Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (28 page)

'Enough!' Why was everything he said to her a command or a threat?

'What's wrong with you now? Let me go, you're hurting, and you promised
. . .'

'I know only too well what I promised,' he grated. 'But you are, I
think, trying to incite me into crossing the lines That you
 
insisted on drawing between us. I am not a
foolishly naive young man like Carlo, and usually .. .' He let the word drag
out mockingly as he came up on to his knees in one easy, fluid motion; still
holding her trapped there before him. 'Usually,' he continued in a harsh drawl
that warned her to silence, 'I do not deny myself any fleeting pleasures such
as you might provide. So be careful, or I might choose to take your teasing for
an invitation!'

His eyes travelled with slow deliberation over her nudity, lingering on
her breasts and the shadowed vee of her thighs - a wash of tell-tale colour
rising in the wake of that insolent, somehow consuming look.

'Ohh!' Her breath coming shortly, Sara tried to tug herself free from
him. 'I should have known that you'd be a bad loser. First at tennis, and now
.. .'

'But which of us the loser, and which the victor?' His voice was
abrasive, like the feel of his thumb stroking against the sensitive pulse that
beat erratically on the underside of her wrist. 'Don't you want to find out?'

'I think – ' she had to control the tremor in her voice with an effort -
'I think that perhaps we ought to call it quits for tonight and .,. and just go
to bed. Stop twisting -I said you were hurting me!'

'So you did . . .' he said reflectively while his black, impenetrable
eyes seemed to enjoy her futile struggle to be free. 'Was that another promise
you tricked me into making to you? That I would not hurt you? I don't seem to
recall.'

'Let.go!' Sara hissed angrily into his dark, unsmiling face. I'm not...
not into S and M, if that happens to be your bag!'

'And if it were, do you think your feeble protests would have any
effect?' he taunted her. 'I think you know as well as I do that in a very short
time I could make you want anything I chose to do to you - to that slim,
fire-flushed body you choose to flaunt so blatantly!'

There was a flicker of light in the depths of his eyes like a
smouldering flame that hid beneath banked coals, A dangerous message that even
she, with all her lack of experience, could read only too well.

'No!' She threw the word, sharp as a knife's edge, at his face; wishing-
bitterly that she could scar him, hurt him. If she had actually had a dagger
handy she would have had no compunction at all about plunging it into that hard
masculine body that could only too easily overpower her. 'No - whatever you did
you could never make me want you!'
 
Her
eyes glared moistly into his, bright with an utter desperation that could pass
all too well for hate. Sara could not recognise the brittle, harsh laugh she
gave as her own. 'Because - you know what? Even if you did take me, even if you
did manage to excite my body I would have to close my eyes while I fantasised
about someone else- anyone else! Do you understand? I like to choose my own
lovers, Signor Duca! And you just don't happen to be my type. Have I made
myself
 
clear?'

In the sudden, taut silence that followed her frantic outburst
everything seemed to be suspended, even her breathing. Sara found that she
literally could not tear her eyes away from his, watching them turn as hard as obsidian.
No other change in his face that she could discern. Why didn't he say
something? Or do something? She could feel, with shame, her heart start to
pound madly until she was afraid that he would hear and discover how terrified
she really was of him.

'Didn't you hear what I said?' Her voice sounded far too high and
brittle, even in her own ears.

'Why, yes. As close as we are to each other, how could I fail to hear?'
His voice sounded pleasant. Too pleasant, making Sara want to shy away. 'And
you can certainly be quite articulate and . .. forthright when you choose to
be, can't you? You are also quite the little bitch - the kind who is known in
your country as a prick-teaser, I believe. Hot one moment and cold the next. A
born whore, in fact.'

It seemed incredible and even slightly unreal that he could actually be
saying all these ugly, degrading things to her in the same casually pleasant
tone of voice in which he had begun.

Sara's face burned like the rest of her. Fight him, her mind told her.
Fight him with any weapon you can find, or he's going to defeat and degrade you
- that's what he's trying to do, saying those things, watching for your
reactions with that cold, cruel smile that merely twists one corner of his
mouth and isn't really a smile at all ... He had called her a whore! Again.

