
vanquished this woman who had been named 'Delight' really was. And it should
not take too long . . . there was a small pulse that throbbed in the hollow of
her slender throat that showed the agitation she was trying to mask. Good! Give
her a few days of boredom - romantic, star-filled nights without a man to
satisfy her sexual nature . . . and she would be easy.

The setting sun cast a light that was as red as the stain of blood
against ancient, weathered stone. Sara remembered the story Delight had told
her of the unfortunate first wife of the last Duca di Cavalieri - murdered like
Desdemona,

because she had, perhaps, looked too long at another man. And before her
now, lounging in his chair while his eyes assessed her insolently, was the son
of that same dark-natured Sardinian - his proudly proclaimed Moorish ancestry
showing all too clearly in the darkness of his skin, the blackness of his hair,
the lips that were both sensual and cruel under slightly flaring nostrils.

'I... don't care for manipulation of any kind!' Sara said abruptly,
wanting only to break the strange tension that had begun to stretch between
them. How quickly the sun seemed to swoop down - how long and cold the shadows
that followed its descent! 'Please - I'm beginning to feel rather tired.
Perhaps I'd better go inside and try to find my room.'

Surprisingly, as if he'd grown tired himself of the sport she provided,
he rose to his feet, helping her politely from her chair.

'Of course - forgive me. And if you don't feel up to a formal dinner,
I'm sure Serafina will see that one of the maids brings you a tray.'

Chapter 16

Sara had flung back the shutters that opened on to large, grilled
windows some time last night when the closed room had become too oppressive for
her. Now, in the morning, she was awakened by the sunlight that streamed in to
force her eyes open.

In between sleeping and waking there was a strange sense of disorientation
while she wondered, fuzzily, where she was. Had she been dreaming - was she
still dreaming? Everything was unfamiliar, from the enormous four-postered bed
in which she lay, to the brilliance of the sun and the harsh screeching of the
birds outside. Harsh - stark. Oh, God! She was actually in Sardinia, of all
places, in a ducal palazzo that was really a medieval castle-fortress; the
unwilling captive of an Italian duke who was a throwback to the Dark Ages
himself.

'There, there! Things will always seem better in the morning!' Another
of Nanny Staggs's favourite sayings; but hardly apropos this morning! Sara
bolted upright, discovering to her felief that she was alone. Memory carne
flooding back, heightening the sense of unreality,she had felt upon first
waking. She blinked fiercely and took a deep breath of clean-smelling air that
smelled partly of the ocean and partly of the mountains and hoof-crushed herbs.

Take a hold of yourself! she commanded herself, letting her eyes wander
around the room in order to familiarise herself with it.

The style was Regency, a period she had always loved. The walls were
panelled with brocade - a richly woven pattern in which gold gleamed against
pale green and ivory with touches of crimson for contrast. Her bed had a canopy
of ivory and gold and matched the draperies hanging heavily on each side of the
windows. Each item of furniture was exquisite and would have fetched a fortune
at Sotheby's. Eastern rugs were scattered carelessly over polished floors.

From the bedroom an arched doorway led into a private sitting-room that
was dominated by a Directoire couch; hanging above it a painting of a lovely
dark-haired woman who reclined on the same couch, her chin propped up by one
ringed hand while the slender white fingers of the other played with a heavy
gold pendant that lay in the hollow between her breasts. Last night, everything
had been dimly lit and Sara had been tired, hardly having the energy to study
everything around her. But today the sun fell directly on the portrait, and
fascinated, she climbed out of bed to walk barefoot through the Moorish arch of
the doorway -standing before the picture of a woman who must have been long
dead, and yet seemed alive; her slanting, light brown eyes holding a promise of
laughter and gaiety. And the pendant - surely it was the twin to the medallion
that the Duke had worn? Who was she? The gown she wore fell in heavy, artful
folds that only served to emphasise the rich curve of hip and breasts - suggest
the outline of long legs. Her hair was long and slightly curling; one heavy
ringlet tailing across a white breast. Disappointingly, the portrait was
unsigned.

'Did you wish breakfast, signorina?'

Sara had not heard anyone come in and she spun around on her bare feet,
despising the way her heart had begun to jump. She seemed to remember locking
her door - was she to be allowed no privacy, like a woman in a harem? She would
have snapped out a reply, except for the fact that the brown-skinned maid was
hardly more than a child, and obviously nervous.

'I...' Sara gave an impatient sigh. 'Yes, please, I'd love some juice.
Orange juice, if you have it - or coffee, if you don't. Or do I have a choice?'
Noticing the girl's puzzled look she switched to Italian - although the girl
probably spoke a dialect - and managed to make herself understood with the help
of gestures.

'By the way - who is she? The lady in the picture, she's very
beautiful.'

Poised at the door, the girl looked frightened, as if she would have
preferred not to give her stammered answer.

'She is-... the first wife to II Duca's father, signorina. The mother of
II Duca.'

His mother - the murdered first wife of the last Duke di Cavalieri? Sara
found herself staring at the hastily closed door with too many unanswered
questions swirling around in her brain before she turned at last to study the
portrait with new interest. Was it possible that this pale-skinned woman with
the enigmatic half-smile was the saturnine Marco's mother? What had really
happened to her - and why? In the portrait she seemed very sure of herself and
her beauty, with her slender fingers toying carelessly with the image of a gold
wolf with emeralds for eyes. Had she been too careless, perhaps, and too sure
of her charms - until the wolf that she thought tamed had turned on her
savagely,stilling her laughter, destroying her beauty? How had she died?

