The Sicilian's Red-Hot Revenge

CHAPTER THREE

‘ALL right, we’re inside…’

Emily’s voice was cold and tight, seeming even more stiff and hostile in the sudden silence that had descended after the door to the flat had slammed behind them, shutting out the slashing rain and muffling some of the sound of the storm that was still raging outside.

‘So put me down—you promised!’ she insisted when Vito hesitated, tempted not to go along with what she wanted.

It was her tone that set his teeth on edge. The sharp, peremptory edge to it had him clenching his jaw tight shut on the angry retort he was tempted to make, the equally abrupt refusal to do anything of what she wanted.

But there was another reason, of course. One he was less willing to acknowledge.

He didn’t want to let her go. She felt good in his arms, in spite of the fact that she was still soaking wet, drops of water from her sodden hair dripping onto to him with uncomfortable regularity. But then he too was drenched, so he couldn’t actually get any wetter. And he didn’t want to put her down. He knew what would happen if he did. Then she would forget all about the flame of passion that had flared so wildly between them. She would put up the barriers, slam mental doors in his face, and it would be once again as it had been out there on the beach.

She would fight him every inch of the way, her pretty face stiffening, closing up, as it had done when he had suggested that she came back here. Well, he had her here now, but she was still fighting, and if that mutinous look on her face was anything to go by then her grip on her temper was fraying rapidly.

‘Signor Corsentino…’ she said warningly, and, deciding that, for now, cooperation was probably the best policy, he let her slide to the floor, as he had earlier let her slip down until her feet were in the sand.

And just as it had then, the slow slide of her body against his made him clench his jaw against the burn of sensuality that flashed through his body, the throb of hot blood in his veins. He had to fight against the impulse to grab her again and kiss her hard as he had done on the beach. But he knew that if he did that then she would fight him even harder. And fighting was not what he had in mind. So for now he’d play things her way—but only for now.

‘I told you it’s Vito,’ he said, the tension between his mind and his body making the words harsh and rough.

‘And I told you, I didn’t want to come here, but did you listen?’

Did she know that she still looked like a half-drowned kitten, spitting and snarling at him like that? Her blonde hair fell in ragged spikes around her face, plastered to her cheeks by the rain. If she had worn any make-up then it had been washed away, but her long, thick lashes were clumped together with the rain, surrounding eyes that seemed as clear and blue-green as the sea beyond the promenade. And they were every bit as cool, no warmth easing the distant, considering look she had turned on him.

‘So you’d like to leave?’

He decided to call her bluff.

The hall doorway was just behind him. All he had to do was to reach out, turn the handle. And, as luck would have it, just as he pulled the door open another crash of thunder sounded directly overhead and the rain pounded down again. A rush of cold air flooded into the confined space as Emily took a cautious step forward, looking even more catlike than before. But this time she was a wary, uncomfortable feline. One that shivered at the thought of facing the unpleasant elements outside.

‘I thought not.’

With one foot he kicked the door to again, noting that this time she didn’t even try to fight him on it.

‘But what am I going to do?’

‘Stay here at least until the worst of it passes over.’

‘Thank you.’

Still not fighting him; that was progress. He walked across the hallway, opening the door into his living room, deliberately not looking to see if she followed him as he spoke again.

‘And I think we’ll both feel better if we have something warm to drink and get out of these wet clothes.’

‘I don’t have anything to change into…’

Unexpectedly, she was right behind him. So close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck. Swiftly he wheeled away, putting some distance between them as he turned. Not quite enough, but then he could have been at the far side of the room and he would still have felt the sexual tug that linked his body to hers.

‘I’m sure I can find you something—even if only a T-shirt. You can’t stay in those things much longer.’

Not if he was going to have any hope of controlling his libido. In the hallway, with the heavy skies draining all the light, it had been too dark to see the way that the thin white cotton of her T-shirt had been turned almost transparent by the soaking it had received. Now here, with what light there was coming in through the big bay window, he couldn’t be unaware of the way that it clung to the soft curves of her breasts, the slender shape of her ribcage. The faint pink of her skin showed through the wet material, seeming to tint it lightly.

