by Lynne Graham
‘Revenge? Gaetano may be dead but you hate his guts and never got the chance to tell him so. In fact I suspect you distrust and dislike anyone called Ravelli!’ Cristo slammed back at her in condemnation.
‘I’ve changed.’ Yet Belle wanted so badly to slap him that her palm tingled. Only the knowledge that before she met him she had had that attitude burned her deep with shame, for one thing she had learned to appreciate since then was that Gaetano’s hedonistic lifestyle had damaged almost every life he touched, not least those of the children he had fathered without parenting. ‘Well, then I’d have a real problem with my identity, wouldn’t I?’ she fired back with ringing disdain. ‘Considering that now I’m a Ravelli too.’
‘Sì, and my wife, cara mia.’ Cristo found himself suddenly savouring that reality as he looked at her, aggression switching into another similarly testosterone-driven reaction, his attention surging from her beautiful defiant face down to her heaving breasts shimmying below the light tee she wore, arousal roaring through him like an engine revving up.
‘But not so happy to be your wife right now!’ Belle hissed a split second before Cristo cornered her by the wall, closing an ensnaring hand into her tumbling curls to tip up her mouth and then silencing any objection she might have made with the heat of his own.
Belle pushed against his chest but it was, at most, a half-hearted protest because, as fired up by emotion as she was, she couldn’t fight the overwhelming rush of sexual hunger that assailed her the instant Cristo touched her. His kisses were ravenous, both of his hands fisted in her hair, his lean, powerful body pinning her to the wall while his tongue teased and delved inside her mouth with ravishing force. A moan was wrenched from her lips as he squeezed the straining bud of one tender nipple through her clothing and the sensation ran like dynamite to the aching heart of her. She felt frantic, possessed, needy way beyond anything she had ever experienced before.
Belle wrenched at his shirt, struggling with the buttons and then finally yanking in frustration at the barrier between them, so that the buttons flew and the shirt parted and he drew back for an instant. She was shocked by what she had done, her colour high but, regardless, she succumbed to the overpowering desire to mould her palms to the hard planes of his hair-roughened chest and feel the wild heat and strength of his very masculine body.
‘I’ve never wanted any woman as much as I want you,’ Cristo bit out, taking a long stride away from her to slam the door shut, turn the lock and stalk back to her with clear devastating intent in his devouring gaze.
And Belle had never known what hunger felt like until she met him and, even though she was shaken by her own primitive urges, her passionate desire was stoked higher by the boldly visible erection he sported below his chinos. ‘Take off the shirt,’ she told him.
‘Getting bossy now?’ Cristo quipped as he dropped it on the floor.
‘Oh, you have no idea,’ she murmured, relishing the sight of his powerfully muscled chest and impressive abs, helpless anticipation lancing through her as she curled her fingers into his belt and hauled him back to her.
At that point, Cristo flung back his handsome dark head and laughed, lowering his head to kiss her again in the midst of lifting her silk top up and up and finally, somewhat clumsily for a man of his sophistication, off over her head. She was not wearing a bra and he shaped the firm full globes he had revealed with reverent hands, thumbs and fingers stroking over the swollen tips. ‘I love your curves,’ he confided with husky emphasis, skating his palms down admiringly over the sloping softness of her hips before his hand slid below the skirt and ran unerringly up the hot skin of her inner thigh. Lost in the grip of urgent need, she angled away from the wall towards him, wanting, inviting, and truly needing his touch.
Her eyes slid shut as he teased the swollen hot flesh already damp with desire at the heart of her and, with a little sound of impatience, he knelt down to dispose of her panties and lingered to appreciate that most tender part of her with his tongue and his sensually skilled mouth.
‘Cristo!’ Belle gasped.
‘For the last three nights while you went to your bed and I went to mine, I’ve been dreaming about doing this,’ Cristo confessed with carnal boldness, the low growl of his roughened intonation vibrating down her spine.
