Redemption Of The Untamed Italian (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  ‘It makes me sad too.’ She shifted her head so she was looking straight ahead. It was easier to speak without looking directly at Cesare.

  ‘Why should you feel sad?’

  ‘That’s a long story.’ She tried to imbue her voice with light-heartedness and failed.

  ‘And you don’t want to tell it?’

  She never really spoke about Cameron—not to anyone other than Laurence, anyway. It was hard. So hard to think of what they’d lost, of the life he should have been living. And yet, in that moment, on this secluded island, she did want to talk about him. To remember him and mourn him openly.

  ‘I had a brother,’ she said slowly, the words dragging across her heart.

  Cesare didn’t speak, and she was glad. She needed a moment to rally her thoughts and find her way to the words. ‘Cameron. He was seven years older than me, so I grew up worshipping him, and he treated me like a pet.’ Her smile was laced with that particular brand of happiness that reflected loss and remorse.

  ‘He was kind to me and liked to make me laugh. I adored him, and for my parents...well...he was the second coming. The heir to the title, to Almer Hall, the first-born son of the first-born son of a first-born son.’ She shook her head. ‘You get the picture.’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was tight, forced from his lips.

  ‘He died.’ Tears filled her eyes; she didn’t bother to push them away. ‘I was six, and I didn’t understand. One day he was there, and then he wasn’t, and no one talked about it. My parents didn’t know how to cope. They buried him without a funeral—it was just them and a priest at the family crypt. It was like he’d never existed. I couldn’t understand it. It took me a long time to come to grips with what had happened.’

  When she shifted her gaze to Cesare, he was watching her intently.

  ‘He committed suicide. He was thirteen years old and he decided to end his life.’ The words were raw, cut to shreds by the knives in her throat. ‘He didn’t leave a note or anything, but I caught up with some of his friends a long time afterwards. He was gay,’ she said thickly. ‘And he had no idea how my parents would react. He struggled for a long time, apparently, and just couldn’t see a way past it.’

  She swept her eyes shut and saw Cameron’s beautiful, happy face. ‘He was still a kid. Problems seem a lot bigger when you’re young, and there was a lot of pressure on him. He grew up hearing about his legacy, his responsibility, the future of our family.’ Jemima couldn’t keep the disapproval from her voice. ‘Such stupid notions in this day and age.’

  Cesare stopped walking and Jemima did likewise, but she kept her face trained on the rocks in the distance.

  ‘I wish I’d been older. I wish he’d trusted me enough to talk to me. I wish he’d known what an enormous hole he’d leave behind. I wish he knew how much I needed him, how much our parents loved him.’

  Tears fell unchecked down her cheeks now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cesare muttered, and because the words didn’t seem sufficient, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tight to his body, his chin resting on top of her head. She stayed there, bundled against him, and breathed deeply, his masculine fragrance spreading along the rivers of her veins into every cell of her body. And despite the fact she’d carried this grief for almost two decades, it seemed to shift a little inside her now.

  ‘I guess it’s why I’m so close to Laurence,’ she whispered. Cesare’s hand, which had been stroking her back, stilled for a moment before continuing its reassuring journey. ‘After Cam died, I was so alone. Mum and dad really went completely off the radar. It broke them. They blamed themselves; I see that now. I know they wish they’d done more, somehow made him see that they would love and accept him always.’

  She swept her eyes shut. ‘It was hard for them and they pushed me away. I guess I reminded them of him or something. I don’t know. They were just destroyed by it. I spent a lot of time with my aunt after that, with Laurence. He was there for me when no one else was.’ Her lips twisted into a melancholy grimace.

  She pulled back a little so she could see his face properly. ‘I came to dinner that night because he asked me to, and I’d do anything he needed.’ And then a frown crossed her face and she lifted a finger to his lips to forestall a comment she anticipated he might make. ‘But he never asked me to go home with you. That was all me.’

  Something dark haunted his eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry for what you went through.’

  She nodded because there was nothing she could do but accept his words.

  ‘I am surprised your parents were so liberal with you, after losing a child,’ he murmured thoughtfully, as by silent consent they began to walk back towards the house. ‘To allow you to become a model, without someone to go with you...’

  ‘They checked out,’ she said simply, and then found herself confiding the full story, even when it was something of which she never spoke, besides with Laurence. ‘And we needed the money.’ Her voice was thick with emotion. ‘After Cam, Dad just...he couldn’t function. He stopped working, so the repayments on Almer Hall got completely out of hand—the inheritance tax was pretty crippling even before—and we were in danger of losing the place. Mum and Dad parcelled off some of the land, but it barely made a dent.’

  Cesare was looking directly ahead. ‘And you use your modelling payments to keep them afloat?’

  ‘I try to,’ she confirmed. ‘But it’s exorbitant. They let the debt get way out of hand so there’s millions of pounds in interest payments owing now. Honestly, there are times when I wish we would just sell it, but even if we did there’d still be money owing.’

  He eyed her for a long time before nodding. ‘And it’s your home.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She blinked up at him and something twisted in her heart. ‘It’s my home.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘YOU GREW UP in the UK, didn’t you?’

