'I refuse to believe you mean that.'
Oh lord, she was falling deeper into the mire with every word she uttered! 'I'd like to go to bed,' she insisted, meeting his gaze with effort, and his eyes darkened fractionally, then lightened as they assumed a musing gleam.
'No moonlight stroll through the garden?'
'I really am tired.' Perhaps she sounded weary, for he led her upstairs to her room and before she could protest he followed her inside.
'Nick—don't. Please.' If he touched her, she'd break into a thousand pieces.
'Poor little girl, you sound terribly fragile in mind and spirit. Perhaps I will let you escape, after all—until I get back from Milan.' He lifted a hand and smoothed gentle fingers along the length of her jaw. 'Goodnight, cara.'
She closed her eyes as he brushed his lips lightly across her own, and she could have wept from the need to reach up and kiss him back.
'I'll ring tomorrow evening, about ten,' he said huskily, then he turned and left the room without so much as a backward glance.
CHAPTER TEN
'Emma! Darling—over here.'
Through a sea of faces Emma caught sight of her parents and within seconds she was embraced and hugged, laughingly, lovingly besieged by countless questions. Her father took charge of her luggage, hefting the suitcases with ease, and together they made their way out to the airport car park.
It was cool, the skies bleak and heavy with imminent rain, and Emma shivered. After experiencing several weeks of Northern hemispheric sunshine, Sydney's winter temperatures seemed positively icy.
'You look so well,' Mrs Templeton enthused, her face wreathed with warm affection. 'And your tan! I'm dying to hear all about your trip.' She tucked her arm through that of her daughter's and gave it a firm squeeze. 'Postcards and letters are fine, but nothing compares with first-hand news.'
Amazing, Emma decided ruefully, that they failed to detect the misery through her outwardly cheerful facade. Inside she was breaking into a hundred tiny pieces, glad yet sad to be back home, although her emotions were in such a state of turmoil she seemed to be functioning by some form of automatic remote control.
Leaving Italy had involved subtle subterfuge, and saying goodbye to Rosa and Enzo had been the hardest part of all, not to mention Annalisa of whom she had become inordinately fond. However, there was no power on earth that could have persuaded her to stay and await Nick's return from Milan—two, three days hence.
A tiny bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat They never had got around to talking. Even thinking about those fateful hours in his room brought pulsing heat vibrating through her veins until her whole body seemed to throb, aching even now with a damnable craving for his possession. It was sickening, and she didn't know who to hate more—Nick, or her own traitorous flesh.
'Two suitcases, when you left with only one. Did the airline charge you excess baggage?'
Emma forced her attention back to the present at the sound of her father's voice, and she even managed a light laugh as she slid, into the rear seat of her parents' Daimler. 'I smiled sweetly,' she ventured with a deprecatory smile. 'And they let me through. Who could resist a shopping spree in Rome?'
'We'll have a lovely day together tomorrow sorting it all out,' her mother declared with all the contented happiness of a clucky hen having gathered its solitary chick beneath her protective wing.
'I thought I might go in to work,' Emma broached tentatively, and received an immediate remonstrative response.
'So soon? Surely you could leave it until Monday?'
She could, very easily. Except the thought of remaining idle at home for more than a few days was impossible. If she wanted to retain a shred of sanity, she needed to immerse herself in work.
'Just for a few hours,' she declared, compromising in part. To drop off my sketches, so that Roberto can sort through them over the weekend.'
A month from now her holiday would be a pleasant memory and she would be able to relegate her encounter with Nick Castelli to its rightful place—that of a transitory romance which had no lasting importance in her life.
