The Italian's Demand

by Sara Wood

  Dio! He couldn’t take much more, he thought desperately. His son should be happy and normal, creating chaos and laughter and exasperation in every corner of the house.

  Instead, Lio clung to Verity and barely left her alone for a moment. Angrily Vittore chopped vegetables, trying not to think of Lio’s distress. It hurt so much. And every second of every day he blessed Verity for being around to pick up the pieces of his son’s sanity and for remaining so calm and patient despite her exhaustion.

  He looked up, hearing her coming down the stairs with that slow, weary thump he now recognised as evidence of her shattering day.

  She stood swaying in the doorway, her hair dishevelled, face soft and vulnerable, body utterly womanly in the long, clinging dress that matched her incomparable eyes and enriched their drowsy depths.

  ‘Have some wine,’ he offered.

  ‘My saviour,’ she sighed and took the chair he held out for her.

  Crumpled, tousled and utterly irresistible, she sat down and listlessly watched him pour the wine into a crystal glass.

  ‘Took a long time tonight,’ he commented sympathetically, lighting candles to keep his hands occupied. How long had she been up there? Over an hour and a half, certainly.

  He wanted to go to her. Fold her in his embrace and give…and take, sweet heaven, to take!…comfort from the human contact. But knew his emotions were too close to the surface to be kept in control if he allowed himself such an indulgence.

  Verity’s huge, sad eyes looked at him over the rim of her glass. She sipped her wine and when she put her drink back on the table her lips were moist and glistening. Vittore felt his heart-rate shoot up. And busied himself with grilling the peppers.

  ‘He was very tired but wouldn’t close his eyes,’ she sighed. ‘I read four stories and sang virtually all the quiet and gentle songs I know.’ She yawned and stretched, then flopped back into a slump. ‘I think I could go to bed now.’

  He smiled at her. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fallen asleep over your meal.’

  ‘I know. He was awful today, wasn’t he? Poor little scrap.’

  Vittore bent his head to hide his misery. He’d tried everything. Buying a toy haybaler and a huge digger—which he himself had played with enthusiastically, meanwhile ignoring Lio in the hope that the kiddie would be tempted. Making music out of saucepan lids and spoons and partly-filled bottles. Playing ‘Boo!’ from behind the trees.

  No response. Nothing. Just tears. And whenever Verity took one pace too many away from Lio, he’d launch into a frenzy of hysterical screaming that had chilled Vittore’s very bones and made his heart weep for his unhappy, muddled little baby.

  ‘I think he needs help,’ he said huskily.

  ‘Love,’ she answered. ‘Love and routine and security.’

  ‘We all need that.’

  He couldn’t understand why his voice was so croaky. Emotion was welling up, ruining his determination to master this situation. Not only was he having to contend with his son’s misery, but the intimacy of hour after hour, day after day with Verity was driving him insane with desire.

  Tight-lipped, desperate to keep the lid on his chaotic emotions, he reduced life to basic banalities. Checking the oven. Turning the peppers. Pouring more wine.

  Meeting her soft eyes. Watching the dark lashes flutter tiredly, the gentle mouth drooping with exhaustion.

  ‘I did see the doctor,’ she mumbled. ‘He recommended love and security and to come back in three months if there were still problems.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it another time. Supper’s nearly ready,’ he said. ‘Stay awake.’

  Her lips parted in a faint smile. ‘I’ll try. It smells gorgeous. Like a Mediterranean summer.’ Her eyes met his with a melting warmth and he felt his hand shaking as he struggled to pick up the chicken with the tongs. ‘Thanks. I’m really grateful.’

  ‘Prego,’ he said automatically. ‘You’re welcome,’ he translated, mesmerised by the slow movement of her mouth. ‘Here we are.’

  Carefully he ladled some of the aromatic mixture onto her plate and took a deep breath before placing it in front of her. The way he felt, anything closer than a table’s breadth was dangerously inflammatory.

  She took an exploratory bite. ‘Mmm!’ she sighed. ‘Chicken’s divine. Tender and succulent. How do you do it? You’re not exactly domesticated, are you?’

