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‘Madre de Dio!’ The voice in her ear was rough and raw, the accented words almost incomprehensible through her whirling thoughts. ‘I feared I would not reach you in time. Are you all right?’
Was she?
Still unable to open her streaming eyes, or form coherent words, Emily could only nod silently, her thoughts further scrambled by the way that the movement brought her face close against the hard bones of a powerful shoulder, her senses tantalised by the ozone-tinged scent of his skin.
‘OK…’ she managed but knew that she was not yet ready to have him let go. Her feet barely touched the ocean bed, her toes simply drifting in the swirling sand, and she prayed that her rescuer wouldn’t let her go, fearing she would be dragged away again with the ebb and flow of the white-capped waves.
But he showed no sign of even thinking about releasing her. Instead he pulled her up closer, moved his hands again. Before she could quite register what he had in mind, he had swung her up off her uncertain feet, his arms coming under her legs as he lifted her high out of the water.
‘Ohhh…!’
Instinctively her own hands flew up, her arms fastening around his neck, holding on tight. She felt the muscles bunch in his shoulders as he took her weight, adjusted his stance, bracing strong legs against the powerful tug of the tide. Then, turning, he began the slow, difficult journey back to the shore, ploughing through the waves that still broke against them, spattering them both with cold spray.
‘Almost there…’
Emily didn’t know if he expected a reply. She couldn’t give him one if he did; couldn’t find the words. Her head was against his chest, the heavy, regular beat of his heart under her cheek.
If she opened her salt-crusted lids she could see the smooth line of his throat, the olive skin tanned gold even this late in the year. A slight movement of her head made it possible to see the point where his hair, jet black even without the soaking that the sea had given it, covered the bronzed skin at the nape of his neck. He wore his hair longer than most men she knew, the dark strands brushed against the neckline of his navy T-shirt, slightly unkempt, so very, very different from the tightly controlled, cropped way that Mark had always worn his.
But that was Mark. Everything about him had always had to be controlled. Except his drinking. When he drank all sense of control went out the window, and a very different man took over.
‘No!’
The word escaped her as she shook her head, trying to drive away the thoughts she didn’t want. She had come here today to get away from all that and she was not going to spoil her hard-won freedom by letting unwanted memories intrude and upset her.
‘No?’
The man who held her had heard her and his determined stride slowed, halted, his dark head turning, looking down at her. She saw the sudden flash of deep dark eyes, stunningly beautiful eyes fringed with impossibly long, luxuriant lashes, watched his black brows draw together in a frown.
‘What…?’
‘I’m fine…’
She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t want him to stop; wanted to stay in his hold, in his arms like this forever. Or at least in the space that seemed to have reached out to enclose her like a bubble, suspended in time.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure—don’t let me go.’
Had she really said that?
The water must have battered her brain more than she’d realised. She felt as if she’d completely lost touch with reality. Had she really just asked this man—her unexpected rescuer, the man who had scooped her up from the waves when she had felt that she was going to drown, not to let her go? To keep her in his arms?
But the truth was that in those arms she felt wonderfully safe, protected as never before. It was as if the broad shoulders that supported her, the chest against which her head rested, had come between her and the world, acting as a defence against the trials and disasters that had darkened her life over the past months. With those arms around her she could, if not forget about the disasters that she had run away from and the problems and situation that awaited her when, inevitably, she had to go back, then at least put them out of her mind.
‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ that wonderful rich, deep voice with the surprisingly lyrical accent assured her. Just the way that he spoke sent warm waves of sensation running over her skin, easing the cold of her drenching in the sea, warming her blood. ‘Not until I’m sure that you can stand on your own.’
And most likely not even then, Vito told himself. He had hold of this woman now; he wasn’t going to let her go.
His heart had barely stopped racing, hardly slowed from the moment he had seen her dancing wildly in the sea, her hair swirling round her face, arms waving in the air. But then there had been that pulse-stopping moment when she had seemed to stumble, when her hands had flown up into the air. She had spun on one leg, fallen—and the white-crested waves had crashed over her head.
