‘Excuse me?’
She looked up quickly, slightly unsure. ‘Are you the waiter?’ she asked tentatively.
He gave a laugh at this, a deep throaty laugh, and she knew immediately that her question had been utterly ridiculous, for this man was no waiter.
‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I am not the waiter. But I can order you a drink, if you like. I could even join you for one—if you would not object?’ The dark eyebrows were raised quizzically.
She looked at him carefully. Very tall. Far too good-looking. Hair the colour of a raven’s wing. Olive skin. Deep brown eyes fringed by lashes any woman would kill for. Obviously Italian, but with English that was faintly accented, but unusual. He was dressed in a superbly cut dinner suit, with a shirt so white that it could have been featured in a soap-powder commercial! Waiter, indeed! Anyone less like a waiter she’d never seen!
He seemed to find her hesitation amusing, and spread his hands out in the very expansive way that was so curiously continental. ‘You are worried, yes, that you will not be safe with me? But let me tell you, English rose, that you would be far safer with me than on your own. To your left I see a group of young men who are eyeing you shamelessly. To your right is a gentleman, no longer in the first flushes of youth, but who still, it is easy to see, fancies himself as something of a ladies’ man.’
Catriona looked both ways, unable to stop herself from smiling. He was perfectly right.
‘So, you see, you would do far better to have me as your protector, wouldn’t you?’ The brown eyes twinkled disarmingly.
Ironically, it was the very role that Glenn had been offering her earlier, and which she had so disdained. That same offer from this man was quite a different kettle of fish. Sensible Catriona Bellman in cold and rainy Leeds would probably have told him just where to go, but the sun-warmed and relaxed Catriona Bellman found herself charmed, flattered, and more than a little intrigued.
She looked up at him. ‘Please do sit down. I’d be delighted for you to join me.’
‘Thank you.’ He pulled the chair further back to accommodate very long legs, and sat down. A waiter appeared immediately. ‘Now what will you have to drink?’ the dark man queried.
She had already had half a bottle of wine at dinner, and was feeling quite mellow. The most prudent thing to have would be another of those small black coffees. Such a pity that she wasn’t feeling in the least bit prudent!
‘You choose,’ she declared impetuously.
He smiled, and inclined his dark head graciously. ‘Of course! Now let me see. All the English come here and they drink sambuca—which does not have a particularly wonderful bouquet, in my opinion. In fact, the only things to commend it are the flaming coffee beans floating on the top, which always produce a gasp of surprise—so predictable, and far too predictable for you, I think. No, you shall have something very special indeed.’ And with this he spoke in a torrent of Italian, of which Catriona understood not one word.
The waiter scurried off, and the man surveyed her, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. ‘Now we must introduce ourselves, since I cannot call you English rose all night. What is your name?’
‘It’s Cat.’ She saw the dark eyebrows raised in surprise, and hastened to explain. ‘Well, I was christened Catriona, but everyone calls me Cat.’
‘Cat!’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘Yes, Cat is good. You have eyes like a cat.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you purr like a cat when you’re happy? Do you scratch like a cat when you’re mad?’
His words brought faint colour to her cheeks. There was nothing too wayward or shocking in what he’d said, but the deep, soft, faintly accented voice was having a remarkable effect on her pulse-rate. She knew that he’d noticed her blushing, and, feeling unusually gauche, she strove to give her voice its normal cool assurance. ‘And you are?’
‘Nico,’ he smiled, looking as if he was about to say more, when the waiter appeared with the drinks.
It was hard to define what the drink tasted of. It was cool, but it warmed her. Tangy, yet at the same time sweet, and smooth. It slid down her throat with velvet ease, and she gave a small sigh of satisfaction.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘I love it,’ she replied fervently.
‘Do you, now?’ he murmured. ‘And what else do you love?’
She met his eyes. Green stared into fathomless darkness. I could love you, she thought. Quite easily. ‘I love Italy,’ she told him.
‘I know you do. Tell me what you love about it.’
She felt as though he’d put a spell on her, enchanted her. Words seemed to spill from her lips as never before. He asked her questions, but not about her life—about her thoughts, her fears, her dreams. She felt as if he could read her very mind itself, and then thanked goodness that he couldn’t, for then he would have known how much she was wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.
‘There is music inside.’ He inclined his head towards the direction of the interior of the café. ‘Would you like to dance?’
This was crazy, she thought. Sheer madness. Even as she thought it, she found herself nodding, allowing him to pull her chair back and lead her through.
