Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford

weakly in his arms. He glanced down at her quickly. Her eyes were closed, her face was flushed, and a pulse was beating on her neck. The sight of her arousal sent his own desire soaring, and propelled by its urgency he stepped away from her and plucked impatiently at her sweater, lifting it up over her head. He threw it to one side carelessly, and leaning towards her he gently removed her bra and dropped it to the floor. He stood gazing at her. Francesca began to tremble afresh. He seized her, pulling her to him, running his hands over her smooth rounded shoulders and down her back, thrilling to the touch of her skin, and he said, his voiced choked with passion, ‘Take the rest of your clothes off, baby.’

      He turned and moved to the far side of the bedroom into the shadows, wanting to give her privacy. He kicked off his loafers, removed his sweater and unzipped his pants, sliding out of them hurriedly. When he was completely undressed he swung around, and he saw, to his surprise, that she was standing exactly where he had left her, was not lying on the bed as he had anticipated she would be. She was regarding him – warily, he decided – and he thought he detected a nervousness in her, an uncertainty. But he dismissed this idea immediately, considering it to be ridiculous, ascribing her seeming awkwardness to shyness. After all she was very young, and hardly likely to be as experienced as he in the game of love.

      ‘Don’t be embarrassed, darling,’ he murmured softly, reassuringly. His smile conveyed kindness, understanding, but his eyes were bold, roamed over her slender naked body and rested on her for a long time, and he noted the high, firm but unusually full breasts, the gently curving hips, the long beautifully proportioned legs. At last he said, his voice still husky with longing, ‘You’re lovely, Francesca, really lovely. Don’t be self-conscious.’

      Francesca was unable to speak and incapable of moving. Her eyes grew huge in her face and her lips parted as she watched him approaching, looming up in front of her to block out the firelight. His chest was lightly covered with black hairs, and so broad it seemed to be more immense naked than it was clothed. But surprisingly, he had a narrow waist and narrow hips above his long legs, and even though the light was dim, she could see, as he drew closer, that his body was as tanned as his face. It was well-muscled, strong and firm, an athlete’s body, honed to perfection, and it was dominating in its masculinity.

      She held her breath, and tried to still the shaking that had assaulted her again. This was not a manifestation of fear, for she was not afraid, nor was she uncertain or embarrassed as he imagined. Quite simply, she was overpowered by Victor, by the sheer physical beauty of him, his grace, his sexual magnetism which radiated from him so potently, and with such force. He made her feel weak and helpless. Also she was overwhelmed by her own burning desire – overwhelmed by her innermost emotions. That she was in love with him she had known for weeks, deny it though she might have done. But in all truth, she had not understood the extent of her love, its depth and intensity. She knew now that it was immeasurable.

      Still misunderstanding her muteness, her extraordinary immobility, Victor wrapped his arms around her when he reached her side. He did so with gentleness, and pushed her hair away from her face, and peered into her eyes. They seemed to him to be far too grave. ‘What’s bothering you, darling? You’re not shy with me, are you?’ he asked in a low tone.

      She shook her head.

      ‘So what is it, darling? Stage fright?’

      Francesca found herself blinking under the force of his direct and concentrated stare, and she did not answer, hypnotized yet again by that stunningly handsome face so close to hers. Unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears. How that face had haunted her … haunted her every waking moment and perhaps even her sleep as well. It was indelibly etched on her mind and her heart for all time, the dearest face to her in the world, and it would be for the rest of her life. Oh how she loved him. Her heart leapt, and began to clatter unreasonably, and she wanted to tell him how she felt, but she dared not articulate her love. Not yet.

      Aware that he was watching her closely, waiting for an answer, she said slowly, ‘It’s just that … well, I never thought we’d be together … not like this anyway. I think I’m shaken. But that’s all. Honestly.’

      ‘But you do want it, don’t you? Want to be with me?’

      ‘Oh yes, Victor, yes. You must know that.’ She buried her face against his bare chest, and her arms went around him, and she held him close as if never to let him go. ‘I’ve been sitting here waiting for you for the last half hour, dreading the thought that you might not come to my room after all, that you’d changed your mind. Actually, I’ve been waiting for you for weeks and weeks,’ she found herself confessing.

      And I’ve been waiting for you for years and years, Francesca. He bit back these words, did not wish to express this curious thought, one that had truly surprised him. Instead, he brushed it aside quickly, and without another world he swung her up into his arms and carried her over to the enormous four-poster bed at the other side of the room. As he strode out, he said in a hoarse voice, ‘I think we’ve wasted enough time already, baby, don’t you?’

      Francesca sighed and said nothing. She closed her eyes and clung to him, nestling her face against his shoulder. She inhaled the scent of him and kissed his neck and the weakness invaded her again.

      Victor placed Francesca on top of the eiderdown and lay down next to her, cradling her in his arms, wrapping his body around hers, kissing her hair, her brow, her ears and finally her lips. He closed his eyes, drinking in the warmth and softness and beauty of her, revelling in her. Soon his mouth roamed down to her throat, and he began to smooth his hands over her body, and he marvelled at the texture of her skin, felt as though he was touching the purest sleekest silk. He had not known skin like hers ever in his life. Moving his head slightly, he kissed the cleft between her breasts, and stroked them, his hands strong but gentle, and with his tongue he touched the tip of each nipple in turn, delicately so that it was hardly perceptible. After a moment, he was kissing her mouth again, grasping her tightly in his arms, drowning in her.

      Francesca was quivering under his touch, straining towards him, and she responded as ardently as she had on the mountain, returning his feverish kisses with unrestrained passion, a passion that more than matched his own. Her fingers fluttered over his wide shoulders, down his back and along his spine, and then returned to touch his face and his hair. But despite her willingness to give of herself wholeheartedly, and her most transparent joy in their lovemaking, Victor knew, almost at once, that she had no real expertise in the art of love. Furthermore, somewhat to his amazement, he was beginning to realize she was unusually inexperienced sexually. Yet this knowledge only served to fire him on, imbued in him the wish to give her the kind of happiness she had probably never known with any other man. His hands roved over her boldly, provocatively, fondling, caressing, exploring, arousing, and she blossomed under his touch. And he discovered that her simplicity and innocence were not only endearing but inordinately exciting to him, accustomed as he was to more worldly women. Inflamed in a way he had not been in years, he intensified his loving, lost himself in her.

      Other men. There had never been any other men. Victor did not know how he knew this, would never know, but all at once he was absolutely convinced she was a virgin. Sweet Jesus! A virgin. Instantly he recoiled from this idea, and also from her, although he was sensitive enough not to cease his caresses all that abruptly. Finally he could not help himself, and his hands did fall away from her body, as he baulked at continuing, but he brought her into his arms and he held her gently.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked after a while, her voice small, muffled against his chest.

      ‘No, baby. But you’re exciting me too much. Let’s rest a minute.’

      Now Victor seriously considered retreating, of dressing and leaving her. But how could he stop their lovemaking at this stage? They were both taut with longing, craving each other desperately. Anyway, if he stopped with suddenness and departed, she would believe he was rejecting her for some reason. That would be cruel and unfair, and it could easily scar her psychologically for years. Discuss it with her? Hardly. To start asking probing personal questions would only create awkwardness, and embarrass her. It would also break the mood which existed between them, one that struck a delicate balance between the most tender feelings