She slipped out of her panties and walked slowly across the room, her heart thundering in her chest.
Her arousal was so strong now that her swollen flesh rubbed gloriously as she walked. He was there, in the house. She could feel him, could feel his strong, presence. His energy. His desire.
At the door, she paused. She stretched out her hand. Her fingers shook with anticipation. If only he would come for her—she wouldn’t stop what would happen. She would follow her gut instead of her head.
But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She would never forgive herself if it all went wrong. She let her hand drop and then turned towards the en suite bathroom. She would have to satisfy herself alone.
In the shower, she lathered her hair and her body with cream and looked at the suds as they slid over her. She lathered her heavy breasts, her round tummy. She lifted the shower head and rinsed away the suds, letting the water soak down to the dart of dark hair between her legs.
She held it there and the water drummed against her swollen clitoris. It felt so good, easing the ache that had been building for hours. But it was not enough.
She replaced the shower head and then closed her eyes and thought of Raffa kissing her. She slid her fingers over her flesh and sighed with the sweet pain. It was heaven. She touched the slick folds and rubbed a little more. She was so wet, so swollen... She longed for him to fill his hands with her breasts. She imagined him undressing her, undressing him. She imagined tearing off that shirt and sliding her fingers all over his chest, burying her face against his muscles, flicking her tongue over his flat nipples, nuzzling the hair that ran across his chest.
She rubbed harder, crying out with little breaths. In her mind she was trailing her fingers down from his navel, unbuttoning his jeans and then taking him, hot and hard, in her hand. It was long and thick. Then she was putting it in her mouth.
She rubbed again and ground out another little moan of desire. She was nearly ready...
And then the shower door opened.
He was standing there, fully clothed. His eyes were fierce with hunger. ‘I’m watching you. Touch yourself again.’
Soap slid down her face and she quickly swiped it away. She did nothing to shield her modesty.
‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘You were thinking of me. You want me to do that to you.’
‘Yes...’ she breathed.
‘I can walk away, Coral. I can leave you to your own private fantasies or I can give you what you need. Show me what you want.’
The water powered down over her shoulders. She dropped her head back and let it course through her hair. She smoothed it away with her hands, over her breasts and hips. Then she lifted her breasts, cupped them in her hands, and offered them to him. It was the most provocative move she had ever made and she knew then that she was going to be changed for ever.
‘Say it.’
She closed her eyes and let the words sing from her heart. ‘I want you, Raffaele. Please. Now.’
In a heartbeat he was in the shower, tugging her soaking wet body towards him. His hands slid all over her. He cupped her buttocks and ground the hard ridge of his erection against her wet, naked flesh.
He grabbed her face and kissed her over and over, and then his hands moved up her back and round her ribs, until finally he cupped and kneaded her heavy breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers and thumbs, moaning words in Italian.
Her head fell back as he crushed her against his body. His knee, soaked in his black jeans, wedged her legs open. He hooked one leg over his hip, totally exposing her.
‘You must learn acceptance, Coral.’
‘Yes...yes...’ she begged.
‘Don’t fight what’s going to happen.’
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, grinding her down with erotic assaults that she was desperate to absorb. She felt the sharpness of stubble, the dull edge of bone, the stab of lips and tongue and fingers, the moans of words in Italian, the red-hot wings of desire as she returned everything she could.
And then his hand slid down between her legs as he took one of her nipples in his mouth. Fingers thrust inside her and she moaned aloud as the golden ache of pleasure began to bloom.
‘Raffaele—oh, my God, please.’
He hauled his shirt over his head and thrust his jeans off. She felt almost dazed as she stared at the wide, muscled shoulders and dark dusting of hair. Her hands touched his chest greedily and then she felt his hot, hard shaft nudge against her belly. All she could do was grab him quickly with both hands.
‘Please!’
It was as if her life depended on it. She knew she had to have him inside her.
He knew it too, because he grabbed her up and slid her down, down all those inches of his manhood. She took them all—to the hilt.
Then she held his head to her breasts as he tugged her nipples with his mouth and rode her up and down on his shaft.
She had never in her life known pleasure like this, and the bloom of her orgasm began, rocking her whole mind and body with its intensity. She screamed and screamed, hearing the sound ricocheting off the tiled walls.
‘I’m going to come. Is it safe?’ he ground out.
‘Yes—yes!’ cried Coral, hearing nothing other than her pleasure as the final waves rolled through her and she collapsed forward as he, too, shouted his release.
For a moment they stood locked together, only their panting breath and the shower’s steady stream of water interrupting their thoughts. Steam enveloped them. Their desperate need to have each other was easing, but still she clung to him, still he held her strong and steady in his arms.
‘Are you all right?’ he finally whispered.
‘Yes...’ she breathed into his neck, then his chest, as he slowly lowered her down. ‘I couldn’t stop myself.’
He lifted her face and kissed her gently, smoothing her hair from her brow and smiling.
‘I’m glad you didn’t. It was beautiful to watch, but I couldn’t let you do it alone. Not when I knew it was going to be this good. It was good, cara. Wasn’t it?’
