Happy Mother's Day! (21 page)

‘This is probably not a good idea,’ she observed in a tone that invited—no,
begged
for—denial.

‘Do you care?’

Her eyes lifted to his face.

Francesco’s dark, restless glance repeatedly drifted towards her mouth as though drawn by invisible forces to the soft, full, quivering outline.

‘Well, do you?’ he challenged throatily.

Slowly she shook her head.

Asigh that seemed to Erin’s fanciful imagination to be drawn from his soul shuddered through Francesco’s lean frame.

‘I should, though …’ The faint addition was as much for her own benefit as his.

He dismissed her words with an expressive shrug. ‘If we both did what we should life would be very predictable.’

‘But safe.’ At that moment it was hard for Erin to remember what safe had felt like.

He responded to her husky claim by planting a hand either side of her head and kissing her hard, silenced her protest with deep, penetrating stabs of his tongue that made her stomach dissolve.

‘Dio mio,’ he panted against her mouth. ‘I want this … I want you.I want to feel your hands on my skin.’

‘Like this?’ she suggested. Laying one hand palm-flat on his stomach, she felt the muscles under the silky hair-roughened surface immediately contract and quiver as she stroked his damp skin.

Francesco sucked in a harsh breath. His eyes glittered as though lit from within as he slid his warm hands under her top, sliding the fabric up over the twin peaks of her taut, firm breasts to reveal them to his famished gaze.

Even before he had touched her the heat of his bold, hungry stare made the sensitive peaks burn and harden into tight hard buds inside the light lacy covering.

The hunger in his eyes sent her spiralling out of control. She moaned low in her throat and sank her fingers into his hair as he unfastened her bra and cupped the warm mounds of aching flesh in his hands. Drawing them together, he buried his face in the softness before kneading the sensitised flesh and lashing the rosy tips with his tongue.

When he lifted his head there were dark bands of colour across his cheekbones and his eyes glowed as though lit from within.

‘You are perfect!’

I
ought to be saying that,
Erin thought as he took her face between his hands and kissed her, because he was—totally and absolutely perfect.

After the kiss she didn’t think much at all. She didn’t even realise that he had removed her jeans until she felt the abrasive texture of his hair-roughened thighs against her bare skin.

As they continued to kiss with feverish abandon Erin’s hands moved lower over his flat stomach, skimming then dipping below the waistband of his boxers, causing him to suck in his breath sharply.

‘Is this what you want?’ he asked thickly as he took her hand and fed it onto his body.

As he curved her fingers around the pulsing, engorged length of him Erin whimpered low in her throat and nodded.
‘Yes.’
As she tightened her grip she felt the shudder ripple through his body.

‘And do you want to feel me inside you?’ He took her lower lip between his teeth, feeling the breath escape her mouth in a series of choky gasps. He nuzzled the side of her neck, breathing in the warm, aroused scent of her. ‘Is that what you are imagining?’

‘Oh, God!’ she moaned, dragging his face up to hers. For a split second before her eyes closed he looked directly into the blazing blue of her eyes and saw some of the desperation he felt reflected in those shimmering depths. ‘Yes, Francesco … yes,’ she said before she sealed her open lips to his.

Parting her legs, he lowered himself between them and, running a hand down the curve of one thigh, he curved her leg over his hip, pulling her body up hard against him so that she could feel how much he wanted her.

‘
Dio mio,
but I want you so badly … tell me you want me.’

Her eyes opened. The pupils were so dilated they almost swallowed up the blue. ‘You know I do.’ ‘I want to hear you say it.’

Self-respect and pride were noble concepts, they might matter a lot in the cold light of day, but she was burning up from the inside out and nothing mattered at all except Francesco.

‘I want you …’ she whispered against his mouth.

As Francesco continued to kiss her his long, sensitive fingers moved in sensuous stroking motions along the curve of her inner thigh, advancing and retreating until, unable to bear the torment any longer, Erin took his hand and placed it against the damp curls at the apex of her legs.

‘Please, Francesco,’ she begged, kissing the sweat-slick column of his brown throat. ‘
I need.’

‘Oh, I
need
also,
bella mia,’
he responded thickly as he slid into her wetness. ‘I need this.’

Erin, her head thrown back, a feral moan locked in her throat, arched and clutched at his shoulders as he thrust into her.

