Blackmailed Bride, Inexperienced Wife

by Annie West

  The kiss had been an error.

  It must never happen again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THEY emerged from the building into bright sunlight. Brilliant blue sky mocked Alissa’s foreboding.

  ‘Mr Parisi! Dario Parisi!’

  Alissa faltered as strident voices called out.

  ‘Hell!’ Beside her, Dario gave vent to a stream of vitriolic Italian under his breath. Bewildered, Alissa saw a mob of photographers crowding close.

  Dario turned, his shoulder blocking them from her vision. She read the sizzle of fury in his expression.

  ‘That’s why you wore the dress? Playing to the media?’ His tone could cut solid ice. ‘Enjoy it while you can, Signora Parisi. Your day in the limelight will be short.’

  ‘Mr Parisi!’ A shout cut across Alissa’s denial. ‘Have you got a statement about your secret marriage to an Aussie girl?’ Cameras thrust close, their lenses threatening dark voids, the sound of shutter clicks aggressive.

  ‘No comment,’ Dario said brusquely, keeping her clamped against him as he shouldered his way down the stairs. His arm looped round her in an embrace like the bite of an unyielding iron chain.

  ‘After you.’ His clipped tone matched his tight hold.

  Alissa stared at the limousine. At the door held open by a familiar chauffeur. The same tough-looking character who’d followed her this past month.

  ‘No, thank you. I have my own car.’ Her ancient red hatchback was a block away.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he paused on the word, his emphasis on the sibilant vaguely sinister, ‘we’ll travel together.’

  Short of an embarrassing public tussle, she had no choice but to let him sweep her into the limo.

  Alissa sat stiffly as he bent to tuck in the train of her dress, apparently oblivious to the clustering Press. She caught again the fresh scent of his skin, so warmly enticing. So unlike the rigid precision of the man himself. His black hair was combed severely, not a lock out of place. His collar whiter than white, the cut of his suit perfection, his visage as grimly beautiful as a stone god.

  There was nothing soft about him.

  As his eyes lifted under level black brows to meet hers, she was stabbed again by the chill of his disapproval. His distaste. And more. Hatred?

  Alissa shrank back, heart fluttering. He had what he wanted, the promise of the old castello. He couldn’t want a more personal form of retribution.

  His silence as they sped off did nothing to dispel her unease. Tension built with each wordless kilometre.

  ‘I didn’t call the Press,’ she finally blurted.

  ‘Spare me your protestations of innocence.’ He waved a disparaging hand. ‘I have no interest in them.’

  ‘Even if they’re the truth?’ Indignation sizzled at his presumption of her guilt.

  His gaze bored into her, like sharpened steel against her soft flesh. ‘I accept you are many things, but don’t tax my credulity by pretending innocent is one of them.’

  Hot denials trembled on her lips but she bit them back. Instinct told her he was as obstinate as he was self-satisfied. No amount of arguing would persuade him.

  Alissa’s pulse tripped at the flicker of awareness she read in his hooded eyes. A shimmer of heat flared in the pit of her belly. Despite his formidable control he had the look of a man well-versed in carnal pleasures. That sensuous mouth. Those hands…

  Incendiary heat spread under her skin, over her breasts, her throat, to her cheeks.

  She couldn’t believe she had such thoughts about Dario. It should be easy to hate him for his brutal, domineering tactics, for his overweening pride, for the way he enjoyed her discomfort. Even for the pain he’d unwittingly caused with his first offer of marriage. Alissa had paid a high price for turning him down, enduring the worst ever of her grandfather’s beatings.

  But, to her horror, it wasn’t hatred that stirred as she met his dark gaze. It was something far more primitive. Far more dangerous. Far more…feminine.

  If ever Dario guessed, he’d make her life hell.

  The setting sun turned the Mediterranean to liquid silk, indigo and pink shot with orange and shafts of gold.

  It was beautiful, the exquisite colours, the rugged coastal outcrops, the ancient towns and villages. Yet a chill of trepidation lanced Alissa and she shifted uneasily on the limousine’s leather seat.