She nodded and clung to his beautiful hard body. ‘Amazing.’
He lifted a sponge and washed her down gently, cleaning and rinsing them both. Then he scooped her up in a huge bath sheet and carried her through the room, past her discarded dress and shoes. He cradled her against his chest and then lay by her side as he eased her onto the bed.
‘I’ll dry you,’ he said, lifting the towel and softly pressing all the water droplets away.
She lay back on the bed. ‘That was the most wonderful experience—I’ve never, ever felt anything like that before.’
He smiled and kissed her gently.
‘Let’s have some more, then. Come with me to my villa. I’ve got to sort something out with Salvatore—he wants to see me—but it won’t take long. Then we can carry on. We have so much more to learn about each other.’
In a woozy dream-like state she slipped back into her dress and shoes and walked by his side out through the villa and into a waiting car. He held her firmly by his side all the way down the narrow road, into his villa and into his bedroom.
‘Wait here. I’ll see Salvatore and then I’ll be back.’
‘I hope he wants to apologise to you,’ she said, irritated that yet again the surly Salvatore was making his presence felt in a negative way.
Raffa kissed away her scowl and watched as she removed her dress and shoes, rolled over in his bed and closed her eyes, falling into the warm embrace of sleep.
He’d lost control. For the first time ever. He’d walked away to take that call and then gone to get her, knowing they were going to make love.
Salvatore had left him a garbled message, weeping apologies and wailing about some new drama that he had to see him about u
rgently. As usual, he expected Raffa to sort out all his problems—immediately.
But he hadn’t wanted to. He hadn’t been able to wait for her any longer. She was unlike any other woman he had ever met. And it had felt good. It had felt amazing.
He moved the sheet over her.
Coral Dahl, he thought. The most passionate English rose he’d ever known. Driven, determined and with integrity a mile wide.
He watched her lying asleep. The auburn hair looked almost black now in the shadows of the night. Whoever her father was, her gene pool was extraordinary.
Suddenly he heard noises. He walked through to the front of house and there was Salvatore—like a swarm of bees, as usual. Raffaele wasn’t in the mood for his restless, nervous energy. Not now.
‘Whatever it is, it can wait. We’ve sorted out the girl from the party and I know you didn’t mean what you said earlier. It’s all forgotten. Just go to bed,’ he said.
‘Its her—the photographer. I can’t believe you were so stupid. I would have seen through it straight away.’
Salvatore strode right into the house, his eyes almost yellow with too much alcohol and his face a contorted mask of rage.
‘What are you talking about? Coral? See through what?’
‘Dahl. Dahl,’ said Salvatore. ‘Don’t you remember? That woman? The one who came after Dad with that fake paternity suit?’
‘What are you talking about?’ he repeated, more angrily.
Dahl... The name was familiar. There had been a Dahl once. An artist. A meeting. An accusation. Giancarlo flustered and furious.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Lynda Dahl. That bitch who claimed Papa got her pregnant. Tried to get money out of him. I dealt with her—as if I was going to let her get past me! Your photographer is her daughter. I’ve checked it out. No doubt she’s come to claim her so-called inheritance while the will is still not finalised. I’m telling you, Raffaele, she’s a con artist who’s out to get us. She thinks we’re going to roll over and give her some kind of pay-out.’
Raffaele’s head felt as if it had been hit by a truck. This made no sense. The Coral Dahl who was lying in his bed was sweet and innocent and genuine.
He walked to the laptop. Turned it on. Typed in a name.
‘It’s Lynda with a “y”,’ said Salvatore, standing over his shoulder, watching.
And there she was. Lynda Dahl—artist. A doe-eyed blonde. A mouth like a bowl of cherries and milk-white skin. Forty-five years old. Exhibited a few times in London.
The mother of the woman lying sleeping in his bed.
‘I want her off the island, Raffaele. I want her out of here. I feel violated knowing that she is breathing the same air as us.’
‘Just slow down. Stop. Where are you getting your facts?’
‘Facts? What more do you need? Don’t you remember when I told you I’d found out?’
‘Yes—you were twelve and snooping about in Giancarlo’s study, looking for God knows what, and you found a letter. Yes, I remember. And I remember what I told you to do.’
‘She came back again—demanded money for her daughter to go to college! Don’t you see what’s happening here? That so-called photographer has manipulated her way here. She’s in league with someone at your magazine—she has to be! No doubt she’s out for her own revenge and they’ve cooked this up together. Her mother tried the obvious way, and now she’s trying by the back door.’
‘Listen to yourself, Salvatore. Do you realise how paranoid this sounds?’
Raffaele’s head was pounding. He was never duped. He had everything under control. It defined him. It was incomprehensible that this could have happened.
‘We need to get her off the island. If I’m wrong, all that will have happened is that a total stranger has been wronged. If I’m right, we’ve circumvented a disaster. Raffaele—I’m getting married in a week. Can you do this for Kyla? For the family? If I’m wrong—which I’m not—I’ll apologise. I’ll send flowers, yes? Or jewellery. Just get the bloodsucker off my island.’
