Rome's Revenge

by Sara Craven

  Knowing that this could happen to her, too.

  She thought, Oh, God, I have to be careful—so careful.

  And found herself wondering if it was not already too late…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROME tossed the disposable razor into the waste basket and rinsed his face. As he reached for a towel he paused, staring at himself in the mirror above the basin, his eyes bleak with self-condemnation.

  Yet he couldn’t blame himself totally for the present situation, he argued. He wasn’t responsible for the weather which had stranded them here.

  And although he’d been desperate to get away from London and out of his grandfather’s aegis, he hadn’t planned to take Cory with him. Not at first.

  ‘What’s happening with the girl?’ Matt had demanded on the telephone, not for the first time. ‘Why aren’t you seeing her?’

  Rome’s brows drew together. ‘Are you having me watched?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘That’s my business. I’ve made an investment in you, boy,’ Matt barked. ‘And I protect my investments.’ He paused. ‘You took her to dinner, I understand, and that’s good. But why haven’t you followed it up?’

  ‘Because I want her to ask herself that,’ Rome said levelly. ‘I want her to miss me.’

  ‘Or forget all about you,’ Matt said contemptuously. ‘You could lose all the ground you’ve won.’

  ‘You should have used the hired stud.’ Rome’s tone was short. ‘You’d have found him more amenable to orders. I do this my own way. That was the agreement.’

  ‘Then do it faster,’ his grandfather snapped. ‘This delay is costing me money. You’d better make some progress this weekend, or you’ll be hearing from me again.’

  Rome replaced his receiver with a thud, his mouth grim. The temptation to tell Matt Sansom to go to hell was almost overwhelming.

  But he couldn’t afford that—yet.

  He had no plans to contact Cory until the middle of next week. He wanted her intrigued—seriously bewildered—and with her guard down.

  He retrieved the hated dossier and glanced through it, wondering where she was and what she was doing. An item about the National Gallery caught his eye. It seemed to be one of her favourite weekend haunts, and instinct suggested that it might be the kind of place she’d choose if she was troubled about something. If…

  When he actually found her there he expected to feel mildly elated that he’d been able to predict her movements—and her mood—with such accuracy. Instead, he felt winded—as if someone had punched him savagely in the gut. He found himself leaning against a doorframe, almost gasping for breath.

  Even then he didn’t intend to approach her. He was, he told himself, just checking. And she had no idea he was there, watching her. So it would be easy to slip away.

  Only to find himself walking across to her, as if impelled by some unseen force.

  He didn’t mean to mention the Suffolk trip either. After all, it was just an idea, still in the planning stage. He was saving it for later, like the cherry on the cake. Proof of how caring he was, he derided himself.

  So why had he suddenly found himself blurting it out? Almost hustling her out of the Gallery and to his car as if she might suddenly drift through his fingers and vanish?

  He shook his head in exasperation.

  He’d given way to a series of crazy impulses—and this was the result.

  And then he’d compounded all previous errors by kissing her. And not the studied kiss he’d taken in the restaurant, which had been solely intended to rattle her. To teach her in one swift lesson how fragile that cool reserve of hers really was.

  No, the truth was that he’d wanted to feel that soft mouth of hers trembling under his again. Had needed it with sudden desperation.

  But he hadn’t anticipated her body’s shaken response—or that she’d—offer herself with such candour.

  He still wasn’t sure where he’d found the strength to pull back. Perhaps some lurking shred of decency had reminded him that sex was not on offer. His decision. And that he’d be taking her under false pretences. Which she didn’t deserve.

  He sighed impatiently—angrily.

  Because, at the same time, a small hard voice in his head was telling him that he was a fool. That this was the perfect opportunity to fulfil his deal with Matt.

  By dawn tomorrow, he thought cynically, he could persuade Cory to be his wife—or anything else he might ask of her.

  And then he’d be done with his grandfather’s machinations and free to get on with his own life. Off the hook.

  Which was what he wanted.

  All that he wanted.

  He tossed the towel aside and reached for his robe, tying the belt firmly round his lean waist.

  And all he had to do, he told himself, was walk back into the next room and take it.

  Because nothing could be too high a price to pay for Montedoro—could it?

  He looked back in the mirror, but this time all he could see in his eyes was confusion.

  Cursing under his breath, he switched off the light and went into the sitting room.

  Cory was curled up in a corner of one of the sofas, a magazine open on her lap which she was reading with elaborate concentration.

  On the table in front of her was a tray of tea, newly arrived.

  Rome halted, his mouth twisting involuntarily. He said softly, ‘How very domestic.’

  She looked up at him. Apart from a faint flush in her cheeks, she appeared totally composed.

  She said sedately, ‘Except that I don’t know if you take milk and sugar.’

  He stretched out on the opposite sofa, smiling at her. ‘Just milk, please. But I like my coffee black.’ He paused. ‘Do you think you’ll remember?’

  Cory busied herself with the teapot. ‘I can just about manage that—for one evening.’

  She put the cup where he could reach it. Poured her own tea. Made a studied return to her magazine.

  The room was silent but for the splash of rain on the windows and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. The warmth had dried her hair, turning it into a silken cloud round her face.

