Sara Craven - The Marchese's Love-Child

Sandro’s eyes were fixed on her, a slow flame burning in their depths. ‘And how long has he been part of your life? The truth.’

She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. ‘Two years—or so.’

‘So,’ he said slowly. ‘You went from my arms to his.’ His gaze went over her, measuring and contemptuous. ‘I see you wear no ring.’

She swallowed. ‘That’s my own choice.’

‘And have you whispered the same promises to him that you once made to me?’ His voice was quiet. Compelling.

She hesitated, choosing her words with care. ‘He knows that I’ll—always be there for him.’

‘How touching,’ Sandro said softly. ‘Yet you left him to come to Italy.’ His sudden smile was cool. Dangerous. ‘And to me.’

‘I believed I was working for the contessa, ’ Polly returned fiercely, trying to conceal the fact that she was shaking inside, nearing the edge of panic. ‘I had no idea that she could be a relation of yours—or that you were even in the region. If I’d known, I wouldn’t be here.’

She flung back her head. ‘So, how did you persuade her to do your dirty work? Bribery—or blackmail?’

His mouth thinned. ‘You are not amusing, carissima. Be very careful.’

‘Why?’ she challenged recklessly. ‘I already know the lengths you’re prepared to go to—when there’s something you want.’

Or when you’ve stopped wanting …

You sent me away, she thought. So why are you here now, tormenting me like this—reviving all these unwanted memories?

Her throat ached suddenly at the thought of them. But that was a weakness she couldn’t afford, because the room seemed to be shrinking, the walls closing in, diminishing the space between them. A space she needed to maintain at all costs.

‘I wonder if that’s true.’ Sandro’s voice was quiet—reflective. ‘Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘that hardly matters any more.’ She paused. ‘And I don’t think there’s much point in continuing this discussion either.’

His smile twisted. ‘Then we agree on something at last.’

‘So, if you can tell me where to find my shoes and jacket, I’ll go.’

‘Back to him? Your innamorato ?’

‘Back to my life,’ Polly said, lifting her chin. ‘In which you have no part, signore .’

‘I can hardly argue with that,’ Sandro shrugged. ‘You will find your belongings in the bedroom, Paola mia. ’

He did not, she noticed, offer to fetch them for her, as the Sandro she’d once known would have done.

Don’t fool yourself, she thought as she trod, barefoot, into the bedroom and paused, looking around her. As he said—you never really knew him at all.

Her jacket and bag were on a small sofa by the window, her shoes arranged neatly beneath it. As she reached them she was aware of a sound behind her, and turned.

Sandro had followed her, she realised, her heart missing a beat. She hadn’t been aware of his approach, because he too had discarded his shoes. But the noise she’d heard was the sound of the door closing behind him, shutting them in together.

And now he was leaning back against its panels, watching her with hooded eyes, his expression cool and purposeful as, with one hand, he began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt.

Polly felt the breath catch in her throat. With a supreme effort, she controlled her voice, keeping it steady. ‘Another game, signore ?’

‘No game at all, signorina. ’ Cynically, he echoed her formality. ‘As I am sure you know perfectly well.’

She had picked up her bag, and was holding it so tightly that the strap cut into her fingers. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Sandro tutted. ‘Now you’re being dishonest, bella mia, but I expected that.’ He allowed his discarded shirt to drop to the floor, and began to walk towards her.

She swallowed. ‘I think you must be going crazy.’

‘Possibly,’ he said with sudden harshness. ‘And I want to be sane again.’ He halted, the topaz eyes blazing at her. ‘You are under my skin, Paola. In my blood, like a fever that refuses to be healed. And that is no longer acceptable to me. So, I plan to cure myself of you once and for all—and in the only possible way.’

‘No.’ She stared back at him, her appalled heart thudding frantically. ‘No, Sandro. You can’t do this. I—I won’t let you.’

‘You really believe you have a choice?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I know better.’

She backed away until her retreat was cut off by the wall behind her. Until he reached her.

‘Please, Sandro,’ she whispered. ‘Please let me go.’

He laughed again, touching a finger to her trembling lips, before outlining the curve of her jaw, and stroking down the delicate line of her throat to the neckline of her dress.

‘Once I have finished with you, carissima ,’ he drawled insolently, ‘you are free to go anywhere you wish.’

‘Do you want me to hate you?’ Her voice pleaded with him.

‘I thought you already did.’ Almost casually, he detached her bag from her grasp and tossed it to one side, his brows snapping together as he saw the marks on her skin.

He lifted both her hands to his lips, letting them move caressingly on the redness the leather strap had left.

‘I had almost forgotten how easily you bruise.’ His voice was low and husky. ‘I shall have to be careful.’

Her whole body shivered at the touch of his mouth on her flesh, the aching, delirious memories it evoked. And the promise of further, dangerous delights in his whispered words.

A promise she could not allow him to keep.

