Modern Romance November 2016 Books 1-4. Cathy Williams

the truth, because Flora had been looking at him as if she’d like to eat him up for breakfast, lunch and dinner and then maybe go back for a midnight snack. And yet he had been kissing her, hadn’t he? Kissing her in a way she’d never been kissed before. She could still recall the fizzing excitement in her blood and the way she’d wanted to dissolve beneath his seeking fingers. She’d wanted him to carry on burrowing his fingers beneath her dress and to touch her where she was all hot and aching. Would he laugh or be horrified if he knew she’d never felt like that before? Would he be horrified to discover that she’d never actually had sex before?

      They parked the car and she led Dante through the house by one of the back doors, beginning to realise what a big gamble she’d taken by bringing him here. Was he really a good enough actor to pretend to be interested in her when there was going to be so much Grade One crumpet sashaying around the place in their killer heels?

      She pushed open the door of her old bedroom, the room where she had spent so much of her childhood—and immediately it felt like stepping back in time. It always did. It made her feel weird and it made her feel small. Little had changed since she’d left home, and whenever she came here, it felt as if her past had been preserved in aspic—and for the first time, she began to question why. Had her parents’ refusal to redecorate been based on a longstanding wish not to tempt fate by changing things around?

      Willow looked around. There was the portrait done of her when she was six—years before the illness had taken hold—with a blue sparkly clip in her blond hair. How innocent she looked. How totally oblivious to what lay ahead. Next to it was the first embroidery she’d ever done—a sweet, framed cross-stitch saying Home Sweet Home. And there were her books—row upon row of them—her beloved connection to the outside world and her only real escape from the sickroom, apart from her sewing. Later on, she’d discovered films—and the more slushy and happy-ever-after, the better. Because fantasy had been a whole lot better than reality.

      Sometimes it had felt as if she’d been living in a gilded cage, even though she knew there had been good reasons for that—mainly to keep her away from any rogue infections. But her inevitable isolation and the corresponding protectiveness of her family had left her ill-equipped to deal with certain situations. Like now. She’d missed out on so much. Even at college she’d been watched over and protected by Flora and Clover, who had both been studying at the same university. For a long time she’d only had the energy to deal with maintaining her health and completing her studies and getting a decent degree—she hadn’t had the confidence to add men into the mix, even if she’d found anyone attractive enough.

      And she had never found anyone as attractive as Dante Di Sione.

      She watched him put their bags down and walk over to the window to stare out at the wide green-grey sweep of the Sussex Downs, before turning to face her—his incredible lapis lazuli eyes narrowed. She waited for him to make some comment about the view, or to remark on the massive dimensions of her rather crumbling but beautiful old home, but to her surprise he did neither.

      ‘So,’ he said, beginning to walk towards her with stealthy grace. ‘How long have we got?’

      ‘Got?’ she repeated blankly, not quite sure of his meaning even when he pulled her into his arms and started trailing his fingertips over her body so that she began to shiver beneath the filmy fabric of her delicate dress. ‘For...for what?’

      Dante smiled, but it was a smile edged with impatience and a danger that even Willow could recognise was sexual.

      ‘That depends on you, and what you want.’

      ‘What I want?’ she said faintly.

      ‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I thought that you were as frustrated by your sister’s interruption as I was. I was under the distinct impression that our fake relationship was about to get real, and in a very satisfying way. It would certainly be more convincing if we were properly intimate instead of just pretending to be. So are we going to play games with each other or are we going to give in to what we both clearly want?’ he murmured as he began to stroke her breasts. ‘And have sex?’

      Willow quivered as her nipples tightened beneath his expert touch and even though his words were completely unromantic...even though they were the direct opposite of all those mushy rom-coms she used to watch—they were still making her feel something, weren’t they? They were making her feel like a woman. A real woman—not some pale and bloodless creature who’d spent so much time being hooked up to an intravenous drip, while cocktails of drugs were pumped into her system.

      Yet this hadn’t been what she’d planned when she’d rashly demanded he accompany her here. She’d thought they were engaging in nothing more than an indifferent barter of things they both wanted. Unless she wasn’t being honest with herself. Face the truth, Willow. And wasn’t the truth that from the moment she’d seen him walk into the Caribbean airport terminal, her body had sprung into life with a feeling of lust like she’d never felt before? In which case—why was she hesitating? Wasn’t this whole trip supposed to be about changing her life around? To start living like other women her age did.

      She tipped up her face so that he could kiss her again. ‘Have sex,’ she said boldly, meeting the flicker of humour in his smoky blue gaze.

      He smiled and then suddenly what was happening did feel like a fantasy. Like every one of those mushy films she’d watched. He picked her up and carried her across the room, placing her down on the bed and pausing only to remove the battered old teddy bear that used to accompany her everywhere. She felt a wave of embarrassment as he pushed the bear onto the floor, but then he was bending his lips to hers and suddenly he was kissing her.

      It was everything a kiss ought to be. Passionate. Searching. Deep. It made Willow squirm restlessly beneath him, her fingers beginning to scrabble at his shirt as she felt the rush of molten heat between her legs. And maybe he had guessed what was happening—or maybe this was just the way he operated—but he slid his hand beneath her skirt and all the way up her leg, pushing aside the damp panel of her knickers and beginning to tease her there with his finger. Her eyes fluttered to a close and it felt so perfect that Willow wanted to cry out her pleasure—but maybe he anticipated that too, because he deepened the kiss. And suddenly it became different. It became hard and hungry and demanding and she was matching it with her own demands—arching her body up towards his, as if she couldn’t get close enough.

      She could feel the hardness at his groin—the unfamiliar rocky ridge nudging insistently against her—and to her surprise she wasn’t daunted, or scared. Maybe it was just her poor starved body demanding what nature had intended it for, because suddenly she was writhing against him—moaning her eagerness and her impatience into his open mouth.

      He reached for his belt and Willow heard the rasp of his zip as he began to lower it, when suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.

      They both froze and Willow shrank back against the pillows, trying to get her ragged breath back, though it took several seconds before she could speak.

      ‘Who is it?’ she demanded in a strangled voice.

      ‘Willow?’

      Willow’s heart sank. It was Clover’s voice. Clover, the bride-to-be. Well-meaning and bossy Clover, the older sister who had protected her as fiercely as a lioness would protect one of her cubs. Just like the rest of her family.

      ‘H-hi, Clover,’ she said shakily.

      ‘Can I come in?

      Before Willow could answer, Dante shook his head and mouthed, No, but she knew what would happen if she didn’t comply. There would be an outraged family discussion downstairs. There would be talk of rudeness. They would view Dante with even more suspicion than she suspected he was already going to encounter. The atmosphere would be spoiled before the wedding celebrations had even begun.

      She shook her head as she tugged her dress back down, her cheeks flaming bright red as she readjusted her knickers. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she called, wriggling out of Dante’s arms and off the bed, mouthing, Don’t say a word.

      His