by Kate Hewitt
Laurel’s face went pale again. ‘What do you know of my mother’s behaviour since then?’
‘Tonight was not the first time she has come into La Sirena.’ He didn’t make a point of following Elizabeth Forrester’s romantic entanglements, but he’d seen her enough times over the last ten years—usually on the arm of some puffed-up aristo, fawning, flirting and making Cristiano nauseous—to know that she lived by her wits and fading beauty. Every time he’d seen her he’d felt vindicated in telling his father about the private account he’d discovered ten years ago.
‘Tonight was the first time I came into La Sirena,’ Laurel said quietly. ‘Or had that escaped your notice?’
Cristiano stared at her, trying to decipher what she was really trying to say. That she was different from her mother? Or perhaps just more discreet. ‘So why did you?’ he asked. ‘Out of interest?’
He waited, bracing himself for some spun-out sob story about desperate times and hard circumstances. But she just pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
And Cristiano told himself that was fine, because it didn’t. He wasn’t interested in getting to know Laurel, yet against his better judgment, and all common sense, he was curious. What had she been doing for the last ten years? Living the way her mother did? It was the utterly obvious assumption, and yet...
Something in him resisted that assumption, which was stupid as well as pointless. Laurel toyed with her fork and then pushed her plate away. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not hungry any more.’
‘You should eat.’ She was slender enough for a breath to blow her away. She just shook her head.
‘I... I think I’ll go to bed. It’s late and it’s been a very long day. A very long couple of days.’ She rose from the table, pausing uncertainly. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For the clothes and the food and the place to stay.’
As if he’d given it all to her out of the goodness of his heart. As if their arrangement, the one he still most definitely wanted, didn’t remain on the table, needing to be discussed. Cristiano rose too.
‘I’ll see you to your room.’
Her pupils flared. ‘That isn’t necessary.’
‘Oh, but I assure you,’ he answered softly, ‘It is.’
Laurel stared at him for a beat longer and then wordlessly turned from the room. Cristiano followed her to the door of his bedroom, where she hesitated, her back quivering with tension.
‘Where...where am I to sleep?’
‘There is a guest bedroom across the hall.’ He pushed open the door opposite his own. She turned to glance at him, and that was her mistake. Her breath came out in a rush as heat flared between them. Cristiano put his hand on her wrist, felt the leap of her pulse beneath his fingers. Laurel pressed her lips together.
‘Don’t, Cristiano,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Don’t tempt you?’ He stroked the silky skin of her inner wrist with his thumb. ‘Is that what you mean?’ He ran his thumb gently down to her palm and then up to her inner elbow. Laurel remained frozen, her pulse hammering beneath his questing fingers. ‘Why deny what is between us, bella?’
‘There’s nothing between us.’ She nearly had to gasp the words out.
‘Your body begs to differ.’
‘Ten years ago you shoved me away as if I disgusted you.’
‘Ten years ago you were a child. What was I supposed to do?’
She turned to face him, her breast brushing his arm. ‘Don’t pretend you felt anything for me then.’
‘The point is what I feel for you now. And what you feel for me. It’s real, bella, what is between us. Why shouldn’t we enjoy it?’
He could see the indecision in her fractured gaze, the desire as well as the doubt. All she needed was the tiniest bit of incentive, the merest push to tumble her into temptation...and he was more than willing to give it.
‘Stop worrying so much,’ he murmured as he dropped his head so his lips were a fraction away from hers. He could hear her breaths, uneven and ragged. ‘What are you afraid of?’ he added, his lips very nearly brushing hers.
‘This,’ she whispered, and then Cristiano kissed her.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT FELT AS achingly wonderful as she could ever have imagined. Better. Far better. Sweet and dark at the same time, and so very intense. Cristiano was entirely in control, commanding her response. Demanding it.
Laurel’s head fell back as Cristiano’s lips moved on hers and he deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering the soft depths of her mouth, taking ownership, sending pulses of pleasure through her whole body.