'If I really was . . . what you called me, you can be sure, signor, that
there could be no price you could pay that would buy me! And you can be equally
sure that I'd give it away to any man I really dug, even if he happened to be
the garbage collector!'

'I am beginning to discover that in spite of that pretty body that has
brought you so much notoriety, you also happen to combine all the worst traits
of a female! Shall I detail them?'

'I don't want to hear any more from you. Let me go, I tell you!'

He went on implacably, as if he had not heard her protests: 'You possess
a too-hot temper and a vicious tongue, both of which you would do well to curb
if you ever want to keep one of your many lovers for longer than a night or
two. You are also, obviously, a coldly calculating, hypocritical little —

'And you are nothing but a ... a pompous ass! Studying me through a
dirty microscope with that insufferably judgemental look, while all the time .
. .' Sara cut herself short just in time, horrified by the implications of what
she had almost said.

'All the time . . . what? You should also learn to finish your
sentences.' Jagged edges underlay the deceptive smoothness of his voice.

'When you are through with holding me here by force to listen to your
insulting allegations, I'd really like to leave, you know. It's getting very
uncomfortable kneeling here on this cold, hard floor - unless you were thinking
of forcing me to do penance for my rumoured sins?'

This time Marco did not try to smother the ugly oath that was jerked out
of him as he hauled her roughly and unceremoniously to her feet. He
half-expected her to be off balance and fall against him; but damn her, like a
cat she kept her balance easily, looking at him out of those eyes like
splintered green glass, glittering gold-edged in the firelight. Who could see
through eyes like hers — or look beyond them? Eyes of a natural coquette, a
born harlot. And a body to match, as he had not been able to help noticing - or
reacting to. Calculating? Damn right she was calculating. And completely
amoral, among a lot of other things. Bitch goddess! And -penance she had said?

'Penance is only for the truly repentant, I'm afraid! But had this been
as little as a hundred years ago I would truly have exacted much more than a
formal penance from you, believe me!'

She didn't like the way his voice had lowered into a deep growl at the
last, nor the dangerously brooding look in his eyes when he watched her. But at
least he had finally dropped her aching wrist, and Sara tried to act nonchalant
as she massaged it — backing off slightly at the same time.

'You really don't have to go into details, thank you! I imagine you'd
have me hauled off to a dungeon or something equally medieval; and tortured me
gruesomely until I'd admitted to all the imaginary sins you'd accuse me of.'
She gave an exaggerated shudder, adding, 'All I can say is thank God for
progress! I've come a long way, baby!'

And that was her perfect line for an exit. Both graceful and dignified -
if she could only find her wrap.

'I'm glad to hear it!' he said dryly, adding with false politeness: 'You
are looking for something? This?'

'This' happened to be the missing wrap, wadded up inconsiderately and
tossed at her so carelessly that Sara was forced to take several steps
backwards in order to catch it. Precisely as he'd intended, of course!

With the splash she'd made still echoing in her ears Sara went under,
came up gasping to hear his harsh laugh and went under again. This time she
didn't come up. Underwater swimming had taught her how to hold her breath for
quite a long time, and there were no pool lights on to illuminate the water. If
he thought she had hit her head on the edge and was stunned, would he come in
after her or let her drown?

She had almost reached the limit of her endurance when she felt him dive
in - and immediately she shot to the surface, keeping close to the side and
pulling herself out of the water in almost one motion.

The pompous, arrogant bastard! Sara hoped he'd stay under a long time,
looking for her. Long enough to feel apprehension at the prospect of a murder
investigation - or to drown himself.

She was on her feet and running lightly for the stair¬well, not daring
to look back when his angry voice jarred her.

'You're wise to run from me, you tricky little bitch! If I had you here
you would not need to pretend drown¬ing!'

