by Anne Mather
The stones were warm, too, or perhaps it was just the heat of their bodies, Grace mused, accepting the fact that Matteo was naked now. She felt a moment’s discomfort as he tore her hair out of its braid and spread it out around her, but she revelled in its freedom and it was soon forgotten.
He was hot, so hot, his hair-roughened thigh sliding between hers to knead that most sensitive part of her anatomy. There was hair on his chest, too, arrowing down below his navel, and it tickled her tender breasts, his nipples buttonhard beneath her questing fingers. She’d never known a man whose body pleased her so much, and she wriggled provocatively beneath him, inciting him even more.
He murmured to her in his own language, smoothing the silvery curls from her forehead with his lips, trailing strands across her mouth and kissing her with its silken coils between them. He kissed the soft mounds of her breasts, lifting her nipples to his mouth, and suckling from each of them in turn.
Grace felt a sharp pain in the pit of her stomach, and when he moved lower, tracing the quivering muscles of her midriff with his lips, she moaned in sweet abandon. Her protests died in her throat as his mouth found the moist curls that guarded the apex of her thighs, and his tongue brought her to a shuddering climax without any apparent effort on his part.
Yet, still, her body ached for a more complete satisfaction. As the spreading ripples of emotion stirred again, she couldn’t wait for him to take his own release. She had thought there could be no more profound pleasure than that which he had already given her, but when he parted her legs and the throbbing pulse of his manhood nudged the drenched folds of her sex she closed her eyes in mindless anticipation.
She wanted him to enter her. She wanted the pulsating thickness of him to part and stretch her, to fill that aching place inside her that she’d never known she had before. She wanted the powerful thrust of his body in her and over her, for him to make himself a part of her and her a part of him.
But nothing happened.
Even though she tossed and turned in anguished need, he held back from her, and she wanted to die. She tried to open her eyes and see for herself what it was that was stopping him, but they felt as if they were glued shut, and, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t lift her lids. She tried to speak, to beg him to take pity on her, to tell him that she didn’t care about anything any more, that they were soulmates, that they were meant to be together, but she was dumb. And when she reached out to him her hands met only emptiness. He wasn’t there.
Panic set in. Her struggles became more frantic, and she found she was wrapped up in some confining cloth that was acting like a binding sheet around her sweating limbs.
A cry rose up in her throat and with an almighty thrust she tore free of the restriction and dragged herself up—
In bed!
Trembling, as much from the horror of what her subconscious had created as from her exertions, Grace stared tremulously about her. The bed was a shambles. The sheet, which must have been what had imprisoned her, was torn away from the mattress, and she was still hugging the pillow she had evidently believed was Matteo in her dream.
A groan of revulsion escaped her, and she flung the pillow aside in disgust. Dear God, what was happening to her? She had never experienced anything like it before, and she dropped her head into her hands as a feeling of utter devastation engulfed her.
And realised that her hair was loose! It hung in tangled confusion about her shoulders, and just for a moment she wondered if it had been a dream after all. Could he—could he possibly have come here...?
But no. Her lips twisted. She was merely clutching at straws, trying to find some way to excuse her own behaviour. Apart from anything else, she’d locked the door again before she’d gone to bed, and there was no way Matteo could have got into the room without her knowing about it. Besides, if he had, why would he have stopped when he did? Given her pathetic lack of resistance, wouldn’t he just have finished what he’d started?
What he’d started at the monastery, she appended bitterly, realising that that must be where the inspiration for this repulsive dream had come from. Heaven help her, what kind of a woman was she to entertain such thoughts about a man who had already got her friend pregnant and would likely do the same to her given the chance...?
She shivered violently as she was gripped with the realisation that that was what she’d wanted, what she’d dreamed of. She’d wanted Matteo to make her pregnant. She’d wanted to have his child!
Her throat constricted, and she flung herself out of bed, only to stare aghast at her naked body. As well as tearing her hair out of its braid, she must also have torn off her tee shirt. It lay where she had flung it, at the end of the bed, and she snatched it up with shaking hands and put it on before wrapping her arms tightly about herself.