It was just a kiss, yet it felt life-changing. Soul-shattering. He put his hand on her waist, his fingers splaying over the dip of her hip, his palm burning her through the thin silk of her skirt, another brand. In this moment he owned her and they both knew it.
Laurel couldn’t have broken that kiss even if she’d wanted to, which, to her own shame, she did not. She craved his touch, the explosion of sensation inside her an excitement that was impossible to contain or deny, licking through her veins, making her stand on tiptoe to give him greater access, to reach more of him.
Cristiano pulled her to him, fitting her body intimately to his so need roared through her veins and heat flared deeper and hotter.
He kissed his way from her mouth to her neck, his tongue teasing circles against her fevered skin; his hands stroking her hips, her thighs, making everything inside her coil so tightly. She felt as if she was about to explode, as if she needed to break apart. She arched against him, unable to help herself, her mind a haze of need as she craved the kind of release she’d never experienced with a man before.
Cristiano growled low in his throat and he skimmed his fingers underneath her skirt, running the tips along her inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin before his thumb nudged the edge of her underwear and then slipped beneath, making her gasp at the shock of the tender invasion.
For a few blissful seconds Laurel couldn’t even think. She’d never been touched so intimately, so knowingly. And with such expertise. Cristiano knew exactly how a few lazy strokes sent her spinning, all her muscles clenching, her nails digging into his shoulders, everything in her straining as she fought for both control and release. She couldn’t have both—there was a battle raging inside her, and she didn’t know which side she wanted to win.
Her eyes fluttered open and through the daze of desire she caught sight of her own reflection on the mirrored wall—her flushed face, her swollen lips, her half-lidded eyes, her arched hips. But as for Cristiano—he didn’t look half as affected as she did. His expression was shuttered, his lips slightly pursed as he continued to touch her in such an intimate way. He looked almost clinical, dispassionate, a scientist conducting an experiment with guaranteed results. He was working her body. Manipulating her.
With a cry Laurel jerked out of his arms. Cristiano’s startled gaze clashed with hers and his eyes narrowed.
‘What...?’
‘Don’t,’ she said raggedly. Her body pulsed with unfulfilled desire—and shame. She’d fallen right into his arms. Into his trap. ‘Don’t,’ she said again, and stumbled into the bedroom, slamming the door in his face.
She flipped the lock, letting out a shuddering breath, her body still pulsing with pleasure—and frustration. Pushing her tangled hair away from her face, she paced the room that was just as sumptuous as Cristiano’s own. What on earth was she going to do now?
Wait seemed like the only option. Laurel washed her face, combed her hair and then slumped into a leather armchair by the window overlooking the Tiber, gleaming in the moonlight. It had to be at least three in the morning, and her body ached with exhaustion, yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She tried to make her mind empty out, but it seethed with worries and memories. Bavasso’s leering face. Her desperate flight. Cristiano’s kiss.
She must have dozed off, because a knock on the door s
tartled her awake. She’d been dreaming...dreaming of Cristiano. Hands...lips... Her body tingled as if he’d been touching her.
‘Yes?’ she called, her voice sounding hoarse and scratchy.
‘I checked on your mother,’ Cristiano called through the door, his voice gruff. ‘She’s all right.’
Laurel swallowed. ‘Where is she?’
‘She went back to the pensione where you were staying. Bavasso shouted at her, but that was all. It’s you he’s angry at, not her. Who knows? They might be able to patch things up.’
He spoke sardonically, and Laurel could hardly blame him. Bavasso wasn’t the first boyfriend of her mother’s to behave in a way that should have had Elizabeth sending him packing. Trouble was, if there was still something to be had, she never did.
‘So he’s still angry at me?’ she asked after a tense pause.
‘I’ll take care of you, Laurel.’
The throb of sincerity in his voice shouldn’t have affected her. Definitely shouldn’t have made her eyes sting. ‘I’m not sure I want to know what that means.’
‘I won’t let Bavasso bother or hurt you.’