The silent maid came to draw her a bath, and with a shiver, Sara turned
away from the portrait whose eyes seemed to follow her as if to warn her. Oh,
God - she must guard against becoming morbid! After all, she wasn't married to
a dark-skinned Sardinian who carried in his veins the fiercely unrelenting
blood of his Saracen ancestors! She wasn't even married to his brother, she was
merely playing a game of make-believe for Delight's sake, and she could escape
any time she wished, merely by telling him . . .

By telling him how you've made a fool of him? her mind jeered at her,
and the thought of how he might react made her flinch in spite of herself.
Well, Sara, you've certainly landed yourself in a pretty mess this time!

Railing at herself wouldn't help at all. Here she was, and she had best
rely on her wits to get her out of an impossible situation. Kidnapped by a Duke
- who would believe it? Soaking in perfumed water that jetted from gold
faucets, her sunken marble tub large enough to accommodate an orgy, Sara tried
to consider her situation rationally — but the answers she came up with only
served to depress her. By pursuing her publicly enough to make them An Item in
Hollywood, he'd craftily set the stage for their disappear-ance together. He'd
even got her out of the movie with Garon; and her jetting off with a rich
Italian nobleman would be considered just the kind of madly impulsive action
Delight Adams was known for.

Scrubbing her back, Sara looked consideringly at the blurred, steamy
reflection of herself in the mirrors that panelled the walls of her private
bathroom. Well,,here she was in what might have been a Hollywood set - in the
middle of what she would have much preferred to have been a typical Hollywood
soap opera. Just a few months ago she had been thinking how dull and sterile
her life was, with everything mapped out for her, including a future 'suitable'
marriage. Poor Daddy, how hard he had tried to make sure she didn't emulate her
mother - or her half sister. How carefully he'd tried to guard her from
publicity and what he considered were 'bad influences'. He had meant well, and
he loved her in his reserved way, but she must have more of her mother in her
than either of them could have guessed.

Sara had pinned her hair at the back of her head in a makeshift knot,
but short tendrils had escaped to cling damply against the nape of her neck and
her heat-flushed cheeks and temples. Her hair was beginning to straighten out
again and she felt more like herself, better able to deal with anything. All
she had to remember was not to slip, and not to think - she shuddered - too far
ahead!

It was more a sudden strange feeling rather than any sound she had
heard, that made Sara realise with a sudden, unpleasant shock that she was no
longer alone. Instinc-tively, she lowered her body under the water as far as
she could without drowning, her green eyes flashing with indignation.

'So — where are you hiding? You're late for our tennis match!'

'Go away! I'm taking a bath. Or aren't I to be allowed any privacy?'

'Certainly! But you must forgive me if I'm surprised at your sudden show
of modesty! After all, as you expressed yourself in one interview that I read,
you have a beautiful body - why should you be ashamed of showing it?'

He stood in the doorway (another arched Moorish doorway with no door,
unfortunately!) wearing closely fitting tan linen pants, with polished high
boots that gave her the impression he'd been out riding. His black eyebrows
were raised; his mouth twisted in a sarcastic grimace that didn't quite rate as
a smile. He was absolutely hateful !

'Never mind my body! It's nothing to do with you. Or had you forgotten
that I'm your brother's fiancee?'

Perhaps Delight would not have stayed submerged in water up to her neck
— -Delight would not have been ashamed of her body - in fact she would probably
have flaunted it in his face while she challenged him with the fact that she
belonged to Carlo. But she wasn't Delight . . .

'Naturally, I had forgotten nothing!' he drawled. And then, with a
grating laugh: 'Did you think I meant to ravish my brother's fiancee? Believe
me, I have never had to resort to rape to get what I have wanted from a woman.
Why should one attempt to take by force that which is freely offered? At least,
in this day and age!'

How dared he sound so patronising, so ... so damned arrogant? And the
way he stood there with his booted feet astride, looking down at her . . .

Sara felt sheer rage flood her, blinding her, for some moments, to both
reason and restraint. If she had had a gun, she would have shot him; if she had
been in the habit of carrying a little dagger to guard her virtue like some
Sardinian peasant woman, she would have flung it at him, aiming straight for
his black, cruel heart. But as it was, without thinking, she acted
instinctively - scooping up water in her cupped hands to fling it at him just
as an angry child might have done.

Dark water stains spread on those immaculate linen pants; raised drops
of water stood out on his polished boots. And what did she care what he thought
of her? Why should she be the only one to act polite and civilised? 'Well, I'm
certainly not offering you anything - and I never have ... so you have no
excuse for wandering in here while I'm taking a bath! I do wish you'd just go
away!'

There were a few taut seconds in which Sara thought that he might
actually leap into the tub in which she sat crouched defiantly - joining her in
order to punish her insolence. His face had darkened, and the words that
emerged harshly from between his clenched jaws were fortunately couched in
Italian; certainly not the kind of words she had learned in any of the schools
she had attended.

'I'm the one who should be swearing at you!' she reminded him
indignantly. 'Aren't there any laws of hospitality in this part of the world? I
thought I was supposed to be your guest…!'

He would have loved to have wrung her neck, of course; and the
smouldering look in his eyes told her so before he accorded her a stiff
inclination of his head - all expression left his face; it looked like a mask
carved out of hardwood. 'My apologies. I suppose it is because I have been
privileged enough to have seen all of the motion pictures you have made that I
felt a sense of... familiarity with you. Wasn't there a bathing scene in Love's
Essence when you were not nearly as modest as you appear to be now?'

Love's Essence! What a simply ghastly title! Sara wanted to wince - but
not in front of him. Still keeping as far under water as she could without
drowning she glared moistly at him, deciding to ignore his sly innuendos.