The Man She Shouldn't Crave

by Lucy Ellis

  When she lifted under him he thrust inside her, and they found a rhythm, old as time, that rocked them through the questions of why he was here, how she’d known he would come, and why nothing else mattered. Rose answered by forging her mouth to his, taking what she wanted, and he gave it to her, the muscles bunching in his upper back and then in his quads as he lifted her upright with him. Rose straddled him in the centre of her rickety double bed, cleaving to him, coming apart in his arms. She collapsed on top of him, and he could feel the rise and fall of her heavy breathing as she began to sob.

  ‘It was a coup de foudre,’ he muttered hoarsely into her messy hair, ‘and I fought it, Rose. I had to.’

  ‘Why?’ she sobbed.

  ‘Because I knew what it would mean. I’d have to give it all up.’

  Her head lifted. Her eyes were huge, drenched. ‘Give up the other women?’ The words came painfully from her throat.

  He looked at her almost wildly, catching her face between his big hands. ‘No. There are no other women. Don’t you see, Rose? It was never about other women. It was me. The self-loathing, the despair. To be with you I’d have to finally believe I was a better man.’

  Rose heard the echo of what she had said to him, but seeing the pain in his eyes was what convinced her and it stunned her into silence.

  Plato gently disentangled their limbs, only to draw her into his arms, cradling her against him. His voice was very low and still hoarse when at last he began to speak. ‘I built this life for myself—cold, hard, soulless.’

  ‘No.’ Rose caught his face with her hand, made him look at her. ‘That apartment of yours in Moscow—that was soulless. I walked from room to room thinking. This must be who he is. This is the man I could be falling for. How could I be so wrong?’

  Plato drank in her face, seeing beyond the delicate, lush features to the person she was.

  She regarded him solemnly. ‘When I saw that ridiculous entertainment console—that’s when I thought maybe we had a chance.’

  Plato laughed desperately, pressing his forehead to hers. ‘I almost lost you,’ he said roughly.

  ‘Then we found each other again,’ she reminded him, her eyes so big and blue and shiny.

  ‘I didn’t feel I deserved you.’

  Rose shook her head in wonder.

  She needed to hear the truth, however painful, and Plato knew he had to give it to her.

  ‘All along I’ve been telling myself this couldn’t work. In Moscow I took you to that club to show you what I was, but it was you who showed me. I didn’t like what I saw, Rose, and Moscow without you was empty. London was too far away. I came to Toronto to make things right for you. I had no intention of trying to heal things between us. I thought you were better off without me.’

  Rose touched his face.

  ‘I didn’t feel worthy of being loved. By anyone, let alone you. You’ve brought something softer, something decent into my life, Rose, and I’ve never had it before. Forgive me for not recognising it.’

  ‘You love me?’

  ‘I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, Rose,’ he said with simple formality. ‘I just didn’t have the ability to recognise something I’d never known.’

  Rose gazed at him wonderingly.

  ‘It’s the same for me. I thought love was like my college degree. You just put in the work and you got a diploma. I’m such a fraud. If my clients had any idea how little I actually know…’

  ‘We will have to remedy that,’ said Plato, sounding much more himself, with that smug male note back in his voice. ‘The wine is drunk, Rose.’

  She angled an amused look up at him. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s an old Russian saying. It means there’s no going back. You’re already mine. The wedding will be a formality.’

  Rose sat up on her forearms. ‘Are you proposing marriage to me, Plato Kuragin?’

  ‘I will be—at the appropriate time, with the appropriate jewellery.’

  Rose buried her face in his chest hair. She really did love it. But Plato was sitting up, dislodging her. She realised what he was doing as he reached out for her corselette hanging off the end of the bed.

  ‘You answer the door wearing this?’ He sounded more accusatory than amused as he dropped back onto the pillow, slinging an arm behind his head and propping himself at an angle, the better to slide her in against him.

  ‘Only to you,’ she answered primly, amused when he restored her head to his chest. He really was incredibly old-fashioned, for all his reputation…

  ‘Plato?’ she murmured.

  ‘Rose?’ he replied with a smile in his voice, twirling the white Spandex and satin confection in one hand.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you… I read somewhere…’

  ‘In a tabloid?’

  ‘Maybe. The orgy on the super-yacht…?’

  ‘Rose, that never happened.’

  She subsided happily back against his chest, not realising until this moment how much it had been bothering her.

  Although he had answered rather quickly…

  ‘What are they going to do, with you all happily married and living in Toronto?’

  Plato relaxed under her, as if the thought was a pleasant one. ‘Find some other poor guy to torment.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Rose grinned. ‘Maybe they’ll start writing about me. I can be pretty wild, you know. I’ve even been known to pick up and fly off to Moscow at a moment’s notice with a sexy Russian billionaire.’