But you’ll hurt me, in an entirely different way. She thought of his cold, clinical face in the mirror. He’d known exactly what he’d been doing. Laurel blinked hard and didn’t reply. ‘Get some sleep,’ Cristiano said roughly. ‘It’s nearly dawn. We’ll talk later.’
‘Okay.’ A moment passed, silent, endless. Somehow Laurel knew he was still there. ‘Cristiano?’ she asked softly.
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you.’
Laurel had left her clothes and toiletries in Cristiano’s bedroom, and so she stripped off her skirt and slept in her T-shirt and panties. The night was warm, and she opened the windows, breathing in the sultry air. Already the moon was waning, the horizon the pearly grey of early morning. Her body ached and her eyes felt as if they were full of grit. She needed to sleep.
She curled up on the bed, scrunching her eyes tight and wishing herself back home. Back in her single bed with the patchwork quilt her grandmother had made, the pure, golden light of an Illinois summer streaming through her window. She’d give just about anything to be able to rewind the last three days, go back to the moment where her mother had showed up at her grandfather’s farmhouse—Laurel should have closed the door in her face.
Instead she’d let her in. Let her speak. Because stupidly Laurel was always hoping her mother wanted her, not just something from her.
‘Darling, you’ll never guess,’ Elizabeth had announced in a flurry of air kisses and perfume. ‘I’ve met someone.’
Laurel had just stared. This was hardly news.
‘He wants to meet you. I want you to meet him.’ Elizabeth had smiled mischievously, but Laurel had detected a desperate glitter in her mother’s eyes. She was forty-six years old and her days reeling in wealthy businessmen and minor celebrities were surely numbered. ‘There might be a ring in my future.’
‘Really?’ Laurel had said, unsure how she’d felt about that, or anything to do with her mother. She hadn’t seen her in two years. Her mother had been in Monaco for her grandfather’s funeral three months earlier.
Elizabeth had strode into the living room with its rag rug and faded sofa, and a shudder had gone through her. ‘I always hated this place.’ She’d looked around, her lip curling. ‘Goodness knows why you keep staying.’
‘I love it here,’ Laurel had said quietly. She placed one hand on the warm, satiny wood of the newel post. ‘It’s the only home I’ve ever known.’
Elizabeth’s mouth had tightened. She hated any hint of her deficiencies as a mother. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t provide you with a more stable upbringing,’ she said stiffly. ‘If your father—’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
Elizabeth had turned to look at her directly. ‘So will you come to Rome, to meet Rico? It should only take a few days.’
‘Rome?’ Laurel had boggled at the suggestion. ‘Why would I go there? I mean...can’t he come here? And why does he have to meet me?’
‘Family is important to him. And I need this to work, Laurel.’ The desperate look in her mother’s eyes had intensified. ‘If you do this, I’ll give you the only thing you’ve ever wanted, I promise.’ She’d glanced around the worn living room. ‘All I’m asking is for you to show Rico that we’re a family, that you’re pleased to have him in your life. Is that so much to ask?’
* * *
Cristiano stretched out on the bed, as far from sleep as he could possibly be, his body still pulsing with the aftershocks of kissing Laurel. Her skin had felt like the supplest silk under his hands. He shifted, trying to suppress the ache in his groin, the flicker of regret whispering through him on dark wings.
He hadn’t heard a sound from the bedroom across the hall, not so much as a creak of a floorboard. He hoped Laurel was asleep. She had to be exhausted, after everything she’d endured tonight.
Including him.
Guilt, Cristiano reflected, was a very inconvenient emotion. It was one he wasn’t used to feeling. He’d always prided himself on his plain speaking, his honesty. He never pretended to care. The women he chose to be with knew what he was willing to give, and all that he wasn’t, up front. That, in his view, was something admirable. Honourable.
So why did he feel as if his actions tonight hadn’t been? As if he’d used Laurel, just as Bavasso had used her? She’d responded to his touch, heaven knew. He’d felt it. He’d certainly felt it in himself, a raging fire he’d struggled to control, the strength of which had alarmed him—because, when he’d taken Laurel in his arms, it had been to prove something to her as well as to himself. Yet he’d had to use all his self-control, all of his deeply ingrained self-discipline, to keep from giving in to the tidal roar of need inside him and drowning in her kiss.
