Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (14 page)

She saw him shrug, shoulders lifting under his closely fitting linen
jacket. 'To sue would only create more gossip -and more publicity.' His voice
was deliberately uninflected, but his eyes taunted her, flushing her face more
brightly than her carefully applied blusher.

Putting her glass down carefully, Sara said, controlling her voice: 'And
since neither of us desires more publicity... what would you suggest?'

'You really want to know?' His voice was as rough-edged as the way his
eyes travelled over her, taking in everything from her nervous flush to her
plunging neckline. 'Then I will tell you. Why pay any regard to gossip? To deny
merely gives credence. And after all, both you and I know how much is true and
how much is not. . . don't we? If your fiance trusts you, I am sure there is no
problem at all. He does trust you, I presume?'

'Of course he does!' Sara affirmed hotly. 'We love each other . . .'

'Ah yes. Love. You love each other - he trusts you. But where is this
Carlo of yours? Why isn't he here with you to protect you from just such
gossip?'

'He's had to go away! On ... on business. But he'll be joining me soon,
of course - or I'll join him. And then we're going to be married.'

'Yes -1 believe you said so before,'

Plates had been set before them, and Sara attacked her salad, skewering
tiny shrimps on her chilled fork. She wasn't going to let him get the best of
her! He was here, after all, for the same reason she was. Because she :
represented challenge; because he was the type of arrogant, chauvinistic male
who couldn't believe there was a female impervious to his sex appeal. Hahl

'I beg your pardon?'

Surely she hadn't said it out loud?

Sara opened her eyes innocently at him, continuing to collect shrimp on
her fork. 'Oh -I didn't say anything. Isn't this salad great?'

'You have not tasted it yet. Only your wine,'

'How observant of you. But I wish you'd stop staring.'

'At you or at your salad?'

'Both.' She proceeded to nibble at her shrimp, eating them one by one.
Hah! she thought again. This time she had the upper hand. The trick was to
ignore him. Then maybe he'd go away and leave her in peace!

Unfortunately the guitar player chose that moment to come up close,
singing what was obviously a love song, to judge from the way his voice sobbed
and his eyes closed when he hit the high notes. Politely, Sara pretended to
listen with rapt concentration, noticing from the corners of her eyes that
Riccardo was not entertained. - in fact there was a tightness to his face and a
tenseness in the long brown fingers that toyed with surface casualness with a
silver napkin ring. Once again Sara noticed the signet ring he wore - heavy
yellow gold with a heraldic design in diamonds and rubies. It was the only ring
he wore, but on one wrist he sported a linked gold bracelet that only served to
emphasise the masculinity of its wearer.

For an instant she let her eyes flick upwards and caught him watching
her. Quickly dropping her glance away Sara thought she heard him swear under
his breath. He said something to the guitar player, who seemed to melt
backwards into the shadows, I don't know what's happening to me . . . Sara
thought lucidly before lucidity seemed to leave her.

'I think we are both wasting time...' he said quietly from across the
table, and his hand reached out to seize hers, drawing her to her feet without
any effort at all. The guitar was still playing, only very softly now - just
music, no singing. And across the pool, on the other side of the Spanish tiled
courtyard, a fire flickered; each tongue of flame sending red-hot pincers to
tear at her nerve endings.

Speechless, Sara let it happen. Where had everyone gone? The
white-jacketed waiters were nowhere in evidence, and all that remained of the
guitar player was his music. She was where she wanted to be — within the circle
of hard arms that held her closely against the different hardness of his body.
Fingers caught impatiently in the thick masses of her hair, pulling her head
back to meet the assault of his mouth over hers - capturing and plundering; not
giving her a chance to say no, even if she had wanted to.

This was like shooting a rapids — being swept over the edge, no longer
in control. Without her willing them, her arms had gone upwards to hold him -
perhaps to keep herself from falling. His kisses were both harsh and gentle,
while his hands, once they were sure of her willing captivity, roamed from her
shoulders down the length of her spine;,tracing the curves of her hips and
buttocks before he pulled her roughly against himself.

