by Kate Walker
For a moment her stomach tied itself in tight, twisting knots as she waited to see which way he jumped, then she felt her hand dropped so abruptly that the movement yanked roughly at her shoulder.
‘I already have,’ Vito muttered. ‘I’ve caught a nasty dose of self-disgust which has left me with a foul taste in my mouth and an urgent need to have a very long and very hot shower.’
He was already turning towards the door as he spoke but he paused to glance back over his shoulder. Emily wouldn’t have thought it possible for his eyes to get any darker, his expression any colder, but the look he gave her seemed to turn every trace of blood in her veins into ice, freezing her heart into total stillness.
‘I would prefer it if you weren’t here when I’m finished.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE supposed she should have expected it but it still rocked the ground beneath her feet, making her feel as unsteady and nauseous as if she had actually been on board a ship in a very rough sea.
‘You’re throwing me out?’
That brought him swinging back round to face her and the slowness with which he moved, the contemptuous survey that he subjected her to, obsidian eyes sliding over her from the top of her head to the spot where her bare toes curled in pained embarrassment on the floor, made her wish she were invisible. That or somewhere else entirely.
She was suddenly painfully aware of the way she was dressed, something that shock and distress had wiped from her mind. So now the recollection that she was wearing Vito’s T-shirt and Vito’s boxer shorts made her skin flame with colour, her cheeks burning painfully hot.
‘You surely didn’t think I was going to let you stay? In case you haven’t got the message, signora….’
The pointed emphasis on the married form of the word made Emily wince miserably but if Vito noticed then he gave no sign of having done so.
‘I do not sleep with other men’s wives. I never have and I never would—not willingly. It goes against everything I believe to be right. You may be able to forget your marriage vows but believe me, my conscience is not as jaded as yours appears to be.’
‘You don’t understand…’
She had to try once more in spite of the fact that she knew he wasn’t going to give her the chance to explain.
And she was right. Vito’s hand came down in a savage, slashing movement as he cut off her stumbling attempt to put her case.
‘On the contrary, I do understand—and I don’t like it one little bit. You’ve grown tired of your wedding vows and decided to play the field—but not with me, belleza, not with me. And if I’d known that yesterday then I wouldn’t have touched you. As it is, I still feel dirty just to think of it. So I’m going to have that shower and you…’
He marched towards the door, held it wide open.
‘You can get your things and get out. Don’t trouble to leave the clothes you have on, I’d only burn them. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t want to touch them after they’ve been on your unfaithful, immoral body. And I don’t want you around here any longer than you have to be. The sooner you’re out of here and out of my sight, the happier I’ll be.’
There was no point in even trying to explain any more; he was past listening. It was stamped on those hard features, turning his eyes opaque with disgust. And the truth was that Emily couldn’t wait to get out of there. The sooner she could get miles away from here, the better. She wanted to hide away from the world, lick her wounds, try to forget that last night had ever happened…
But before she could do that, there was one thing she needed to know.
‘Still here?’ Vito goaded darkly. ‘I told you to get out.’
‘Not till you tell me what she—what Ruth said.’
His dark head went back, deep grey eyes narrowing sharply.
‘You care? Isn’t it a little late to develop a conscience—or even any interest in this?’
But Emily had had enough of his tormenting.
‘Tell me!’ she flung at him. ‘Just tell me and I’ll be gone.’
He threw up his hands in what in anyone else would have been a gesture of defeat, but which from Vito looked like total exasperation.
‘She said that your husband had been asking about you and that you’d better get yourself back there before he really started to wonder where you were. And if you were wondering whether I told her that you were with me—in my bed, on a one-night stand—then no, I thought I’d leave that to you and your conscience…if you have one.’
But Emily wasn’t listening.
Mark had been asking about her. Vito had no idea what those words did to her. The way they had made her feel.
When had Mark asked about her? How had he asked about her? And, perhaps more importantly, who was he asking about?
Whirling round, she bent over the tumble-drier, yanked at the door.
Her jeans were dry at least but that was all that she could say about them. They were crumpled beyond belief, the last few moments in the stalled drier only adding to the mess the sea water and a night on the floor had made of them.
But Emily didn’t care. She couldn’t care. All that mattered to her was getting into her clothes as quickly as possible and getting out of here. Wrenching the waist button open, pulling down the still-hot zip, she scrambled into the trousers, hopping slightly on the floor as she pulled them up. She was fastening the waistband when she realised that Vito was still there. Still leaning against the wall, still watching her.
Strangely she felt far more nervous, far more shy at being watched getting dressed than she had ever felt getting undressed or appearing totally naked in the night.
‘I thought you were going to take a shower,’ she flung at him and saw his mouth quirk into a cold, cruel smile.
Black eyes flicked over her, looking her up and down. There wasn’t a glimmer of light in them, not a sliver of warmth.
But then last night had been so very, very different. Vito had been different. Nothing was the same now as it had been then. And in spite of herself she felt the hot burn of tears in her eyes, felt her vision blur at the thought of what she had lost.