  ‘Da, in your single days, malenki. That’s all over. Now you pick up and fly off to the Maldives with your sexy Russian husband.’

  ‘I haven’t said yes yet, cowboy.’

  He lifted her chin, nudged her dimple. ‘Rose, will you be my wife?’

  ‘Da,’ she whispered, and closed her eyes as he kissed her. When she opened them Plato was gazing at her, and she could swear he looked a bit misty. Her big, tough, invincible Russian.

  He was a romantic after all.

  ‘I just thought of something,’ she said. ‘Mrs Padalecki.’

  Plato looked mildly surprised. ‘Da, what about her?’

  ‘I want to tell her first. Our news. After all, she’s almost family.’

  Plato chuckled, that lovely rumbling sound deep in his chest, and Rose spread herself happily out over him. His hands began to wander.

  ‘We will tell her later, Rosy. Much later.’

  * * * * *

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  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘YOU say it was your grandparents’ wish that their ashes be buried here, in the graveyard of the church of Santa Maria?’

  The dispassionate male voice gave away as little as the shadowed face. Its bone structure was delineated with strokes of sunlight that might have come from Leonardo’s masterly hand, revealing as they did the exact nature of the man’s cultural inheritance. Those high cheekbones, that slashing line of taut jaw, the hint o
f olive-toned flesh, the proud aquiline shape of his nose—all of them spoke of the mixing of genes from the invaders who had seen Sicily and sought to possess it. His ancestors had never allowed anything to stand in the way of what they wanted. And now his attention was focused on her.

  Instinctively she wanted to distance herself from him, to conceal herself from him, she recognized, and she couldn’t stop herself from stepping back from him, her ankle threatening to give way as the back of her pretty wedged shoe came up against the unseen edge of the gravestone behind her.

  ‘Take care.’

  He moved so fast that she froze, like a rabbit pinned down by the swift, deathly descent of the falcon from which his family took its name. Long, lean tanned fingers closed round her wrist as he jerked her forward, the mint-scented warmth of his breath burning against her face as he leaned nearer to deliver an admonishment.

  It was impossible for her to move. Impossible, too, for her to speak or even think. All she could do was feel—suffer beneath the lava-hot flow of emotions that had erupted inside her to spill into every sensitive nerve-ending she possessed. This was indeed torture. Torture…or torment? Her body convulsed on a violent surge of self-contempt. Torture. There was no torment in this man’s hold on her, no temptation. Nothing but self-loathing and…and indifference.

  But her whispered, ‘Let go of me,’ sounded far more like the broken cry of a helpless victim than the cool, calm command of a modern and independent woman.

  * * *

  She smelled of English roses and lavender; she looked like an archetypical Englishwoman. She had even sounded like one until he had touched her, and she had shown him the fierce Sicilian passion and intensity that was her true heritage.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she had demanded.

  Caesar’s mouth hardened against the images her words had set free from his memory. Images and memories so sharply painful that he automatically recoiled from them. So much pain, so much damage, so much guilt for him to bear.

  So why do what he had to do now? Wasn’t that only going to increase her deserved animosity towards him, and increase his own guilt?

  Because he had no choice. Because he had to think of the greater good. Because he had to think, as he had always had to think, of his people and his duty to his family line and his name.

  The harsh reality was that there could be no true freedom for either of them. And that was his fault. In every way, all of this was his fault.

  His heart had started to pound with heavy hammer-strokes. He hadn’t built in to his calculations the possibility that he would be so aware of her, so affected by the sensual allure of her. Like Sicily’s famous volcano, she was all fire, covered at its peak by ice, and he was far more vulnerable to that than he had expected to be.

  Why? It wasn’t as though there weren’t plenty of beautiful, sensual women all too ready to share his bed—who had, in fact, shared his bed before he had been forced to recognise that the so-called pleasure of those encounters tasted of nothing other than an emptiness that left him aching for something more satisfying and meaningful. Only by then he’d had nothing he could offer the kind of woman with whom he might have been able to build such a relationship.

  He had, in effect, become a man who could not love on his own terms. A man whose duty was to follow in the footsteps of his forebears. A man on whom the future of his people depended.

  It was that duty that had been instilled into him from childhood. Even as an orphaned six-year-old, crying for his parents, he had been told how important it was that he remember his position and his duty. The people had even sent a deputation to talk to him—to remind him of what it meant to stand in his late father’s shoes. By outsiders the beliefs and customs of his people would be considered harsh, and even cruel. He was doing all he could to change things, but such changes could only be brought in slowly—especially when the most important headman of the people’s council was so vehemently opposed to new ideas, so set in his ways. However, Caesar wasn’t a boy of six any more, and he was determined that changes would be made.