  Sicily. The island that had bred the manipulative, vicious man she’d had to call grandfather. The one place she’d never wanted to visit. The place that had also produced God’s gift to himself, Dario Parisi.

  Despite the first-class luxury of their flight and the doting attention of staff, Alissa had barely slept. She felt crumpled and stale. Worse, she couldn’t shake her anxiety about Donna.

  She didn’t like leaving while her sister was ill. Yes, Donna was married now, but a lifetime’s habit wasn’t easily ignored. Alissa had been responsible for her since they were kids. She’d looked out for her, protected her.

  She bit her lip, remembering how badly she’d failed her little sister when it really mattered.

  Now Donna had David, a man who’d do anything for his bride. They’d be happy together. Donna deserved a chance at happiness after the childhood she’d endured. If only they could get the money for her treatment. Such severe liver damage was beyond the skills of the local medicos. Her only hope of survival lay in a radical new treatment overseas. Expensive treatment. They’d tried everything they could to raise the cash. Unsuccessfully.

  Which brought Alissa to Dario Parisi. Her husband.

  Through the long journey he’d been at ease amidst the extravagant luxury that, though she fought not to show it, unsettled Alissa. A man with that sort of money could get away with almost anything.

  He’d slept soundly, as if he didn’t have a thing on his conscience. He’d eaten heartily and been brusquely courteous in a way that reinforced his disapproval. Clearly he considered her undeserving of his exalted company!

  He was an arrogant, macho dinosaur who considered his word law. His casual acceptance of lavish attention, his impatience at delay bespoke a man of enormous power and ego. Despite his handsome façade he was dangerous. She’d read about his cutthroat business tactics and how he crushed all before him. His reputation with women was no better. His progress was littered with beautiful, disappointed ex-lovers.

  Dario sat back, surveying the landscape through narrowed, proprietary eyes as if he owned it all. For all she knew he might! The flight from Rome by luxury private jet was more proof of his stupendous wealth.

  ‘How much further?’ They were the first words either had spoken since they’d landed in Sicily.

  Alissa could have kicked herself when she saw his mouth twist in a smirk of triumph. Had he hoped she’d snap under his silence?

  If that was the worst he could do, he was in for a shock. She’d weathered far worse treatment, meted out by an expert.

  When he spoke his voice was like smoky honey. Goose flesh rose across her arms and awareness sizzled. He’d probably spent years perfecting that deep tone. It was guaranteed to get under any woman’s skin.

  ‘What?’ he purred. ‘Aren’t you enjoying the view? Most visitors are in raptures over their first sight of Sicily.’

  Alissa met his scrutiny for only a moment before turning away. ‘Most of them are willing visitors, looking forward to a holiday in the sun.’

  ‘And you’re unwilling?’ He paused so long she fought the urge to look at him over her hunched shoulder. She was strung out, at the end of her physical and mental reserves. She didn’t have the energy for a full-on altercation.

  ‘No one forced you, Alissa. You came of your own free will.’ The way he said her name, lingering over the sibilants, drawing out the vowels, made it almost a caress.

  He was playing with her, enjoying her discomfort.

  ‘That doesn’t deserve an answer.’ Dario Parisi and her grandfather had manipulated her into a position where the notion of free will was a joke.
>
  Her husband relished the knowledge. He probably got his kicks out of bullying people who couldn’t stand up to him. Or, in her case, besting the woman who’d spurned his offer of marriage not once but twice. No doubt his pride had smarted at the rejection. She’d bet he wasn’t used to women denying him what he wanted.

  From the corner of her eye she saw a blur of movement. Strong fingers cupped her chin. He didn’t use enough force to hurt her, yet she had no option but to turn. His long frame crowded her into the corner of the back seat.

  Her heart thumped an uneven tattoo as she inhaled the scent of ripe lemon and fresh man, a warm, earthy tang that made her nostrils flare and her pulse patter.

  Heat flushed her body and she leaned back, trying to avoid contact. He shifted his hand, sliding his fingers down her throat, where she was most vulnerable, then round to cup her neck and hold her still. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin below her ear and blood roared, blocking out the hum of the car engine.

