by Andie Brock
Orlando was no longer sure about anything any more. How had he ended up here, in the place he’d vowed he would never revisit, with a woman he barely knew who was carrying his child? What the hell had happened to his life?
Returning to Castello Trevente had been a mistake. He should never have come back. The memories of that fateful summer, those few weeks when he had lived here, had come flooding back like a dark tide as soon as he had driven through the iron gates at the entrance to the estate. Only a sideways glance at Isobel’s tight-lipped determination had stopped him from turning the car around there and then, and roaring away in the opposite direction.
Inside the castello the ghosts of the past had been waiting for him, just as he had known they would be. He recalled the sense of wonder he’d had on his first visit, so excited about the new life that had been opened up to him. Wonder that had turned to boredom and then impatience as he had roamed around the deserted castello in search of something to do, ending up camping in one room as he waited for his father to join him.
It hadn’t taken Orlando long to realise that Carlo Cassano much preferred the anonymous gambling dens and drinking holes of Bologna or Milan to the tiresome responsibilities that awaited his attention on the Trevente estate. The live-in staff of the castello had long since departed, but there had still been the tenant farmers, the vineyards and the olive groves, all desperately needing his attention.
When his father had finally turned up it hadn’t been to address any of those issues. His only interest had been the criminal plan he was masterminding and persuading Orlando, his long-lost son, to do his bidding.
In the meantime Orlando had met Sophia, the pretty daughter of a local wine merchant. Sophia had been banned from seeing Orlando by her father—no doubt because of Orlando’s wild ways and the debauched reputation of his father—but their romance had flourished in secret, fuelled by the naivety of youth and the thrill of illicit love.
The Cassano wine warehouse had been their secret meeting place. Cool, dark and with the rich smell of alcohol and aged oak, it had seemed like the perfect hideaway. And it was there that they had planned to meet that fateful night—the night when everything had changed.
Getting ready to leave the castello, Orlando had been waylaid by the arrival of his father. Drunk and waving a fistful of notes, Carlo Cassano had come crashing in, announcing that this was a down payment for Orlando, that more riches would be coming his way once Orlando had done his work and the warehouse had been reduced to ashes. But the sight of his slurring father had turned Orlando’s stomach, and suddenly he had realised that he could never go through with this crazy idea.
So he had told Carlo that the deal was off, that he wouldn’t be carrying out his criminal plan after all. A vicious, furious row had ensued, echoing through the empty rooms, sending birds screeching from the rafters and shattering the stagnant peace of the castello. Snarling with hatred, Carlo Cassano had started to swing his fists, all the while hurling abuse at his ‘spineless and pathetic’ son. Easily blocking the drunken punches, Orlando had felt their blows nevertheless—to his dignity and his pride—and had faced the hideous reality that he was the son of such a man.
Watching him storm off into the night, Orlando had done nothing to stop him, only too glad to see the back of him. And that was the moment that Orlando would regret for the rest of his life. For instead of leaving for the warehouse there and then—going to meet Sophia as planned—Orlando had waited an hour. He’d needed time to stop the adrenaline pumping through his body—time to let his temper die down and for the utter disgust and revulsion he felt for his father to fade, so he could unclench his fists and loosen his clenched jaw.
Unbeknownst to Orlando, his father had gone straight to the warehouse, having decided to carry out his evil plan himself that very night. It was only when word had reached Orlando that the warehouse was on fire that he’d realised with full sickening horror what had happened.
Racing down to the docks, he had thrown himself into the smoke-filled inferno, oblivious to the searing heat and the flying glass of exploding wine bottles, desperately hoping against hope that he was wrong—that Sophia wasn’t in there at all, but safe somewhere, far away from this hell.
All hope had been extinguished when he’d found her and realised that he was too late. Sophia had already died. And Orlando had had to live with the weight of that on his conscience ever since.
