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‘And is she still based in Perth?’ Carly pursued unrepentantly. ‘Or has she also moved to Sydney?’
‘Sydney.’
‘I see,’ she said dully, and wondered at her own stupidity in querying if the relationship between Stefano and Angelica still existed. It hadn’t ceased and probably never would.
‘Do you?’ Stefano queried, and she smiled with infinite sadness, all the fight in her suddenly gone.
‘Oh, yes,’ she assented wearily. ‘I was way out of my league right from the beginning.’
‘You should have stayed and fought the battle.’ He sounded impossibly cynical, and it rankled unbearably.
‘I tried.’ Dear lord, how she’d tried. But one battle didn’t win the war, as she had discovered to her cost. Carly tilted her head at a proud angle. ‘Being figuratively savaged by a female predator held no appeal. I much preferred to retreat with dignity.’ Her eyes were remarkably clear. ‘Besides, it’s impossible to lose what you never had.’
‘I willingly slid a ring on your finger, and pledged my devotion.’ His voice held a soft drawling quality that sent shivers scudding down the length of her spine. ‘Was your faith in me so lacking that there was no room for trust?’
The entire conversation had undergone a remarkable change, and she wasn’t comfortable with its passage. ‘That was a long time ago,’ she responded slowly, aware of the tug at her heartstrings, the ecstasy as much as the agony of having loved him. ‘Your concept of marriage was different from mine.’
‘You’re so sure of that?’
A lump rose unbidden in her throat—she doubted her voice could surmount it—and a great weariness settled down on to her young shoulders, making her feel suddenly tired.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to shower and go to bed.’
‘Enjoy your solitude, cara,’ Stefano told her with soft mockery. ‘I have a few international calls to make.’ His expression was veiled, making it impossible to detect his mood, and she watched as he walked to the door, then he turned towards her.
‘Incidentally, I’ve located a reputable breeder who will deliver Ann-Marie’s poodle late tomorrow afternoon.’ He paused, a faint smile tugging his lips at her surprise. ‘A house-trained young female, black, with impeccable manners, who answers to Françoise. I’ll see that I’m home to ensure she has a proper introduction to Prince.’
He opened the door, then closed it quietly behind him before Carly had a chance to say so much as a word.
He was an enigma, she decided as she became caught up in a maelstrom of contrary emotions. There was a sense of unresolved hostility, an inner need that bordered on obsession, to get beneath his skin and test the strength of his anger.
Or his passion, her subconscious mind taunted mercilessly. Wasn’t that what she really wanted?
No. The silent scream rose in her throat, threatening, agonising in its intensity, and she gazed sightlessly around the room for several seconds as she attempted to focus on something—anything—that would rationalise her feelings.
All she could see were the two pieces of furniture that totally dominated the large room. Two queensize beds, each expensively quilted in delicately muted matching colours that complemented the suite’s elegant furnishings.
A leisurely shower would surely ease some of her emotional tension, she rationalised as she stripped off her outer clothes, wound the length of her hair into a knot atop her head, and stepped beneath the therapeutic warm spray.
Ten minutes later she stood before the mirror clad in a towelling robe, her hair brushed and confined into a single braid. Her features were too pale, she decided, and with a slight shrug she transferred her gaze to the opulence of her surroundings.
It provided an all too vivid reminder of another house, in another city, and another time. Then, she’d followed her heart, so totally enthralled with the man she had married that every hour apart from him was an agonising torment.
In those days she’d behaved like a love-crazed fool, she reflected a trifle grimly. So young, so incredibly naïve, aching all day for the evening hours she could spend in his arms.
Beautiful, soul-shaking hours filled with a lovemaking so incredibly passionate that she would often wake trembling at the thought that she might lose him and have it end.
Carly studied her reflection, seeing the subtle changes seven years had wrought. Her eyes lacked the luminescent lustre of love, and held an elusive quality that bore evidence of a maturity gained from the responsibility of caring emotionally and financially for herself and her child. Any hint of naïveté had long since departed, and there was an inherent strength apparent, an inner determination to succeed. There was also pain, buried so deep within her that she rarely allowed it to emerge.