Dear God, was she going out of her mind? What mad attraction did Matteo di Falco exert that turned a normally sane and sensible young woman into a raving lunatic? Whatever it was, the sooner she escaped from its clutches the better.
By the time she’d taken a long shower, she was beginning to feel a little more human. She’d run the tap hot at first, allowing its stinging needles to burn all sensitivity from her skin, before turning off the heat altogether. Icecold water was a great energiser, but she was shivering when she stepped out of the shower cubicle onto the cool marble tiles.
She dried herself on one of the huge bath sheets. She deliberately avoided looking at her reflection as she shed the towel and wrapped herself in the enveloping folds of a soft bathrobe. She had no desire to see the guilt she knew must be there in her face, and she spent the time between then and going down to breakfast in drying her hair and packing the few belongings she’d brought with her. Not for the first time, she wished she had her own transport, but she owed it to the marchesa to behave as if nothing had happened.
And it hadn’t, she reminded herself painfully. Indeed, until she’d awakened that morning, she’d been congratulating herself on avoiding the possible outcome of her own foolishness. Everything could have gone so wrong, but somehow she’d succeeded in keeping Matteo away from her, and she’d gone to bed the previous evening feeling as if what had happened at the monastery had just been a momentary aberration on her part.
No longer.
Now she knew the depths of her own depravity, and nothing she did now could remove the stigma of treachery from her. She’d betrayed Julia—not actually, but in every way that mattered to her, and she could never forgive herself for that. She could blame Matteo as much as she liked, but nothing would have happened, either at the monastery or in her dreams, if she hadn’t willed it. She’d wanted him to kiss her at Sant’ Emilio, and last night...
God, she didn’t even want to speculate about what she’d wanted from him last night. Even thinking of it now could still bring a wave of uncontrollable longing sweeping over her, and she groaned aloud at the realisation that she was beyond redemption.
It was a foolish idea, but she chose to wear her least flattering outfit to go down to breakfast. Black leggings and a thigh-length cotton tee shirt showed a lack of concern for her appearance that she didn’t often display. Let Julia dazzle her host, she thought, in one of the many outfits she had that showed her cleavage. She would look drab and ungainly, while Julia would be her petite, provocative self.
Grace delayed going downstairs until Julia came to find her. Her friend looked infinitely brighter this morning, exhibiting none of the morning sickness she’d suffered the previous day. As Grace had expected, Julia was wearing a sleeveless top that emphasised her small bosom, and hiphugging khaki trousers that drew attention to her pert behind.
‘Heavens, what do you look like?’ she exclaimed, viewing Grace’s appearance with obvious amusement. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to put the marchesa’s back up. Are you?’
‘Of course not.’ Grace wasn’t too happy that she should think that. Then, deciding it didn’t matter to her what the marchesa thought of her, she added, ‘Anyway, let�
��s go. I expect we’ll be starting back after breakfast.’
‘Not immediately after,’ protested Julia as they walked along the corridor. ‘I’m hoping Matt will spend some time with me this morning. I feel as though I wasted yesterday.’
‘But—you did spend time with him last night, didn’t you?’ Grace ventured carefully. ‘I mean, after I’d gone to bed?’
‘No.’ Julia pulled a face. ‘Would you believe it, Ceci had him take her to some party at a villa in the next valley, and I wasn’t even up when he got back?’
‘No?’
‘Yes.’ Julia grimaced. ‘I hung on as long as I could, but it was obvious that the old lady wasn’t going to let me wait alone, and if he had come back sooner she’d have probably devised some new task for him to do.’
Grace hated the way her heart leapt at the realisation that Matteo hadn’t spent the night in Julia’s bed, and she hurried into offering an alternative strategy. ‘Look.’ she said, ‘why don’t I make some excuse about wanting to get back this morning? The chauffeur can drive me, and later on—this afternoon or this evening; that’s up to you—Matteo can bring you home.’
