His Wedding Ring of Revenge Page 10

  He lifted his mouth away.

  ‘Or this?’

  His fingers slid around her throat, to cup the back of her head. And then once again he lowered his mouth to hers.

  She could not move, could not breathe. Could only stand there while Vito kissed her, opening her mouth and letting the honey within sweeten the moment to exquisite bliss.

  It seemed to her that his kiss lasted for ever—and yet for only the briefest moment. As he drew back from her she gave a soft, anguished cry of loss.

  He looked down at her. His eyes were dark, dark as the night that embraced them both.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, and his voice was soft and low.

  She reached to touch his face with her fingers, trace the contours of his jaw, his chin, his beautiful, sinful mouth. Tempting her beyond endurance.

  ‘I want you,’ she breathed.

  He smiled. The smile of a fallen angel.

  ‘Then you shall have me, cara mia. You shall have me.’

  He led her away, to his bed, and she went with him.

  At the threshold to his room he paused, and with a sudden sweep lifted her into his arms and carried her inside. As he lowered her down on his bed she gasped.

  The bed was circular. Circular and vast. Swathed in white satin, piled high with the softest cushions. Overhead white muslin bunched like a gathered veil, which could be loosened to give them absolute privacy.

  He looked down at her, lying there in green satin on the huge bed.

  ‘Welcome to the honeymoon suite, cara mia,’ he said softly.

  For a moment, just a brief, fleeing moment, a sense of dread so great came over her that she felt as if someone had just walked over her grave.

  She was no bride. Not in any truth she knew of. She had no right to be here.

  Then her eyes came back to rest on Vito, his hands reaching for his neck and loosening his evening tie.

  She could only watch as the sliver of black fell to the floor, as the black jacket of his tuxedo was removed, tossed carelessly on a padded chair, as his fingers swiftly, silently, undid the buttons of his dress shirt.

  To reveal the smooth, lean perfection that lay beneath.

  She was lost, completely lost. She could not move, could not do anything except lie there supine, helpless, while Vito removed his clothes.

  And all the while he looked down at her, his eyes holding her still for him as he readied himself for her.

  Naked, he came to sit on the side of the bed, and reached for the strap of her dress. He slid it from her shoulder, and then repeated the task with the other strap. And then, with slow deliberation, he drew down the bodice to reveal her breasts.

  They peaked beneath his gaze, and for one long, endless moment she simply stared at him, letting him look at her. Then in a murmured breath she exhaled his name—and her desire.

  ‘Vito—please…’

  Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his mouth to her breast.

  And as he did so the folded paper between her breasts fell to the floor unnoticed. Unregarded. Unimportant.

  ‘Vito…’ Her breath was a sigh, an imprecation, an invocation. An invocation to all that held her bliss in the world. Vito Farneste, who was making love to her again.

  Her body knew him. Knew his body. She took him into her. Felt the strong, swift thrust of his body into hers. Cried out at his possession. And cried again, higher and yet higher, as he caressed her with smoothing hands and melting lips and delicate, skilful fingers that knew how to touch, to stroke, to draw from her every drop of sweetness.

  And the sweetest of all the bliss that was possessing her was the knowledge that she had Vito back again. Vito as he had been that night, that precious, wonderful, magical night, when he had made a woman of her.

  And, as she had that night, so again this night she gave her body to him and all her being—arching towards him, embracing him, yielding to him all that she was, all that she had to give.

  His touch was honey and fire and licking, flickering flame, playing over her skin, inflaming it, reaching every inch of her, every secret place, setting her alight, aflame. Her mouth clung to his, her body to his, cleaving and clasping, holding him to her, closer and more closely still, her hands desperate to catch him back with every slow, withdrawing thrust, pulling him in again to her, as the flame burned in her veins, her throat, her mouth, the very core of her being.