‘That is … Oh, God … Francesco … you’re …!’ Her eyes closed tight as she concentrated on the feel of him filling her, her senses were sensually heightened to an almost unbearable degree as he moved.

‘You feel … oh, God, Francesco …’

A moan vibrated in his chest as he felt her tighten hotly around him. He spoke in his own language, the words throaty and passionate spilling from him as he slid his hands under her bottom and lifted her up so that he could sink deeper into her.

Everything that wasn’t Francesco, that wasn’t his voice and his body, faded away. But as he took her to new heights of sensual pleasure one small stubborn portion of Erin’s brain stayed removed from the devouring hunger that drove them both.

‘Let go!’ Francesco urged as if he sensed her holding back. ‘I c … can’t. I’ll fall,’ she heard herself pant stupidly against the sweat-slick column of his neck. ‘Fall,
cara.
I will catch you.’

She shouldn’t have believed him, but she did. Akeening cry emerged from her parted lips as the pleasure exploded inside her, the sensation heightened when Francesco exploded, too.

E
RIN
had almost reached the bedroom door when she heard Francesco stir. His deep voice slurred with sleep, he asked, ‘Where are you going?’ She turned back.

Francesco was raised on one elbow. The sheet that had been covering his body had slipped down to waist level.
Not
looking would have been too obvious, and also as it happened impossible.

He was quite simply magnificent.

She dragged her eyes back to his face, her colour significantly heightened, her expression carefully neutral.

‘Back to my room.’

Even though they had just made love, looking at her staring at him with those big eyes sent a stab of desire through his body. He consulted the clock on the bedside table, and raised a brow in surprise when he saw four hours had elapsed since he had kicked the door closed.

He sprawled back with indolent grace and, allowing his eyes to travel up her body, thought about the taste of her, the silky softness of her skin as it glided against his own. ‘What are you wearing?’

Erin touched a self-conscious, not quite steady hand to the lapel of the male shirt she wore. ‘My things were wet.’

Sodden on the floor of the shower, to be precise, where they had fallen when he had stripped them from her body two hours earlier.

A memory surfaced in her head. A memory of Francesco standing in the shower, naked, his face lifted to the warm spray.

She had stood there mesmerised, unable to take her eyes off him until without warning his hand had shot out and he had dragged her inside under the warm jets of water.

‘What are you doing?’ she gasped, tilting her face up to his as she pushed the wet strands of water-darkened hair from her face. ‘I told you it was a mistake. It can’t happen again. I know it’s totally my fault—’

‘I think I had some minor input.’

‘Valentina and Sam … the staff—they’ll be back any time. I’m dressed,’ she added weakly when none of the perfectly good reasons made any impact.

Francesco gave a wolfish smile that made her heartbeat quicken in anticipation. ‘Not for long,’ he promised.

‘I’m out of here,’ she retorted, blinking away the wetness from her lashes and not moving an inch.

She could see that lifting her arms as he peeled the wet top off might lead him to believe she wasn’t totally serious in her threat. He might even imagine she wanted him to drop to his knees and pull her jeans and pants down over her hips. An impression that might have gained credence when she grabbed his head and moaned when he pressed his mouth into the damp curls he had exposed.

The memory of the hot, searing sensation as his tongue and fingers had slid between her thighs sent a wave of heat washing over her skin.

Closing her eyes, Erin pushed the erotic images from her head. The effort brought a visible sheen of moisture to her skin. ‘I hope you don’t mind … about the shirt.’

‘Actually I do.’

Startled by his response, she narrowed her eyes warily.

‘I think I might want to claim my property right now.’

Erin swallowed and crossed her hands over her chest in an unconsciously protective gesture.

‘Are you talking about me or the shirt?’ Her laugh only just stopped short of hysteria, but then trying to sound amused while she had a mental image of him slowly unpeeling the shirt to reveal her naked body had always been a non-starter.

One corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes; they held a restive glitter that was in stark contrast to his indolent posture.

‘I’ll start with the shirt.’ One hand tucked behind his head, he used the other to pat the bed that still bore the scent of her body. Erin wanted more than she could admit to respond to the invitation in his eyes. ‘Come back to bed.’

Conflicting emotions were tearing her in several directions at once. Just looking at him awoke a lustful ache low in her abdomen. And imagining never spending another night in his arms filled her with panic.

At the same time she knew they had no future—the bottom line was he only wanted her back because of the baby.