Now she had to fight against the memories that rose hauntingly to the surface, each one a separate entity jealously guarded like a rare and precious jewel.
If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that seven years had never passed, that any moment Stefano would step behind her and slowly, erotically tease her tender nape with a trail of lingering kisses, then gently slide the robe from her shoulders, and extend the physical sense of touching that had begun hours before over dinner with the veiled promise of passion in the depths of those dark eyes. The shared flute of wine; a morsel of food proffered from his plate; the deliberate lingering over coffee and liqueurs, almost as if they were delaying the moment when they’d rise leisurely to their feet and go upstairs to bed.
Even then, they’d rarely hurried, and only once could she recall him being so swept away that he’d lost control, kissing her with such savage hunger that she’d responded in kind, evincing no protest as he’d swiftly slaked his desire. Afterwards he’d enfolded her close in his arms, then he’d made love to her with such exquisite gentleness that she’d been unable to still the soft flow of silent tears.
Carly blinked, then shook her head faintly in an effort to clear away any further treacherous recollection from the past. Yet it wouldn’t quite submerge, and she gazed sightlessly into the mirror as she pondered what Stefano’s reaction had been when he’d discovered she’d left him.
Good grief! What are you? she demanded of her reflected image. A masochist? He didn’t choose to instigate a search to discover your whereabouts, and in all probability he was pleased to be relieved of a neurotic young wife who warred with him over his indiscretions.
Damn. The silent curse whispered past her lips, and with a gesture of disgust she turned off the light and moved into the bedroom.
There was no purpose to damaging introspection, she resolved as she slid into bed. She was an adult, and, if he could handle spending the night hours lying in another bed in the same room, then so could she.
The challenge was to fall asleep before he entered the bedroom, rather than afterwards, and despite feeling tired it proved impossible to slip into a state of somnolent oblivion.
How long she lay awake she had no idea, but it seemed hours before she heard the faint click of the bedroom door as it unlatched, followed by another as it was quietly closed.
Every nerve-end tautened to its furthest limit as she heard the indistinct sound of clothing being discarded, and she unconsciously held her breath as she visualised each and every one of his movements, her memory of his tightly muscled naked frame intensely vivid from the breadth of shoulder to his slim waist, the whorls of dark hair on his chest that arrowed down to his navel before feathering in a delicate line to a flaring montage at the junction of his loins. Firmmuscled buttocks, lean hips, and an enviable length of strong muscled legs. Beautiful smooth skin, a warm shield for the blood that pulsed through his veins and entwined with honed muscle and sinew.
It was a body she had come to know as intimately as her own as he had tutored her where to touch, when to brush feather-light strokes that had made him catch his breath, and how the touch of her lips, her tongue, could drive him almost beyond the edge of sensual sanity.
But it had been little in comparison to the response he was able to evoke in her, for all her senses had leapt with fire at his slightest touch, and she had become a willing wanton in his arms, encouraging everything he chose to give, like a wild untamed being in the throes of unbelievable ecstasy. Abandoned, exultant—passion’s mistress.
Carly closed her eyes, tight, then slowly opened them again. Dear lord, she must have been insane to imagine she could share this room with him and remain unaffected by his presence.
Was this some form of diabolical revenge he’d deliberately chosen? Did he really intend to sleep?
The acute awareness was still there, a haunting pleasurable ache that fired all her senses and ate into her soul. In the past seven years there hadn’t been a night when she didn’t think of him, and many a time she’d woken shaking at the intensity of her dreaming, almost afraid in those few seconds of regained consciousness that she had somehow regressed into the past. Then she would look at the empty pillow beside her and realise it had all been a relayed figment of her overstimulated imagination.