  He lifted her hands above her head, fastening them with his strong, flexing arms, moving his lean, powerful body with slow, relentless strokes. She could feel the flame turn to the first exquisite flickerings of pleasure growing with each thrust, caressing the very heart of her, until she felt the flickerings merge and meld into a sweet, hot pool of liquid flame that brimmed almost, almost, to overflowing.

  But not quite…not quite.

  Her body arched to his, hips lifting, imploring, her mouth catching at his, her lips soft and desperate.

  ‘Vito…’ His name was a breath, an exhalation, a plea.

  He stilled, and his very stillness was agony to her.

  ‘Vito…’ she breathed again.

  He lifted his mouth from hers and gazed down at her. The planes of his face were thrown into stark contrast by the low, glowing light of the soft lamp.

  She drank him in like the sweetest wine, the most beautiful man in the world, making love to her…

  For one long, timeless moment he looked back at her, and she could see the dark shade of passion in his eyes.

  Passion. Passion for her. For her alone.

  Time seemed to stop, the universe seemed to stop, everything that had ever existed, ever could exist, seemed to stop, and she was caught here, now, for ever, on the very lip of bliss.

  Then slowly, with infinite control, he stroked deep, deep within her, one last, final time.

  The pool of fire at her body’s core brimmed…and over-flowed.

  Like lava spilling through her veins the sweet, unbearable excitement spread out in pulse after undulating pulse of hot, pouring pleasure, suffusing through every cell, every atom of her body, flowing through her limbs.

  She cried out, a high, unearthly sound, her eyes fluttering closed as her whole being became the sensation pouring through her.

  And even as her hips strained upwards, the burning tension in her muscles only accentuating the sheet of flame that lit her body like a torch, she felt him move again. Not slow, not controlled, but urgent, hungry, devouring.

  She felt his body convulse into hers, and it was her ecstasy too. She cried out again, her head thrashing, heels digging into the bedclothes, as her body bowed upward to his.

  And still the lava poured through her body, an endless, unstoppable welling of sensation that went on and on, so that she was all that it was, and it was all that she was.

  Until with one final powerful pulse his surging peaked, and suddenly the weight of his body was pressing down on her, spent, exhausted, sated.

  His hands slackened on hers and she felt his weight on her hips, extinguishing the last eddies of the fire that had consumed her. She was shaken to her core, her breathing ragged, rasping.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes blank with wonder, heart pounding in her chest, her body slick with sweat.

  He looked down at her. She could see the feathering of his hair, damp on his forehead, the stark etching of his cheekbones, the straining cords of his throat. For a moment—timeless, endless—she could not speak or move, could only gaze, and gaze, and gaze.

  Vito—Vito—had made love to her. Had taken her back to that place where she had dared not go, even in her dreams, and now she was there again, in his arms, his bed.

  It was going to be all right. She knew it with a deep, abiding certainty. How she knew she did not understand, but the truth, the strength of what had just happened could not be denied. The poisoned past was gone now, burned out in the flame of passion shared.

  She gazed up at him, her breath still ragged, her body still shaken to its extremity by what she had j
ust experienced.

  With a slow, leisurely movement Vito lowered his head to brush her lips. She could not kiss him back. Exhaustion drained her and she lay passive, supine.

  As he lifted his head from her he smiled.

  And in that moment, as he spoke, the breath stopped in her throat.

  ‘You must let me know, cara mia, when you want my stud services again. If you promise to respond to me like that again you shall have them any time you want…’

  His voice was low and mocking.

  She felt the blood drain from her body and a chill, numbing horror take its place in her veins.

  He raised himself from her, releasing her hands. He drew one long, insolent finger along her cheek.

  ‘You’ve improved a lot since you were eighteen—that lover of yours must be good. He’s taught you well. You should give him my compliments. Tell him how much I appreciated his tuition of you.’

  She heard him speak but could say nothing. Could only lie there while the horror drenched through her.

  He drew out of her, his naked body glistening with sweat in the dim light.