  Beside her, Cesare pushed up onto his elbow, his eyes tracing her naked body with an insouciant possession that only served to fan the flames of her desire. They hadn’t made it to the bedroom.

  After their walk, they’d swum as the moon had breathed silver light across the ocean, their bodies seeking one another out in the inky water so that, by the time they’d returned to the house, they’d barely made it through the door before they’d been kissing, limbs entangled, hands moving quickly to disrobe each other of their underwear—not easy when they’d been saturated from the swim.

  Lying now on the carpeted floor of the living room, Jemima felt heavy with desire, exhausted by the last few days but desperate not to sleep, not to express that she was tired.

  They hadn’t discussed it, but they both knew what the morning would bring: their last day and night together.

  ‘From when I was five.’ He lifted a finger, tracing the outline of her nipple, drawing delicate circles over her pale pink flesh before he dropped his mouth to flick the same nipple with his tongue. Her body jerked in response and she shot him a look that was intended to serve as a warning but which instead spoke of hunger and flame.

  ‘But you don’t consider yourself to be British?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘But you lived there. Went to school there.’

  ‘And left again as soon as I could.’

  ‘Why?’ His fingertips trailed down her body so lightly that she moaned and tried to lift up, to press against him and encourage him to touch her more, harder, to satisfy her all over again. His tight smile showed he understood, and it also showed the restraint he was using in not doing exactly that.

  ‘I hated England with a passion.’

  Her eyes jerked to his. ‘Gee, thanks.’

  His eyes sparked with hers, though with no apology in them. ‘It’s possible I resented being made to move there and that my resentment coloured everything that happened afterwards.’

  ‘Why did you
move?’

  ‘My mother got a job.’ It was a simple statement of fact and yet she felt a pull of curiosity, a feeling that he was only telling her part of the story.

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Did,’ he corrected. ‘She died, a long time ago. She was a nanny.’

  Jemima reached for his hand, capturing it on her tummy and lifting it to her lips, pressing a kiss against his fingertips and holding it there as she pushed up onto her own side so she could see him properly, her body a mirror image of his.

  ‘And she got a job working for someone in England?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He nodded crisply, his eyes glittering with a coldness that chilled her to the core. ‘Gerald Montgomery White.’ He said the name with abject disapproval.

  She waited, watching him, curiosity expanding in her chest.

  ‘You didn’t like that?’

  He was quiet for a long time, so she wondered if he was planning to ignore her, but then he expelled a long, gruff sigh. ‘Not particularly.’ He dropped his hand to her hip, tracing invisible circles there, his eyes transfixed by the gesture. ‘She was a nanny, but they treated her like a slave. All her time was taken up by those children. And they were spoiled rotten, with a fog of entitlement trailing in their wake. I hated them.’

  She grimaced. ‘I’ve known people like that.’

  ‘I’ll bet you have,’ he drawled.

  ‘You thought I was like that,’ she said, her eyes widening as comprehension dawned. ‘When we first met! You were all things at dinner that night about where I grew up. You honestly thought I was one of those bratty kids, didn’t you?’

  His eyes probed hers and he nodded. ‘Yes.’

  She punched his arm, mock-playfully. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘You had nannies growing up?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her expression softened as she thought of Cara. ‘But she was like another mother to Cam and me.’ And then, her heart shifted. ‘She was fired, after Cam...’ She shook her head to clear the memory, not wanting to go down that path. ‘When did she pass away?’

  ‘Almost twenty years ago,’ he said. ‘They didn’t come to her funeral.’

  ‘You wanted to keep it small?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. They were told of the date. None of them came. None of the children she raised—the children she raised while I was sent away to school.’ His jaw tightened, his gaze awash with resentment. She lifted a hand to his chest, feeling the steady, deep beating of his heart with a rush of her own heartbeats. ‘It was as though she didn’t matter, like her life meant nothing.’ His frown was deep, his expression so rich with feeling she found it hard to interpret his emotions.

  She chose her words with care. ‘That must have made it feel like she chose other children over you, and for nothing. I can imagine why you’d feel angry.’

  His eyes slammed into hers, shock evident in their depths, as though he hadn’t expected her to understand how he felt.

  ‘Yes. It diminished her life. She deserved better.’

  She nodded. ‘You must have been hurt.’

  ‘I was furious,’ he muttered. ‘I was sixteen years old and I’d spent six months preparing to lose my mother—she had cancer, terminal. But nothing prepares you for quite what that sense of being alone will feel like. It was the hardest day of my life, standing in the cemetery as her casket was lowered into the ground. That was the day I swore I would make the kind of money they took for granted.’

  His features assumed a mask that was fearsome and compelling.

  ‘I bought this island from a man named Ranulph Montgomery White—one of the boys she first looked after when we moved to England. He was a particularly nasty piece of work and seemed to delight in trying to make me miserable. I hated him and he hated me. So when this island came on the market...’

  His smile was wolf-like.