Except it didn't work that way. Instead of getting better with each passing day, it only became worse. She ate barely at all, and slept even less. Nick's forceful image was a vivid, haunting entity, ever present, filling her thoughts to such an extent that dispelling it became an impossibility. He was there, his deeply etched features imprinted in her mind, taunting and infinitely disturbing. The days were bad enough, but the nights were totally unbearable. Remembering her wanton response, the way she had actively craved his possession made her want to die with remorse and shame. Nick's musing observation that she was seemingly untouched by the heights and depths of passionate intensity was true, for Marc's lovemaking had never explored the realms of tactile sensuality to such an extent that she'd become utterly mindless, incapable of rational thought in an attempt to please as she was being pleasured, permitting liberties her untutored flesh hadn't known existed.
Flinging herself into a social whirl with numerous friends did no good at all, except to remove her presence from the house and the increasingly concerned eye of her parents.
Two weeks—no word, no letter, not even a phone call.
What did you expect? Emma demanded with unaccustomed scepticism. Nothing—nothing.
The words seemed to echo and re-echo in open mockery, and with a gesture of impotent despair she crossed to the dressing-table and began applying makeup in an effort to add some colour to her pale features. Attending church each Sunday with her parents was a lifelong habit, and she viewed her mirrored reflection with something akin to critical cynicism, seeing the faint—almost bruising—smudges beneath her eyes, the lack of sparkling warmth in their depths whenever she smiled. Anyone with a modicum of perception must see there was something wrong, and a derisive grimace momentarily clouded her features.
When would this agonising longing diminish and become less than an unbearable, aching need?
Lust, she dismissed hollowly. It couldn't be anything else—could it? Oh, dear lord, no—not love! It wasn't possible to love two men. Yet the degree of passion, the sheer magical ecstasy Nick had been able to evoke went beyond mere desire.
Shock stilled her fingers, and she gazed sightlessly ahead, riveted by her own revelation. like a jigsaw, all the pieces began to fall slowly into place.
Nick's forceful features came to mind with startling clarity, and she closed her eyes against an awakening knowledge. Up until now she hadn't been willing to define her emotions, much less accept that love might be any part of them.
Unconsciously she sought Marc's wedding band where it still rested on the third finger of her right hand, letting her eyes sweep to the framed photograph placed within touching distance, depicting the features of a laughing young man captured on celluloid.
Of its own volition her hand reached out and she slowly traced the familiar face with a gentle finger. A pair of gleaming eyes looked back at her, so alive; his hair bore a gloss, an illusion of photographic artistry, and his mouth was parted in a carefree smile.
It was strange, she discovered with a sense of wonder, but looking at his image no longer brought the onset of pain. Just sweet regret for the loss of a very dear friend.
Almost silently she opened a drawer and withdrew a large photograph album, then she crossed to sit on the bed, opened the embossed cover, and began to leaf through the pages slowly, aware of so many memories, such a wealth of happiness, affection; love in its gentlest form, sharing, caring that encompassed every facet of their togetherness.
It seemed an age before she reached the final page, then she stood to her feet and replaced the album back into the drawer where it belonged. Somehow the action seemed symbolic with the closing of a chapter in her life.
'Emma?'
The sound of her mother's voice intruded, and she turned, summoning a smile.
'We'll be late, darling. It's almost eleven, now,' Mrs Templeton advised with a fain
tly anxious frown.
'I'm ready,' Emma assured as she caught up her coat from the bed and shrugged it on before collecting her shoulder-bag.
It was after midday when they arrived home, and once indoors Emma changed into designer jeans and a loose-fitting multi-coloured knitted jumper, then she made her way towards the kitchen to help prepare lunch.
Just as she was placing a casserole into the microwave the doorbell pealed, its melodic chimes sounding inordinately loud.
'I'll get it,' Emma called, aware that her father was comfortably ensconced in the library studying the Sunday papers and her mother was in the midst of setting the table.
Who could be visiting at this hour? And on a cold day with rain lashing the house in noisy gusts that rattled the windowpanes and shook the roof struts? Two hours previously it had been fine, a false preliminary to southern hemispheric spring, sharp and cool with wind whipping through the tree branches and buffeting all that stood in its path.
Emma reached the front door and opened it, a ready smile poised in greeting, then she froze, shocked into immobility as she recognised the man standing on the sheltered porch.
