The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (77 page)

She moistened her lips, and he drove into her only to almost withdraw before repeating the action again and again, increasing the intensity of the rhythm until she joined him in a climax more shattering than the first.

Afterwards he gathered her close and rested his lips against her temple in the lazy afterglow of spent passion.

Shannay was close to sleep when he manoeuvred her onto her tummy and began a wonderfully soothing massage of her neck and shoulders, easing out the kinks there before slipping down to knead her calf muscles and finally her feet.

His lips pressed a trail of light kisses over her leg, bit gently into the globe of her bottom, then eased up to her nape.

She turned into him and rested her mouth into the curve at the base of his throat, murmured something indistinct, then drifted into deep sleep.

The gala event held in one of the city’s splendid theatres appeared to be a sell-out, with numerous fashionistas vying for supremacy in designer gowns and exquisite jewellery.

The
crème de la crème
of Madrid society, patrons of the arts, who paid an exorbitant ticket price to attend the evening’s classical production.

In pairs, small groups, they gathered in the large foyer, and Shannay stood at Marcello’s side with a ready smile in place as guests mixed and mingled.

Tall, dark, impeccably groomed, his evening suit a perfect tailored fit, pristine white shirt and black bow-tie, he looked the epitome of the powerful, sophisticated male.

He stood out from the rest. Not so much for his attractive features or his clothing, but for the primitive aura he projected beneath the hard-muscled frame … a disruptive sensuality that threatened much and promised to deliver.

It drew women to him like bees to a honeypot, and there were those who simply adored to flirt, while a few made moves, subtle and not so subtle, to attract his attention.

In the early days of their marriage she’d hugged to her heart the knowledge he was
hers,
believing nothing and no one could harm what they shared.

How naive she had been!

‘Ah, there you are.’

Shannay turned and met Penè’s encompassing appraisal, caught the brief nod of approval and leant forward to bestow the obligatory air-kiss to each cheek.

‘How is Ramon?’

‘Fading. The physician expects him to lapse into a coma within the next few days. Sandro and Luisa are with him.’

Such an incredibly sad end for a man who had once headed the Martinez empire.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Shannay’s empathy was genuine, and Marcello’s aunt inclined her head in acknowledgment.

‘Tonight may well be the last public engagement at which the family appear. The usual mourning period will understandably be observed.’

‘Of course.’

‘I must greet Pablo and Angelique Santanas,’ Penè announced, and melted into the crowd.

Soon the massive doors swung open and the guests gradually drifted into the auditorium to take their seats.

The classical performance proved superb, with brilliant costumes and high-tempo music. Stirring, passionate, with a touch of pathos.

A break between Act I and II proved welcome, so too when the curtain came down after the second act.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Marcello asked as they entered the foyer.

‘Anything chilled and non-alcoholic,’ Shannay requested with a faint smile, and watched as he signalled a hovering waiter.

It was only a matter of minutes later when she turned slightly and saw Estella moving towards them.

Oh,
joy.

The woman resembled a picture-perfect Latin doll attired in a Spanish-inspired chiffon gown in stunning red and white diagonal chiffon frills that moved with exquisite fluidity at every step she took.

Sexy, Shannay accorded silently. Very deliberately sexy, from the top of her gloriously coiffured head to the tip of her beautiful lacquered toenails in matching red.

‘Shannay.’ The greeting was polite, brief, then Estella gave Marcello her full attention.

‘Querido.’

Could a woman’s voice purr?

Definitely.

‘Estella.’

Hmm, was that a tinge of warning beneath Marcello’s pleasant tone?

Play polite, Shannay bade silently as she summoned a smile and offered an innocuous remark … which Estella totally ignored.

‘We are thinking of going on to a nightclub afterwards. Perhaps you’d care to join us?’

‘Thank you. No,’ Marcello responded civilly, and the woman offered a convincing pout.

‘Your wife—’ she gave the word a faint emphasis and touched a lacquered nail to the lapel of his jacket ‘—accompanies you, and you become less fun.’

