Bedded for revenge

by Sharon Kendrick

  What was she going to say?

  The door was open, and she stepped inside and heard voices and laughter and chatter and, incongruously, a baby crying. Her eyes opened in alarm.

  What had she done? For a moment she almost imagined that Cesare had been living some kind of bizarre double life—that he had been conducting an affair with her while secretly flying back here to see his wife and child.

  But she knew that he would never do that—in her heart she knew that Cesare was a man of principle and integrity, and that such a double betrayal would be alien to his nature.

  So did this mean he was having some kind of party? It certainly sounded like it.

  She felt like someone in a film as she walked silently along the long corridor towards the sounds of merriment. As if she would find... What?

  The sound was coming from outside, on the far side of the house, and Sorcha walked through a vast kitchen and open-plan dining room to where she could see candles guttering on a table on the terrace.

  Ignoring the small shout of consternation from a chef who was swirling flames around in a frying pan, Sorcha stepped onto the terrace to see a table set for dinner and four adults seated around it, plus a small child.

  Five faces turned towards her, and the conversation dried up as if some celestial director had muted the sound. Only the child gurgled.

  Sorcha barely registered the faces of the others—only distantly noting that one was male and two were female. How neat. How tidy.

  Cesare was staring at her with an expression she didn't recognise. There was no smile. No word of welcome. Nothing but the cold glitter of disbelief in his black eyes.

  'Madre di Dio' he ground out beneath his breath, and rose to his feet.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cesare stared at her and felt the great slam of his heart against his ribcage, its sudden powerful pounding as it leapt into life. "Sorcha? ' he demanded.”What are you doing here? '

  It was the greeting from hell—or at least from her very worst nightmare. Keep calm, Sorcha, she told herself as she felt herself sway a little. You have a get-out clause for just this eventuality—remember?

  There's a taxi waiting for me/ she said calmly, as if women just arrived from England at any old time and then turned straight back again. 'I'll...I'll go back to the airport. '

  'Don't be so absurd,' said Cesare, but the coolness in his voice remained. 'I will go and dismiss him. Sit down—you look terrible. Luca will pour you some wine. This is Sorcha, everyone.'

  He spoke in rapid Italian and the other man immediately stood up to pull out an available chair for her—at the end of the table, naturally, as far from Cesare as it was possible to be.

  Sorcha didn't want to sit down. She wanted some giant hand to magic her away from here, from the bemused and frankly unwelcoming expressions of the people around the table.

  But she was feeling distinctly shaky, and she also recognised that it would look utterly ridiculous if she just disappeared again.

  'Here. ’ Luca pressed a glass of red wine into her hand and Sorcha sipped it gratefully, nodding a kind of greeting at their collective faces, as if trying to resurrect a little bit of social grace in a situation which certainly didn't feature in any etiquette book.

  They were all Italian—and why would they be anything else? One of the women said, 'You have travelled far?'

  'From...England, actually. ’ How bizarre it sounded.

  It seemed difficult to follow that, and no one else said a word. They all sat there in an awkward silence and waited for Cesare to return from dismissing the taxi. He seemed to take for ever, but when he did, he was holding aloft a plastic carrier bag which was filled with shampoo, conditioner and knickers. In the darkness, Sorcha blushed.

  'Your luggage, I believe? ' he drawled, and deposited it by her chair. Then he said something in Italian and some of the frost in the atmosphere seemed to evaporate— but only by a fraction.

  He shot her a look. She had taken him by surprise, and it was not a familiar role for him to be cast in—especially in front of other people. She was on his territory, and she must understand that they did things differently here. If she was expecting him to drop everything and leave the table in order to...what? Why was she here?

  A smile curved his lips. 'My friends were concerned that you might be some kind of

  stalker—some disgruntled ex-girlfriend—but I reassured them that I was unlikely to offer a glass of wine to anyone who posed a threat. ’

  She knew that he was trying to salvage a fairly impossible situation, but Sorcha could have curled up and died. Yet how else must it look to these sophisticated people? Because sophisticated they certainly were.

  'Let me introduce you’ Cesare said wryly. "Luca you've met—and this is his wife, Pia, with Gino, my godson.' His black eyes softened as he glanced at the toddler, and then his gaze travelled to the other guest—a woman in black silk, with a blunt-cut raven bob and shiny lips the colour of claret. 'And this is Letizia...'

  How easy it was to notice the absence of a wedding ring on the woman's finger, the way she looked up at Cesare and then at Sorcha, the unmistakable body language which said, He's already taken! Sorcha met her bright, hard dark eyes.

  'Hello’ said Sorcha.

  'Do you speak Italian, Sorcha?' asked Letizia guilelessly.

  'Unfortunately, no—I don't.'

  'Oh, well. Then you will have to suffer our English.' Letizia gave a tinkling little laugh. 'It will be good for us to practise—si, Cesare?'