There was, indeed, music. To Cat it sounded like a heavenly choir. He took her into his arms, and she felt as though she’d come home after a long, long journey.
She didn’t know how long they danced for, she only knew that there had never been a dance like it. She seemed to fit so perfectly into his arms, her head gently resting against the broadness of his chest. She was floating, dreaming—she must be. Things like this just didn’t happen to girls like her.
She didn’t remember at which point he suggested they leave. She didn’t say anything as they walked through now deserted streets to his car. There was an air of magic surrounding them. He drove her through unfamiliar streets, which became more imposing and more tree-lined with each moment, drawing up at last outside a white house, where the scent of some shrub filled her senses with its fragrance.
He led her inside. She was aware of opulence and faded splendour. He didn’t put any lights on, but instead took her through to a room whose uncurtained windows let in the bright silvery light of the moon. The moonlight, with its surreal glow, only added to her feeling of unreality. Somehow she was in his arms, where she belonged, and he was whispering to her.
‘Do you want to dance some more?’
Her voice sounded heavy, drowsy. ‘No.’
‘A drink, then? Some more grappa?’
‘No.’
‘What, then? This. . .?’ And he bent his head and started to kiss her. ‘Is that what you wanted all the time, my little Cat?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed against his parted lips. ‘Yes. Yes.’
The sweetness of his breath was more intoxicating than the grappa she had drunk. Cat had been kissed before, naturally, but this might just as well have been the first time, for it made every other kiss fade into insignificance.
His mouth was firm, hard, insistent yet gentle. She felt his tongue begin to explore first the warm outline of her lips, investigating every tiny pore, so that when eventually it moved inside her mouth it seemed like the most wantonly exciting invasion imaginable. She found herself wanting to run her hands through the rich, glorious thickness of his hair. He pulled her closer, so that she could feel the frantic racing of his heart through the flimsy fabric of her dress.
She was scarcely aware of how or when he took her up a long flight of stairs, to a room where there was a large bed, but she remembered feeling relief when she saw the bed, relief and a slow, relentless build-up of longing. She saw his eyes alight with a wondering fire as he lifted a hand up and began to slide the thin shoulder-straps down, one by one.
‘Cat,’ he murmured. ‘My little Cat. You’re so very beautiful.’ He made it sound like a sonnet.
‘Nico.’ She could barely gasp the word out through swollen lips, lips that longed to feel the heady pressure of his kiss once more.
He pulled the bodice of the dress down, so that her breasts in their insubstantial bra lay revealed, and she heard him catch his breath. ‘Cara,’ he whispered. ‘Mia cara.’ He kissed the hollow between them, and she shuddered as she felt his tongue trail a path to one hardened rosy nub of nipple.
Head flung back, totally uninhibited, she heard herself gasp, ‘Take it off,’ in a kind of frenzied whisper.
The wisp of bra floated its way to the floor, and he cupped each breast in almost reverential fashion, bending his head slowly to kiss each one in turn.
Driven by instinct, and a power as old as time itself, she found herself unbuttoning the fine linen of his shirt, until his chest too was bare, and she heard him give a groan of sheer delight as she kissed him there. He pulled her to him fiercely then, and she knew a sensation of both wonderment and gratification as, for the first time ever, she felt bare skin touching bare skin in the act of love.
She was aware of his shrugging off his jacket, of his other clothes being flung off his body, straight on to the floor.
That beautiful suit, she thought with lazy amusement, and then she was in his arms again, and he was laying her on the bed, pulling her dress off completely, then the filmy half-slip, and finally he hooked his fingers into the tiny lace panties and slid them off her, leaving her naked before his eyes.
He lay above her, just watching her, a mixture of awe and desire and something else on his face, something she couldn’t recognise. He lifted a hand and touched her face quite gently. ‘Are you sure you want this, my Cat? Quite sure, mia cara?’
She gave him an enchanting smile, loving him all the more because he would have stopped. Some primitive instinct told her that with absolute clarity. Yes, he wanted her very badly, she could see that, but one word and he would have stopped. One word. She put her hand up to trace the outline of his lips, and he imprisoned it there, kissing the palm with breathtaking homage. He was waiting for her answer. One word.
‘Yes,’ she told him. She scarcely recognised the voice as her own; it sounded almost slurred with the blood-stirring response he was eliciting from her.
He moved over her then, to shower her with kisses, light, butterfly kisses at first, gradually becoming deeper and more insistent.