He tasted her and savoured her as though she were the finest wine and intoxicating waves of sensation engulfed Belle until she was trembling and only the wall and his arm at her hips were keeping her upright against that seductive onslaught. Only when she literally couldn’t take any more of the taunting, delirious pleasure that he wouldn’t allow to progress to its natural conclusion did he sweep her up in his arms and sit her down on the edge of the desk. Once she was in position, he stepped between her spread thighs and crushed her reddened mouth below his again with a primal insistence that consumed her like an adrenalin shot injected straight into her veins.
‘I didn’t see us doing this…here,’ Belle muttered shakily.
‘I don’t know how I kept my hands off you the last few days, bellezza mia,’ Cristo confided hoarsely, nuzzling his cheek down the extended length of her throat with a deeply expressive masculine groan of agreement. ‘I didn’t want to rock the boat.’
‘Rock it!’ Belle urged him on breathlessly as he began to push inside her, her inner walls initially protesting the unflinching demand of his entrance and then slowly stretching around him with a delicious sensation of fullness that made her moan in elated response.
His hands firm on her hips, Cristo tipped her back and then he drove home to the hilt with a power and immediacy that was even more thrilling for her highly aroused body. He pulled back and then slammed home again, jolting her with an excitement that ran like a river of fire through every erogenous zone she possessed. Her heart was racing, her entire body straining and pleading for the ultimate climax while he increased the speed of his strokes, driving faster, deeper while the frenzy of her need and exhilaration combined into a wild roller-coaster ride of ever-increasing pleasure. Her body clenched and she convulsed, crying out and quivering as the pleasure burst like shooting fireworks inside her, sending surge after surge of breathtaking ecstasy travelling through her trembling body.
Cristo wasn’t quite sure he could stay upright as his own climax engulfed him and he held her close, groaning out loud as he spilled his seed inside her, and the very newness of that sensation sent him back on full alert. ‘Che diavolo!’ he exclaimed in consternation, immediately imagining the worst possible scenario. ‘I didn’t use a condom!’
Taken aback by the sudden admission, Belle blinked uncertainly as he wrapped both arms round her and steadied them both. ‘Oh…’ she framed against his chest, his heart thundering against her cheek, the musky male scent of his skin wonderfully familiar and extraordinarily soothing to her now.
‘I’ve never ever not used one before,’ Cristo assured her in a driven undertone. ‘You got me so worked up.’
‘It’s all right,’ she mumbled, hiding a smile of satisfaction at the awareness that she could be responsible for exciting him to the extent that he failed to exercise his usual self-discipline. ‘I started taking the pill before the wedding, so there shouldn’t be any consequences.’
Cristo pictured Franco purely in terms of a consequence and was quite astounded to recognise the tiniest pang of disappointment when she reassured him that there was no risk of such a development. He shook his handsome dark head as if to clear it of such an insane thought, seriously rattled by it and where it might have come from. He had no desire for a child, had never had a desire for one and yet there was something about Franco…
‘You’re incredible, bellezza mia,’ he husked, blanking out those unsettling weird reflections in favour of kissing her brow, the tip of her nose and finally her luscious mouth. ‘You have a passion and an ability to excite me that most men can only dream about finding with one woman.’
Slowly, carefully he lowered her back down to the floor before helpfully lifting
her top to slide over her head and back over her torso. Dazed, she leant back against the desk again, cheeks as hot as coals, eyes screened by her lashes as she absorbed that last statement with pleasure but also because she was shockingly disconcerted by the wildness they had shared and the sheer screaming intimacy of the experience.
A couple of hours later and groomed to within an inch of her life, those tumultuous emotions and sensations carefully tamped down, Belle scrutinised her reflection with a sharply critical gaze. It was a beautiful dress and her youngest sister would have told her that she looked like a princess in it because Lucia, in common with their late mother, adored feminine frills. Pale pink and full length, the gown was bare at the shoulder and moulded to her figure at breast and hip. Did she look just a little too busty? She hitched the bodice and then almost laughed, pretty much convinced when she thought about it that Cristo would enjoy the view.