  One strand drifted across her cheek and she pushed it back, knowing, in spite of herself, that the small gesture had not been lost on him. That he was reading her with the same close attention that she was paying her magazine. And probably learning far more.

  He said, ‘I didn’t know you played golf.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then why read a golfing magazine?’

  ‘I—I’m thinking of taking it up,’ she said defensively, and was immediately furious with herself for perpetrating such an obvious and ridiculous lie.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ Rome said lazily. ‘When I was registering, the place started heaving with frustrated and very damp golfers, all forced off the links by the weather.’

  She’d hoped to use the magazine as a barricade, but clearly that wasn’t going to work, so she tossed it aside.

  She said, ‘When do you think our clothes will be returned?’

  He shrugged. ‘What’s the hurry?’ He smiled again, his gaze tracing the open neckline of her robe. ‘I like you better the way you are.’

  Cory bit her lip. ‘I don’t,’ she said shortly, resisting an impulse to draw the lapels closer and tighten her sash. ‘I’d prefer to be dressed and out of here.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Rome advised with a shrug. ‘I gather this is a hotel that prides itself on service. Our clothes will be brought back when they’re ready, and not a moment earlier.’

  Cory studied him for a moment, frowning. ‘It’s odd,’ she said, ‘but sometimes you don’t sound Italian at all.’

  ‘There’s nothing strange about it,’ he said. ‘I was accidentally born there. But I doubt that I have any genuine Italian blood.’

  She said, ‘But surely your mother…’

  ‘My mother was English,’ he said. ‘She quarrelled with her family and ran off to Eur
ope, and she happened to be in Rome when I was born. That’s all.’

  She said, ‘Oh.’

  He grinned sardonically. ‘Disappointed, cara?’ he challenged. ‘Now that you know I can’t be descended from del Sarto’s model?’

  She flushed. ‘Don’t be absurd. And please stop calling me cara,’ she added with asperity.

  ‘Then what shall I call you?’ Arms folded behind his head, fingers laced, he regarded her. ‘Darling—my love—my sweet?’

  She did not look at him. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You make things very difficult.’ He spoke softly, faint laughter in his voice. ‘Italian is such a beautiful language for making love.’

  ‘It’s also just a pretence,’ she said quietly. ‘When you’re not Italian.’

  There was a silence, then, ‘Touché,’ he murmured. ‘Which I believe is French.’ He paused. ‘Does it matter so much—my not being Italian?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter at all. Except…’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She smoothed the towelling robe over her thigh. ‘Except that I never seem to get to know you—know who you really are. Or what you want.’

  Her voice lifted in a kind of appeal. She felt him hesitate, and waited.

  But Rome’s eyes were hooded. He said lightly, ‘At the moment, my priority is dinner. Have you looked at the menu yet?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cory fought down her disappointment. Whenever she thought she was getting close to him, he retreated to a distance again. But why?

  She cleared her throat. ‘I thought—the pâté, followed by the beef in red wine.’

  ‘That’s what I’m having.’ His voice was cool. ‘And as we’re clearly soulmates, you can stop wondering about me, mia bella—and worrying.’

  But Cory, watching him rise lithely to his feet and cross the room to telephone their order, knew it could never be that simple.

  Because instinct was telling her that knowledge could be dangerous. And that sometimes it was better—and safer to go on wondering…

  He said, ‘Tell me about your grandmother.’

  Dinner was over, and they were lingering over coffee. The food had been delicious, and, to Cory’s surprise, Rome had ordered a bottle of dark, velvety wine to accompany their meal.

  As he’d filled their glasses, she’d said doubtfully, ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘You’d have preferred a Bordeaux?’

  She’d said, ‘I was thinking about later…’ and had flushed when he’d raised his eyebrows and begun to laugh.

  She’d said hurriedly, ‘I meant you shouldn’t drink and drive.’

  ‘I’m disappointed.’ He had still been grinning. ‘But I promise to stay well within the limit,’ he’d added softly. ‘On all counts.’

  Which, Cory thought, smouldering, had been enough to kill anyone’s appetite stone dead.

  Yet, strangely, she’d eaten every crumb of pâté, and done full justice to the rich and fragrant casserole. The wine, too, lingered on the palate.

  Now, the table had been cleared by an efficient young waitress, and the tray of coffee she’d brought had been placed on the table by the fire.

  Cory would have preferred to stay at the dining table, which had conferred a kind of much-needed formality to the proceedings.

  She was listening all the time for the knock on the door which would announce the return of their clothing.

  Her camisole and briefs had quickly dried on the bedroom radiator, and she was now wearing them again under her robe. They were only a fragile form of protection at best, but she felt better—safer with them on.

  But she wouldn’t really relax until she had the rest of her things back.

  All through dinner she’d been taking surreptitious glances at her watch as she marked the way time was passing all too quickly.

  If they didn’t leave here soon, she thought, it might be too late…

  Then mentally berated herself for being over-fanciful.

  She had no real reason to feel threatened. Rome had been the perfect dinner companion, chatting with her on all kinds of topics, sounding out her opinions, even arguing lightly at times.

