The Sicilian's Passion (8 page)

K
ATE
got her shower in the end, and so did Giovanni, because he joined her, just as he had said he would, and she found herself wondering whether this was a man who always got exactly what he wanted.

She had never had a shower like it in her life and she had never given herself so freely to a man before. It was as though she was powerless to do anything other than to react to the mastery of his body.

He slowly soaped every bit of her—indecently slowly, so that she heard herself moaning in protest beneath his touch. His fingers lingered on her breasts, and on the tiny swell of her belly, before sliding in between her thighs to bring her to a shuddering orgasm right there in the shower.

Then it was her turn. She stroked her way over his firm flesh, heated by a renewed need herself as he sprang into vibrant life beneath her fingertips.

His eyes glittered as he realised what she was trying to do. ‘No,' came the silken rebuttal, before he lifted her up to thrust into her over and over again, while her legs straddled him, her soft thighs pressing into the hard jut of his hips.

‘Giovanni!' she gasped.

‘That's my name,' he agreed in a grim kind of voice, uncharacteristically feeling himself teetering on the brink of control, and resenting it even as he gloried in it. His mouth hardened as he reined in his desire.

Kate had never been made love to in a shower before, and the contrast between his hot, hard entry and the gushing water that flooded down on them only seemed to intensify her pleasure. She would have liked him to kiss her, but the confined space made kissing difficult. Maybe he liked that, she thought with a sudden wave of sadness—because kissing brought with it a certain kind of tenderness; but then he drove into her even harder and thought gave way to pure, beautiful sensation.

She opened her mouth at the moment of fulfilment and warm water rained into it, at the very same time as Giovanni dissolved with a low, rasping moan of completion.

His face looked darkly serious as he lifted her away from him, the blue eyes giving nothing away.

‘Are you always this generous a lover,
cara
?' he asked sombrely, the deep voice sounding almost shaken.

She hid her face by bending to pick up the soap, which had flown from someone's grip—hers or his, she couldn't remember. His question seemed to imply that she carried on like this with hundreds of men—oh, if only he knew how small was the number of lovers in her life!

‘I hope so,' she prevaricated, and saw his mouth tighten.

He wondered why it filled him with the white-hot heat of fury to imagine her like this with another man. Why should he have unrealistic expectations of a woman like this?

Anna had been a virgin, had known only him as her lover, and he had always held back just a little, for fear of shocking her.

Yet with Kate he was at his most inhibitedly rampant. He couldn't seem to get enough of her. Novelty value, he told himself angrily, that was all it was. Two weeks of non-stop sex should be able to cure him of
that
.

But, in the meantime, they had run out of certain essential supplies.

‘Let me wash your hair for you,
cara
,' he coaxed in velvet entreaty. ‘And then…”

‘Then?' The question came out breathlessly, because, supper forgotten, all she wanted to do was to take him to her bed. What on earth was happening to her?

‘We need to go out.'

‘Out?' she pouted.

He gave a low laugh, and ran his finger over the swollen contours of her mouth, the laugh becoming one of delight when she nipped at the tip with her teeth like a tiny animal. ‘Yes, out, my beautiful, wanton Kate.'

‘Are you hungry?'

‘Very,' he answered truthfully, because he had skipped lunch.

‘Well, I have plenty of food in. Champagne, too,' she added hopefully, as an incentive.

He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He did not want to drink champagne with her. Why celebrate a fundamental flaw in his character, which he was only just discovering? That this woman had a certain power over him, that she had taken something from him which he had not intended to give? ‘But there is one vital provision we have run out of,' he told her softly.

‘What?'

For answer he took her hand and guided it between his legs until it touched the silky surface of the rubber which was still in place.

‘We have used three already,' he told her, on a silken boast.

She felt a detached feeling of disappointment as she let her head rest on his wet shoulder. Of course that was all he was thinking of—that was all they had ever shared, wasn't it? ‘The chemist it is, then,' she said, her voice muffled against his skin.