Marching his temper around as he’d waited for Isobel, Orlando had found himself in the Cassano family graveyard, face to face with his father’s grave. Staring at the newly dug earth, at the grave still waiting for its headstone, he had felt nothing but revulsion, and the surge of anger had been enough to tense every muscle in his body, burn the backs of his eyes.
What the hell was he doing here?
Bending down to pick up a fallen branch, Orlando scythed it from side to side, attacking the weeds that had grown in rampant profusion all around.
And where the hell was Isobel?
He slashed at the long grass, beheading scarlet poppies. This young woman was in danger of seriously winding him up—no, correction, she had already done that...with bells on. Orlando cursed himself for letting Isobel get to him. He had no idea why he’d given vent to that outburst of frustration back in the drawing room, why he had felt the need to point out how infuriating he found her. It wasn’t as if it had done any good. It had simply exposed his weakness and given her the chance to demonstrate that sheer bloody-mindedness that she epitomised so well.
He thought back to the way she had looked as she had stood there in the half-light: boldly defiant, sassy, sexy. His eyes had been drawn to the swell of her breasts, grown more full as a result of her pregnancy, straining against the pale green fabric of her sundress. It had been all he could do not to reach out for her, to pull her against his growing arousal, let her see for herself what she did to him.
How she did it, Orlando had no idea. Sure, she was beautiful—but then he had known a lot of beautiful women in his life. There was something about her, a fresh-faced loveliness, that made him want to keep on looking, to drink her in until his tortured body was drowned in lust. Even when she had deliberately disobeyed him, marching up the stairs when he had expressly told her they were leaving, he had wanted to halt her progress with the span of his hands, to grip that pert backside and grind her against his need. To do something—anything—to alleviate his blood-pumping, groin-tightening, rampant desire.
Basically, the woman drove him crazy. And, worse still, the cravings he was so desperately trying to control were being met with a cool disregard, the whole ice-queen routine. It felt as if she was deliberately taunting him, determined to shake his self-control.
Well, congratulations, Ms Spicer. Snapping the branch across his knee, Orlando flung it into the bushes and marched back towards the house. You have succeeded. Taking the steps two at a time he flung open the front door and strode across the hall. But just maybe you will wish that you hadn’t.
Reaching the galleried landing, he paused to steady his breath, holding on to a banister that wobbled beneath his grip. Rooms led off in all directions but only one door was open, and it was there that he made for, driven on by a determination that he couldn’t articulate but which surged through him, firing the blood in his veins.
Isobel was standing in front of the window when he marched in, obstinately refusing to turn even though she couldn’t have failed to hear his stamping approach. Her slender frame was held perfectly still, silhouetted against a sky slashed with the orange and red streaks of a stunning sunset. She appeared transfixed, as if the colours had caught her in their spell. A spell that Orlando obviously had no chance of breaking, despite taking several steps closer, despite the sound of his agitated breath rasping through the still air.
‘Isobel!’
Turning to face him, she held a finger to her lips and that wound him up even more. She’d got some nerve, this one. Not only had she kept him waiting, now she had the bar
efaced cheek to tell him to keep quiet when he had been forced to come and find her. But that was Isobel all over, wasn’t it? Ignoring his orders, disobeying his instructions, treating him with an offhand disregard that was deliberately designed to try and undermine him. Well, they would see about that...
Closing the space between them, Orlando stood right behind her, so close that her floral scent invaded his nostrils and his shortened breath moved the strands of hair on the top of her head. He felt the familiar jolt of awareness pass between them and it brought a gleam of satisfaction to his eye. Oh, yes. Isobel might try and deny her attraction to him with her haughty disregard, the whole you-mean-nothing-to-me routine, but her body was betraying her now—just has he had planned it would.
He could sense rather than see the way she had stiffened, and knew that every nerve ending was alert to his presence despite the fact that she hadn’t moved a muscle. Or maybe because of it. He could just raise his hand, sweep the glossy curtain of hair to one side, lower his lips to the nape of her neck and see how she liked that. Run his lips slowly up the pale, soft skin to her ear lobe and wait for her to tremble beneath his hot breath. And then...