He hadn’t even been aware of moving, of racing down the strand to the sea. At some point he had kicked off his shoes and left them, careless of where they fell. His jacket had followed somewhere and all the time he had been running, running through the sand, into the water…
When he reached the spot where he’d last seen her he’d thought he’d lost her, the sea had already closed over her head. But then he’d seen, in the depths, the swirl of pale hair, an even paler face; the white of her T-shirt. And he’d plunged into the water. Eyes struggling against the sting, hands reaching out, closing over her arms, dragging her close, lifting her up and out…
At first he’d feared he was too late. She was terribly limp—too limp. But then she’d choked, coughed, and the air had rushed into her lungs on a huge, gasping sigh. Her head had fallen back against his shoulder, blonde hair splaying out across his chest.
And suddenly everything had changed.
She was cold and wet. He was cold and wet. But what he actually felt was a heavy, heated pulse that throbbed through every vein. The soft weight of her in his arms, made his own body tighten in hungry need and it was all he could do not to turn his head to hers and press a wild, demanding kiss on her parted lips.
But for now practicality was what mattered. Already the woman was starting to shiver in his arms. He had to get her to the shore, check that she had suffered no ill-effects from her accident. And so, gritting his teeth against the clamour from his inner senses, he turned and ploughed his way back towards the land.
‘Don’t let me go,’ she said again. ‘Don’t let me go!’
Didn’t she know that that wouldn’t be the problem? That the thought of letting her go had never entered his head? From the moment he had first seen her arrive at the beach, he had been caught, entranced, and now that he actually had her in his arms there was no way he was going to let her go. Not without exploring what this whole thing meant. Not without taking this unexpected, fiery connection to the furthest limits possible.
‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ he said again, disturbing himself even with the intensity of the way it came out. So much so that he amended it hastily, adding some nonsense about wanting to see her on her feet first.
And why, when they finally reached the shore, when his feet were on solid land, with the sand firm beneath them, did he not act on that? Why did he not let her down, still holding her, still supporting her, waiting to see if she could stand up by herself?
Because his whole body, everything that was in him, rebelled at the idea.
He had her where he wanted her and he wasn’t about to let go.
‘We’re here,’ he said when she didn’t appear to be about to stir either. Certainly she showed no sign of wanting to move but just lay in his hold as if she belonged there. ‘Signorina…’
That caught her attention, brought her head up. Her eyes—they were, he now saw, the softest, clearest blue, blue like the sky reflected in the sea—widened, looked straight into his.
‘You’re Italian!’
‘Sicilian.’
‘Oh…’
It was the last thing Emily had expected. When she had fallen into the cold, turbulent waters of the English Channel on a very English beach, she had never imagined that the man who had come to her rescue, like some knight of old racing to the defence of his lady, would be anything other than local. But now, looking up into his face, she saw that there was no way he could ever be taken for an Englishman. The olive-toned skin covering powerfully carved features, high, angular cheekbones, and the full, sensual mouth that now curved in a devastating smile, revealing white, white teeth, were definitely not the sort of looks she saw around her every day.
‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. My name is Vito…’
‘Emily…’ she managed awkwardly, her tongue stumbling even over her own name as she struggled with the over-heated race of her heart.
Those deep-set dark eyes burned down into hers with an intensity that seared her skin, making it flame with heat. It was as if the sun had suddenly come out from behind a cloud, almost blinding her, and she had to turn her head away, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder.
She should say thank you, she knew. She should say thank you for rescuing me and now would you please put me down? Let me stand on my feet…?
But she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t say anything.
The scent of his skin surrounded her. Warm and musky and still overlaid by the ozone from the sea. She took it in with every breath, felt it enfold her like the strength of his arms. No man had touched her, no man had held her in too long. No man except Mark, but Mark’s hold had never affected her like this. Even in the beginning. Mark’s arms had never felt so strong, his skin hadn’t had that wild, intoxicating scent that went straight to her head like a swallow of the most potent of spirits, making her thoughts spin.