  Changes. His mind drifted for a moment. Could truly fundamental things be altered? Could old wrongs be put right? Could a way be found…?

  He shook such dreams from him and turned back to the present.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question about your grandparents,’ he reminded Louise.

  * * *

  As little as she liked his autocratic tone, Louise was relieved enough at the return of something approaching normality between them to answer curtly, ‘Yes.’

  All she wanted was for this interview, this inspection, to be over and done with. It went against everything she believed in so passionately that she was patently expected to virtually grovel to this aristocratic and arrogant Sicilian duke, with his air of dangerously dark sexuality and his too-good looks, simply because centuries ago his family had provided the land on which this small village church had been built. But that was the way of things here in this remote, almost feudal part of Sicily.

  He was owner of the church and the village and heaven knew how many acres of Sicilian land. He was also the patronne, in the local Sicilian culture, the ‘father’ of the people who traditionally lived on it—even if those people were members of her grandparents’ generation. Like his title and his land, it was a role he had inherited. She knew that, and had grown up knowing it, listening to her grandparents’ stories of the hardship of the lives they had lived as children. They had been forced to work on the land owned by the family of this man who now stood in front of her in the shaded quiet of the ancient graveyard.

  Louise gave a small shiver as she looked beyond the cloudless blue sky to the mountains, where the volcano of Etna brooded sulphurously beneath the hot sun. She checked the sky again surreptitiously. She had never liked thunderstorms, and those mountains were notorious for conjuring them out of nothing. Wild and dangerous storms, capable of unleashing danger with savage cruelty. Like the man now watching her.

  * * *

  She wasn’t what he had expected or anticipated, Caesar acknowledged. That wheat-blonde hair wasn’t Sicilian, nor those sea-green eyes—even if she did carry herself with the pride of an Italian woman. She was around medium height, fine-boned and slender—almost too much so, he thought, catching sight of the narrowness of her wrist with its lightly tanned skin. The oval shape of her face with its high cheekbones was classically feminine. A beautiful woman. One who would turn male heads wherever she went. But her air of cool serenity was, he suspected, worked for rather than natural.

  And what of his own feelings towards her now that she was here? Had he expected them? Caesar turned away from her so that she wouldn’t be able to see his expression. Was he afraid of what it might reveal to her? She was a trained professional, after all—a woman whose qualifications proved that she was well able to dig down deep into a person’s psyche and find all that they might have hidden away. And he was afraid of what she might find in him.

  He was afraid that she might rip away the scar tissue he had encouraged to grow over his guilt and grief, his pride and sense of duty, over the dreadful, shameful demands he had allowed them to make on him. So was it more than just guilt he felt? Was there shame as well? He almost didn’t need to ask himself that question when he had borne those twin burdens for over a decade. Had borne them and would continue to bear them. He had tried to make amends—a letter sent but never replied to, an apology proffered, a hope expressed, words written in what at the time had felt like the blood he had squeezed out of his own heart. A letter never even acknowledged. There would be no forgiveness or going back. And, after all, what else had he expected? What he had done did not deserve to be forgiven.

  His guilt was a burden he would carry throughout his life, just as it had already been, but that guilt was his private punishment. It belonged solely to him. After all, there could be no going back to change things—nor, he suspected, anything he could offer that would make recompense for what had been done. So, no, bei
ng here with her had not increased his guilt—he already bore it in full measure—but it had sharpened its edge to a keenness that was almost a physical stab of pain every time he breathed.

  They were speaking in English—his choice—and anyone looking at her would have assumed from the understated simplicity and practicality of her plain soft blue dress, her shoulders discreetly covered by simple white linen, that she was a certain type of educated middle class professional woman, on holiday in Sicily.

  Her name was Louise Anderson, and her mother was the daughter of the Sicilian couple whose ashes she had come to bury in this quiet churchyard. Her father was Australian, also of Sicilian origin.

  Caesar moved, the movement making him aware of the letter he had placed in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  * * *

  Louise could feel her tension tightening like a spring being wound with deliberate manipulation by the man watching her. There was a streak of cruelty to those they considered weaker than themselves in the Falconari family. It was there in their history, both written and oral. He had no reason to behave cruelly towards her grandparents, though. Nor to her.

  It had shocked her when the priest to whom she had written about her grandparents’ wishes had written back saying that she would need the permission of the Duke—a ‘formality’, he had called it—and that he had arranged the necessary appointment for her.

  She would rather have met him in the bustling anonymity of her hotel than here in this quiet, ancient place so filled with the silent memories of those who lay here. But his word was law. That knowledge was enough to have her increasing the distance between them as she stepped further back from him, this time checking first to make sure there were no potential obstructions behind her, as though by doing so she could somehow lessen the powerful forcefield of his personality. And his sexuality…