Vito curled his fingers tightly into his palms, clenching them against the impulse to peel that T-shirt from her, reveal the smooth reality of the flesh underneath it.

‘You could take a shower.’

He didn’t care that it came out brusquely, that his voice sounded rough.

‘The bathroom’s through here…’

The way that Vito waved at the door was a blatant gesture of dismissal, Emily realised. He wanted her out of here—and out of his way. What had happened to ‘we need to talk’? Or even to ‘you don’t have any choice—you’re coming home with me’?

But the truth was that she was beginning to feel cold and uncomfortable again. The clinging white T-shirt was chilled and clammy and the wet jeans rubbed at her legs with every movement. The thought of that shower was wonderful—tempting—but along with it came the thought of going into this man’s bathroom, stripping off…and that was what was making her hesitate. The action seemed too revealing, too intimate—and not just in a physical way. She hadn’t been alone with a man, apart from Mark, for three years, and to contemplate being naked in Vito Corsentino’s flat, even behind a closed door, seemed somehow so shocking that it made her legs tremble, and froze her into foolish indecision.

‘Look, signorina, if you’re not getting cold then I am.’

Vito had obviously come to the end of his limited patience and the way the sentence was forced from between gritted teeth, and a tight jaw, was a warning that he was not prepared to wait for very much longer.

‘I am also trying to be a gentleman here by offering you the use of the shower first. But if you prefer to stand there looking like a drowned rat then could you at least move into the kitchen instead of dripping on my landlord’s carpet?’

‘Oh—I’m sorry!’

His tone stabbed at her, making her take several steps towards the door that he’d indicated, then pause, looking back guiltily at the water-darkened spot on the dull green carpet.

‘If there’s any damage—’ she began but Vito didn’t let her finish.

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he declared brusquely, his impatience almost getting the better of him. ‘If you’ll just get into that shower!’

‘Of course.’

The edge on his voice made her jump.

‘There’s no need to shout—I’m going.’

She fled through the door and let it slam closed behind her, coming to a halt in the middle of the room as she realised where she was and paused to survey her surroundings.

Not the bathroom. At least, not immediately, though another door on the far side of the room must obviously lead to that. Instead she was in a bedroom.

In Vito Corsentino’s bedroom.

It couldn’t be anything else. The relentlessly masculine atmosphere was there in the plain white walls, the denim-blue linen on the big bed.

The big double-bed.

‘Oh, stop it!’ Emily spoke aloud to herself to reinforce the instruction. She couldn’t believe the thought that had flashed through her head, the way that even before she had realised it she had been looking more closely around the room, looking for evidence of the fact that Vito lived here alone. That there was no woman in his life.

Well, if there was a woman in his life then she clearly didn’t live here. There was no sign of any feminine influence in the room. No cosmetics, no flowers, the only ornaments several dramatic and beautiful carvings in polished wood that stood on the dresser and the windowsill. Everything else was stark and had a strange temporary look about it, and the wardrobe door hung open, revealing only male clothing stored inside.

Male clothing…

A sudden shiver of discomfort slid down Emily’s spine as it dawned on her that she still held Vito’s jacket—the jacket he had taken off and put round her shoulders to keep her warm. Reluctantly, guiltily, she looked down at it, a gasp of horror escaping her as she saw the mess that the sea, the weather, and finally her own careless grip had made of the garment. It was hopelessly crushed, little more than a rag. It was ruined.

And the worst thing was that now that she had a chance to look at it, it was of far better quality than she would have ever expected when she looked round at the place that Vito lived in.

No…

Emily shook her head, looking round the room again. It was the flat that was the surprise. Somehow the small, slightly shabby ground-floor apartment didn’t fit with the powerful, dynamic man that Vito Corsentino appeared to be.

But the jacket did.

And she’d ruined the jacket.

Her conscience was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. She was going to have to apologise—offer to pay to replace it.

But first she was going to get into that shower.

Carefully placing the jacket on the back of a nearby chair, smoothing the dreadful creases as best she could in the vain hope that the worst of them would hang out, she hurried into the bathroom.