  So far the conversation had been general. But now Rome’s question about Beth had moved it back to the personal again.

  She moved restively. ‘My grandmother? Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because the two of you were clearly close, and I’m interested.’ He paused. ‘Does it hurt you to talk about her?’

  Cory’s smile was suddenly tender. ‘No, not really. She was just a lovely person—very gentle, and calm, and she and my grandfather adored each other. She told me once it was love at first sight—although when they met she was actually engaged to someone else.’

  ‘Who also, presumably, found her gentle and lovely.’ Rome grimaced. ‘It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cory admitted. ‘But Gran had already realised they weren’t right for each other. She was going to break off the engagement anyway. Meeting Gramps was just the final impetus she needed.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Rome said. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’

  She drank some coffee. She said, ‘I suppose there has to be a real initial attraction in any relationship. But on the whole I think love should build up from trust—friendship—respect.’

  ‘How very virtuous,’ he said softly. ‘And what about passion—desire—the touch of someone’s hand that tells you the world has changed for ever? Does that mean nothing?’ He paused. ‘Or is that what scares you?’

  This, she thought, was what she’d been dreading from the first.

  He didn’t have to put a hand on her. This line of questioning could strip her naked emotionally.

  The atmosphere in the room seemed to have thickened suddenly—become electrically charged. The heat from the burning logs had become too intense. The brush of the towelling robe against her bare skin was almost more than she could endure.

  She said, too vehemently, ‘I’m not scared.’ And wondered precisely whom she was trying to convince.

  ‘Then why won’t you look at me?’

  Somehow, she made herself lift her head. Meet his gaze.

  His mouth was smiling faintly, making her remember how it had felt on hers. His eyes were caressing her—pulling away the thick enveloping folds of the robe. Uncovering her, she thought dizzily, for his private delight.

  He hadn’t laid a finger on her, but the mere possibility had the power to make her body moisten and melt. And he had to be aware of it. Had to know what he was doing to her…

  And she had no defences. Technically, she wasn’t a virgin. Her brief time with Rob had dealt with that on a physical level. But sensually, and emotionally, she was untouched. And she knew it. As he must, too.

  She said swiftly, huskily, ‘Don’t…’

  ‘Why not?’

  She could think of a host of reasons, including all the high-flown phrases about respect and trust that she’d already trotted out.

  But they all seemed unimportant against the burning reality of need. It was crude and it was violent, and it was tearing her apart. So that all she could do was stare at him wordlessly—and wait.

  He said again, quietly, ‘Why not?’

  And this time it was an affirmation of a decision already made. A pact that had been agreed.

  The tap at the door was a jolt to her senses as sudden and shocking as a blow, so that she almost cried out.

  Rome got to his feet and went to the door. She heard a murmur of voices, and then the porter was there with their clothes, beautifully pressed under plastic covers, draping them carefully over the arm of a sofa.

  She thought, My reprieve. And part of her wanted to laugh hysterically, while the other half wanted to cry…

  She heard a stranger using her voice, thanking him, and asking him politely to take the coffee tray away.

  ‘Certainly, madam. Is there anything else I can get you this evening—or your husband?’ />
  And heard Rome say, ‘No, that’s fine. We have everything we need, thanks. Goodnight.’

  She found she was repeating the words ‘everything we need’ over and over in her head.

  When Rome came back to the sofa, she began to babble. ‘They think we’re married. Even though I’m not wearing a ring.’ She spread out bare hands. ‘See. Isn’t that absurd?’

  ‘Ludicrous,’ he said, and his voice was very quiet.

  ‘And you were right,’ she hurried on. ‘They’ve made a really good job of the valeting. Everything looks as good as new. And I reckon if we hurry we can still be back in London before midnight…’

  Her voice tailed off with a gasp as Rome knelt in front of her, taking her shaking hands in his and holding them.

  He said gently, ‘Cory, we’re not going anywhere tonight. You know it, and so do I, so let’s stop pretending.’

  She heard herself say in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘Yes.’

  He got to his feet, drawing her up with him, then lifted her into his arms as if she were some tiny featherweight and carried her into the bedroom.

  The big shaded lamps were burning on each side of the bed, and the cover had been turned back. Rome put her down gently against the pillows and came to lie beside her. She was trembling, but she made no protest as he undid the sash of her robe and parted its folds.

  He looked at her for a long moment, the dark face arrested, intent. Then he said huskily, ‘Mia bella.’ He raised her slightly, freeing her arms from the encumbering sleeves, then dropped the robe on to the floor beside the bed.

  The long fingers trailed slowly across the swell of her breasts above the lace edging of her camisole, then cupped her chin, lifting her face for his kiss.

  Her lips parted on a small sigh, welcoming him. The pressure of his mouth was slow and sweet as it explored hers, while his hands began their own journey of conquest, stroking the length of her slender body in one considered act of possession.

  The silk she was wearing shivered against her skin at his touch. She felt him ease the camisole upwards, and closed her eyes as he drew it gently from her body and discarded it.

  The room was warm, but she was suddenly cold, turning on to her side away from him, wrapping her arms round her body.