Bedded for revenge
Page 14
He stared at her, at the way her wet hair streamed down around her shoulders, the way her wet dress hugged her body—a water nymph, just like the first time he had ever set eyes on her—and he felt a powerful pull of longing which went bone-deep.
But the barriers he had built around his heart were too high to be toppled by a single word.
He lanced her look. 'Maybe you just miss my body the way I miss yours? '
Sorcha licked a raindrop from her lips. Was that bravado she heard lurking behind the mockery of his words? Or was she crediting him with a softness which wasn't really there?
She thought of the eighteen-year-old Cesare in Maceo's photos—of all the hopes and fears in his young face. Of how she'd always thought him strong and invincible and somehow immune to the pain of living. Maybe he didn't want her. Or maybe he didn't want her on the level of anything deeper than just good sex. But she would never know unless she had the courage to follow this through. Now.
Sorcha's heart was beating painfully as she pulled her hands free from his grip and placed one palm softly against his wet cheek.
The candles on the terrace had long been blown out by the wind, but the darkness was illuminated by a fork of lightning, so that everything in the room was silver and black.
Show him, she thought. Just show him how much you care.
'I think I love you’ she said again, and she put her arms around him.
She felt him stiffen, but he did not move, and she uttered a silent prayer as she held him closer, tightening her arms around his soaking body. Please know that this isn't sexual, she prayed. Know that it's because I love you and I want to cherish you—to comfort and protect you as women have always done with their men—no matter how strong or proud or arrogant they may be.
For a while he just stood there, stiff and unmoving, but gradually he made a little sound in the back of his throat and his arms went round her, like a man who had suddenly caught hold of a lifebelt. But his words contradicted his gesture.
'You have chosen the wrong man’ he said harshly, against her wet hair. 'You know that, don't you?'
Sorcha felt the salt taste of her tears as she shook her head. 'No,' she whispered. 'I don't.'
But Cesare didn't trust the torrent of feelings which holding her like this was threatening to unleash.
'You need to get dry,' he stated matter-of-factly, gently pushing her away from him. 'Come with me.'
Sorcha could have wept as he led her down a long corridor to an old-fashioned bathroom—but what choice did she have other than to go with him and submit to getting dry? She could hardly claim that she would prefer to catch a debilitating chill if only he would look at her properly.
He was quiet and absorbed as found her a giant warm towel and gave her one of his T-shirts.
'Put this on’ he said abruptly. 'I'll go and make us some coffee. '
And then he left her, struggling and feeling more than a little foolish as she stripped off her soaking clothes and rubbed the big towel over her shivering flesh. The T-shirt came to halfway down her thighs, and her nakedness beneath it made her feel vulnerable. But she felt vulnerable in other ways too—and the heart was a far less resilient organ than the rest of the body.
She found that he had changed into a dry pair of jeans and was just putting two mugs
of coffee onto a tray. He glanced up.
'You look shattered, cara' he said slowly, his voice sounding distant against the still-raging
storm.
Their eyes met. Could he read the silent appeal in hers? Or was he simply choosing to ignore it? And if so—what did that tell her? She had come all the way out here, hadn't she? Her pride would not let her throw herself down and beg him to want her, to offer her something from the heart if he had nothing to give. 'I am pretty shattered,' she agreed.
'Then let's take this through and go to bed.'
His eyes and his voice and his body language indicated nothing other than practicality. If it was emotion she had been praying for, then it looked as if she was going to be disappointed.
She followed him into a bedroom which was darkened by creaking shutters which rocked in the storm, and he drew her down onto the bed and into his arms, covering them both with a blanket.
For a moment Sorcha held her breath, but even though he was holding her close to his warm chest—as if he were shielding her from the elements outside—she still felt as lost as if she were wandering around outside in the storm.
He hadn't told her how he felt about her. He hadn't mentioned anything about whether they had any kind of future—but she told herself that wasn't the reason she had confessed her feelings. She'd said it because she had needed to—and because he'd needed to hear it. Even if they were destined never to be together she knew she would never have forgiven herself if she hadn't.
But her heart ached as they lay there while the wind raged and the storm lashed and the sound of thunder split the sky. Tight in his arms, her head on his shoulder while he stroked her hair, Sorcha stared at the dark shapes around the room until her eyes began to grow tired, and then her eyelids drifted down and she slept.
When she awoke, it took a moment or two for her to remember where she was—and with the calmness of morning came a sense of disbelief. Had she really just flown out here on a whim and told Cesare that she loved him?
She looked at the man in the bed beside her and moved a little. But Cesare was still sleeping. She wriggled away from him but he didn't stir. How ironic it was that she should have longed for so long to sleep with him, and that—when it had finally happened—the reality had been nothing like her dreams. They had shared the same bed with a chasteness which now seemed to mock her.