  He laughed ruefully. His other attempts to help her had been disastrous. Consequently when Lio had his daytime sleep it was she who rushed about dealing with the washing and ironing and essential house-cleaning.

  ‘Never had to do anything domestic in my life,’ he admitted.

  ‘You filled the freezer and the fridge,’ she reminded him, taking an appreciative bite from a hot, crusty roll. ‘It’s wonderful, having such a choice of exciting food.’

  ‘I wish I could do more.’

  Much more. He imagined her teeth grazing his chest, her fingers running over his body…

  ‘I wish you could, too,’ she giggled, perking up a little. ‘But I think that having Lio in shrunken purple bibs, T-shirts, shorts and socks with me in mini-sized purple shirts, underwear and hankies, is taking downsizing and colour co-ordination too far!’

  He laughed and looked apologetic. He’d been banned from the washing machine after that. ‘I wanted to surprise you—’

  ‘And succeeded!’ She grinned, her smile friendly. ‘I know you were trying to help. It’s not your fault that people have run around you all your life. How did you ever learn to cook?’

  ‘The housekeeper. Maria. From childhood on, I spent hours in the kitchen. It was a noisy, bustling place, full of visitors and children and I loved it. She fed me titbits and I fetched things for her then she taught me to cook.’

  Verity raised her glass. ‘Thanks, Maria!’ she said fervently. She pushed back her heavily hanging hair with a weary hand, the sweep of her arm both graceful and seductive. ‘If she hadn’t taught you, if you hadn’t been here, I would have been munching a bag of crisps and following that up with a bar of chocolate and galloping acne.’

  He could have taken her in his arms there and then. Brought her to life with demanding kisses, promising her an easier life as his mistress. But she wasn’t ready for him yet, and he wanted her to be driven mad by him. That was what he wanted from her. Unbridled, uninhibited wantonness.

  ‘You seem more tired every day that passes,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I am. It’s getting worse. I don’t seem to sleep well.’

  ‘No,’ he breathed and cleared his throat.

  Every night she came to the nursery where he slept. She’d sleepwalk in and check Lio and sometimes turn around and leave immediately. Other times she’d sit on his bed and she’d be so close that he could make out the perfect line of her spine beneath the thin nightdress, and the seductive curve of her hips.

  Once she had curled up on the end of the bed and stayed for half an hour, leaving him bathed in a thin film of sweat.

  He had to do something or go mad. He wanted Lio more desperately than ever. Seeing him daily and not touching him was breaking his heart in two. And his helpless lust for Verity wasn’t helping.

  It would be different if they were in Italy, he thought gloomily, pushing his plate away. He paused. Yes. Why not?

  He looked across at her where she sat slowly nibbling a strip of pepper, her eyes distant and dreamy. The last piece of scarlet pepper slid into her mouth and she absently licked the fingers that had been holding it. He felt a strong curl of desire rolling through his body.

  A plan began to form in his mind. Excitement lifted his spirits. He could have it all. His eyes sparkled.

  ‘I admire you for what you have done for Lio,’ he said huskily.

  Verity’s huge violet eyes fastened on his and she blushed.

  ‘I couldn’t help it,’ she dismissed. ‘I’d do anything for him,’ she added in a sad whisper.

  Despite trying not to, he found himself gazing at
the swell of her breasts where they rose and fell rapidly above the deep neckline. His pulses raced. The atmosphere seemed thick with sexual tension as their eyes met and the heat pumped inexorably between them.

  It was obvious that she was aroused. Confused by her feelings, too. Her hands were twisting together. She didn’t like what was happening to her. No matter. That would be easy to change. Sexual desire invariably rode roughshod over rational thought.

  The plan he’d devised would appeal to her, even though she might feel obliged to object. They had more than one reason to stay together: Lio, and an all-consuming desire for one another. In the end, she’d fall in with his suggestion. All his worries could be over, and he would have what he wanted most: his son, and the captivating Verity.