And then nothing. Because he wasn’t going to do it. Because this erotic fantasy was in danger of backfiring—big time. Because he could already feel the tightening of lust swelling in his groin, pushing aside all rational thought and demanding to be acted upon. And that wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing here. He was supposed to be testing Isobel, making her see that her icy facade didn’t fool him for one moment, making her realise that she could be his whenever he wanted. That he could make her beg for mercy, scream his name and plead with him to take her there and then, any way he wanted.
What he wasn’t supposed to be doing was demonstrating his own complete lack of control, letting her see the infuriating, all-consuming power she seemed to have over him. If it took every ounce of will power that he possessed he would prevent that.
‘I told you ten minutes.’
‘Look.’
Reluctantly Orlando let his gaze follow Isobel’s pointed finger to the scene through the window. In the low light of dusk he could see a herd of deer grazing in the overgrown wilderness that had once been formal gardens. No more than about thirty yards away, they seemed perfectly at ease, proud stags with their impressive antlers held high, females watching over their young, the distinctive dappling on the backs of the fawns still visible. Every now and then there would be a flash of white as a deer’s rump caught the last rays of the failing light.
‘Aren’t they beautiful?’
‘Caprioli. Roe deer.’ Despite himself Orlando found he had lowered his voice, was speaking softly against the back of her hair.
‘Do they belong to you?’
‘I have no idea.’ Rousing himself from the delights of the bucolic scene, Orlando hardened his heart. ‘But if they do now they won’t much longer.’
This retort saw Isobel finally spin around, her eyes glittering as she spanned her hands across his chest to push him away—or to prevent him from moving. Orlando didn’t know which. Either way, he could feel their heat through the cotton of his shirt.
‘You surprise me, Orlando.’ Isobel’s eyes darkened to an ocean-green with the graze of his puckered nipples beneath her fingers and it made her drop her arms by her sides. ‘I would never have put you down as the sort of man who would run away from anything.’
‘Chiedo scusa? I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s what you’re doing, you know. You are running away from your past.’ Tipping back her head, she confronted him full-on. ‘You would rather see a home that has been in your family for generations sold to a hotel chain or razed to the ground than have to face up to what happened with your father.’
‘That’s enough!’ Orlando’s voice rumbled around the darkening room like thunder. Raking a murderous gaze across her upturned face, he took in the flushed cheeks, the wilful glint in her eyes. Something fluttered inside him at the sight of those long, dark lashes brushing her cheeks. ‘I will not stand here listening to your half-baked theories about my character and my motives.’
‘Why? Because you are afraid they might be true?’
There was a long, dangerous silence. Boy, she was really pushing it now. Orlando waited for his fury to abate, waited until he was sure he had full control of voice.
‘You are forgetting your place, Isobel. You may be carrying my child, but that’s where it ends. You do not interfere in my affairs. And you do not speak to me like that. Ever.’
‘Well, somebody has to.’ Still she refused to back down, but his sharp rebuke had brought a tremor to her voice. ‘Someone needs to stop you selling the Trevente estate and losing it for ever. Someone needs to make you see that you are not thinking straight right now.’
‘So you know what I am thinking, do you, Isobel?’ Lowering his head, Orlando hissed his words quietly against Isobel’s ear. ‘Come on, then. If you are so clever, what I am thinking right now?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Orlando.’ Isobel turned to move away but, grasping hold of her wrists, Orlando held her firm.
‘If you know so much about me...if you are so sure that you can read my mind...tell me, Isobel. I’d be interested to know.’
His lips grazed the skin just below her ear and he felt her angle her head against the light pressure. Dio, she tasted so good. He squeezed her wrists tighter.
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ The words were boldly delivered but she didn’t pull away.