She had never felt this way before; never felt herself melting, being
absorbed, being concentrated; all feeling and no thought. Even when his fingers
burned through the thin silk of her dress, teasingly caressing her breasts
-impatiently pushing aside the silk so that now she felt the slight roughness
of his fingers against the untried softness and sensitivity of her skin — even
then she could not speak the protests that formed in her mind.

'Come.' One word. What about dinner? What did dinner matter, or anything
else, compared to this degree of feeling? She stumbled on her unaccustomed high
heels, and with a muttered imprecation - just like a scene from a rnoviel — he
lifted her off her feet to carry her against his chest.

Somehow, they had arrived at her room, and he shouldered the door open.
Only the light beside the bed was on, and it was to the bed that he went
directly, lowering her on to it.

Now what? Now that he was no longer holding her, Sara began to feel
silly, lying sprawled there. Unconsciously, she tugged down her skirt, drawing
her knees together. What was she supposed to do next? He had closed the door,
and now, standing at the foot of the bed, he had started to loosen his tie,
shrugging off his jacket. Dark, impenetrable eyes travelled over her, and his
voice was as casual as his kisses earlier had not been.

'Why don't you undress and slip under the covers? I'll join you soon.'

To Sara, his matter-of-fact approach was like a glass of cold water
thrown in her face. He was taking for granted that she was his. He was treating
her in the same, almost pragmatic manner that he probably treated all the women
he went to bed with. No doubt his every move tonight had been carefully
calculated; carefully timed. And now that he was sure of her, how cool he was!

Disbelievingly, Sara watched him begin to unbutton his shirt. From being
swept away by the nights of fantasy, she was beginning to come back down to
earth.

'Delight. . . such a promising name. Are you waiting for me to undress
you? Or do you like to be taken with your clothes on?'

Standing there like a jungle animal, muscles rippling under darkly
tanned skin, he made her breath come shortly.

He would be the kind of man who took what he wanted without any regard
for the feelings of anyone else. And if she tried to back off now be would take
her by force . . . sheer instinct told her that, as she stared back,
half-mesmerised, at his implacable eyes.

Think of something, Sara! her inner voice urged her — And quickly! He
isn't a patient man , . .

He had come closer to her, his shirt discarded now, and in the dim light
Sara saw his mouth twisted in a sarcastic smile that wasn't a real smile at
all.

His hands were at his belt now and she hastily averted her eyes, fixing
them on his face instead.

'I ... I don't think we'd better . . .'

'What's the matter now, are you still thinking of your Carlo? I'm sure
he'd understand. After all, you're a special kind of woman. Does he know of
those very sexy movies you've made?'

'Of course. Carlo knows everything about me! And I'm glad you reminded
me about Carlo, because I ... I've changed my mind about this. I'm sorry - I
didn't mean to lead you on, but you've . . . quite managed to turn me off with
the things you say. Please . . .'

He stood poised, looking at her; reminding her frighteningly of a black
panther crouched and ready to spring. Scrambling to her knees, Sara backed away
as far as the width of the bed permitted. Dear God. Would he rape her now? Was
he capable of such an act of violence?

Words spilled from her, spurred by the need to stave him off.

'Do you understand? I've changed my mind. I can't. . . with anyone else
when I'm so in love with Carlo. I'm sorry — I suppose I was.really testing
myself, to be sure; and now I am.'

Still standing looking down at her he gave a burst of raucous laughter
that made her cringe in spite of all her strong resolutions.

'Testing? How American. But are you sure an Italian man would
understand? Will you tell Carlo of this little incident? Shall I?'

'What do you mean - shall you ... are you threatening me? Trying to
blackmail me?'