Julia frowned, but it was obvious that the idea appealed to her. ‘We could do that, couldn’t we?’ she agreed, her excitement building. She squeezed Grace’s arm. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Not at all.’
Grace was appalled at her own duplicity, but she was glad she had suggested it when they stepped out into the loggia to find Matteo and his grandmother sharing a pot of coffee.
Anything to avoid spending any more time with Matteo than she had to, she thought grimly as he came politely to his feet, and then wanted to die of embarrassment when his dark eyes moved appraisingly over her shapeless tee shirt and the unsuitable leggings beneath. She could almost tell what he was thinking, and, avoiding a confrontation, she went to greet the marchesa.
She was aware of Matteo exchanging a few stilted words with Julia as she spoke to the old lady, and then he was at her side, his intentions obvious. ‘Sleep well?’ he asked softly, taking the incredible liberty of tucking an unruly strand of newly washed hair behind her ear. ‘You look—unrested.’
‘Tired, do you mean?’ She rounded on him and then attempted to retrieve her composure when she found both Julia and the marchesa watching their exchange with evident interest. ‘I—didn’t sleep very well.’
‘Nor did I,’ he told her, with blatant familiarity in his gaze, and she stared at him in sudden confusion.
Just for a moment, his words reminded her of the dangerous intimacy they’d shared in her dream, and she swayed a little as she dragged her eyes away from his. Dear God, she thought weakly, she had to get away from here before she betrayed her feelings to Julia as well as herself.
It was the marchesa who saved her. As if sensing the sudden tension between them, she intervened with a comment of her own, although what she had to say was no more welcome to Grace’s peace of mind than her grandson’s presumption had been earlier.
‘Matteo has made a suggestion to me, Grace,’ she declared pleasantly, ignoring Julia completely after their initial greeting. ‘It had occurred to me, too, and in the circumstances I think it’s an excellent idea. The suggestion is that you should stay on here for the next few days. Staying in a small apartment is all very well, but you’d have far more room here at the villa and the atmosphere is much more restful.’
More restful? With Matteo watching her every move? thought Grace wildly. Oh, yes! About as restful as a mongoose in a pit full of snakes!
She was about to make the excuse that she had to go back to England sooner than she’d expected, when Julia broke in.
‘Grace is eager to get back to Portofalco, Marchesa,’ she said swiftly. ‘Why, she was just telling me this morning that there’s nothing to do here. She wants to leave straight after breakfast, don’t you, Grace? That is what you said, isn’t it?’
Grace pressed her lips together. ‘I did say that, yes,’ she murmured, but the heat that flowered in her cheeks wasn’t just an indication of her embarrassment. She was angry, too; angry that Julia should use her to gain the marchesa’s approval.
‘Oh, well—’
The marchesa’s nostrils flared briefly, but her grandson was not about to let Julia have it all her own way. ‘I’m sure Grace was only saying what she knew Julia wanted to hear, Nonna,’ he essayed smoothly, and when Julia would have protested he silenced her with a look. ‘We all know that you find staying at the villa boring,’ he added, with a Latin shrug of his shoulders. ‘Naturally I’ll have Gianni take you back to Portofalco this morning.’
‘No!’
Julia was horrified, but not more so than Grace herself. ‘Really,’ she said, ‘it’s very kind of you to invite me to stay on, Marchesa, but I do have to get back to England.’
‘Why?’
It was Matteo who asked the question, but it was obvious that his grandmother was waiting for an answer, too, and Grace’s mind buzzed as she sought for a convincing reply.
‘Does it matter?’ Once again, it was Julia who spoke. ‘And you’re wrong: I love staying at the villa, whatever Matt says, Marchesa. And I’m sure if I had a word with my manager at the hotel he’d be happy for me to stay on for another couple of days.’
‘You misunderstand me, Miss Calloway.’ The old lady was at her most daunting. ‘I didn’t invite you to prolong your stay. The invitation was for Grace, and Grace alone.’