She’d be as quick as possible. Just warm herself up, get back out there, talk to Vito and—

‘Oh, no!’

Her thoughts trailed off on a yelp of shock and horror as she confronted her image in the mirror and recoiled from what she saw.

She looked a fright.

The wet, grubby clothes she had been prepared for, and the sodden hair. She hadn’t been wearing any make-up—the need to escape, get away as fast as she could had meant that she hadn’t even paused to smooth on her usual tinted moisturiser and add a slick of mascara to darken her fair lashes—but even so the pallor of her skin was shocking. And her hair!

Some of it still hung in rats’ tails around her face, clinging to her skin and dripping cold, wet drops onto her cheeks. The rest had already started to dry and was bunched into salt-crusted lumps, sticking out at right angles to her head.

Suddenly the need to be in the shower sprang from more than wanting to warm up. Scrambling out of her clothes, she flung them into a corner, turned on the shower, switching the control to ‘Hot’.

It was only when she was under the shower rose, with the water pounding down on her head, that she let herself relax enough to think again.

She’d looked like that and Vito had still kissed her!

Grabbing a bottle of shampoo from the side of the bath, Emily poured some into her hand and began to rub it over her hair.

Mark had always been so quick to point out her shortcomings, and to criticise if she had been looking anything but her best. He had always insisted that she was smart, elegant and beautifully groomed. Several times he had sent her back to their room to change if she had appeared in some outfit that didn’t meet with his approval. He would have burst a blood vessel in fury if she had ever appeared in public looking like this!

Vito had seen her looking at her worst, hair a ragged mess, face pale—and he’d still kissed her! She could hardly believe it.

But she could remember it.

And as the warmth of the shower seeped into her chilled body she felt those memories flooding back along with it. If she closed her eyes then the fingers massaging her scalp weren’t hers but Vito’s hard, strong fingers that had closed in her hair, cradling her head as his mouth plundered hers. The warmth of the water playing over her skin was his touch, his caresses moving over her body, his hands soaping her breasts, sliding down her stomach…lower.

The pine-scented shower gel that was the only thing she had available filled her nostrils, making her feel that she was inhaling his scent, the personal signature of his skin. Her senses heated in a way that had nothing to do with the returning warmth to her body, her mind swimming in heady reaction. And in her ears the sound of the water was the crashing of the waves onto the shore, waves that seemed to underline rather than drown out the sound of a husky, softly accented voice speaking her name in a very special, totally unique way.

Emilia…Emilia…

Emily spluttered as she realised that she had actually sighed, swallowing some more water—warm this time. She snapped her eyes open, struggling to focus for a moment.

What was she doing?

Fantasising about Vito Corsentino—a man she had known for barely an hour!

Switching off the water in a rush, she reached for a towel. The single one available was far from generous and, once she had rubbed the worst of the moisture from her hair, she had to struggle to knot it around even her slender figure.

Perhaps there was another one or perhaps a robe in the bedroom. Cautiously she opened the door, peering round it nervously.

‘Emilia…’

It was the voice she had heard inside her head. The same husky tones, the same beautiful accent. But this time it was not her imagination that formed the sound. This time the tall, devastating form of Vito Corsentino was standing right in front of her, in the middle of the room, the towel she needed in his hand. He’d discarded his T-shirt somewhere so that the taut, muscled lines of his chest and ribcage and the gleaming bronzed skin lightly hazed with crisp black hairs were exposed to her hungry gaze, and those deep dark eyes of his were fixed on her as she hovered in the doorway.

And the look that burned in their black depths told her that she was in real trouble.

Vito had determined that he would stay well away from the bathroom. He would make the hot drink he had suggested, and concentrate on that. Take the opportunity to get his thoughts—and his libido—back under control. So he wanted this woman—that didn’t mean he was going to rush into this like some horny adolescent who’d just discovered what girls were about.

He had her here; that was what mattered. She’d almost got away from him, so much so that he’d had to call her bluff, but now she was in his home and going nowhere for a while. He could afford to relax and start to enjoy this.