  ‘He’d developed a gambling addiction and needed the money. I drove the price down until it was a steal, and he was so desperate by then that he was practically begging me to go through with it. It’s one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done—sitting opposite a man who’d been a cruel, selfish bastard of a boy, who’d treated me and my mother as though we were nothing, and making him beg me to buy the place from him.’

  Despite the chill that spread through her body, she couldn’t help but feel a grudging sense of admiration at what he’d achieved, even if his motivations left a little to be desired.

  ‘When I was sixteen, and I lost my mother, I swore I’d make her sacrifices count. And I have.’

  ‘She would have been proud of you.’ And then, with a flicker of a smile, ‘Not for the maniacal revenge stuff, but for the incredible empire you’ve built. You are formidable and impressive.’ She lifted a hand to his cheek, holding his face steady. ‘She would have been proud of you, but I’m sure she was anyway.’

  His eyes clung to hers, as though he couldn’t pull them away, and she felt the same, her gaze locked to his.

  ‘I’ve never known anyone like you,’ she whispered, wondering at the heaviness that accompanied that admission.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Your determination is...remarkable.’

  ‘You’ve said that already.’ He brushed his lips over hers.

  ‘Then I guess that makes you doubly remarkable.’

  She felt his smile against her lips.

  ‘I can’t imagine how you did all this.’

  ‘I worked hard.’

  ‘Still...to build this from nothing...’

  He lifted his head so she could see the strength in his gaze. ‘When I want something, I get it. Not because I am lucky or charmed, but because I move the pieces around until I’m guaranteed to win.’

  His words took half her breath away; his kiss finished the job.

  It was past midnight. Not far past, somewhere in the small hours of the morning. Cesare presumed Jemima was sleeping. Her breathing was even, her body still. He lay on his back, his head tilted towards her, his eyes resting on her frame out of habit, so when she shifted, rolling slowly to face him, he was surprised.

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘Dozing,’ she corrected, lifting her fingertip to his lips and tracing the outline slowly, her eyes following the gesture.

  ‘Ah. Same thing?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, and there was something in her gaze that spoke of trouble and worry. ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘Ah. About?’

  ‘The night we met.’ She dropped her finger to his chest, spreading her palm over his pectoral muscles, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘If you thought I was just a snob, like the kind of kid your mother looked after, why did you kiss me?’

  He frowned. The question was valid—it was one he’d asked himself often enough. ‘I wanted you.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Sure. But you’re not someone who reacts to his every whim. You’re disciplined and determined and a workaholic. No way would you have taken me home with you on a whim.’

  His frown deepened, because her assessment was accurate and it filled him with a sense of impatience. ‘You were there, and I presumed quite willing to offer yourself to me to make things go more smoothly with your cousin.’

  He saw the fierce look of rejection fire in her gaze and wanted to ease it.

  ‘I was wrong.’

  Her expression shifted, but her eyes dipped down, away from his gaze, so he couldn’t fathom what she was thinking. ‘Yes. This was never about Laurence.’

  He found himself wishing that were the truth, wishing she hadn’t been motivated in part by a loyalty to her cousin.

  ‘Not that night, no.’

  ‘Not any of it.’ Her eyes bounced back to his.

  ‘This fortnight,’ he reminded her, ‘came about because of your need for me to invest in his hedge fund.’

  She frantic
ally massaged her lip from side to side. ‘It’s why I went to see you, but not why I agreed to this.’ Her throat shifted as she swallowed. ‘I need you to know that before—before tomorrow and before I...we... Before this ends.’ She dropped her hand and her face was tight, her features taut. ‘I don’t want you to look back on this and rewrite what we were.’

  Something stone-like rolled through his gut. Visceral disagreement. He wasn’t going to look back on his time with Jemima. He never thought of past lovers. It wasn’t in his genetic coding. And Jemima would fall into that same category once this was over.

  He made the promise to himself, but it lacked true conviction. There was a part of him that loathed the fact their agreed time was coming to an end. A fortnight had seemed over-generous, initially—when had he ever wanted a woman for so long?—but he struggled now to imagine her body being denied to him. And her laugh. Her smile. Her kindness.

  He closed his thoughts down with the sheer force of his willpower.

  It was irrelevant. They had a deal and he intended to uphold his end of it.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I’m not here for Laurence.’ She pierced him with her bright green gaze then, and he found it hard not to pull her to him, not to kiss her so that she smiled and sighed against him, her body soft and pliant.

  ‘Then why did you agree to this?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘That’s what we said, isn’t it?’

  Her nod was just a slow lift of her head. ‘I wanted you. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you.’

  His eyes swept shut for a moment, and he hated how delirious her admission made him feel. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted. He hadn’t come into this expecting to feel anything. It was sex—lots of sex, great sex—with a woman who meant nothing to him. More than that, she was exactly the kind of woman he wouldn’t usually touch with a ten-foot pole—her aristocratic roots were a permanent mark against her.

  But she was nothing like he’d expected, nothing like her reputation suggested and nothing like he presumed her upbringing would have made her. She was just Jemima. Sweet, kind and utterly compelling.