  He smiled at her, exulting in the unspoken promise of her answering, trembling smile and her subsequent confusion when she stabbed her fork repeatedly at the rim of her plate as if she wasn’t aware of what she was doing.

  Simmering with a secret triumph, he forced himself to eat his own meal in the heavy, sensual silence that boiled and coiled around them.

  Her mouth seemed to be dry because she licked her lips often. So did he—and wished his mouth was on hers, moistening it, feeding on it.

  He shifted in his chair uncomfortably and noticed that she kept adjusting her position, too. Somehow he stifled a groan and stopped his hands reaching out to imprison her face and hold it till he had kissed every silken inch.

  To his increasing delight, she ate little of her pudding, scooping up minute forkfuls of the individual pear crumble with a shaking hand that somehow just managed to find her nervously parted lips.

  He’d never felt so wired up before. Explosions of excitement were bursting inside him, stoking up his pulses to a frantic pace.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ he rasped hoarsely, when she stared helplessly at the pudding she’d hardly touched.

  ‘It’s…delicious,’ she whispered.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Then why…?’

  Verity didn’t look up. As if ashamed, she put down her fork with a clatter and pressed her lips together hard.

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Don’t pretend. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re adults. Free agents.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said slowly.

  ‘You feel it, too,’ he said softly. ‘It consumes you. Stops you eating. Takes over your mind. Yes?’

  She looked appalled but the rapidity of her breathing answered him. In the candlelight she looked very vulnerable. Unstoppable passion soared through his veins and he couldn’t hold back. His hand had reached out to enclose hers and they were staring into each other’s eyes as if they’d never seen one another before.

  His lips pressed against her fingers, feeling them flutter. More boldly, he took her thumb and slowly, painfully sweetly, drew its length into his mouth before releasing it. She gave a satisfying little whimper that set his body aflame.

  ‘Verity,’ he murmured, long and slow, the name liquid on his tongue.

  The lagoon eyes widened and he felt a kick of something fierce and sharp in his stomach, like a thunderbolt landing.

  Verity didn’t know what was happening to her. Only that she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe. Vittore’s suppressed energy swamped her, filling her tired body with life—and an inexplicable joy.

  In the back of her mind she knew what he intended. If she’d made the effort, she could have snatched her hand away perhaps, or announced she was dead on her feet and was going to bed, but she wanted him to kiss her so badly that she let the wonderful mist invade her brain, let the fires within her kindle and ignite and sat there waiting, hoping, squirming in delicious anticipation.

  Suddenly he was beside her chair, his movements liquid and flowing. Drawing her to her feet. She flung back her head and let out a small gasp because her breath was almost choking her.

  There was a soft warmth on her throat, the slide of his mouth sending rivers of pleasure through her entire body. She whispered nonsense, loving it, fearing it, unable to understand why the touch of his lips should fling her so far and so quickly into uncontainable rapture.

  His thumb firmly tipped down her chin. And then his mouth descended on hers; firm, sweet, gently impassioned, as if he enjoyed luxuriating in the erotic feel of her lips and would do so for the next hour.

  But she wanted more. Now. Why not?

  ‘Vittore!’ she moaned, wrapping her limbs around his.

  And she was being borne back, to the wall, the pressure of his body hard and thrilling, the frail, tenuous clutch that she had on reality slowly seeping away with every fevered kiss, every tormenting caress of his expert hands that teased and delighted every sense she possessed and spun them to heights she’d never dreamed possible.

  Madness was unfurling inside her, rocketing to fill every part of her body as she clawed and begged and groaned for him to satisfy her intense and unbearable hunger.

  His mouth swooped to her breasts and she—shy, virginal, modest—flung her head back with a cry of release, proud of their taut fullness and thinking that she might die of pleasure as his mouth closed on each swollen bud in turn, suckling, rubbing, kissing…

  Outrageously, she revelled in the feel of him. The softness of his shirt. The rock wall of his powerful chest beneath. The smell of his hair. The strength of his arms and narrowness of his waist. The way he looked at her; drowsily, feverishly, a little astounded by what had happened.