  For one long, horror-stricken second she stared at him. At the absolute perfection of muscle and sinew that was the body of Vito Farneste.

  A fallen angel’s body.

  With a fallen angel’s soul.

  He got to his feet and looked down at her.

  ‘I need a shower. Do you care to join me? It could be very…reviving…’

  He reached down as if to touch her.

  She ran. Ran as if all the devils in hell were after her. Or just one ruined, fallen angel. Stumbling to her feet, she ran like a wounded, desperate thing, to gain the sanctuary of her own room along the veranda.

  The French windows opened to her desperate tugging and she slammed them shut behind her, fumbling for the lock.

  Then, with a stricken, broken cry, she threw herself onto the bed, burying deep within the covers as though it was her grave.

  She lay, legs drawn up, sideways, in a protective, instinctive foetal position, her head and arms buckled inwards, hunched and bowed.

  She could not even cry.

  Vito stared down at the empty bed. There was an emptiness inside him and he did not know why.

  He had, after all, done exactly what he had intended. He had taken Rachel Vaile to bed again and enjoyed every ounce of her seasoned ripeness.

  And made very, very sure that she enjoyed him too.

  That, after all, had been the whole purpose of this farce. To wipe from her face that mocking, scornful, lying contempt of him!

  Well, he had proved it a lie, all right! Dio, with every stroke of his body she had flamed for him!

  And I for her…

  His mouth tightened angrily. Well, why should he not have? Rachel Vaile could arouse any man.

  But then, that had always been true.

  Ever since the second time he had set eyes on her.

  Memory flashed in his brain.

  She had been standing there, quite lost-looking in that sea of people, her hair like a pale golden veil. As he had approached her, instinctively drawn to her, he had realised how young she was.

  And in the moment he had first stopped in front of her and smiled he had realised how untouched she was.

  And how much he wanted to touch her.

  He snapped the memory off. What the hell was the point in remembering Rachel?

  Then or now.

  With an impatient gesture he threw back the bedclothes, lowering his body onto the bed.

  Immediately he felt her absence, and it stabbed at him like a knife.

  He wanted her again. He wasn’t nearly done with her.

  But he wouldn’t fetch her yet. He would leave her lying in the room next door, facing up to the fact that, however much she might deny it, however much she might tell him that she was immune to him, however much she might only have wanted his ring on her finger to flaunt in the face of a lover who had rejected her, Rachel Vaile was his for the taking.

  And always would be!

  He lay gazing up at the froth of white muslin overhead. Then, irritated by its reminder that this was supposed to be the honeymoon suite, he reached out and snapped off the bedside lamp, letting the night surge around him with only the muted hum of the air-conditioning around him. Though sated, his body felt restless, unquiet. His mind was stormy. Disturbed. And the very fact that it was in such a condition was itself unsettling. There was no reason for it. He had got exactly what he’d wanted. Everything that Rachel had to offer him.

  Her sensuous, sensual body.

  Because he’d learnt, seven long years ago, that that was all there was to Rachel that he could possibly ever want.

  The rest had just been an illusion.

  A cruel, hollow illusion.

  He lay, eyes hard, and stared blindly into the dark.

  Reaching for her toothbrush, Rachel realised that her hand was shaking. She tried to steady it, but it would not be still. She picked up the tube of toothpaste, held it to the toothbrush and squeezed out a pea-sized amount.

  The strong mint flavour burned her mouth, but it also burnt away the stale sourness of last night’s alcohol. She wished it could burn away last night as well.

  Don’t think. Don’t think. Whatever you do, don’t think.

  She repeated the words like a mantra in her mind as she scrubbed with shaking viciousness at her teeth.

  I knew. I knew what he was. I’ve known for seven long, bitter years. I have no excuse, none whatsoever. None.

  How could he have changed from what she knew him to be?

  But I wanted him to have changed! I wanted to be wrong about him! I wanted to believe in him…

  She had wanted him to be the man she had once, so long ago, thought him to be. But he never had been. He had been an illusion.