He surveyed the damp patch Emily had left behind on the carpet, a wry smile curling his lips. If there was any damage it wouldn’t show, he reflected cynically. The whole carpet was so drab and old that a little more fading, another mark here or there would hardly matter. And if it did, he would buy the landlord a brand-new carpet—for the whole of the flat. It needed it.

The smile twisted into a grimace as he surveyed the small, shabby room with its old-fashioned furniture. It was a far cry from the large, white-painted Villa Limoneto he owned back home in Sicily, and the one time that his brother Guido had seen this flat he’d been stunned and disbelieving.

‘You live here? Surely you could have found somewhere more comfortable—a little more spacious.’

‘I don’t need spacious,’ Vito had laughed. ‘There’s only me. And I like being so close to the sea. Besides, there’s the yard at the back where I can work on carving.’

It was the way he’d wanted to spend this year. The year that was supposed to be his gift to himself. The gift that he and his brother had agreed on to mark their thirtieth year—twelve months of freedom to be themselves. Twelve months away from the pressures and discipline of running the huge Corsentino Marine and Leisure, the company they had built up between them. Guido had spent his year in America, working as a photographer, indulging his interest in that skill; Vito had spent the last eight months in England.

So now, trying to see the small apartment through Emily’s eyes, he knew that it reflected nothing of the truth about him. And that was something that gave him a great deal of satisfaction. Just the way that out there, on the beach, he had appreciated the way that she had simply accepted his name, and he hadn’t needed to fill her in on anything more. So now he found he liked the thought that she would only respond to him as a man and not as someone with a fortune and an international reputation behind him.

That had been Loretta’s only concern, he recalled, scowling now as he pulled off the T-shirt that had become uncomfortably cold and clinging, tossing it in the washing machine in the small kitchen before heading to the sink to fill the kettle with water. It had been that reputation, that fortune she had been interested in. He had a whole new sense of release knowing that this time, for now at least, it didn’t matter.

From the bathroom he could hear the sound of running water and knew that Emily had finally got into the shower. That was something that wasn’t so great about the flat being so small. He didn’t want to think of her standing in the shower, stripped naked, with the hot water sluicing through the fine blonde hair, pounding down on her skin, turning that creamy pale flesh pink with warmth as the heat flooded through it.

‘Dannazione!’

He swore savagely as the coffee he had been aiming for the cafetière missed the glass jug completely and spilled all over the kitchen worktop. He didn’t want to think about that!

But of course, having started imagining, there was no way he could force himself to stop. The erotic images flooded his head, swirling around in a way that made him grit his teeth against the temptation that burned up his body, twisted in his groin.

All he could hear was the sound of rushing water.

All he could smell—well, he would have sworn he could smell it even from here—was the scent of soap and shampoo and…

Hell, no! The flat was small but it wasn’t so small that he could smell the warm female body underneath the soap, the hair that was being washed by the shampoo.

Coffee. That was what he needed.

Coffee would at least warm him up—fill his nostrils with another, completely unfeminine scent—distract him. Madre de Dio, he prayed it would distract him.

It was as the kettle boiled that he remembered he hadn’t put out fresh towels, or found anything for Emily to wear. The way he was feeling, it would be better if she was clothed—at least for a while, he told himself, heading for the bedroom.

Inferno. All he knew about her was her name—and then only her first name. She hadn’t even given him her surname.

There was a clean T-shirt in the dresser. A shirt to go over it in the wardrobe. And there were brand-new, unworn boxers still in the packet…

It was as he had them in his hand that he heard the water switch off.

And the fantasy in his head froze him to the spot and kept him there.

Emily, stark naked and dripping wet, stepping out of the shower and onto the grey-tiled floor of the bathroom. She would rub the towel over her face, along her limbs…

‘Asciugamano…!’ She’d need another towel.

Pulling open another drawer, he grabbed two towelling sheets from it, painfully aware of the silence beyond the door. A silence that tugged at his nerves, tangled in his gut. And then there was another sound, one that twisted even harder. He turned slowly—so slowly—and watched the door open a crack—then wider.