Nick stood comfortably at ease, his tall frame filling the aperture, and her heart gave a sickening lurch.
Leashed strength was apparent in his stance, an almost animalistic sense of power, and his dark brown eyes bore an expression of deliberate inscrutability as they met hers, forcing her to hold his gaze before subjecting her to a swift, analytical appraisal.
'Emma.' The faintly inflected drawl held wary cynicism, and a dozen questions rushed to the fore, demanding answer, but only two rose to the surface.
What are you doing here? Why have you come? Except neither found voice, and she wondered hysterically if she was in the grip of some nerve-racking form of paralysis.
'Aren't you going to ask me in?'
No! The emphatic denial screamed in immediate response, and for a few horrifying seconds she thought the sound had actually escaped her throat. Raw, aching pain clenched in her stomach, and for one heart-stopping second she considered shutting the door in his face, sure that his image was nothing more than a cruel quirk of her own damnable imagination.
Confusion reigned as a multitude of conflicting thoughts raced without coherence through her brain, and she knew with chilling certainty that there could be no escape.
It was there in his eyes, a seemingly calm inflexibility combined with indomitable will—almost as if he was issuing a silent threat.
'Who is it, darling?'
Oh lord, her mother, half-way down the hall, and certainly within hearing distance.
'Emma?' Mrs Templeton came to a faltering halt within touching distance, her pleasant features schooled into polite enquiry as they caught sight of the tall, casual but elegantly dressed man standing in her doorway. 'Is something wrong?'
With skilled adroitness Nick introduced himself, explained both his recent arrival and his connection with the Martinero family, by which time Mrs Templeton had ushered him inside and divested him of his coat, while Emma stood unable to utter so much as a word, hearing with sickening clarity the invitation her mother extended him to join them for lunch.
The next few minutes held all the connotations of a comic farce as her father was summoned from the library, and somehow Emma found herself seated in the lounge with a drink in her hand.
'Do sit down, my dear fellow,' Mr Templeton insisted heartily. 'Let me get you something to drink. Wine? Or would you prefer something stronger?'
Emma took an appreciative sip of wine from the goblet, glad of an excuse to occupy her hands as Nick accepted whisky and soda and then lowered his length into a chair directly opposite her own.
Attired in dark hip-hugging trousers, an equally dark shirt beneath a black V-necked jumper, he looked vaguely satanical and as much of a threat to her equilibrium as he had been within the first week of her meeting him.
The need to say something forced a polite query from her lips. 'When did you arrive?'
His eyes held hers with unwavering scrutiny, and the seconds seemed interminably long before he informed her, with damning imperturbability, 'Yesterday.'
Yesterday? He'd been here for more than twenty-four hours, and she hadn't known? Surely some instinctive defence mechanism should have warned her? Yesterday she'd calmly driven into the city, put in two extra hours at work assembling co-ordinates for an important client, eaten, slept, all the while ignorant and unaware that he was here? It didn't seem possible.
'I presume you've come on business?'
His gaze was bleak, dark with an indefinable quality she was unable to penetrate. 'No.'
Emma's heart gave a jolt, then began to thud loudly against her ribs. The sound seemed to reach her ears, momentarily filling them, and she was conscious of the rapid pulse-beat at the base of her throat—so much so, that she lifted a defensive hand to shield it from view.
'How long are you staying?' Was that her voice? So polite, calm, when inside she was a mass of conflicting emotions.
'As long as it takes.'
To do what? she longed to scream.
After what seemed an age, Mrs Templeton announced lunch was ready, and seated across the table from him Emma attempted to do some justice to the excellent casserole.
Nick, damn him, ate with evident enjoyment, and gave every indication of being totally at ease. Emma's parents, while seemingly benevolent hosts, couldn't help but be aware of the electric tension generated between their daughter and their guest, and were doubtless curious as to the reason why.