  A cruel, hollow illusion.

  And last night he had conjured that illusion again, and once again he had deceived her with it. As easily as he had the first time.

  But this time she did not even have the excuse of inexperienced youth. Or ignorance of his true nature.

  She stared at her reflection, remorseless, unforgiving.

  You deserve everything you got. Everything.

  Loathing flowed through her. Not just for him, but for herself, her stupidity.

  She started to pack away her toiletries, swiftly, methodically, unthinkingly. Then she realised she had not yet showered, left her toilet bag on the unit and stepped inside the cubicle.

  Deliberately, self-hatingly, she turned the dial to cold, wanting to punish her flesh for having so beguiled her. Betrayed her.

  But the water only came out tepid in these climes. She let it pound over her, wanting it to pummel her to the floor, wanting to feel its stinging needles mortify her skin. But instead she felt her body quiver in sensate awareness. She took the shower gel and rubbed it roughly over her body, wanting to slough it from her. But it only foamed and creamed beneath her palms, rich and luxuriating.

  Arousing…

  She rinsed abruptly and stepped out of the shower, seizing a towel to scour her skin with. But it was deep, and soft, and comforting.

  She thrust it aside.

  There was no comfort. None to be found. Not for her folly.

  Only emptiness and devastation.

  As she walked back into the bedroom she looked out over the gardens. It must be very early morning; the sun was only just above the horizon behind the house. She wondered how soon any of the staff would be stirring, so that she could summon transport from the island and back to the airport. She dressed swiftly, throwing on the same outfit in which she’d arrived, and packed the rest of her clothes. Her wedding dress was not there. She didn’t care. Never wanted to set eyes on it again. It was contaminated. She closed down the lid of the small valise, fastened it, and froze in hideous realisation.

  She did not have her marriage certificate. Vito had slid it between her breasts when he started his process of seduction.
It must have fallen when he’d removed her dress.

  Dismay surged through her in sickening waves.

  I can’t! I can’t go back in there to get it! I can’t!

  But it was what she had come here for. The sole purpose of this whole vile nightmare. She had to go and get it. She had no choice.

  On leaden, dread-filled steps she crossed to the French windows, turning the key in the lock and carefully, cautiously, opening them. She stepped out onto the terrace. The cool of early morning washed over her, and without intent her gaze drifted out over the gardens.

  And stilled.

  Someone was in the pool. Swimming. Long, rhythmic strokes that ploughed up the water.

  A sudden surge of opportunity struck her, and she twisted her head to the right. The doors of the honeymoon suite stood open.

  It had to be Vito in the pool. It just had to be! Not even daring to think, Rachel dashed into the room, her eyes darting round fearfully. It was deserted—the huge circular bed empty, bedclothes on the floor. She averted her eyes as heat surged in her body.

  Heat and mortification.

  No time! No time for that! Time only to scour the floor in a desperate search for that single folded piece of paper.

  I’ve got to find it! I’ve got to!

  She could see nothing on the floor, and with deepest reluctance, but driven by an urgency she had to obey, she started to search the bed itself.

  Don’t think—just look!

  It was there! Bundled up in the bedclothes. Crumpled, but—she unfolded it fumblingly—still legible and undefaced. She knelt up, scanning the page, making sure it was still all right.

  ‘Why, cara mia, have I been keeping you waiting and now you come in search of me? You are eager to resume our pleasures, I can see.’

  Vito was standing there at the open French windows, in nothing but bathing trunks. His body glistened damply, his hair was silky with water, and a towel was thrown over one shoulder. Along the line of his jaw she could see an early-morning shadow darkening his skin.

  Rachel felt her insides hollow out, cutting through the horror at having been intercepted before she could fly.

  She slid one leg to the floor and stood up, facing him, rapidly folding the certificate. She felt as if a bomb had exploded inside her guts, but she knew she must not show it. Must not.