  'Effettivamente' Cesare murmured, his gaze capturing Sorcha's as he lanced her with an impenetrable look. 'I'm fascinated to know what has prompted this unexpected visit—and at such an extraordinary time.' He glanced over to the doorway, where a chef was standing with his hands on his hips, looking as if he was about to do battle. 'But, like all great chefs, Stephan is a little temperamental—and as he is just about to serve the entree it will have to wait until afterwards.'

  He raised his eyebrows in imperious query, as if daring her to do anything other than sit there and be guided by him. 'Unless it is so urgent that it cannot wait, Sorcha? ' Oh, yes—sure she was going to blurt it all out now,

  ‘I think I love you, Cesare, I know now stupidly I've acted, and so I've rushed over here to see if our relationship has any future’

  The answer was glaring her in the face as clearly as if he'd spelt it out for her. He was having dinner with a cluster of his mates, which may or may not be part of a packed social calendar. But whether it was or it wasn't didn't really matter—far from sitting around the place moping about her, or even thinking about her, Cesare was living his life. He had moved on.

  'No, that's fine,' she said lightly.

  It was the worst meal Sorcha had ever had to endure—and because everyone kept forgetting to speak English she felt more and more of an outsider as every second passed.

  But she pushed the food around her plate and tried to keep smiling. At least she was opposite Gino—who was the sweetest little thing and the most amenable of all the guests.

  Cesare sipped his wine thoughtfully and stared down the table as she poked a fork uninterestedly at a piece of lettuce. He had never seen her so...

  He shook his head. Why was she here? Did she have business in this part of Italy? No, of course she didn't. He had heard of travelling light—but three pairs of lacy panties and a toothbrush?

  His mouth hardened. Had she decided on a whim that she wanted him? Was that why she had turned up out of the blue like this? Had she been hoping to find him alone and act out some wild sexual fantasy of walking in and pretending that he was a stranger and making hot, silent love to him?

  Meeting the burning look of censure in his eyes, Sorcha quickly looked down at her plate. How could she have had the temerity to turn up here like this and try to convince him that in the space of a few days she had undergone a massive change? That she had suddenly discovered she wanted to jack in her supposedly precious career and settle down to a l
ife of cosy domesticity with him? Or at least to work out some kind of mid-way compromise. As if he even cared!

  Because he hadn't fulfilled his part in her fantasy. He hadn't asked her to. He hadn't been sitting, waiting to fling his arms around her and lift her up into the air, to whirl her round and tell her that he loved her and had missed her.

  That was only make-believe.

  The reality was that he was sitting, laughing and joking with his friends, and it was

  like seeing a different side of him. In England he had been her powerful and autocratic lover, yes, but never a permanent fixture in her life—he had just dipped in and out of it as mood and circumstance took him. The dark, enigmatic foreigner who always seemed to stand out like an elusive rare breed.

  Whereas here he seemed to have become real—it was as if she was watching a black and white photo suddenly begin to glow with glorious colour.

  'You are staying long, Sorcha? ' asked Letizia suddenly.

  'I... ’ Sorcha glanced up at Cesare, sending out a silent appeal that he come to her rescue, but his black eyes remained flinty and obdurate. 'No, ' she finished.

  An awkward silence fell over the table, broken only by a distant low rumble of thunder. Letizia had succeeded in making her feel like the kind of desperado who would stoop to any means to ensnare a captivating and eligible bachelor like Cesare. The kind of woman who would jump on a plane and turn up announced.

  They said that eavesdroppers never heard any good about themselves—well, maybe gatecrashers fared no better. For all she knew, he might have been planning to spend the night with Letizia.

  Her face paled as she realised that she was trapped. She had let the taxi go. Beneath the table, her fingers gripped convulsively at the heavy linen napkin. Surely Cesare would not be so insensitive as to put her in one of the spare rooms while he took the luscious Letizia off to his own to spend the night making love to her?

  But why shouldn't he? Whatever he and Sorcha had had between them was over—or at least Cesare thought it was. They were not bound by any word or convention. No promises had been made, nor vows.

  The clap of thunder was still distant, but loud enough to startle them. The baby began to cry as the candle flames started to dance manically.

  'Cara, the storm! ' said Pia to her husband.

  A drop of rain as warm as bathwater and as big as a euro plopped down onto Sorcha's hand.

  Pia stood up. "We must go. ’

  'Stay’ said Cesare. 'Don't drive in it.'

  'If we go now we'll miss it/ said Luca. 'It's miles away.'

  'Not that far’ warned Cesare, with a glance skywards.

  Another drop of rain fell and one of the candles went out with a little hiss—like a villain suddenly disappearing through a trapdoor at the pantomime. And in the urgent scurry with which people began to scramble to their feet Sorcha heard Letizia ask Cesare a question in a low voice.

  'No’ he said to her.