‘Emily…’
That voice, that accent made her name into a totally different sound. They took away the clipped, essentially English, pronunciation she was so used to hearing every day and transformed it into a warm, lyrical sound, one that stirred her senses so that she nestled even closer, burying her face against Vito’s chest, in the curve between his neck and his shoulder.
The warmth of his skin was against her cheek, the still damp strands of his hair brushing her ear as he moved his head, making her draw in a long, ragged breath. And with that breath she took in once more the essence of him, the scent of his skin, the taste…
In the warm, concealing darkness her closed eyes fluttered open, fixed on the point where just inches away from her, the heavy, regular throb of his pulse beat just under the skin. The firm stretch of olive skin was so smooth, so tempting…If she just moved her head…
It was only when her lips touched the warmth of his flesh that she realised what she’d done. And by then it was too late, way too late. Just the feel of it underneath her mouth, the taste of it on her tongue, was like a drug, making her blood heat, her senses yearn. Something hot and hungry and uncontrollable was uncoiling in the pit of her stomach, sending shivers of reaction along the pathway of every nerve. She couldn’t stop herself from pressing her lips to that pulse again, breathing in the scent of his skin, tasting it with her tongue.
‘Emilia,’ Vito said again but this time on a very different note. One that matched the thunder in her head, the sensations in her body.
‘Vito…’ she breathed against his neck and slowly lifted her head, turning back towards him, tilting her mouth…
And found it taken in a sizzling, blazing kiss that sent reaction scorching through every inch of her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE world tilted, swung round her. Her vision blurred, her thoughts fled. Somewhere high in the sky above her, the cry of a lone gull was the only sound she was aware of, but it seemed to belong to another world, not the hot and hungry one that had suddenly reached out to enclose her, sweeping away all other sense of reality. And very soon even that faded, drowned out by the pounding of her own blood in her head.
She had let her arms drop from around Vito’s neck but now she flung them back up again. Not for support but to draw his head down, press those seeking, demanding lips even closer to her own.
His arms no longer held her, or, rather, they still held her but in a very, very different way. The strength of his support had gone from under her legs, letting her slide down the hard, muscled length of him, until the tips of her toes brushed the sand, dangling just above the actual expanse of the shore. And this time one arm was clamped tight around her waist, crushing her to him, while with the other he laced hard fingers through the partly dried tangle of her hair, twisting slightly to hold her head just where he needed it, her mouth under his so that he could take what he wanted.
She was burning, softening, melting against him. She scarcely knew where her body ended and his began. And as he loosened his hold slightly so that she slid downward, over the long length of his powerful body until her feet were finally back on the sand, although not yet actually supporting her, that feeling intensified to almost agonising proportions. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her hips cradled his pelvis, feeling the heat and pressure of his arousal hard against her. Her mouth was opening under his, allowing the intimate invasion of his tongue, tangling with her own, tasting the personal essence of him that had been on his skin and now was on her lips, on her tongue.
She had forgotten what this felt like. This instant, explosive, dramatic response to a man. The way that her heartbeat kicked hard, the way her breath came raw and uneven. She’d forgotten how it felt to know the honeyed burn of need, the heat pooling between her legs, making her writhe against his hard strength in hungry longing.
‘Emilia…’
His version of her name was a raw breath against her mouth, his voice deepening and roughening until, she barely recognised it.
Recognised it!
The words echoed inside her head in a rush of shock and bewilderment. She had heard—what?—less than one hundred words from this man’s mouth and yet she felt as if she knew his voice, would recognise it anywhere. It was as if that deep, husky sound, with the melodic accent she now knew to be Italian—Sicilian—was burned onto her mind like music etched onto a CD, so that she would always know it, always recognise it, no matter what happened.
It was as if it was part of her now, bound by links that could never be broken.
‘Vito…’
She tried his own name, feeling it strange and exotic on her tongue. Just the sound of it sent a shiver down her spine, making her tremble in his hold.