To say her parents were intrigued by Nick Castelli's presence was an understatement, and all through lunch Emma could sense their veiled evaluation of him.
His visit here now was the antithesis of coincidence, and her mind seethed with a multitude of possibilities—none of which provided a satisfactory answer.
All her senses seemed to have developed a heightened awareness, and she was acutely conscious of him, the muscular tautness of his countenance, the breadth of his shoulders. It was crazy, but she wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the strength of him beneath her hands, his mouth on hers as he transported her high on to an illusory, elusive plateau where sheer sensation surpassed all rational thought.
The knowledge lent a haunting quality to her finely moulded features, a faint breathlessness to her voice as the meal progressed, and it irked her unbearably that he knew. Not only knew, but he seemed to be silently taunting her with her own perceptiveness.
'Could you spare Emma for a few hours?' he enquired with studied indolence, daring her to refuse as he added quietly, 'Sightseeing is infinitely more pleasurable in the company of someone familiar with this beautiful city.'
'Of course Emma must go with you,' Mrs Templeton declared at once. 'Rosa and Enzo mentioned how kind you were to Emma when she stayed with them in Rome. It's the very least she can do in return.'
Oh, he was far too shrewd for his own good, Emma seethed in frustrated silence. Couldn't her parents see that he had deliberately contrived to get her alone?
'Fetch your coat, darling. It will be cold outside,' her mother bade, unaware that Emma was already cold, shivering with an unspecified fear that had as its base the agony of Nick's unknown intention once they left the sanctuary of her home.
One thing was remarkably clear, she decided darkly. Sightseeing was the last item on his agenda.
'You must stay for dinner. I could ask Marc's parents to join us. After all, his father is your cousin. Have you never met?'
Don't, Emma almost cried out. It would be akin to setting a cat among the pigeons. Worse, for Nick Castelli was no ordinary cat—his affiliation to the feline family went beyond the domestic variety.
'When we were young, yes,' Nick concurred with a faint smile. 'Although I was barely in my teens when Bruno emigrated to Australia.'
'Then that's settled,' Mrs Templeton beamed, pleased with the prospect of what she envisaged would be a family reunion. 'I'll ring them at once.
Shall we say six-thirty?'
'Thank you,' Nick responded gently. 'You're very kind.'
Kind? Emma didn't doubt the motive behind her mother's invitation. It was Nick's purpose that was highly suspect. And what was there to gain by causing Lena and Bruno Martinero the added pain of witnessing their son's widow in the company of another man?
Somehow Emma made it to the car, and once seated she waited only until they were mobile before accusing furiously, 'You did that on purpose, didn't you?'
The car reached the end of the street, then eased into the main stream of traffic heading towards the city.
She could feel herself begin to shake, both outwardly and inwardly, and she hugged her arms in an effort towards control, fixing her gaze beyond the windscreen and watching with mesmerised detachment the spots of rain that began to dot the plated glass. Within seconds they grew and spread as the elements lashed the car with windswept fury, restricting visibility to a minimum.
'Where are you taking me?' Even as she asked the question, she realised with startling clarity that he had only one destination in mind, and fear knotted her stomach into a painful ball. 'Damn you, Nick! Damn you!'
A muscle tensed along the edge of his jaw, and his eyes glittered with latent anger. 'Have a care, Emma. I'm not entirely familiar with this vehicle, or the precise route into the city.'
'Where in the city, exactly?'
'Adjacent Hyde Park.'
She directed him with cool civility and the minimum of words, and it wasn't until he slid the car to a halt in the entrance of an impressive hotel that she gave vent to her anger.
'If you think I'm getting out of this car, you're mistaken!'
'Brave words, cara,' he drawled with hateful cynicism. 'But you don't have a say in the matter.' Sliding out from behind the wheel he crossed to her side and opened her door, then leant forward and unfastened her seat-belt.
Emma became aware of the porter hovering discreetly nearby, together with a uniformed attendant who accepted the keys Nick handed him with polite deference.
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