Sara kept moving, leaving him with the last word this time. It was all
she could do not to glance apprehen¬sively over her shoulder as she sped up the
marble stairs, cool under her bare feet. In her sudden blind panic, she slipped
and almost fell twice before she gained the doubtful shelter of her room to
lean backwards, panting, against the door. She remembered only then that she
could not lock it.

Chapter 26

Afterwards, Sara could not recall how much time she spent just staring
at the heavy wooden door through which he might come at any moment - to exact
his revenge. What if he did? The first thing she had done as she recovered her
breath had been to snatch up her discarded nightgown and pull it over her head.
She looked balefully towards the door again. So much for la doce vita!
Skinny-dipping in a marbled swimming pool with an Italian Duke who believed in
bending all the rules to suit himself was definitely not her cup of tea. In
fact, if she had any sense at all she would never have let herself be talked
into this whole mess!

A pair of heavy silver-and-ebony candlesticks stood on either side of
one of the ornamental mirrors in the room, and Sara picked one up. If he dared
to push that door open she would brain him without hesitation and gladly face
the consequences. A kidnapped virgin defending her honour to the death!

At last an unwilling smile quirked her mouth, and she started to feel
slightly silly, standing here poised for battle. Nanny Staggs had always warned
her about her overly dramatic imagination, and who knew her better?

'That way, Miss Sara, you're just like your mother, I'm afraid. Now, why
would you think that poor Mr Meeks is one of them mass-murderers! Honestly!'

The memory of Nanny's snort helped to bring everything back in
perspective at last. If he had been coming after her, he certainly would have
burst through the door long before this. Maybe he too had belatedly been
overtaken by sanity.

She could feel herself sag with the sudden tiredness that followed
relief of tension. Tomorrow she would take steps to extricate herself from her
present untenable situation; and if he wouldn't let her go, then there was
always the ubiquitous Angelo who had offered eagerly to take her to her mother.
She had a feeling that in spite of his slightly slapdash manner, Angelo was
really quite efficient at whatever he did. He struck her as being a survivor.

Tomorrow she really must ask Serafina to draw her some kind of map of
this rabbit-warren palazzo of the Duca di Cavalieri. Tomorrow - it was probably
that already - and oh, but she was tired! Exhausted enough to feel as if her
bones were melting inside her, leaving her incapable of keeping erect for much longer.

With the lights turned out, Sara almost collapsed into bed. Earlier she
had left the folding shutters that led out on to the terrace open - a faintly
stirring breath of air reminded her, but she was already half-asleep.

Sleep was welcome blackness — a place of no-thought — comfortable
nothingness. And then came the unwelcome intrusion of dreams that made her move
uneasily in her wide bed, wondering in her dreams why she felt as if someone
was trying to ask her something she couldn't hear, repeating the same question
over and over with silently moving lips. How annoying! Did they think she was
deaf and a lip-reader? And why did they have to shake her so violently to make
her understand?

'Oh, stop!' The protesting mumble of her own voice brought an almost-awareness.

'Maledzione! Why in hell do you wear this stupid garment? If you don't
help me to take it off, I swear I'll rip it off your body, my double-damned
Delight!'

Oh, God - she knew that voice! Oh no! She gave a sleepy, protesting cry
as an arm went under her shoulders to drag her up into a semi-reclining
position, while at the same time her nightgown was jerked off roughly. And then
he let her drop back on to the bed, jolting her back to fuzzy wakefulness.

'What - what do you think you're doing? How dare you . . .!'

'I think I told you before, it's called droit du seigneur. We have a
similar expression in the local dialect, if you should care to — '

'Get out of here! You . . . you promised, remember?'

'You sound like a little child! What would make you think that I keep my
promises?' His body lay partially over hers, Sara realised with a mounting
feeling of dread. And his face was far too close to hers — close enough for her
to feel the warmth of his breath and smell the tang of alcohol. She shivered.

'You're drunk, aren't you? You had to get yourself good and drunk so you
could get up the courage to come up here and rape me! Droit du seigneur indeed
- there's nothing gentlemanly or ... or civilised about you! You're just a
throwback to those pirate ancestors of yours who came here to sack and rape and
make slaves of the women they carried off! You -'