‘I’m intrigued,’ Vito drawled cynically, ‘watching this transformation from good-time girl to devoted wife hurrying home to her husband right in front of my eyes. Does he believe in this—your husband?’ he added. ‘Is the poor fool convinced that you are his loving spouse and not the puttana you really are?’
It was just what she needed. A moment before she had felt herself weakening, felt pathetic, foolish tears threatening, and she had almost given herself away in front of this cold-faced, colder-eyed monster. But the lash of his cruel words, the deliberate insult he had slid in like a stiletto between her ribs had pulled her up short. It had stiffened her backbone, made her draw herself up to face him. She even, totally surprising herself, managed a flash of a smile that she prayed looked careless and unconcerned.
‘Perhaps I don’t care,’ she tossed at him, bringing up her chin and meeting that stony-eyed gaze with a courage she was very far from feeling. Not that her voice betrayed her, she was glad to hear. ‘Perhaps the risks are part of the excitement. Part of the fun.’
That had wiped the sneer from his face, she was delighted to see. If she had thrown something nasty and very slimy right in his face, his head couldn’t have gone back more swiftly, his expression changing to one of appalled shock just for a moment before he collected himself again and the blazing contempt was back.
‘Perhaps—’
‘Shut up!’ Vito exploded, disgust dripping from the words. ‘Shut up, damn you!’
‘What’s wrong, Vito?’
Somehow Emily managed to control her quivering chin, the tongue that seemed to have tangled itself up in knots.
‘Don’t you like it when a woman plays you at your own game?’
For the space of a couple of unsteady and uneven heartbeats she thought she’d gone too far. The blaze of black fury in his eyes had her taking an uneasy step backwards, watching him wari
ly.
But then Vito obviously regained control of the temper that had almost slipped away from him. He swore again, more bitterly this time and pushed himself upright, raking both hands through the thick darkness of his hair.
‘I’m going for that shower,’ he told her, his voice raw with angry disgust. ‘You’d better not be here when I get out.’
‘Oh, I won’t be,’ she assured him. ‘I promise you I won’t.’
And then, because he had turned his back and was walking away and she couldn’t see his stunning face or the violent anger that had stamped the harsh white lines on it, she said, ‘I don’t want to hang around, you see—my husband’s waiting for me to come home to him and tell him all about it.’
The only response was the sound of a door slamming hard, shutting her off from any sight or sound of Vito. He was gone. She would never see him again. But even so she was weak enough to wait until she heard the sound of the shower, the noise of the water pounding down in the small bathroom, to admit to herself that it was time to go. And this time she didn’t need to try to hold back the tears that flowed down her cheeks as she headed towards the door.
She barely saw the road as she almost ran to the car, stumbling awkwardly in the shoes she had rammed onto her feet. She didn’t see her surroundings, the sand and the sea, because of the bitter tears that burned in her eyes.
In the car she had to take a few moments to compose herself. To draw on the inner strength that had got her so far but now, today, was coming so close to breaking. She sat with her hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel, skin stretched taut, as she fought with the tears that distorted her vision. She couldn’t drive like this; she just wouldn’t be safe. The end of the road seemed to dance before her unfocused eyes, the white line down its centre blurred into the tarmac, and all the other cars parked along the edge of the street seemed just a blend of colours, no defined shapes.
She had to get a grip on herself. Mark had been asking for her. She had to get back to him.
And Vito Corsentino wanted nothing to do with her. She’d made sure of that with the way she’d lied, embroidering her story until he believed she was little more than a tramp. So there was no point at all in staying here. He wouldn’t want to see her again and if he did then he would only savage her again, making the pain so much worse.
And what had she lost after all?
Reality forced her to ask herself the question as the memory of the cold, contemptuous look on Vito’s face when she had last seen him, the recollection of the way that he had turned from her in disgust, threatened to destroy completely what little was left of her composure. If the truth was told it had been nothing but a one-night stand and no more. Thousands of women experienced the same, enjoyed the experience and then moved on without letting it destroy them.
She was only deluding herself to imagine that she had felt so much more. That it could have meant more. But the truth was that she had felt as if she was being ripped in two as she had fled out the door of Vito’s flat and heard it slam behind her. And the worst part had been knowing that he had still been there, almost within reach. But he had been in the bathroom, in the shower with the water pulsing down onto his naked, beautiful male body.
Emily curled one hand into a tight fist and brought it down hard on the edge of the steering wheel, trying to force the memories of the night and the feel of that glorious, hard-muscled body close to hers, invading hers, from her mind. He had been able to do that without a second’s hesitation. Even now he was in his shower, washing away all trace of her from his body, the scent of her from his skin—and the image of her from his thoughts.
There was no future there and she had only been fantasising by allowing herself to imagine it.
