One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents (88 page)

Francesca squeezed herself as far back as she could against the lip of the counter and manoeuvred herself round so that she was facing him.

‘Don't you
dare
come into my house and tell me what to do! I want you to go now!'

‘What else do you want me to do?'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about!'

‘Don't you?'

She knew he was going to kiss her. In that split instant the past and the present came crashing together as he lowered his head, raising one hand to curl into her hair. She thought that she might have whimpered a
no
but she couldn't push him away. Not when every nerve in her body was screaming for him to touch her.

His mouth collided with hers in a kiss that was scorchingly hot and hungry. God, it had been for ever and yet it felt like just yesterday. All that raging passion. She raised both her arms and wound them around his neck, pulling him against her, tasting him with the desperate urgency of a drought survivor tasting water.

Her eyes were closed when he finally pulled back, sucking in a deep breath of air. She followed suit, but reluctantly.

‘The washing up can wait until later. Right now I want to continue this upstairs.'

Francesca nodded.

‘That's not good enough. I want to hear you say it.'

‘Take me upstairs, Angelo.'

It was all he needed to hear and it was music to his ears. With one swift movement he scooped her up, as though she weighed nothing, and headed out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Finding the bedroom was easy. There were only two and the door to hers was flung open, as though ready and waiting to invite them both in.

He barely took in the décor, the low bed with the uncompromising leather headboard, the long burgundy curtains that draped down to the floor, the series of photos on the walls which had been enlarged and framed, pictures of places she had been to in the past. He didn't even notice the one of Venice, a view which they had both enjoyed a million years ago.

He only noticed her. The way she looked at him as he deposited her on the bed, giving her time to change her mind and not knowing what the hell he would do if she did. Her eyes were hot and slumberous and they watched as he began stripping off his clothes. She probably didn't know it but it was the biggest turn-on he had had since…since.

He had slept with this woman before, had done the most intimate things with her, and yet he felt like a teenager all over again, getting undressed in front of a woman for the first time. Crazy.

The shirt hit the floor, followed by the belt, which he yanked out in one swift movement.

His hand hovered imperceptibly on the button of his trousers and Francesca couldn't help herself. She moaned. Very softly but not so softly that he didn't pick it up.

The trousers joined the shirt and belt on the floor and the state of his arousal was all too obvious against the fine cloth of his boxers. Right now he just wanted to rip her clothes off and plunge into her, satisfy this need that had taken him over and was killing him, but that, he knew, he couldn't do. Most of all, he wanted to pleasure her, very, very slowly.

A weak moonlight was filtering into the room, casting shadows across her body. He stood at the foot of the bed, naked, showing her how much he was turned on.

‘Your turn now, my beauty,' he said huskily. ‘I have been waiting for this…'

A
FTER
years of self-imposed sexual hibernation it was magical.

Every part of her body that he touched was suddenly brought to life. He stripped her very slowly and looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. He kissed her mouth, her face, her neck, trailed his tongue along her collar-bone and suckled on her nipples while she twisted hotly under him, fingers curled into his hair, her eyes closed as she drank up the sensations that were making nonsense of her common sense.

She felt the lean, hard lines of his muscular body and loved the familiarity and the newness of it.

When he paused to ask her whether she was protected, she nodded weakly. Well, one small lie never hurt anyone, did it? He hadn't come prepared with a condom and she hadn't used the contraceptive pill in years, not since they had split up. But her period hadn't long finished and she was safe.

Anyway, she couldn't have said no if she had tried. Her body was alive with need.

He thrust into her, sending her into orbit. Her little moans and whimpers became cries of ecstasy. It was just how it used to be. Just as shattering, just as glorious, just as fulfilling. More so, if anything, because she, too, discovered that she had been waiting for him.

Afterwards, lying on the bed next to him, reality finally began to kick in. Not in a rush, like you read in books, but in tiny little drops. 97

The clock on the dressing table was saying ten-thirty. Downstairs the main course of their meal, which he had intended to sample as proof that she was up to catering for his wedding, was still sitting around on plates and dishes. Francesca groaned and sat up, drawing her knees up to her chin and pulling the quilt up to her neck.

‘And now you are about to tell me that this has all been a terrible mistake. Am I right?' He ran one finger along her spine, sending little shivers racing through her, and she turned around and looked at him. God, he was so beautiful. Unbearably beautiful.

‘Of course it's been a mistake, Angelo.'

‘Come back to bed.'

‘Don't! How can you say that when…when…?' She stood up, feeling very self-conscious, and padded out to the bathroom where he could hear the sound of a bath being run.