Betsy rang Cristo as he emerged from the shower in his own room next door. He listened as he always did but he felt strangely detached from his sister-in-law and her problems. It occurred to him that he had never lusted after Nik’s wife the way he did after his own and he marvelled at that reality, wondering if some internal censor button had somehow prevented it or whether indeed she didn’t appeal to him quite that much on that more basic level, which struck him as an extraordinary possibility.
He was still listening to Betsy recount the latest hostile moves his brother had made in the divorce battle when Belle came downstairs and his mind went totally blank because Belle looked fantastic and he couldn’t think of anything else. He ended the call with an apologetic mutter.
‘Who were you talking to?’ Belle asked, her attention locked to the unusually distracted expression on his lean dark features.
‘Betsy.’
‘Nik’s wife?’
Cristo struggled not to sound defensive. ‘We’re friends.’
‘That must be awkward,’ Belle remarked. ‘Were you friends before they got married?’
Cristo tensed, a muscle pulling taut at the corner of his shapely mouth. ‘No. It happened because of the way they broke up.’
Like a bloodhound on the trail, Belle was in no mood to settle for less than she wanted to know. ‘And why did they break up?’
‘For very private reasons. But something I let slip when I should have kept quiet and minded my own business contributed to it.’ Cristo framed that admission of guilt in a harsh undertone. ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you more but I caused a lot of trouble by once carelessly revealing a secret which Nik had shared with me and…I definitely have lived to regret it.’
Belle wanted to drag the whole truth out of him there and then because all her suspicious antennae were now waking up to full alert. Exactly what did his ‘friendship’ with Betsy Ravelli entail?
Outside the limousine awaited them. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked to fill the strained silence, which confirmed for her that there had to be a very good reason why Cristo was quite so wary and uncomfortable when it came to discussing his brother’s estranged wife. Was she being fanciful in being so suspicious? Was his reaction simply the result of his guilty conviction that he might have contributed to the breakdown of the couple’s marriage? But if that was true, why did he carry a photo of Betsy in his wallet? That lent an all too personal dimension to the relationship that could only make Belle feel troubled.
‘We’re going to Assisi. There’s a very special restaurant there,’ Cristo imparted, relieved she had dropped the touchy subject of Nik’s marriage breakdown.
‘Assisi…as in the birthplace of St Francis?’
Cristo gave her a droll look. ‘There is only one.’
‘To be actually going there just feels so weird. It was my mother’s lifelong dream to visit Assisi. She was a great believer in the power of St Francis,’ Belle explained, a certain amount of embarrassment at that unsophisticated admission mingling with the very real sadness that claimed her when something touched on her many memories of the older woman.
‘And Gaetano never brought Mary to Italy?’ Cristo prompted in surprise.
‘Are you kidding? He never took Mum anywhere,’ Belle countered between compressed lips of grim recollection. ‘Their relationship only existed behind closed doors.’
‘And your mother didn’t object to that?’
‘No and what’s more she still thought the sun rose and fell on him. Gaetano didn’t take her money, knock her around or get drunk, so in her opinion he was perfection. She wasn’t very bright or well educated,’ Belle proffered in a guilty undertone because she felt disloyal making that statement about the parent she had loved. ‘But she was a very loving, loyal and kind person.’
‘She must also have been very tolerant and forgiving. That’s probably why their affair lasted so long,’ Cristo commented with a wry twist of his mouth.
Belle’s throat thickened with tears and she swallowed with difficulty. ‘Sometimes I miss her so much it hurts,’ she admitted quietly.
Cristo tensed when he noticed the glimmer of moisture on her cheeks. He breathed in slow and deep, unfroze his big powerful body with difficulty and pushed himself to close a hand over her tightly clenched fingers where they rested on her lap. ‘I can’t even say that I can imagine how you feel because it would be a lie,’ he conceded ruefully. ‘I’m not particularly close to my mother and I had no relationship with Gaetano to mourn when he died. You’re fortunate to be a part of such a close family.’