  Sorcha was not a betting woman, but she would have staked a fortune on the certainty that Cesare was telling Letizia to go.

  Because an unexpected and unwanted guest had turned up?

  She said goodbye to them all as the wind began to whip at the tablecloth, but decided to stay behind on the terrace and help Stephan clear the table. At least she could make herself useful—and she wouldn't have to see whether Cesare was kissing Letizia...

  Raindrops were thundering onto the wooden table now, napkins and bread were getting sodden, and as she ran back to the table for a return journey she saw a tall, dark figure appear in the doorway. Her sleeve caught a crystal glass and sent it crashing to one of the flag-stones, splintering into a hundred glittering shards. She bent down towards it.

  'Don't touch it!'

  His voice rang out and was caught up by the gathering wind. Sorcha looked up into his face—his dear, beloved face—which was now as hard and as forbidding as granite. His words sounded as if they were little bits of the stone he had chipped off and flung at her.

  He strode over to her and caught her by the wrists, but it was an unequivocal capture—there was no tenderness or softness as his fingers bit into her flesh.

  'And now you'd better start giving me some kind of explanation!' he ordered.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sorcha stared at Cesare as the rain came down in great sheets and lashed across their faces, but he didn't seem to be aware of the weather—nor of the fact that if he hadn't been gripping her wrists she might have fallen.

  All she could see was the whiteness which had appeared beneath his olive skin, and the way the raindrops had made his eyelashes into little points, so that his eyes looked like dark stars. But there was no smile nor welcome on his face, just the glitter of accusation and of challenge.

  "Well? ' he demanded, when she did not answer him.

  Her breath was coming in shuddering and painful gulps, and the clouds of jealousy which threatened to engulf her were darker than the storm clouds which were hurling down their contents. She thought about what might have happened if she hadn't turned up here tonight and she felt faint. "Were you going to sleep with her?' she moaned.

  His fingers gripped her even tighter. "Who? '

  "Who? Who? Letizia, of course! '

  Cesare's eyes narrowed, and suddenly he wanted to hit out at her—to hurt her back as she had hurt him, and maybe make these feelings go away. The world was a dull and predictable place without Sorcha, but at least it wasn't full of pain, of torment and uncertainty.

  "What right do you think you have’ he flared, and even though the rain was striking his face like hammer-blows he barely felt it, 'to just turn up here our of the blue and ask me questions like that?'

  Right? No right at all. She should have done that thing people always recommended when you went to see a doctor—writing all your questions down in some coherent sort of order to avoid wasting time by saying the wrong thing or making a fool of yourself. And yet the question had released something—it was like loosening some dark, dank floodgate which, once open, couldn't be shut again.

  All she could feel was the deluge of raindrops as they thundered down onto the terrace, and the beating of her heart and the terrible wrench of pain there. "Would you have done? ' she whispered.

  Her words were lost in the storm, but he read them as they were framed by her trembling lips and he hauled her inside, into the dry, where their bodies dripped water into puddles which lay on the wooden floor.

  'Nothing has happened between Letizia and me. But what do you want me to say?' he demanded. 'That the thought of sleeping with her hadn't crossed my mind? Then I'd be lying! That she isn't ready and willing to? Then I'd also be lying! Or that I am going to spend the rest of my life in celibacy because I could never seem to get it right with you? Well, that would be the biggest lie of all, Sorcha.'

  Red-hot anguish caught her by the throat so that her words came out like a torrent of lava. 'Maybe I want you to lie! '

  He laughed, but it was a mirthless and bitter sound. That is, as you say...tough’ he grated. There are many things you can say about our relationship—but at least no one can say it wasn't honest.'

  She heard the tense he'd used. Past tense. She swayed. It was over.

  His black eyes flickered over her, but he didn't loosen his grip. He could feel the rapid thready beat of her pulse beneath the pressure of his fingers. Witch. Witch, 'You still haven't told me why you're here.'

  And Sorcha knew then that her jealousy—though agonising and very real—was yet another emotional wall she had been trying to hide behind. And wasn't that the mark of a woman who wasn't brave enough to fight for what she wanted?

  This wasn't about pride or possession—not any more. And it wasn't about social convention either—about a woman never declaring her feelings for a man before he had indicated his, as if matters of the heart were like some kind of bidding war. This was about telling this man how she really felt about him—because she would never forgive herself if she didn't.


  'I'm here because my life seems empty without you. It's like you lit something in my world and now the light's gone out.' She drew a shuddering breath, because this was the hardest thing of all. To open her heart to him—to leave herself open to the possibility that he might not want her. 'I'm here because I think I love you.'

  Cesare stilled, like an animal in the jungle at the dead of night who had heard the sudden rustle of something unknown in the undergrowth. Love?

  He thought of the times women had declared love for him in the past—but never with that conditional word. I think I love you. The word should have made it less believable, and yet somehow it did the exact opposite—for it showed human fragility as well as fearlessness.