She went to the bathroom and washed her face and hands, and then, her head and her heart still full of uncertainty, went outside.
In the fresh, rain-washed light of the morning in the aftermath of the wild storm the villa looked exquisite. It was all so very beautiful—and so unexpected.
Sorcha had never imagined that roses could grow close to olive trees—but there were fragrant pale pink roses with water still dripping from their petals as they curved over an arbour which led from the house, and an olive grove glinted silver in the distance. The vineyard lay to the other side of the villa, with its rows upon rows of fruit-laden vines. The grass was green, and so were the huge mountains which provided such a stunning backdrop.
Sorcha felt a lump well up in her throat as she began to walk—because in the clear light of day what had happened yesterday seemed like a strange kind of dream. Almost as if she shouldn't really be here—that she would open her eyes and find herself back in England, putting on a sharp suit and getting ready to go to work.
She clenched her fists by her sides and willed the tears not to spill from her eyes as she stared out at the beautiful Umbrian countryside.
Lazily, Cesare stirred.
He had been having the craziest dream.
He stretched his arms above his head and murmured, and then his eyes snapped open as he turned his head to the empty space beside him and the indentation of where her head had lain on the pillow.
Had he dreamed it?
He sat up in bed and it all came back to him, like a jigsaw taking shape as all the pieces were added. Sorcha turning up in the middle of the dinner party. The storm. The broken glass. Sorcha telling him...
His eyes narrowed.
Sorcha telling him she loved him.
And him doing a pretty passable imitation of a clam.
He found still-damp soap in the bathroom, and the plastic bag full of her things still outside on the terrace, but of Sorcha there was no sign. He felt the skin-chill of apprehension—even though logic told him she couldn't have gone far. That they were out in the middle of nowhere.
But the logic on which he'd relied all his life suddenly seemed hopelessly inadequate—because Sorcha was strong and resourceful. And proud. Who could have blamed her if she'd decided to walk the few kilometres up the mountai
Unexpectedly, he felt his heart twist with pain.
She had laid her emotions bare for him to see last night—and he had responded with less interest than he might have given to a new business strategy. Because strategies were safe, and you knew where you were with them—whereas the way she made him feel was...
Scary.
Yet he hadn't given a thought to how she must be feeling...to what it must have cost her to come out here like that and tell him what he meant to her. She had made a gesture of humility—stripped away all her pride to tell him how much she cared.
And what had he given her back? Nothing.
Standing on the terrace, looking down at the silver gleam of the olive groves, he saw something bright moving into his line of vision and his heart missed a beat—because it was Sorcha. Walking towards him, barefooted and wearing a dark T-shirt of his, with her bright hair contrasting against it and cascading down her back, like a beautiful waterfall.
As she grew closer he could see that her eyes were even greener than the lush grass. But they were shadowed with wariness.
'I thought you'd gone’ he said softly as she approached.
'I was..."What? Wondering whether she was in line for the prize of Idiot of the Year. She bit her lip. "Cesare—'
'I thought you'd gone’ he whispered, and he shook his head like a man who was just emerging into the bright clear day after a subterranean holiday. He reached out and caught her hands in his, turned them over in his palms and looked at them, and then back up at her dazzling emerald eyes.
'I don't know how to do this, Sorcha’ he said softly.
Sorcha's gaze searched his. "What? '
To tell you about the emotion you stir up in my soul. ’ He stared at her, as helpless then as he'd ever felt in his life, and shrugged his shoulders—as if the movement could shift the intolerable weight which lay on them. 'I don't know why.'
She gripped tightly onto his hands, never wanting to let them go. 'Don't you, Cesare? Don't you really?'
He knew what she was doing. On an intellectual side he could see. She wanted him to confront his demons—to let them out so that they might fly away and torment him no longer. But was it really that simple?
'Tell me,' she whispered, aware of being on fragile ground. One false move and all would be lost.
'People used to pity Maceo and envy me,' he said slowly. 'Because he had come from the slums while I was brought home to a mansion—but you know, Maceo needed nobody's pity. The home he grew up in was a real home. With a mother who was there and a father who came home. ’
'And you didn't have that?'
He shook his head. 'My father was rich beyond most men's wildest dreams—but it never seemed to be enough. It was as though he needed to go out and earn more and more, to fill some kind of hole that could never be filled.'
And Cesare had done the same, Sorcha recognised. History had repeated itself, as it always did. 'And your mother?'
'Oh, she was very beautiful—and restless. She did not want a world dominated by a baby when her husband was flying all round the globe chasing achievements. She wanted her taste of the high-life, too...'