And when Laurel had jerked out of his arms she’d looked...horrified. And hurt. As if he’d damaged her in a way he didn’t like to think about.
Restless now, Cristiano rose from his bed and pulled on a T-shirt and drawstring pyjama bottoms. Pale pink morning light seeped along the horizon as the sky lightened to a luminescent grey. He wouldn’t sleep. And, he decided as he grabbed his laptop and strode out to the living room, he needed to know more about Laurel Forrester.
Cristiano made himself a mug of strong coffee and then stretched out on one of the sofas, his computer on his lap. He typed her name into the search engine and waited for the results.
He scrolled through pages obviously about other people—a physics professor in Colorado, a housewife in South Carolina—before finally hitting on one that snagged his interest, simply because it was from Illinois. Laurel Forrester, on the page of the website for a hospital in Canton Heights. He frowned, not quite believing this could be his Laurel—because Laurel, whether she acknowledged it or not, was most definitely his. For now, at least.
He clicked and scrolled down the staff directory until he found Laurel Forrester, RN. She was a nurse? That so didn’t fit the profile of the woman he’d seen totter into La Sirena only a few short hours ago on the arm of one of Rome’s shadiest businessmen. Surely that wasn’t her?
Cristiano raked a hand through his close-cropped hair, fingernails grazing his skull. He went back to the search results and scrolled through several pages. Then he clicked on images, but not a single one came up that looked like Laurel. Her Internet footprint was light indeed, unlike her mother’s.
Just to prove a point to himself, Cristiano typed Elizabeth Forrester’s name into the search engine. It didn’t take long to find dozens of photos of his former stepmother, usually on the arm of some Z-lister, always looking a little defiant, as if she was daring her audience to ask if she was happy.
Cristiano leaned his head back against the sofa, replaying the moment when he’d seen Laurel come into the casino yesterday evening. He’d been standing by the roulette table, keeping a discreet eye on the heavy betters, making sure nothing got out of hand. H
is establishments were high class and respectable, where gambling was a dignified pastime rather than a desperate sport.
He’d seen a flash of silver in his peripheral vision, and he’d turned, the nape of his neck prickling, although he hadn’t even known why. He’d seen Elizabeth Forrester first, wearing a crimson cocktail dress that was far too tight and short for a woman of her age, although she still had the body to pull it off. His insides had tightened, his mouth turning down in disgust at the sight of the gold-digger who had just about ruined his father’s life. And then he’d seen Laurel.
He’d recognised her instantly, even though it had been ten years. It hadn’t taken a moment of mental gymnastics, not even a second. He’d looked at her and he’d known. And he’d felt, in that moment, a pang of something deeper than desire—the need to possess, to consume, a craving so overwhelming he struggled to control it.
And then he’d seen whose arm she was on. He’d taken in the skimpy dress and sky-high heels, the bright make-up and hair shellacked with hairspray, and he’d felt as if he could be sick. He had been sick, sickened by her obvious tactics, and his stomach had cramped when Bavasso had pulled her onto his lap. She’d perched there, her smile frozen in place, determined to endure...and for what? Had Bavasso paid for the sycophantic attention...and worse? Far worse.
Cristiano had stayed on the fringes of the crowds, watching Laurel and Bavasso out of the corner of his eye, his gut churning. Bavasso went for the baccarat table as he always did, flanked by two of his bodyguards—and Laurel. Elizabeth lurked in the background, looking anxious and trying not to. Clearly this was Laurel’s game, but Elizabeth had some stake in it. A mother and daughter team. Had they always been like that? Probably.
He hadn’t been able to keep from looking at Laurel, noticing the tiny dress, the slender yet generous figure poured into it. He hadn’t thought of Laurel Forrester once in the last ten years, but he realised then that, on some level, it had been a conscious decision. Not thinking of her had taken effort, a matter of will. And he was certainly thinking about her now.