  ‘Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?’ His dulcet tone was incredulous. ‘Do you really think I should have any compunction about how I treat the woman who plotted to deny me my birthright?’ He leaned close enough for his breath to feather her mouth.

  Despite his leashed anger, there was something almost…erotic about the proximity of his long, mobile mouth with its sensuously full lower lip. She felt each word in puffs of air that ignited explosions of sensation along her own mouth.

  It was anger that parched her throat and made her swipe her lips with her tongue. It couldn’t be anything else, not when his every move, each piercing word, was a calculated insult.

  His gaze flicked to her lips. The pressure of his hand increased. He pressed closer, thigh to her thigh.

  ‘I did no such thing.’ Her voice was breathless, shameful evidence of weakness. ‘I just arranged to marry.’

  ‘Arranged to marry.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s what you call it? You refuse me yet connive to wed another so you can deprive me of what is mine? Did you get a kick out of that, Alissa? You didn’t just want the money, you also wanted to hurt me.’ His voice thickened to a low, dangerous whisper that sent a chill of anxiety along her spine.

  ‘It wasn’t enough that you’ve lived a life of indulgent luxury at the expense of my family. That you had every opportunity our money could purchase.’ His searing gaze didn’t release hers. ‘You squandered those opportunities.’ His lips thinned into a disapproving line. ‘What have you made of yourself? You have a dead-end job, a well-developed taste for parties and a criminal record.’

  His disdain triggered a rush of desperate energy. Alissa lifted her hands to his shoulders and shoved, desperate for space. But he didn’t budge. He was as immoveable as the island along which the car sped.

  Impotent, she could only brace her arms, hoping to prevent him from closing the tiny gap between them.

  ‘You’re so sure of my guilt.’ Her voice was overloud in the cocooned silence of their private compartment. ‘Did it never occur to you I’m as much a victim in this as you?’

  More so. For Dario Parisi had turned the situation to his own advantage with the sure, quick wit and daring of a natural predator. He was beyond her league in that and so many other ways. But she refused to be cowed.

  ‘A victim?’ His eyes roved over her, his stare so intense she felt it, like the slide of burning ice on skin.

  Her lips tingled as if singed by fire when his gaze dropped to her mouth. For a heartbeat, for two, he stared. By the third pulse beat the tingle had become a throb. By the sixth her breathing had constricted, coming in short, hard pants that made her breasts rise and fall mere centimetres from the solid, imposing strength of his chest. By the ninth her lips felt tender, swollen, as if bruised by his ravaging look.

  She tried and failed to forget the taste of his lips on hers. The blaze of heat that had engulfed her as he marked her with the brand of his possession. Though he didn’t care for her, he’d taken the time to remind her she was his wife. His chattel.

  And, despite every instinct for self-preservation, part of her responded to that primitive claim!

  Still he didn’t move. His sleek brows arrowed down in a frown of diabolical concentration. With his deep widow’s peak, glossy dark hair and spare, powerful features he was the epitome of danger, his elegance a façade to raw power and primal urges.

  His gaze held her immobile, in thrall to this thing that sparked between them. It was something she didn’t want to name. Something that scared her more than threats or promises of reprisal.

  He looked away and Alissa almost sobbed with relief.

  Till he moved again. He cupped her face, his thumb on her mouth, pressing open her lips. Darts of fire shot out from his slow, deliberately erotic touch, straight to her engorged nipples and her belly.

  Horrified, she stared into his darkening eyes.

  She tasted his skin on her lips. A salty, musky tang. His thumb pressed lower, dragging her bottom lip down till he could invade her mouth, swiping her inner lip and tongue. That small invasion was shattering.

  She read the glitter in his eyes, no longer cold and indifferent but febrile with an unholy pleasure. He knew exactly how devastating she found his caress.

  His thumb traced the ridge of her teeth and her eyelids flickered, heavy with the weight of this new and alien force. She wanted to bite down on his flesh. Suckle it, draw it into her mouth, make his body heat and writhe like the twisting coils of sensation flaring inside her.

  How had her anger morphed into this?