‘Perhaps,’ Marcello drawled, carefully removing her hand, ‘my wife provides all the fun I need.’

Estella cast Shannay a look that contained thinly veiled mockery. ‘Indeed?’

In some instances silence was golden, Shannay perceived. This wasn’t one of them.

‘Marcello is a superb tutor. Don’t you agree?’

Estella’s gaze shifted to Marcello as she ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip and offered a knowing smile. ‘The best, darling.’

It’s an act, she qualified. A deliberate attempt to undermine.

Four years ago she would have taken the bait.

Now she simply offered quietly, ‘Yet he chose not to marry you. Why was that, do you suppose?’

The faint disbelief evident before it was quickly masked should have brought a sense of satisfaction.

Except instinct warned Shannay that Estella would merely choose her moment for the next verbal strike.

‘Possibly I decided he wasn’t the best
marriage
material?’ She waited a few seconds, then honed in sweetly, ‘Isn’t that why you left him?’

Bitch.

If she asserted Marcello hunted her down, she’d leave herself open for Estella to drag Nicki into the verbal equation, and she refused to allow that.

‘No.’

The supercilious arched eyebrow did it.

Forget politeness. ‘Go find your husband, Estella.’ The silent implication “and leave mine alone” was clearly evident.

The mocking smile conceded nothing as the socialite turned with a slow, deliberately sensual movement and began weaving her way through the gathered patrons.

‘Your support was gratifying,’ Shannay noted quietly, unsure whether she was pleased or relieved, and bore his appraisal.

‘You were doing so well on your own.’

‘She’s a—’

‘Femme fatale,’
Marcello drawled. ‘Who thrives on playing games with the vulnerable.’

Her chin tilted and her eyes lanced his own. ‘The term
vulnerable
no longer applies to me.’

Marcello cast her a musing glance as he caught hold of her hand and brushed a soothing thumb over the veins at her wrist, where the quickened beat of her pulse belied her contrived air of calm.

The intervening years had provided a level of maturity and independence he could only admire.

With every passing day his desire for revenge lessened, and it irked him, for he wanted to make her pay for denying him the experience of her pregnancy, the birth, and his daughter’s infancy.

There was still a degree of anger beneath the surface vying with an overpowering physical need he fought hard to control.

As she did.

Two opposing forces caught up with events of the past, and fighting to reconcile their future.

A future he was determined to secure.

Shannay felt a sense of relief when it came time to be seated for the third and final act.

Marcello enclosed her hand in his throughout, and his fingers merely tightened whenever she tried to withdraw.

Once he lifted their joined hands to his lips, brushed hers lightly, then rested them on his lap, and her heart jumped and refused to settle for what seemed an age.

His arousal beneath the conventional clothing was a potent hidden force, and it took considerable effort to focus on the players on the stage as the act progressed towards its conclusion.

She didn’t move, could barely bear to breathe, and she was never more glad of the theatre’s darkened interior.

Dear heaven, did his aunt notice?

She sincerely hoped not, and refused to glance in Penè’s direction.

It was a tremendous relief when the curtain came down, then rose again to applause, and the lights came on.

Exiting the auditorium became a slow process, noisy with audience chatter against muted background recorded music, and there was the obligatory pause or ten when they reached the foyer and moved towards the main entrance.

Penè bade them goodnight as her car and driver pulled into the kerb, followed minutes later as Carlo eased their own car to a halt.

They were scarcely seated when Marcello reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through her own.

Shannay attempted to free them without success, and she looked at him in silent askance.

What was he doing?

They had no audience, no one to impress with their pretended togetherness.

Twice she endeavoured to pull free during the drive to La Moraleja, and he refused to allow her to succeed.

When they reached the mansion he drew her indoors, then he simply lifted her over one shoulder and made for the stairs.

‘What in hell are you playing at?’

‘Taking you to bed.’