‘This shouldn’t have happened.’ Tears formed in her eyes because she didn’t have the faintest idea where to go from here. ‘Look, I’m not pretending it wasn’t very—nice …’

A look of blank incredulity stole across his lean face.
‘Nice?’
he echoed, pulling himself into a sitting position in one smooth motion that sent the quilt slithering to the floor exposing him totally.

She took refuge in flippancy. ‘Well, what do you want me to say … that it was a life-changing experience?’

His face darkened with displeasure. ‘Almost anything would be an improvement on “nice”.’ he snapped. ‘Remind me not to come to you for a recommendation.’

Oblivious to his naked state, he swept aside the hank of silky dark hair that fell into his eyes.

‘All right,’ she conceded, her eyes falling to avoid the sardonic glitter in his stare. ‘Relax, you were marvellous, though I had no idea that your ego required such delicate handling. Sex with you was always spectacular, but that’s all it is.’ It couldn’t be anything else.

‘You want more than I gave you?’ he challenged with the arrogant confidence of a man who had heard the words of extravagant, breathless praise that had spilled unchecked from her lips when she had lain sated in his arms.

‘I did. I don’t anymore.’
Who are you trying to convince?

Francesco studied her set face with a baffled expression. ‘Could you be slightly less cryptic?’

‘I loved you, I don’t anymore, the sex is still great, but I can walk away.’
I just hope my knees heard that,
she thought, afraid that they were going to fold under her any minute. ‘And I’m going to. I’m not going to Italy with you.’

He rose from the tumbled bed naked and breathtakingly magnificent to tower over her. ‘You loved me, but you don’t anymore, which is why you slept with me?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Do you expect me to believe you mean a word of that? Or actually imagine I’m going to let you walk away with my child without a fight?’

She would have walked barefoot over hot coals before she let him see how much the warning scared her. ‘I hope you’re a good loser, Francesco.’

‘I wouldn’t know—I’ve not had any practice.’

And she believed him. ‘You mean you’re a bully.’

He watched one tear escape and slide down her cheek. ‘If you think tears will work …’

‘I’m not crying,’ she denied huskily.

Another tear joined the first and, with a muffled curse, he turned away.

Erin wiped her cheek and watched uncertainly as he pulled a robe from the open wardrobe and belted it loosely around his waist.

When he turned back to her there was no trace of gloating male triumph remaining in his face, but there was something else, another emotion that eluded analysis.

He reached out and dabbed a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘This is going to happen, Erin. Why don’t you stop fighting it?’

Into the palpitating pause that followed his words there was a tap on the door followed by a female voice.

‘Francesco?’

‘My God!’ Erin snapped, ‘It’s Valentina. She can’t find me here like this!’ she exclaimed, appalled at the idea. ‘Why not?’

‘Don’t ask stupid questions,’ Erin begged. ‘I’d be mortified!’ ‘“Mortified?”’ he echoed, a dark scowl forming on his lean features.

‘Will you stop talking and just do something? Make her go away! Or …’

Francesco looked at her, smiled and cleared his throat. ‘Come in, Valentina.’

Erin stared at him for a moment, transfixed in horror, before taking to her heels and fleeing to the bathroom. She stood there with her back against the wall, her heart hammering.

It was several moments before she had regained enough composure to actively eavesdrop on the low-voiced conversation going on in the other room and then it turned out to be mostly in Italian.

Just as she was about to give up on trying to figure out what they were saying she heard Francesco say in English ‘No, Erin doesn’t blame you at all.’

‘Well, I hope not. I really hope you two sort things out, Francesco. In my opinion Erin is the best thing that has ever happened to you. Just don’t rush things; give her time. You can’t just click your fingers and expect her to come running,’ she scolded.

Erin gave a mortified grimace at an image of the tumbled bedclothes in her mind. Click his fingers—he hadn’t even had to make that much effort!

‘Rafael would have liked her, don’t you think?’

Erin, picking up on the name she had never heard before, waited curiously to hear Francesco’s reply. It was a long time coming.

‘Rafe would have loved her.’

A few remarks in Italian followed. Erin listened with half an ear wondering about the odd note in Francesco’s voice.

She waited until she heard the door close behind Valentina before walking back into the room. Francesco was sitting on the bed.

‘Who is Rafe?’ she asked.

He gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘You heard that, then?’