She had never seen anything so beautiful as the physical perfection of this naked man. Each limb brown and strong, all muscle and sinew. But there was softness behind the steely strength. Tenderness, too, in the way he spoke her name, over and over again. She kissed him back, with a fervour and a passion that matched his. She was flying, like a bird newly out of the nest. The wings she had never used before were unexpectedly simple to use. She matched each stroke, each caress, each seeking gesture with movements of her own. She had never been to bed with a man before, but she felt no fear, no hesitation, no embarrassment. It was as though the instinctive way she responded to him was being guided by some force stronger than she, stronger indeed than both of them. She knew a moment of sheer pleasure as she saw his face just before he moved in to possess her utterly. A primitive joy at the sensation of his fullness, dominating her completely, before the sharp and totally unexpected spasm of pain. She had forgotten, she had actually forgotten that it might hurt. She heard him exclaim, saw his face. . .not pleasure there now, puzzlement, yes, and—surely not?—anger. His movements became fierce and strong, tinged with a kind of desperation. He moved one last time with a sudden ferocity, and then she heard him groan, before withdrawing completely, and falling on to the bed beside her.
There was a brief silence, if you could count it as silence, when the raggedness of his breathing seemed almost to deafen her. She turned to him miserably, knowing that it should not have ended like this, feeling his mental as well as physical withdrawal, knowing, just from the forbidding set of his newly tense shoulders that he was very angry, but not knowing why.
When he turned over to look at her she almost recoiled from the pure fury that lit the dark eyes with a angry glow.
‘Dio!’ he swore. ‘You little idiot—how could you? How could you?’
She felt suddenly cold. ‘How could I what? Nico—what is it? What have I done?’
He moved as far away from her as he could, as though he could taint himself by mere proximity. He sat up, the rumpled sheet at his waist, still breathing heavily. ‘What a waste!’ he exploded. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that you were a virgin?’
Why? Why indeed? If she told him the reason she would be able to add scorn to the contempt on his face. Tell him that she had never felt anything like that in her life before? That she had felt lifted almost on to a higher plane? That their lovemaking had had, for her, a spiritual quality that had ruled her response to him? Tell him that she had foolishly mistaken lust for love? ‘Was it—I mean, did you not. . .enjoy it?’
He swore violently under his breath; the words were foreign to her, but their meaning plain enough.
‘Enjoy it?’ he asked scornfully. ‘How could I enjoy it, knowing that?’ he spat out, then, seeing her look of puzzlement, he relented. ‘Oh, I achieved—satisfaction.’ His mouth curled in distaste as he spoke the word. ‘I should have stopped. . . I would have stopped, but——’
‘But?’
‘It was too late by then,’ he said bitterly. ‘Nothing could have stopped me.’
She knew one last surge of triumph, that the tide had been strong enough to sweep him, too, out of control, and then she sat up, hugging a sheet around her nakedness, willing herself to stem the tears, for now at least. ‘Well, at least you can be sure of not catching any disease—as you were the first!’ she cried.
She saw him glance at her quickly, as if recognising the vulnerability behind the attempt at bravado.
‘It shouldn’t be like that, you know,’ he said, quite softly. ‘Your first time. It should be special.’
It was special, she wanted to scream at him. For me, anyway! But she turned her head away.
‘I would have been more. . .less. . .more gentle. . .’ His words tailed off into an embarrassed silence.
And all at once she knew that she could not tolerate one second more of this humiliating post-mortem. With a shuddering sense of realisation she remembered that she was in a strange country and a strange house, with a man who was now as far away from her as a complete stranger, ever though he lay just feet away, even though he knew her body intimately. A vestige of the Ice-Queen returned as her pride’s saviour.
‘I’d like you to take me back now, please.’
To her shame, he didn’t even try to argue. He merely nodded and stood up, and she closed her eyes to blot out the sight of the body. She still, even now, longed for him to take her in his arms again, to make everything all right, as sweetly perfect as before. . .
They dressed in silence. This time round she noticed the car; she made herself obsessively observe details. The smell of fine leather, the dazzling array of instruments. Anything that would keep her tortured thoughts away from the subject of the man who had so summarily thrust her away from him.
‘Where are you staying?’ he asked at last.
Some last scrap of self-preservation made her lie to him. She mentioned the name of a hotel she had noticed in the adjoining street to her own hotel. The drive there seemed to take forever, and when he stopped the car he turned to her, his troubled eyes betraying that he wasn’t feeling as calm as his exterior suggested.