‘Really?’ Moving his mouth slowly down her neck, he kept his touch deliberately light, dry with the heat of his breath. His lips were soft, dragging against the silky smoothness of her skin, opening against the downward movement but exerting no pressure of their own. Not yet.
Isobel twitched against him. He was at the base of her throat now, in the delectable hollow between her collarbones. He let his tongue slip out, lightly circle the indentation before withdrawing again. ‘So, are you figuring it out yet?’
‘Orlando, you need to stop this...’
‘Not very impressive, if you don’t mind my saying.’ Tipping back his head just enough to find her eyes, Orlando held her trance-like gaze, watching as the emerald sparks of denial melted into a sea-green swirl of arousal that she couldn’t control. He felt his heart rate spike wildly, telling himself that this was vindication. Nothing whatsoever to do with his own rampant longing.
‘For someone who professes to be so intuitive, you are telling me you aren’t feeling anything now?’
‘No.’ Isobel tipped back her head, the better to expose her throat to his lips, the movement shifting her hips towards his, brushing against the ache in his groin. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
Hmm... Was she playing with him? Because he sure as hell wasn’t fooled by that throwaway remark.
‘Then I will just have to try harder.’
Raising his head so that he looked down into her face, he let his eyes rest there for a second, enjoying the moment. Then all at once his hands were in her hair, plunging into the velvety softness, his fingers threading through the tresses to pull her towards him. He just caught sight of her lips opening—whether in protest or invitation he didn’t know or care, because he was going to claim those lips for his own either way. He was going to kiss the hell out of her right now, whether she wanted it or not. That was a certainty.
He covered her mouth with his own, capturing it with a force that surprised even himself, but he had no intention of tempering it. They were playing a game here, right? She was testing him, goading him to try to arouse her, to make her eat her words. Well, it would be his pleasure. And judging by the way her body was reacting, arching against his rather than pushing him away, and the way her lips were opening beneath his to allow him to plunder within, rather than pursing shut, it was going to be a piece of cake.
Increasing the pressure still further, he revelled in the damp heat of her mouth, her breath hot and sweet against the rush of his own
, betraying her desire. And as his tongue flicked feverishly around, seeking hers, he was finally rewarded when it curled against his, firm and erotic, and more than enough to shoot a bolt of sexual intensity to his core.
Pulling her even more firmly against him, Orlando held her prisoner with fingers that were still threaded through her hair.
‘And now?’
Releasing her lips to allow a rasping intake of breath, he growled the question urgently against her cheek. He knew he had given up any hope of restraining the desire that was now raging through his body—that at this moment he had no idea who was testing whom. It was a wildly liberating realisation. He was free to do whatever he wanted.
‘Are you telling me you still feel nothing?’
‘Orlando, I...’
‘You what, Isobel? You want more convincing?’
Staring down at her flushed cheeks, her eyes bright with excitement, her chest heaving from the force of their kiss, Orlando knew with a satisfied certainty that she was going to have trouble getting out of this one. The pedant in him looked forward to hearing her try. The male in him needed her to make it quick.
‘One kiss means nothing, Orlando.’ She gave him a quick upward glance. ‘It doesn’t signify anything.’
But despite her coolly delivered words Orlando knew that Isobel Spicer was hanging on to her composure with fingertips that were fast losing their grip on the ledge. And that brought the curve of a smile to his lips.
‘Is that so? So no doubt this won’t mean anything either.’ Moving one arm around her slender waist, he twisted her body, hooking his other arm under the backs of her knees to sweep her effortlessly off her feet.
‘Orlando!’
Instinctively her arms flew around his neck to steady herself, which suited Orlando fine as he was moving now, across the echoing room that he had barely registered until now, marching towards the large shrouded shape in the middle of the floor that had to be a bed—or if it wasn’t it would have to serve as one. With Isobel clinging on to him, her body bumping against his, arousing him more and more with each jerky step, he knew that he didn’t care what was under that cloth so long as he could throw Isobel down on it—with himself on top.