‘I can walk,’ she assured his back in scandalous tones, and heard his husky laughter.

‘Humour me.’

‘Aren’t you in the least wary I might kick you where it hurts?’

‘Don’t try it,
querida.
You’ll spoil the fun, and I can promise you won’t like my retaliation.’

‘Fun? You think it’s
fun
being hauled around like a sack of potatoes?’

They reached the gallery and, at its end, the master suite, where he slid her down to her feet.

Without a word he caught her close and kissed her … gently at first, savouring the taste and texture of her lips, her mouth. Then with a sensual intensity that reached right down and took hold of her soul.

She was helpless, mindless, and barely aware of his fingers releasing the zip fastening on her dress … until it slithered to the floor in a silken heap. Her bra came next, followed by the satin briefs, and she gasped as he cupped her breast and lowered his mouth to suckle its peak.

A hand slid down over her stomach and sought the moist warmth at the apex of her thighs, and the breath hitched in her throat.

‘Undress me.’

He helped her dispense with his clothes, his shoes, as she slid out of stilettos, then he lifted her onto the bed and moved down beside her.

The trail of his lips followed the same path as his fingers as he brought her to climax again and again, until she cried out, begging for the release only he could give.

It was then he sought the moist heat with his fully engorged penis and thrust in to the hilt in one forceful movement, waited until she caught her breath, and sought the familiar rhythm
that sent them both soaring to unbelievable heights, held them there in a spectacular climax, then tipped them over the brink in a slow, sensual free-fall.

Later, much later, she gifted him a tasting that left the breath hissing through his clenched teeth, and tested his control to the limit.

It was her turn to cry out as he pulled her on top of him and took her for the ride of her life.

T
WO DAYS LATER
Ramon slipped into a coma, from which he never recovered, and his funeral was a private family occasion, followed by a memorial service attended by close friends, family and captains of industry.

It was an infinitely sad time for them all, especially Penè who went into a decline and cancelled everything on her social calendar for an unspecified time.

Ramon’s will distributed his considerable personal fortune equally between Penè, Marcello, Sandro … and Nicki.

Marcello and Shannay were named as Nicki’s trustees, and the inheritance made their daughter a very rich little girl.

Marcello’s presence was required in the city on frequent occasions during the ensuing week. Days when he left early and returned late, sometimes long after Nicki had fallen asleep.

To compensate he rang and spoke to his daughter through the day and again before she went to bed.

Shannay filled the days as best she could, supervising Nicki with her swimming, reading, finger-painting and constructing models with play-dough.

She also offered to assist Penè in any way possible, without success.

‘Leave her grieve,’ Marcello advised when she broached
it one evening after he arrived home late. ‘She needs to come to terms with Ramon’s death in her own time, in her own way.’

She looked at him carefully, noting the lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes seemed more pronounced, the grooves slashing his cheeks a little deeper.

‘And you, Marcello?’

‘Concerned for me,
querida?’

‘Perhaps. A little.’

He discarded his suit jacket, loosened his tie, toed off his shoes, then he reached for her, pulling her close to kiss her deeply, taking his time before he lifted his mouth from her own.

‘Come share my shower.’

She tilted her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully. ‘That could be dangerous.’

His eyes gleamed and he gave a husky chuckle. ‘So take the risk and live a little.’

‘In the shower?’

His fingers slid to the hem of her singlet top and pulled it free from the waistband of her jeans, stripped her of it in one easy movement, then he undid the clip on her bra.

‘Since when has that presented a problem?’

He reached for the snap on her jeans, slid the zip down and eased the denim over her hips.

It felt so good to have his hands shape her slender form, to drift his fingers over the highly sensitive curve at the base of her neck, the touch of his lips to her nape, the gentle tactile exploration that unfurled a capricious sexuality and became raw with hunger … for him, only him.

He branded her with his mouth, the edges of his teeth in a coupling that was explosive, primitive as he demanded her compliance and made her his own.