Julia couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d tried, and when Matteo seconded his grandmother’s words all Grace wanted was for the floor to open up and swallow her. ‘Stay, cara,’ he murmured huskily. ‘Please, Grace. For me.’
Julia’s expression altered. In the space of a moment it changed from outrage to suspicion to bitter disbelief. And Grace couldn’t blame her. Dear God, she’d never dreamt that Matteo might use what had happened at the monastery against Julia, that he’d reveal their despicable intimacy as a means of showing the other woman that she was wasting her time in pursuing their relationship. And especially not when his grandmother was looking on and listening to every word.
Julia’s strangled, ‘What is this?’ broke the awful silence that had fallen, and Grace turned to her with desperate eyes.
‘It’s all a mistake,’ she began weakly, but Matteo wasn’t having that.
‘It’s no mistake,’ he said, his normally relaxed features drawn into a severe mask. ‘I asked Nonna to invite Grace to stay on so that we could have more time to get to know one another.’
‘To get to know one another?’ Julia looked from him to Grace and back again. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘What do you think it means?’ Matteo asked impatiently. ‘Do you need me to spell it out for you?’
‘Oh, please—’
Grace tried to intervene, but Julia wasn’t listening to her. ‘Yes, I think I do,’ she said harshly. ‘I think I need to know what you intend to do when it was me and not Grace that you invited here.’
‘Julia—’
Once again, Grace tried to get a word in, but before she could say anything more she became aware of the marchesa at her elbow.
‘Leave them, child,’ she advised, her patrician features as severe when she looked at Julia as her grandson’s. ‘This has been a long time in coming.’
‘And what would you know about it?’ demanded Julia suddenly, proving that she was not unaware of the other people in the room. She turned to Matteo’s grandmother with a venomous expression on her pale face. ‘Do you honestly think you can get rid of me as easily as this?’
‘Miss Calloway—’
‘Julia!’
The marchesa and her grandson spoke at once, but Julia wouldn’t be silenced and Grace could hardly blame her. This was all her fault, she thought guiltily. If she’d never let Julia talk her into coming here, none of this would have happened. Who knew? Given time Julia and Matteo’s relationship might have deepened, whereas now...
The
uneasy suspicion occurred to her that perhaps she had been just a pawn in a rather cruel game. What if Matteo’s supposed attraction to her had been manufactured as a way to prove to Julia that she was just wasting her time with him? The marchesa had been kind, it was true, but Grace had the feeling that the old lady would do anything to protect her grandson, to protect her whole family...
‘You don’t understand,’ Julia said thickly now. ‘Grace does, but she’s apparently forgotten what I told her.’
‘Julia, please—’
Grace’s eyes implored her friend not to do this, not right now, not in such a confrontational way, but once again Julia ignored her.
‘I’d have thought you might have had a suspicion yesterday,’ she went on maliciously. ‘Morning sickness, and all that. But perhaps it’s so long since there’s been a baby in the family that you’ve forgotten the symptoms!’
‘A baby!’
It was the marchesa who echoed her words, who groped unsteadily for the chair where she had been sitting before their arrival and sank down weakly onto the cushions. No one else moved or said anything, and Grace watched the old lady struggling to gather the shreds of her dignity about her before whispering hoarsely, ‘Matteo, tell me it’s not true!’
But Matteo couldn’t tell her any such thing. Grace could see that he had been as stunned by Julia’s announcement as the marchesa, but he had the knowledge of his own intimate involvement with her to prevent an automatic denial.
‘Is it true?’ he asked instead, turning to Grace and not Julia, and although she knew it shouldn’t matter to her she shared his raw frustration.
She nodded. ‘Yes...’
‘You knew?’ His eyes tormented her. ‘And you didn’t tell me?’
‘I asked her not to,’ said Julia smugly. She savoured the moment. ‘I wanted the pleasure of telling you myself, darling. Aren’t you thrilled? I am.’ She cast a disparaging look at his grandmother. ‘I’ve always wanted to have a family of my own.’