Several feet separated each bed, yet the distance could have been a yawning chasm ten times that magnitude. Carly heard the almost undetectable sound of the mattress depressing with Stefano’s weight as he slid in between the sheets, followed by the slowly decreasing rhythm of his breathing as it steadied into a deep, regular beat denoting total relaxation.
It seemed unbelievable that he could summon sleep so easily, and a seed of anger took root and began to germinate deep within her, feeding on frustration, pain and a gamut of emotions too numerous to delineate.
Rational thought disappeared as her febrile brain pondered the quality of his lovemaking, and whether it would be any different now from what it had been seven years ago.
In that moment she realised how much she was at his mercy, and that the essence of Stefano Alessi the man now was inevitably different from the lover she had once known.
At some stage she must have fallen into a blissful state of oblivion, for she gradually drifted into wakefulness through various layers of consciousness, aware initially in those few seconds before comprehension dawned that something was different. Then her lashes slowly flickered open, and she saw why.
In sleep she had turned to lie facing the bed opposite her own, and her eyes widened as she encountered Stefano’s steady gaze. Reclining on his side, head propped in one hand, he regarded her with unsmiling appraisal.
Carly’s first instinct was to leap out from the bed, and perhaps something in her expression gave her intention away, for one of his eyebrows arched in silent musing cynicism.
The gesture acted as a challenge, and she forced herself to remain where she was. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked with deliberate sleepiness, as if this were just another morning in a series of mornings she woke to find herself sharing a room.
‘Early. Not long after six.’ His eyes slid lazily down to her mouth, then slipped lower to pause deliberately on the soft swell of her breast. ‘No need to rush into starting the day.’
Carly’s fingers reached automatically for the edge of the sheet and pulled it higher, aware of a tell-tale warmth tingeing her cheeks, and her eyes instantly sparked with fire. ‘If you think I’m going to indulge in an exchange of pleasantries, you’re mistaken!’
‘Define pleasantries,’ Stefano drawled, and she froze, her eyes widening into huge pools of uncertainty in features that had suddenly become pale. There wasn’t a shred of softness in his voice, and she was frighteningly aware of her own vulnerability in the face of his superior strength.
‘Afraid, Carly?’
‘Of a display of raging male hormones?’ she managed with a calmness she was far from feeling. He looked dangerous, like a sleek panther contemplating a helpless prey, and it was impossible not to feel apprehensive.
Her lashes flicked wide as his gaze travelled to the base of her throat, then his eyes captured hers with an indolent intensity, and she dredged up all her resources in an attempt to portray some measure of ease.
‘Is that all you imagine it will be?’ he queried silkily.
‘Sex simply to satisfy a base animal need?’
‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you,’ he said in a voice that was deadly soft.
‘I’ve learnt to survive,’ she returned with innate dignity. ‘Without benefit of anyone other than myself.’
Stefano looked at her for what seemed an age, his gaze dark and inscrutable. ‘Until now.’
‘Payback time, Stefano?’ She forced herself to study him, noting the almost indecently broad shoulders, the firm, sculptured features that embodied an inherent strength of will. ‘Are you implying I should slip into your bed and allow you to score the first instalment?’
‘With you playing the role of reluctant martyr?’ He paused, and his voice hardened slightly. ‘I think not, my little cat. I don’t feel inclined to give you that satisfaction.’
Her stomach lurched, then appeared to settle. It was only a game, a by-play of words designed to attack her composure. Well, she would prove she was a worthy opponent.
‘What a relief to know I don’t have to fake it,’ she told him sweetly. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to discuss before I hit the shower?’
There was lurking humour evident in those dark eyes, and a measure of respect. ‘Last week I extended an invitation to Charles and his wife to dine here this evening. They flew in from the States yesterday.’
The thought of having to act the part of gracious hostess in his home, while appearing capable and serene, was a hurdle she wasn’t sure she was ready to surmount—yet. However, Charles Winslow the Third was a valued colleague, who, the last time she’d dined in his presence, had been in the throes of divorcing one wife in favour of wedding another.