Angelo did nothing to stop her. He knew her well enough to know that she would take her time with her bath, putting off the moment of having to return to the bedroom. He settled down, hands folded behind his head, to wait.

When she came in forty minutes later she was in fighting mood. She switched the light on immediately and stood by the door, hair washed and decently attired in some jogging bottoms that showed off more than a tempting amount of stomach and a loose, cropped jumper with deep pockets on either side and a hood. Her hands were thrust into the pockets as she stood there, glaring.

‘I've had time to think, Angelo, and I've come to the conclusion that you're despicable.'

‘Care to come a bit closer and tell me that?'

‘No. What I
care
to do is remind you that you're in
my
house and that I want you to leave. And, if you're interested, I won't be doing the catering for your wedding so you'll have to find someone else.'

Angelo didn't budge. ‘Turn off the top light. It's too bright in here.'

‘Angelo. Go!' She strode into the room and snatched the quilt off the bed, revealing a highly tuned body in all its natural glory. If she had been hoping that he would lurch to cover himself with the nearest piece of fabric, she was mistaken. He remained where he was, looking at her with a lazy half smile, until she was forced to pick all his clothes up from the floor and throw them at him.

‘I'm not about to put them on,' he commented, gathering them up in a pile and dumping them right back on the floor. ‘If you want me to get dressed, then you're going to have to do it yourself. Which might very well be an interesting experience for the both of us.'

‘This isn't a game,' Francesca shouted furiously.

‘No. It is not. So why don't you stop behaving like a fishwife and tell me what it is that's bothering you? Has the quality of my lovemaking gone downhill? Hmm? Have I not satisfied you?' He knew what levers to pull to enrage her further but he wasn't going to rise to an argument. Not when he felt so pleasurably satisfied.

She had come to him, had been unable to resist. For a man who had once been victim to a loss of control when it came to her, he had felt superbly back in control, calling the shots.

‘How could you come here…and
make a pass at me
when you're engaged to be married? And, to add insult to injury, I am the person who is supposed to be catering the wedding meal!'

This time Angelo sat up.

‘And you are…what? Acting the outraged maiden doesn't impress me, Francesca. Have you conveniently forgotten that you have a boyfriend tucked away in the background?'

‘Jack…Jack…'

‘…wouldn't mind?' he inserted sarcastically. ‘Isn't jealous? Believes in a strict policy of sharing, even when it comes to his women?'

Francesca sagged and walked across to the window, where she perched on the ledge and looked at him. It was very obvious where he was heading with his little argument. The ‘pot calling the kettle black' argument. She had let herself go along with the fiction that she and Jack were involved because she wanted protection from herself. Now, to admit the truth would also be to explain the lie.

‘You don't understand. And, anyway, we're not talking about me. We're talking about you and your seedy morals.'

‘And yours are more noble?' Angelo laughed dryly. ‘I wish you would explain how. I would be very interested to find out and if you can persuade me with your argument then I would advise you to drop the catering and go in for a career in law instead. There is always scope for a good barrister who can think creatively on his feet.'

‘I hate you, Angelo Falcone.'

‘No. You don't. If you hated me, you would never have climbed into bed with me. Especially considering you have a boyfriend. I know you well enough to know that much.'

‘I don't…have a boyfriend.'

‘Could you repeat that?'

‘You heard me. I don't have a boyfriend. Jack and I aren't lovers and never have been.'

Angelo slung his legs over the side of the bed and looked at her thoughtfully as he scooped up the clothes from the floor.

‘How interesting,' he drawled, walking towards her. ‘Now, why would you lead me to believe that you were involved with someone else? Did you want to prove to me that you had moved on with your life?'

‘Of course not! Would you mind getting dressed?'

‘I'll do better than that. I shall go and have a shower and then, when I return, we can talk…' He strolled towards the door, pausing to say over his shoulder, ‘Unless, of course, you want to keep me company in the shower?'

A cold shower. He needed it. Having tasted her, he realised that he wanted more. He emerged fifteen minutes later, fully dressed, to find her no longer in the bedroom but standing by the front door.

‘If you think I am leaving, then you can think again,' he said, heading straight to the sitting room. ‘Now that we have finally broken the ice, there is so much talking to do. Including,' he added softly, ‘why you lied to me about Jack.'

Francesca reluctantly followed him to find that he had taken up position on the sofa, where he was reclining like lord and master, hands behind his head and his feet hooked over the low arm, giving him an eagle-eye view of her as she sat on the chair facing him.