Her future wasn’t here. She didn’t know where it was, only that it didn’t lie with Vito Corsentino in a small, shabby flat beside the sea. For a few brief, shining moments she might have dreamed that that was how it could be but reality had soon taught her that it would never be that way.
She had no idea what future did lie ahead of her. But at least the one night she had spent with Vito had given her the belief that there could be a future for her somewhere out there. Somewhere, out beyond the misery and despair of the past years there had to be something better for her.
But first she had to deal with the present, with whatever was waiting for her at home and get through that.
Sighing, she pushed the key into the ignition and turned it, hearing the engine roar. She allowed herself one last, lingering look down onto the beach, where the sunlit sea now lapped lazily at the shore, no trace at all of the wild, swirling waves that the wind had whipped up on the day before. In the night the tide had come up right to the promenade wall so that even the traces of footprints, hers and Vito’s, had been totally erased from the damp sand.
It was as if they had never been.
And in just the same way, her memory would be wiped from Vito’s mind, she told herself as she let out the brake and swung the small car slowly into the road to join the flow of the traffic heading out of town. She would be completely forgotten, not even the vaguest image of their meeting ever stirring the surface of his mind.
And she should do the same. It would be best for her, wisest—safest to forget, or at least pretend to herself that Vito had never happened.
That was what she should do. But the sudden, twisting pain that tore at her heart as she indicated, turned left and headed up the steep hill away from the shore warned her that what she should do and what she could actually manage to do were two very different things.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHAT the hell was he doing here?
Vito brought his car to a halt, yanked on the brake with less than his usual care, and stared at the house straight in front of him.
When he had imagined himself turning up at Emily Lawton’s home at any time after their brief encounter, he hadn’t really thought ahead to what he might find or where she might live. But if he had thought of her home, then it would not have been this large, elegant stone-built manor house that came to mind.
Oh, face it! Realising that the engine was still idling, he reached out and switched it off with a brusque twist of his wrist. The truth was that he had never, ever imagined seeing Emily again, let alone thought of turning up at her home, unannounced and unprepared. Hell, hadn’t he spent the past almost five months trying to forget that the damn woman ever existed?
And that was the trouble.
He’d tried. Dannazione, but he’d tried. He’d thrown himself into his work, but each time he carved a new piece he’d found that unless he concentrated fiercely he would end up carving her face or her hands, or her body…
He’d tried to see other women. But no woman appealed—or if he did find a spark of interest, it was because of a tall, slender figure, or a head of sleek blonde hair—blue eyes. There were times when he’d been tempted to take another woman to bed. To lose himself in pleasure, drive away the memory of a single night that lingered in his mind like paint in water after a brush had been washed out, colouring everything and impossible to remove. But he had never been able to bring himself to actually make the move.
In the end he had been glad to get back to Sicily. Glad to go back to the life he had taken a year’s holiday from. He had planned to concentrate on being Corsentino of Corsentino Marine and Leisure but then some news he had picked up while in England and had passed on to his brother, Guido, had had reverberations that he had never anticipated.
‘Emily Lawton,’ he murmured, speaking aloud at last the name that he had refused to let pass his lips again until the shock discovery yesterday had forced it out into the open.
Emily Lawton.
He could have found her, hunted her down, if he’d wanted to. And if he was honest, he’d been tempted. But when he came close to weakening then the memory of what she’d done, of the way she’d behaved—the fact that she was married—had slammed the door in his mind shut on any such foolish ide
a and kept his thoughts from wandering on to the possibility of how it might be if they met again.
But then Guido had gone to England to stop a marriage and had ended up bringing home the bride for himself. And his brother’s new woman—Amber—had known who Emily Lawton was. In fact, Emily had been a guest at the aborted wedding. She’d fainted when she’d seen Guido enter the church.
Fainted because she’d thought that Guido was him.
And then later she had seen Guido in the hotel. And gone as white as a sheet, his brother had said. Again because she’d believed that Guido was him.
Or because she’d feared exposure, the cynically realistic part of his mind inserted sharply.
But no, that didn’t work. Why should the story he had to tell matter now? Her husband was dead, so there was no spouse to be shattered by the revelation. And besides, if the foul things she had flung at him the last time he saw her had been true then her husband had already known—and liked knowing about the sorts of things she got up to.
Nausea assailed him at the thought, the memory a foul taste in his mouth.
Which brought him back to his original question. What the hell was he doing here?
It wasn’t even twenty-four hours since he had heard Amber speak Emily’s name and already he was here on her doorstep, unable to stay away. He had been home and packing his bag, ordering the jet, within thirty minutes of finding out where she lived, unable to think beyond the fact that he couldn’t rest until he came face to face with her. The plane had been in the air two hours later.
He had vowed to himself—and to her—that he never, ever wanted to see this woman again. So why the devil was he here?
He was still struggling to find an answer to that question when he noticed a movement in one of the ground-floor windows. A pale face, blonde head, a slender figure. A female figure. From this distance it was impossible to make out any details, see her face clearly, but he didn’t have to see to know it was Emily.