In silence, Belle nestled her fingers beneath the warmth of his and marvelled at that unexpectedly thoughtful gesture of comfort and the sentiment from his corner.
They dined at a table set for two on a massive terrace surrounded by amazing views of the picturesque hillside town. The streets they had driven through had been a geranium-hung blaze of flowering colour and she had caught glimpses of medieval back lanes and piazzas adorned with ancient fountains.
‘Where are all the other customers?’ Belle asked, surveying the empty tables around them.
‘Tonight, we’re the only customers and one of Italy’s most famous chefs is cooking solely for us, bella mia.’
‘And you arranged it that way?’ Belle prompted in amazement.
‘This is the very first time I’ve taken you anywhere,’ Cristo pointed out bluntly. ‘And we’ve been married a week, which basically tells me that I owe you a decent night out. I also owe you for all the work you put in for me without complaint.’
‘I like working. I like feeling useful,’ Belle confessed truthfully, green eyes sparkling, generous mouth warming into an unrestrained smile because simply sitting there in her beautiful dress with her even more beautiful husband opposite made her feel ridiculously spoilt and contented.
Hungry desire flaming through him afresh and coalescing in an ache of raw need so eager to stir at his groin, Cristo studied his wife, marvelling at the explosive effect she had on his libido. Although he didn’t consider himself to be either an emotional or sentimental man, he found her natural warmth and liveliness amazingly attractive.
The waiter brought the menu and the chef came out to greet them and offer recommendations. By then dusk was falling and the candles were lit. Belle cradled her wine and sipped, rejoicing in the fact that she could at last relax in Cristo’s company.
‘You still haven’t explained why Bruno and Donetta were sent to boarding school,’ Cristo drawled lazily.
Her fingers tightened round the glass in her hand. ‘Bruno was never an athletic boy and he finally admitted to Gaetano that he was only interested in art. Your father asked him if he was gay…he was only thirteen at the time,’ she completed in a tone of disgust.
Cristo swore under his breath.
‘Then Gaetano decided to make that a running joke and whenever he saw Bruno after that he called him “gay boy”. Eventually someone else overheard and talked and Bruno started getting bullied at school but he didn’t tell us what was happening,’ Belle explained heavily, having to pause to breathe in deep
before she could continue to tell the distressing truth. ‘Bruno tried to kill himself but, very fortunately for us and him, we found him in time and he recovered.’
Cristo was honestly appalled by the confession while he recalled that skinny-wristed boy with the anxious eyes who had cornered him on the day of the wedding. ‘I was remarkably lucky, it seems, to escape Gaetano’s concept of how to be a good father.’
‘Well, after that Donetta finally picked up the courage to tell us what had been going on at school and that’s why they both went into boarding,’ Belle advanced. ‘Bruno’s experience with Gaetano is the main reason why I hated your father. And my brother, by the way, is not gay.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference to me if he was,’ Cristo remarked as the first course was deferentially laid before them. ‘The poor kid.’
‘He’s a very talented artist and the change of environment was exactly what he needed, even if it does mean he and Donetta are separated from the family.’
‘When they move to London, they won’t be separated any longer,’ Cristo reminded her. ‘They can attend a day school or even board and come home at weekends—whichever they would prefer… It’s up to them.’
‘I know. I wanted us all to be together again,’ she confided ruefully. ‘But you might find it a little crowded with all of us around.’
Cristo dealt her a wicked look teeming with all the passion that simmered so close to the surface of his apparently controlled exterior. ‘I think I will enjoy being crowded by you.’
CHAPTER NINE
WITH A GROWING sense of awe, Belle studied the laptop pictures of the latest London property details sent for their perusal by the consultant hired by Cristo. Cristo had told Belle simply to pick a house, as his penthouse apartment was too small to house her family. He had very little interest in what his new home would be like, having merely specified a room to house an office and sufficient space in which to entertain. Belle was staggered, not only by the sheer meteoric cost and superb appointments of the elite properties tendered to them, but also by the level of responsibility Cristo had entrusted her with.