He said reflectively, as if he hadn't heard her at all: 'If I followed
my instincts and yours - yes, no matter how fiercely you deny them! -I would
take you right now, and it would not be rape, I think you are too easily
seduced, my Delight -also the Delight of so many other men before me and before
Carlo! But like yours, my appetites, too, are jaded, and I enjoy challenge. So
I say to you that I will never take you by force, because if I or anyone else
should choose to exert enough effort you will willingly yield that which it suits
you now to hold back. Why?' He flung the word at her, voice rasping like a saw
blade. 'Didn't I offer you enough? Should it have been a Rolls Corniche instead
of a Mercedes? Would you enjoy a charge account at Charles Galay? I have
noticed that you wear expensive clothes and Elsa Peretti ear-rings. Have I
taken you too cheaply? Offered you too little?'

His words pricked at her like so many thrown daggers, each meant
deliberately to pierce and hurt. They forced a reaction from her that was sheer
self-defence, negating those other darker emotions that had almost drowned her,

"Have I taken you too cheaply?' he had said. 'Offered you too
little?'

Sara drew a deep breath, thankful for the dim light that shadowed her
face, hiding her expression from him.

'Both,' she said shortly, 'but not in the way you mean. And now, if you
don't mind , . .'

Long after he had gone, closing the door with controlled softness behind
him, Sara found that she could not move. The rigidity she had forced on herself
held her stiffly, still staring at the door as if she expected him to come back
through it to attack her again - her body as well as her too-treacherous
senses. But he didn't come and sanity flowed back into her eventually and with
it the release of a storm of weeping that was quite unusual for her. Just rage,
Sara told herself. And frustration, because it was Delight he wanted and not
you, her mind answered her, making her sob all the harder; hating both herself
and him.

Chapter 13

Some women could cry themselves to sleep and wake up fresh and unscathed
the next morning. Obviously, she wasn't one of them. After she'd grimaced
across at her red-eyed morning reflection in the bathroom mirror, Sara grimly
set about bathing her eyes with cold water. One of Nanny Staggs's old tried-and-true
remedies — guaranteed to get rid of puffy eyelids. And like most of Nanny's
remedies it did work in the end.

'Is there anybody home?' Sara asked the houseboy who brought her late
brunch out to the secluded terrace where she'd been sunbathing. She hoped her
question sounded as ingenuous as she'd meant it to be.

Her eyes disguised by Delight's oversized sunglasses, Sara lay bikinied
and oiled on a chaise-longue; her hair tied back from her face with a yellow
bandanna.

'Only the Master. The other gentleman he go away last night already.'

He'd gone! And of course that pang that shot through her body was one of
profound relief. Naturally, he'd never want to see her again, and that was just
as well. He was the kind of man that no woman could, or should, ever trust! The
kind of man to stay far away from - the kind of man that she, Sara would never
ordinarily encounter. And it was high time she was able to go back to being
herself again, Sara thought almost desperately. How long had she promised
Delight? Two weeks - a month?

You don't have to think about it right now, Sara commanded herself,
turning from her stomach on to her back, feeling the heat of the afternoon sun
assault her flesh. Better to suspend all thought and lie in the middle world
between dream and waking.

'Well, well! You asleep or not? Falling asleep in the sun can be
dangerous, my dear.'

'Uncle Theo!'

'Who else? You're my only house-guest right now, and I thought this
might be as good a time as any for us to get reacquainted - if you feel up to
it, that is.'

Why was her heart pounding so damn hard? Of course she was glad that it
was Uncle Theo who had caught her sunbathing with her arms and legs spread wide
as if to receive the sun god of the ancient Greeks. Anyone else might have...

Sara caught herself up, checking the unfinished thought. She'd had
almost too much sun for one day - it was a good thing that she had the kind of
skin that tanned easily and seldom burned, thanks to an Italian
great-grandmother.

Sitting up, Sara said brightly: 'Offer me some very cold Perrier with
lime and I'll follow you anywhere!' It was the kind of thing Delight would have
said. But while they were talking, why did Uncle Theo keep forgetting and call
her Sara instead of Delight?

They talked while Uncle Theo took her on an impromptu tour of his
private gallery of paintings. 'No good locking all this beauty up in a vault! I
want to be able to look at them whenever I want to.'

For all her finger-popping waywardness, Delight must surely love thesel
Sara didn't want to hide her excitement, and couldn't. She could tell Uncle
Theo was pleased.