But he heard the disappointment, and frowned. He lifted her face and looked down into it, thinking how curiously vulnerable her bare, wet face seemed—and what a contrast to the firebrand she had been in his arms. ‘You want to have
dinner, don't you?' he said softly. ‘So go and get ready. We'll buy what we need and then I'll take you out to eat.'

And Kate was unprepared for the great leap of excitement in her heart as she pulled the shower door open.

It isn't a date, she told herself fiercely as she wrapped a towel round her and walked through to the bedroom. It's just a meal—the fuel we need for what is doubtless going to be a marathon bout of delicious sensation.

But she dressed as if she was going on a date.

The first time she had met him she'd been working—and on the two occasions she had seen him since she had been surprised by him at the flat. Tonight she had been wearing nothing but a satin robe and there had been no opportunity to prepare herself, to make sure that she looked her best.

Now was her opportunity to pull all the stops out. To dazzle and beguile him. He might only be here for two weeks, and he might only want her as his temporary lover—but he would see her looking her very best!

She pulled a black dress from her wardrobe, a dress she rarely wore—because it always seemed a little too ‘grownup' for her. But tonight she wanted to feel grown-up—a real woman, in the company of a real man.

It was the simplest dress imaginable—a shift of jet linen—and the beauty was all in the cut. It had cost her a small fortune, and it showed—especially when she scraped her hair back into an almost severe chignon, which meant that her face looked all eyes, fringed with an extravagant lashing of mascara.

She wore no jewellery—the moonstones seemed all wrong, somehow, and she possessed no ‘real' jewellery. With her long, slim legs encased in dark silk stockings, the final touch was a pair of outrageous little black shoes with kitten heels.

Giovanni sat waiting for her in the sitting room, his hair still damp from the shower. She saw that he had brought up his bags from the car, and was wearing a snowy-white shirt
and some dark, amazing trousers, and the blue eyes were watching her every movement as she swayed into the room.

He pursed his lips and let out an exaggerated long, low whistle of appreciation.

‘Mmm,' he murmured. ‘
Bella
.'

But if she had hoped for kisses now she was to be disappointed, for he made no move to touch her.

He didn't dare. His swallowed down his desire. She looked absolutely breathtaking in a dress that would have looked outstanding in any company. With her hair off her face like that, she looked almost icy. Unapproachable. And again, the contrast to the woman who had straddled him in the shower minutes earlier was quite devastating. If he touched her he knew exactly what would happen—and what would be the use of removing such a beautiful garment from her body before dinner?

Something in the way he was looking at her made Kate feel suddenly unsure of herself. This really was the most bizarre situation, she thought. She had been more intimate with him than she had with any other man, and yet she didn't have a clue what was going on in his mind. ‘You like it, then?' she asked him unnecessarily.

A muscle flickered at his cheek. ‘You know I do.'

But still he kept his distance. She pinned a bright smile onto her mouth. ‘It's getting late; shall we go?'

‘Sure.'

Outside, the evening sun danced golden on the river, and they began to walk towards the shops and restaurants.

‘Shall we eat first?' he asked.

At least he had given her the choice. It seemed almost too clinical to go and stock up at the pharmacy while they walked side by side as if they were two strangers. Intimate strangers. ‘Yes, please,' she answered gratefully.

He heard the relief in her voice. ‘And where are you going to take me?'

‘I haven't decided yet.'

She didn't take him to her favourite restaurant. They knew her by name there, and she had no desire for them to get to know Giovanni, too. They might jump to all kinds of the wrong conclusions and think that he was a proper boyfriend. And she wasn't sure she could face the awkward questions which would be bound to arise when he disappeared from her life as suddenly as he had entered it.

Instead, they found a small Indian eaterie which had received rave reviews in the national Press. The place was teeming and a table looked unlikely, but the
maître d'
took one glance at the imposing Sicilian and the pale-faced woman at his side and immediately summoned them in to a small table in one corner of the room.