‘It was hard not to.’

‘Rafe was my twin brother.’

She was totally stunned by the information. ‘You have a brother … a
twin?
Why didn’t you ever mention—?’

In a voice that was flat and totally expressionless he cut across her. ‘Had. Rafe died.’

Erin gulped and swallowed, her blue eyes softening with compassion as she went to sit beside him on the bed. ‘Oh, Francesco, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

Though he didn’t respond directly, he picked his wallet up from the bedside table and, withdrawing a snapshot, handed it to her without comment.

The edges of the snapshot were creased and curled as though it had been fingered a lot, but the faces of the two young men in the photo were clear. Francesco was standing, his brother sitting. Francesco had his arm slung across the shoulders of his brother. They were both laughing.

‘You were identical twins!’

My God, it would be bad enough to lose a sibling, but she couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror of losing an identical twin.

‘Almost nobody could tell us apart.’

Erin was surprised to hear him say this. To her mind the differences between the two men were obvious. Francesco’s mouth was wider and firmer and his chin more squarely resolute. His brother’s features were probably more regular, and to her seemed softer and less aggressively masculine.

‘I’m sorry, I had no idea …’

When Francesco turned his head and looked at her the emptiness in his eyes frightened her. Her heart aching with empathy, she reached across and laid her hand over his.

‘We looked alike, but that was on the surface. We weren’t really alike at all.’ He took the photo from her fingers and looked at it. ‘Rafe was the imaginative, sensitive one. I’ll show you some of his paintings some time if you like. He was very talented.’

‘He was an artist?’

‘He did a lot of things; he was … restless. I think our parents thought that marriage would make him settle down.’ ‘He was married?’

Francesco, his expression darkening, nodded. ‘He was, but it was not a success. Rafe spent four years trying to cling to her, desperately trying to change himself into the sort of man she wanted him to be.’

It had destroyed him.

It was obvious from the tension in Francesco’s manner that he didn’t enjoy speaking about his brother. Erin hesitated before gently asking, ‘How did he die?’

‘He killed himself.’

A short static silence followed his abrupt and shocking words. A tiny gasp escaped Erin’s parted lips. ‘He took an overdose.’

She lifted a hand to her mouth and her blue eyes filled with tears of sympathy.

‘When I found him he looked as if he was sleeping. He looked so peaceful,’ Francesco recalled.

Erin’s eyes widened with horror. Not only had his twin killed himself, Francesco had found the body! She ached to comfort him, but what, she wondered, could you say that didn’t sound like a pathetic platitude?

‘He came to see me, you know, earlier that week asking for my advice.’

That in itself had not been unusual. His twin had
always
turned up when he’d had a problem; admittedly sometimes Francesco had had trouble recognising the things Rafe had lost sleep over as problems. And if he was brutally honest with himself the dramatic spin his brother had put on relatively trivial incidents had frequently annoyed him.

It seemed to him that Rafe had lurched from one drama to another. Rafe didn’t meet a beautiful woman, he met a
goddess!

Francesco had never met a goddess and he had definitely never felt the desire to place a woman on a pedestal. When Rafe had only half-jokingly accused him of having no soul he had not disagreed.

‘You want to know what I told him? What I told my suicidal brother?’ Erin shook her head and felt totally inadequate in the face of the anguish that was written in every line of his face. ‘I said, “Pull yourself together, Rafe.” I told him that people don’t die of broken hearts, but it turned out they do.’

The official verdict, of course, had been different.

It had emerged at the inquest that Rafe had recently been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and had convinced his doctors he had been taking his medication for the condition. His family, Francesco included, had known nothing about his disorder and this, they had concluded, had been the main factor that had led to his tragic suicide.

But Francesco knew different; he could have changed things. He
should
have changed things.

Horror-stricken, Erin could only sit and listen as the words spilled from him. She had the impression he had forgotten she was even there; it made her wonder how long he’d had these feelings locked inside.

‘My brother needed me and all I could come up with was worthless platitudes.’ His voice shook with self-loathing. ‘He loved that woman more than life itself and I said, “Don’t sit there moping. Be tough—go and get her.” So he did and she told him that she loved someone else and he killed himself.’

As he closed his eyes Francesco’s head fell forward. She watched his shoulders heave. ‘You stupid idiot, Rafe! Dio, what a waste. What a total bloody waste!’ he raged.