How could this be happening to her? Just a few minutes ago she had arrived on this beach, not even knowing that this man existed, and yet now here she was, in his arms and…
The slam of a car door up on the promenade broke into the wild delirium that had invaded her brain, making her stiffen, pull her mouth away from Vito’s. And in the same moment his handsome dark head came up, those deep black eyes suddenly blinking hard, losing the wild, unfocused look and staring down into her own wide blue ones with an expression that she knew must mirror her own.
What the hell am I doing?
He didn’t have to say it, there was no need to speak the words out loud, they were written so clearly on his face, etched onto those stunning features.
And as soon as she saw that look, the same thought raced into her mind, slashing through the wild delirium that had clouded it, blurring her thinking and pushing her into actions that were so untypical of her usual behaviour.
What the hell had she been doing?
She didn’t know this man. Knew nothing about him except his first name and the fact that he had just pulled her from what she had feared was going to be a watery grave—but she didn’t know him! And yet she had been kissing him as if he was the love of her life. She’d been clamped so tight against him that they might have been one person, so close that there was no way she could have denied the sexual hunger he felt—or refuse to acknowledge the fact that it pounded through her own body too.
Anyone who might have seen them would have thought that they were already lovers, so intimate had been his hold on her, her response to him.
And this was a man that she knew precisely two facts about.
His name was Vito.
And he was a Sicilian.
It was mad. It was ridiculous. It was dangerous.
And it was as that last word exploded inside her head that she knew what had happened. She’d heard about it, read about it. She’d been in danger and this Vito had come to her rescue. The fear and the panic, the knowledge of danger and then the sheer, blinding exhilaration of having been saved. That had all created a wild, impossibly intense atmosphere. A hothouse atmosphere in which a very basic attraction had grown, been blown up out of all proportion and so created a volatile situation as a result.
Just the thought of it caught her body in a shiver of response that made her tremble where she stood. Immediately those black eyes narrowed, sharpening perceptibly.
‘You are cold! Forgive me—I should have thought.’
Already he was looking round, moving, heading in the direction of what she now saw was his jacket, discarded on the sand a short distance away, obviously in the haste of his mad dash to rescue her.
That thought should ease her mental discomfort, but instead it had the exact opposite effect, making her shudder even harder as reaction set in and the memory of just what had happened—what might have happened and how close she had come to it—attacked her nerves and made her quake inside, bitter tears of memory stinging at her eyes, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her.
This man—this darkly devastating, sexy, handsome man—had rushed into the turbulent water without hesitation when he had thought she was going to drown, throwing his jacket one way and the shoes she could now see further up the beach another. He’d come to her rescue when he had seen her going under for the third time, and no one had done anything like that, anything kind for her in a long, long time.
‘Here…’
Vito was back at her side, swinging the jacket up and around her shoulders, pulling it closed at the front.
‘This should help.’
‘Th-thank you,’ Emily managed, her tongue trembling as much as her limbs.
The jacket was comforting, so that she wanted to pull it closer, huddle into it to hide away from the world. But at the same time it started up a set of memories and emotions that in her present shocked state she was having terrible trouble controlling, so much so that the temptation to fling the garment from her and run was almost stronger than her need for comfort.
Almost.
Instead, she found that her fingers had clamped tight over the elegant lapels, crushing the expensive fabric ruinously as she clutched it to her like some sort of shield. Shock was setting in with a vengeance and she didn’t know how to cope with anything.
‘Are you OK?’
Idiota! Vito reproved himself furiously. Of course she was not OK! She had just almost drowned and now she was cold and probably in shock. What sun there had been earlier in the day was already fading rapidly, clouds gathering in the sky. Already some of those clouds were turning heavy grey and, if he was not mistaken, the storm that had been threatening all afternoon was now building up rapidly to breaking point.
And with the darkening of the skies had come a definite drop in temperature, a chill to the wind that had blown up. Instinctively he rubbed his own arms where the gooseflesh had already appeared. The damp jeans and T-shirt were cooling rapidly—and he wasn’t half as badly soaked as Emily.