It was, Kate realised as she sat down to face him, the first time that they had done anything ‘normal' together—unless you counted that first, awkward lunch at his godmother's. It didn't help that her hands were shaking as she took the menu, but how could she not feel a trembling bag of nerves? He looked
adorable
. Outrageously good-looking and confident.

She couldn't miss the side-looks which most of the other female diners gave him, followed by envious glances in
her
direction. I don't want to adore him, she told herself. An emotion like that would be wasted on a relationship that wasn't going anywhere past the bedroom.

‘I hope you like Indian food?' she questioned conventionally.

His appetite, peculiarly, had deserted him, but he forced a bland smile. ‘I'm not familiar with it.' The sapphire gaze captured her. ‘Perhaps you would like to order for me?'

She nodded, suspecting that he rarely let a woman take control. ‘OK.' She scanned the menu with uninterested eyes.

She didn't have a clue what she was ordering, even though she loved Indian food with a passion. She just jabbed her finger indiscriminately at the menu and hoped for the best.

‘We should drink beer with curry,' she told him when she had ordered the drinks.

‘So you've changed your mind about champagne?' he drawled.

She looked up from the menu, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. ‘We haven't really got anything to celebrate, have we?'

Was it another sudden look of vulnerability that made him say it? ‘Except for the most erotic afternoon of my life,' he answered softly.

‘Mine, too,' she admitted helplessly.

‘So far,' he added, and the soft blue gleam from his eyes set her pulses racing.

She stared at him, trying to see beyond the dark glamour of his looks and the lazy sophistication he exuded. ‘Listen,' she sighed, ‘we can't spend the whole evening talking about sex, can we?'

He laughed. ‘Well, we
can
…. I think what you mean to say is that it could become rather wearing.'

‘Thanks for the language lesson,' she responded drily, taking a sip from the glass of lager which the waiter put on the table in front of her.

‘What do you want to talk about?' he murmured. ‘You want to tell me a little something of your life?'

Again she tried to pretend that this was a normal first date, but her words came out in a stilted list of facts. ‘My parents live on the outskirts of London. One older sister. Her name is Lucy.'

‘And where is she?'

‘She lives in the flat below mine.'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘So, two successful, affluent sisters living close to one another—how pleased your parents must be.'

‘Yes. They are.' But she didn't want to talk about herself—she wanted to learn about this man to whom she had given
herself so freely. She looked at him curiously. ‘Your English is absolutely brilliant.'

‘There you go again,' he murmured, recognising a deliberate attempt to change the subject. ‘Stereotyping me.'

‘I wasn't!' she protested.

‘Yes, you were!' His faint accent became suddenly exaggerated and pronounced, like a caricature of a foreign accent. ‘You want me to talk like
theese, cara
?'

She laughed, but the stupid thing was that his voice sent shivers up and down her spine, no matter
which
way he talked.

She shook her head. ‘Tell me where you learnt to speak it so well.'

‘In America.'

So
that
explained the accent.
And
the fluency.

‘I lived there—for a year in between leaving college and starting work in the company,' he explained, shrugging his shoulders in answer to the question in her eyes. ‘My father thought it wise to become completely fluent before I did so. It can be such a disadvantage to have to negotiate in a foreign language unless you are completely familiar with it. People can try to take you for a fool,' he finished, on an odd kind of note.

‘I can't imagine anyone trying to take
you
for a fool,' she said slowly.

His eyes glittered. He wondered if she had any idea just how irresistible her mouth was. ‘If that was a compliment, then I thank you.'

‘Just an observation,' she returned lightly and put her glass of lager down. ‘So what was life like in America?'

He sighed. He had worked hard and partied hard, and during the process had come into contact with many beautiful women who had made no secret of their attraction for the tall, lean Sicilian with the disconcerting blue gaze. But despite the attractions not once had he succumbed to any of
their
undoubted charms.