Salvatore’s voice was carrying through the house, bouncing off the marble and echoing on every wall and surface. Splitting Raffaele’s head open with his venom. His uncontrollable jealous poison.
He’d always been suspicious, had never been able to trust anyone. The only reason Kyla was going to be his bride was that her father’s fortune was almost as big as Giancarlo’s.
But it did sound plausible. More than a coincidence.
‘Leave this to me,’ he said.
‘There’s no time for you to work out all your angles, Raffa. This is urgent. Get rid of her and then we can work it out. It’s what we should have done at the time. You were always so sure of my father’s piety. Well, I’m not and I never was.’
Raffaele looked at his adoptive brother and friend. He had to bury his personal feelings right now. Feelings which ranged from cold, hard fury to bitter rage. How dared Salvatore slur his father’s character? How dared he make these demands? But he was the nominal head of the family, and he had always managed Salvatore’s insane insecurities.
And this one was about to play out on the world’s stage.
The wedding was imminent, and if he didn’t get things under control the whole family could be dragged through the mud, on every gossip page and on every screen.
‘I’ll deal with it. She’ll be off the island by dawn and then we’ll discuss it.’
Salvatore nodded and left.
How could his world spin like this? How could the solid foundations of his life be blasted to dust in a single moment?
Dust that he must sweep up—as he always did.
On the table below the mezzanine a gilt tray sat, with champagne and two tall flutes. He picked up a glass and held it in his hand. The crystal felt fine and delicate. There was a spot on the wall he could fire it at. Watch it smash off the plaster and shatter into a thousand shards. Hear the crash and tinkle and feel...what?
He had learned long ago not to let emotion show. He would hold it in until it dissipated. Until he didn’t feel anything.
So they’d had wonderful sex? It wasn’t the most important thing in the world. The most important thing was family. Even when it wasn’t your own blood. She had hers and he had his. And until a few hours ago everyone had been perfectly content with how things were. It was always about family. Duty and respect and doing the right thing.
And he was damn well going to do the right thing.
Even if it killed him.
CHAPTER FIVE
CORAL OPENED HER eyes and turned her head. A lamp burned on the bedside table. There was a glass of water and a photograph next to it. She stretched. Her head felt heavy and her body languorous, loved. Heavenly.
She sighed and rolled around under the heavy cotton sheet, looking for Raffaele. She was sure he hadn’t slept beside her. It didn’t feel so long since she’d lain down, yet the night was so dark and the house so quiet she must have been out for the count for ages.
She got up. There was nothing to wear but the red dress she’d gone to the party in. She stepped into it and zipped it up, then slipped on the toe-crushing shoes. She had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. He must be waiting patiently for her. She should hurry now and find him.
She walked on through the hallway and along to the lounge. Her hair had dried in thick waves; her face, scrubbed clean, was dewy with sleep.
There was a breeze as she walked along the hallway, heels clicking, retracing her steps to the main entrance where Aphrodite’s Pool glowed with its green half-light.
And there in the doorway, bathed in a swathe of light, glass in hand, stood Raffaele.
He turned when he heard her and she almost ran into his arms.
But there was somebody there—outside.
He closed the door, blocking them out. He looked down at his feet, then at her face.
‘Hi! I’m sorry, I dozed off. Has Salvatore been? Everything is all right for tomorrow? Did you tell him my thoughts?’
‘I’m sorry, Coral. I’ve had to move things around. Change some plans.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her smile slipping. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. ‘What things? What plans?’
There was such a chill, such coldness. She clutched her arms around herself.
‘Has something happened?’ He looked so unhappy she suddenly felt pain. She reached for him. ‘What’s wrong? What is it? Can I help?’
‘Tonight hasn’t worked out the way I wanted. I’m sorry. Tomorrow...won’t be happening.’ He turned away, took a drink from the glass.
She stared at him. Her eyes absorbed the fabulous body that she’d made love to, but somehow now it seemed to belong to a stranger. His face was drawn, but the proud jut of his jaw told her he wasn’t suffering. Not the way she was, hearing those words.
‘Why won’t it be happening? I went for a sleep. That’s all. You told me it was fine. You led me through to your bed. You laid me there and said we would spend more time—’
‘I had you in the shower. I don’t need to have you in my bed.’
Her hand flew to his face and struck him. She had never, ever hit anyone or anything in her life before. He held his face to one side, not looking at her. Coral stood, shocked, as harsh heat flooded her hand. She looked at it. She looked at him.
‘What kind of man are you? Who does that? Who does what you did and then speaks like that?’
‘I’m not getting into anything with you. You can keep the dress and the jewellery. I have no need for them. Your other clothes are already packed. Your bag’s in the car.’
She looked around, trying to find something to hold on to, somewhere to sit. Something to anchor her in this madly spinning world.
‘I don’t understand. What are you saying? That you want me to leave? We had sex and now you want me to leave? I’ve lost the commission and I’ve to go? Is that it?’
The Consequence She Cannot Deny Page 7