‘What time had you planned for them to arrive?’ she queried cautiously, unwilling to commit herself.
‘Eight. Sylvana will prepare and serve the meal.’
She had to ask. ‘Are they the only guests?’
‘Charles’s daughter, Georgeanne.’
Seven years ago Georgeanne had been a precocious teenager. Time could only have turned her into a stunning beauty. ‘Another conquest, Stefano?’ she queried with musing mockery.
‘I don’t consciously set out to charm every female I come into contact with,’ he drawled, and she gave a soundless laugh.
‘You don’t have to. Your potent brand of sexual chemistry does it for you.’
‘An admission, Carly?’
‘A statement from one who has sampled a dose and escaped unscathed,’ she corrected gravely, and glimpsed the faint edge of humour curve his generous mouth.
‘And tonight?’
She looked at him carefully. ‘What if I refuse?’
‘Out of sheer perversity, or a disinclination to mix and mingle socially?’
‘Oh, both,’ she disclaimed drily. ‘I just love the idea of being a subject of conjecture and gossip.’
‘Charles is a very good friend of long standing,’ Stefano reminded her.
‘In that case, I’ll endeavour to shine as your hostess,’ Carly conceded. ‘What of my friends?’ she pursued.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes.’ And James. She would mention it when she phoned Sarah this afternoon.
‘Feel free to issue an invitation whenever you please.’
Stefano watched with indolent amusement as she slid from the bed, slipped her arms into a towelling wrap, then escaped to the adjoining en suite.
Breakfast was a shared meal eaten out on the terrace, after which Stefano withdrew upstairs only to re-emerge ten minutes later, immaculately attired in a dark business suit.
He looked every inch the directorial businessman that he was, and arrestingly physical in a way that set Carly’s pulse racing in an accelerated beat. She watched with detached interest as he crossed to the table and brushed gentle fingers to Ann-Marie’s cheek.
Somehow she managed to force her features into a stunning smile when his gaze assumed musing indolence as it rested on her mobile mouth.
‘Bye. Don’t work too hard.’ The words sounded light and faintly teasing, but there was nothing light in the glance she spared him beneath dark-fringed lashes.
Minutes later there was the muted sound of a car engine as the Mercedes traversed the long curving driveway.
Ann-Marie’s appointment with the neuro-surgeon was at ten, and afterwards Carly drove home in a state of suspended shock as she attempted to absorb Ann-Marie’s proposed admission into hospital the following day, with surgery scheduled for late Wednesday afternoon.
So soon, she agonised, in no doubt that Stefano’s influence had added sufficient weight to the surgeon’s decision to operate without delay.
It was impossible not to suffer through an entire gamut of emotions, not the least of which was very real fear. Even the neuro-surgeon’s assurance that the success-rate for such operations was high did little to alleviate her anxiety.
Stefano arrived home shortly after four, and half an hour later the breeder delivered Françoise—a small, intelligent bundle of black curls who proved to be love on four legs.
The delightful pup took an instant liking to the hulking Prince, who in turn was initially tolerant, then displayed an amusing mixture of bewitchment and bewilderment as Françoise divided her attention equally between him and her new mistress.
There was a new kennel, an inside sleeping-box, leads, a collar, a few soft toys, and feeding bowls.
Ann-Marie looked as if she’d been given the world, and Carly experienced reluctant gratitude for Stefano’s timing.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly as they emerged from their daughter’s bedroom, having settled an ecstatically happy little girl to sleep. Françoise was equally settled in her sleeping-box beside Ann-Marie’s bed.
His smile was warm, genuine, she perceived with a slight start of surprise, for there was no evidence of his usual mockery.
‘She has waited long enough to enjoy the company of a much wanted pet.’
Carly felt a pang of remorse for the years spent living in rented accommodation which had excluded the ownership of animals. It seemed another peg in the victory stakes for Stefano—a silent comparison of provision. His against hers.