The table lamp was still switched on and, for all the resentment seething through her, resentment at him for showing up and turning her world upside down and anger at herself for making love to him, she still found her eyes riveted by the startling reality of his physical presence.

He dominated the room. Just as he had dominated the kitchen. The whole house. Nothing new about that. He had always done that, captured the attention of everyone when he walked into a room. She used to tease him about it, feigning petulance because shouldn't she, as the model, be the one to rivet everyone? But she had enjoyed the feeling, loving the knowledge that, however many women followed his every move, he was hers.

Now, she just felt as though he was depriving her of oxygen.

‘Well?' he prompted. ‘Why did you lie to me?'

‘Does it matter?' She looked at him with impotent hostility. ‘I didn't lie when I told you that I loved him,' she said grudgingly. ‘We just aren't involved with one another romantically and, actually, it wasn't my idea. It was Jack's.'

‘Because…?'

‘Because he thought that you might try and make a pass at me for old times' sake.' There was at least an element of truth there and it absolved her from any more in depth confessions, which was a blessing.

‘And did
you
think that I might?'

‘No. I
thought
you were a happily engaged man. I didn't realise then that you would be willing to cheat on your partner before you even took the marriage vows.' He deflected her neat turning of the tables with a careless shrug. ‘But then again,' she continued, gaining some self-righteous momentum, ‘I wasn't to know that your engagement was just a sham, that you weren't in love with your fiancée, just using her because she happened to have all the right connections and, of course, a man of your standing would have to have a woman with all the right connections. Silly me! Which brings us to Georgina. Are you going to tell her about me? About our past? About the fact that you came here and…and…'

‘She will never know about our past. Why on earth should she?' Angelo said honestly. ‘And I am glad you brought up my fiancée because I am curious to know how it is that someone so full of moral rectitude still ended up in bed with me. With a fiancée hovering in the background. You might have had your clear conscience when it came to Jack but did you not stop to consider the other person who might have been affected by our love-making?'

The silence stretched between them to breaking-point. She had laid down her own traps only to find herself neatly manoeuvred into a much bigger one, not of her making.

‘No answer to that?' He stood up and flexed his muscles. ‘We seem to have forgotten all about eating in the…urgency of things. No matter. You won't be catering now anyway.' The smile he gave her was the smile of a tiger watching the pointless antics of an antelope in full flight.

For a few seconds Francesca thought that he was moving over to where she was sitting, and for a few seconds Angelo considered it. Considered confronting her with the shaming truth that she had forgotten all about Georgina in her suffocating need to make love to him. He rejected the idea.

He also considered, for rather less time, the possibility of walking away from her now. For good. Wouldn't he be left with the pleasurable feeling of having finished business? Of having put a full stop at the end of the incomplete sentence? Once and for all?

Instead, he paused as he drew level with her and smiled. ‘It's been a…revelation, seeing you tonight, Francesca. And I am very sure I will be seeing you again.' He looked at her and thought that he could make love to her again. Right now and right here, forget about the comfortable trappings of a bed.

‘Over my dead body, Angelo. I might have made a mistake once but I learn quickly. I won't be making the same mistake again.' If only she could feel that. Deep in her bones where it mattered. Instead, she heard the heartfelt words roll off her tongue as she stared back up at him and was terrified that, put to the test, they would be as empty as a shell.

‘I would love to stay and debate the definition of the word
mistake
,' he murmured, ‘but it's late. I should be getting back.'

The sound of the front door closing was, Francesca gloomily reckoned, roughly two hours too late.

She had emerged from the evening with her pride well and truly in tatters because her body had decided to break away and follow a course of its own. He had touched her and she had melted; it was as simple as that.

And off he had gone, back to Georgina and his well-ordered life. With, of course, another caterer to take over the joy-filled wedding celebrations.

She could have kicked herself. Could have kicked anything. And did. The chair. Followed by the door as she made her way upstairs, only to confront the shameful sight of bedclothes all tangled up, gleefully reminding her of her own lack of will-power.

It took half an hour to change the linen, another hour to put it in the washing machine and, once washed, into the tumble-drier. Hopefully it would eradicate the lingering aroma of lust but she knew that that was just paying lip service to a problem. In her head the lust was still there and, worse, it was all tangled up in emotions and feelings she didn't even want to start analysing too deeply.

It was after midnight when she reached for the phone and dialled Jack's number. The chances of interrupting his sleep were remote. On a weekend Jack made a point of getting as little sleep as possible and, sure enough, he answered his mobile in the slurred, happy voice of someone well past the point of sobriety.