  There was an incredible hard ridge of warmth against her loins and something leapt inside her, a ripple of nerves sighing with delight. The core of her body pounded like a pulsating furnace, urging her on to uncharacteristic wantonness.

  ‘Touch me,’ she moaned, astonished that she could be so bold. But she was incapable of remaining merely acquiescent. ‘Vittore…touch me!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  VITTORE groaned from deep within his chest, then kissed her hard and long, the shuddering of his body and the blaze in his brilliant eyes eloquently conveying to her the fever that consumed him.

  Frantically he pushed her a little higher up the wall, his mouth once more avidly devoted to her straining breasts. Shockingly, she lifted first one, then the other to his searching lips, whimpering at the sensations which sliced delicious channels within her, the spasms fiercer and harder with every tug of his mouth and every second she gazed dazedly at his lowered lashes and impassioned face.

  Then came the heat of his hand searing her thigh, sliding her dress up further and further. Strung high with anticipation, she grabbed his head and kissed him with all the force she could muster, gasping when his tongue curled with hers and began to thrust in an invasion that echoed something even more intimate.

  She struggled, pushing him back, craving more. She couldn’t wait. Couldn’t bear it any longer.

  ‘Please, Vittore!’ she quavered, furious that he was taking so long to satisfy her.

  A lyrical stream of Italian whispered harshly from his hot lips. His fingers had found the lace edge of her small panties and were easing them down.

  And then the beautiful language began to have some meaning to her fuddled brain. In a flash she came to her senses. Italian, she thought, her mind clearing sharply. This is Vittore. Womaniser. Adulterer. Not the man to be trusted with her virginity, however desperate she was to give it to him.

  Utterly in tune with her, he paused at the stiffening of her body, rocking on his feet.

  ‘Verity?’ he growled.

  Her eyes closed in horror at what she’d nearly done. And at what she’d already allowed. Frantically she wriggled away and slithered to the ground—though her legs wouldn’t hold her and for the moment she had to let him grasp her waist to keep her upright.

  ‘I—’ Scarlet, she saw her shamefully naked breasts and awkwardly slid her straps up her arms to make herself decent again. She couldn’t continue. For several seconds she had to fight her hunger and find her voice. ‘I had too
much wine,’ she fudged feebly.

  ‘Hardly any,’ he muttered, frighteningly satanic, his eyes glitteringly black.

  ‘More than enough.’ She took a tentative step to the side, found she could just manage a stumble or two, and lurched towards a chair where she sat shaking; horribly, desperately frustrated. Every pore throbbed. Every cell screamed at her for satisfaction. And she wanted to scream, too, because she’d been so stupid. ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I do.’

  She flung him a baleful glare. ‘You’re not helping!’

  ‘I don’t feel inclined to!’ he bit.

  ‘I’m sorry. I got carried away,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Not far enough,’ he said with vicious regret. He drew in a huge breath and to her alarm, came over to crouch beside the chair. ‘Verity,’ he said huskily, his hand on her knee. ‘No. Listen,’ he grated, when she jerked back in concern. ‘Why did you stop?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  She set her jaw, hunting for strength and composure. Her eyes were troubled when they met his.

  ‘Sanity prevailed. I don’t do one-night stands,’ she answered flatly.

  His finger brushed a strand of wayward hair from her face. When he curled the strand around her ear, she shivered with pleasure, his touch electrifying her again.

  And he must have known that because he smiled lazily, his eyes once more drowsy with desire.

  ‘It needn’t be like that,’ he said in a low tone that throbbed with excitement.

  What was he suggesting? Two nights? Three? Something raw and visceral burrowed its way insistently in the depths of her being. Miserable that her body was starting to betray her, she turned her head away and tried to stand. But he pushed her back in the chair.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she flared, privately panicking.

  ‘Stopping you from rushing off. I have the solution to our problem about Lio,’ he replied easily.

  She frowned, confused by his change of tack. Her mind was working too lethargically to understand. ‘What?’