His voice tailed off and she saw the furrows which deepened his brow. Sorcha drew in a deep breath. It was as if Cesare had drawn the outline of a picture, and now he needed her help to colour it in. And if they were to be a couple, then that was what couples did, wasn't it? They helped one another. They were there for one another. They laid feelings on the line because those feelings mattered—they didn't pussyfoot around or worry about how it might look, or whether they would be hurt.
'She wasn't there for you?' she said.
He nodded, sensing that it was not censure he heard in her voice, but a fair evaluation of the facts. And in confronting those facts he found they somehow assumed less dominance, less power to hurt. 'No, she wasn't there. There were other people to care for me, but it wasn't the same.' He drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he did the unthinkable and confronted his past head-on. 'Maybe that's why it isn't easy for me to show...love,' he said shakily, and gave her a look like a lost little boy. 'Because I haven't had much practice.'
Sorcha stilled. "Cesare? ' she said breathlessly.
He stared down at her. 'I really thought you'd gone when I woke up this morning. ’
Her eyes were still wary. She looked into his face—but she wasn't a mind-reader, and she wasn't going to second-guess him for the rest of her life.
'Do you want me to go?'
'Go?' He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed each fingertip in turn, his eyes never leaving her face. 'I never want you to go away again, cara mia , because I think I love you, too. And I really must kiss you now.'
It was the first time he had kissed her in his native land, and it was quite unlike any other kiss they'd ever had—for it was a declaration and a seal, a farewell to past misunderstandings and a celebration of all that lay ahead of them.
When it was over, Sorcha bit back the tears which were shimmering in her eyes as she saw all the possible obstacles in their way. 'But how will we work it, Cesare? How can we be together? '
'Somehow’ he promised. "We can live here—or in England. We could live apart, but I don't want that.'
'Me neither.'
His arms tightened around her, and for the first time Sorcha felt the shimmerings of true physical intimacy.
'Now that I've got you, I never want to let you go,' he whispered. 'The logistics are just details. The important thing is us.'
Us.
Such a tiny word, and yet such a big one—the most important word in any vocabulary—English or Italian.
EPILOGUE
A look of pride made his black eyes gleam, and Cesare smiled. 'You look beautiful/ he murmured.
'But you can't see me properly!' Sorcha whispered back with a smile. 'Now, shhh— here's the priest.'
Ivory tulle hung over her face like a creamy waterfall, and the bouquet she carried was of pale pink and frilly roses—the closest match Sorcha could get to those which grew around the Villa Pindaro, where she had found her heart's desire on a clear morning after a mountain storm.
Behind her stood Emma as matron of honour. Her sister was newly pregnant and glowing like a light bulb, and holding her hand was little Gino who, at the age of four, was deemed old enough to be a pageboy. He was behaving wonderfully—apart from the occasional lapse into solemn thumb-sucking.
Sorcha and Cesare hadn't rushed into marriage—they hadn't felt the need to—and they had made so many big life-changes in order to be together that they wanted to enjoy their wedding in a peaceful state of mind. And you couldn't rush peace of mind.
Sorcha had left England and gone to live in Italy—but it had been no great wrench nor an agonising decision. The world had shrunk and travel was easy, and it had felt like the place she both needed and wanted to be—the place she'd decided they would bring up their children, if they were lucky and blessed enough to have them.
Sorcha had jettisoned her career with the family firm—'Been there, done that, and wasn't particularly brilliant at it,' as she'd said to Maceo. The corporate rat-race no longer held any appeal. Sometimes you just had to do something in order to get it out of your system.
Instead she had set about becoming competent in the business of running an Italian estate. She had learned about the harvesting of the precious olives and the making of di Arcangelo wine. She'd taken lessons in Italian and grown fluent, and had just started giving English classes to the children in a nearby village.
And Cesare had wound down his corporate life, too. He found that he no longer wanted to restlessly travel the globe, making more money than he would ever need. His life was with Sorcha, and she had built for him the first real home he had ever known. She had shown him how to love, and he had discovered—as with every other thing in his life—that he happened to be exceptionally good at it!
He turned now and smiled tenderly at the woman who would soon be his wife. So far so good. The only flies in the ointment were the banks of paparazzi camped outside the church—but he had only himself to blame for asking Maceo to be his best man!
The Whittaker house was ready for another wedding reception and looking glorious— everything was just about as perfect as it was possible to be. For the first time in his life Cesare was looking forward to the rest of it.
'I love you, Sorcha, ' Cesare whispered, just before the priest began to speak.
And Sorcha was glad this wasn't a fairytale, because it would now be ending. Instead of just beginning.
ISBN: 1-55254-748-5
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