She snatched her hands from his grip, and pushed violently at the bare, tanned wall of his chest, catching him off balance. As Sandro was forced into a step backwards, she dodged past, running for the door.

With no shoes and no money, she was going nowhere, but if she could just get out of this bedroom it might be possible to reason with him—deflect him from his apparent purpose.

She flung herself at the door handle, twisted it one way, then the other, trying to drag the door open, but it wouldn’t budge an inch, and she realised with horror that he must have locked it too—and taken the key.

‘Trying to escape again.’ His voice was sardonic, his hands hard on her shoulders as he swung her relentlessly to face him. ‘Not this time, bella mia .’ His smile mocked her. ‘Not, at least, until you have said a proper goodbye to me.’

‘Sandro.’ Her voice cracked. ‘You can’t do this. You must let me go …’

‘Back to your lover? Surely he can spare me a little of your time and attention first. After all, he has reaped the benefit of our previous association, wouldn’t you say?’ He paused. ‘And, naturally, I am intrigued to know if your repertoire has increased since then.’

Her face was white, her eyes like emerald hollows, as she stared up at him, her skin seared by his words.

She said chokingly, ‘You bastard.’

‘If you insist on calling me bad names,’ Sandro said softly, ‘I have no option but to stop you speaking at all.’ And his mouth came down hard on hers.

She tried to struggle—to pull away from him, so that she could talk to him—appeal, even on the edge, to his better nature. Tell him that his actions were an outrage—a crime. But what did that matter to someone who lived his life outside the law anyway? her reeling mind demanded.

Her efforts were in vain. The arm that held her had muscles of steel. At the same time, his free hand was loosening the dishevelled knot of her hair, his fingers twisting in its silky strands to hold her still for the ravishment of his kiss.

Her breasts were crushed against his naked chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin penetrating her thin dress. Felt the heat surge in her own body to meet it.

She heard herself moan faintly in anguished protest—pleading that this man, to whom she’d once given her innocence, would not now take her by force.

But Sandro used the slight parting of her lips for his own advantage, deepening the intimacy of his kiss with sensual intensity as his tongue invaded the moist sweetness of her mouth.

No sign now of the tenderness with which he’d caressed her fingers only moments ago. Just the urgency of a need too powerful to be denied any longer.

A fever in the blood, he’d called it, she thought in a kind of despair, her starved body craving him in turn. And how was it possible that she could feel like this? That she could want him so desperately in return?

When at last he raised his head, the scar on his face was livid against the fierce burn of colour along his taut cheekbones.

He said, ‘Take off your dress,’ his voice hoarse, shaken. And when he saw her hesitate, ‘Or do you wish me to tear it off you?’

‘No.’ She sounded small and breathless. ‘I—I’ll do it.’ She turned away from him, as her shaking fingers fought with the buttons. When half of them were loose, she pushed the navy linen from her shoulders, freeing her arms from the sleeves as she did so, and letting the dress fall to the floor.

She faced him slowly, her arms crossed defensively across her body, trying to conceal the scraps of white broderie anglaise that were now her only covering.

‘But how delicious,’ he said, softly. ‘Bought for your lover?’

Polly shook her hair back from her face. ‘I dress to please myself.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And now you will undress to please me. Per favore ,’ he added silkily.

She could hear nothing but the wild drumming of her own pulses, and the tear of her ragged breathing. See nothing but the heated flare of hunger in his eyes. A hunger without gentleness, demanding to be appeased.

And his hands reaching for her—like some ruthless hawk about to seize his prey.

Not like this, she thought in anguish. Oh, dear God, not like this. Not to lie naked in his arms and be taken—enjoyed for one night alone. To be used, however skilfully, just so that he could get her out of his system, only to find herself discarded all over again when his need for her was finally assuaged. And to be forced to go through all that suffering a second time—unappeased.

It was unthinkable—unbearable.

Her voice shook. ‘Sandro—please—don’t hurt me …’

She paused, knowing she was on the edge of complete self-betrayal here. Realising too that she must not let him see that he still had the power to inflict more misery on her.

The sudden silence was total. He was completely still, apart from a muscle which moved swiftly, convulsively in his throat.

When at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘ Dio mio, you think that I’m going to rape you? That I might be capable of such a thing?’ He shook his head. ‘How could you believe that? It is an insult to everything we have ever been to each other.’

He lifted his hand, and touched the scar. ‘This has only altered my face, Paola. It has not turned me into a monster.’

‘I—I didn’t mean …’ Polly began, then bit her lip. This was a misunderstanding that she could not put right—not without the kind of explanation she was desperate to avoid, she told herself wretchedly.

‘Basta,’ Sandro said sharply. ‘Enough.’ He bent and retrieved his shirt from the floor, dragging it on with swift, jerky movements.

‘Now dress yourself and go,’ he instructed icily. ‘And be quick. Otherwise I might lose all self-respect, and justify your low opinion of me. Punish you in the way you deserve,’ he added grimly.