  His lips drew back in a smile of stark masculine satisfaction. He closed in on her and she was helpless to break the spell of his touch and her own surging desire.

  It was only as his head lowered, his chest brushing her oversensitive breasts, that she regained her sanity.

  With both hands she clamped hold of his sinewy wrist and pulled. The silky hair below his cuff tickled but she ignored it, just as she ignored the frantic messages of her brain. Messages of thwarted desire and soul-swamping need.

  Once she’d thought Dario less of a threat than her abusive grandfather. She’d been wrong. Dario had only to look at her, touch her, and she turned into someone she didn’t know. Someone ravaged by disturbingly primal needs that Alissa Scott had never experienced.

  ‘We may be married but you don’t have the right to paw me,’ she gasped, thrusting his hand away and shoving at his chest. Beneath his open jacket she felt hard-packed muscle. Heat and power and pure male energy.

  She shut her eyes and prayed this madness would cease.

  ‘You give me the right when you look at me like that.’ His uneven whisper was a rough growl. ‘If ever a woman invited a man—’

  ‘Enough!’ Her eyes snapped open. ‘Read my lips, Signor Parisi. I—do—not—want—you—near—me!’ She punctuated each word with a thrust of her hands, becoming more desperate as he remained stolidly unmoving. She was at his mercy, locked in this tiny space.

  Her heart hammered a panicked beat that threatened to choke her. Claustrophobia, the old enemy, engulfed her, making her senses swim and her head spin. The world closed in, darkening her vision to a narrowing tunnel of fear.

  ‘Please,’ it was a hoarse whisper, ‘I…’

  An instant later she was free. Cool air brushed her cheeks from an open window. Light banished the encroaching shadows. She slumped. Dario’s stare raked her. But as she gulped down sweet air even that didn’t matter.

  She was safe. For now.

  Dario scrutinised her intently, searching her pale features for signs of satisfaction or triumph. Her play on his sympathy had worked.

  Was she so good an actress? He frowned, noting the pulse hammering in her slender throat. Her breathing was ragged, as if strained by fear.

  Moments before she’d been caught in the same heady sizzle as he. With an expert knowledge honed over thirty-three years he’d recognised it. Despite her denials she’d been so hot and ready he could have had her on the back
seat of the limo. Anticipation had thrummed through him.

  At first he’d assumed it was a trick, seduction to soften him up for another attempt to wheedle cash from him.

  Except she hadn’t initiated that erotic little interlude. He had.

  Now she gave an excellent imitation of a woman overcome by fear. Could he have so misread her? Had she truly been unwilling? The idea gnawed at his belly. He would never force himself on a woman in that way.

  Or perhaps she was chagrined to find her fake response to him was the real thing?

  Dario had no false modesty about his effect on women.

  Now he was stunned at the sliver of doubt puncturing his certainty. He’d closed in on her out of anger, wanting to punish her. He hadn’t forgiven her for making this difficult. She could so easily have agreed to his proposal years ago and all this would have been long settled.

  Dario wasn’t used to being manipulated. He’d been forced to barter his name to acquire the castello, marrying a Mangano. Yet when he’d finally swallowed his pride this woman had thrown his offer in his face. She’d tried to make a fool of him by ensuring he didn’t get his inheritance. She’d even had the gall to ask for money up front before the wedding. As if he’d finance her lifestyle!

  Now his plan to punish her had backfired. She’d brought him to a fever pitch of arousal in moments.

  He’d barely touched her. Hadn’t even kissed her. Yet the taste of her was imprinted on his palate. Their kiss yesterday had been a necessity then a punishment and then, to his astonishment, a pleasure.

  One taste and he craved more.

  Dario sank back, his mind whirling. Despite all he knew about Alissa Scott she’d got under his skin.

  It was not to be tolerated!

  The sight of familiar security gates eased the tension between his shoulder blades. Soon he’d be home. This illusory link between them would snap once he resumed his usual routine—

  Dario’s eyes widened as the car swung up the approach to the house. His gaze fixed on a cluster of people around a small figure in black at the foot of the entrance staircase.