Hot Nights with...the Italian. Lucy Gordon

propped himself casually on one elbow and studied her, his eyes quizzical. ‘Buon giorno.’

      ‘Good morning be damned.’ She found her voice. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

      He had the gall to look faintly surprised. ‘Getting some rest, mia cara. What else?’

      ‘But you said—you promised that you’d sleep on the sofa.’

      ‘Sadly, the sofa had other ideas,’ Renzo drawled. ‘And I decided that I valued my spine too much to argue any longer.’

      ‘Well, you had no right,’ she said hoarsely. ‘No right at all to—to march in here like this and—and—help yourself!’

      His brows lifted. ‘I did not march, mia bella. I moved very quietly so I would not disturb you. And I did not, as you continued to sleep soundly.’

      He paused. ‘Besides, as a good wife, surely you do not begrudge me a little comfort, carissima?’ He added softly, ‘After all, despite considerable temptation, I made no attempt to take anything more.’

      ‘I am not a good wife.’ Totally unnerved by the tone of his voice, and the look in his eyes, she uttered the stupid, stupid words before she could stop herself, and saw his smile widen hatefully into a grin of sheer delight.

      ‘Not yet, perhaps,’ he agreed, unforgivably. ‘But I live in hope that when you discover how good a husband I intend to be your attitude may change.’

      Marisa realised his eyes were now lingering disturbingly on her shoulders, bare under the narrow straps of her nightdress, and then moving down to the slight curve of her breasts revealed by its demure cotton bodice.

      Her throat tightened. I have to get him out of here, she thought. Not just out of this bed, but this room too. Before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

      ‘But as we are here together,’ he went on musingly. ‘It occurs to me that maybe I should teach you what a man most desires when he wakes in the morning with his wife beside him.’

      He reached out, brushing the strap down from her shoulder, letting his fingertips caress the faint mark it had left on her skin. It was the lightest of touches, but she felt it blaze like wildfire through her blood, sending her every sense quivering.

      Suddenly she found herself remembering their wedding night, and that devastating, electrifying moment when she’d experienced the first stroke of his hand on her naked breast.

      Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘No, Renzo—please.’ And despised herself for the note of entreaty in her voice.

      ‘But I must, mia bella,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you think I have waited quite long enough to instruct you in my needs? What I like—and how I like it?’

      She tried to think of something to say and failed completely. She was aware that he’d moved close, and knew she should draw back—distance herself before it was too late.

      ‘Because it is quite simple,’ the softly compelling voice went on. ‘I require it to be very hot, very black, and very strong—without sugar. Even you can manage that, I think.’

      Marisa shot bolt upright, glaring at him. ‘Coffee,’ she said, her voice almost choking on the word. ‘You’re saying you want me to—make you—coffee?’ She drew a stormy breath. ‘Well, in your dreams, signore. I don’t know what your last slave died of, but you know where the kitchen is, so make your own damned drink.’

      Renzo lay back against the pillows, watching her from under lowered lids. ‘Not the response I had hoped for, carissima.’ His drawl held amusement. He glanced past her at the clock. ‘However, I see it is still early, so maybe I will forgo the coffee and persuade you to join me in a little gentle exercise instead. Would you prefer that?’ Another pause. ‘Or has the kitchen suddenly become more attractive to you after all?’

      She said thickly, ‘Bastard,’ and scrambled out of bed with more haste than dignity, grabbing at her robe. She was followed to the door by the sound of his laughter.

      Once in the kitchen, she closed the door and leaned against it while she steadied her breathing.

      Renzo had been winding her up, she thought incredulously, subjecting her to some light-hearted sexual teasing, and it was a side of him she hadn’t seen before.

      Or not since the night of her birthday dinner, she amended, swallowing, when his eyes and the touch of his mouth on her hand had asked questions she’d been too scared to answer and once again she’d run away.

      A girl does not have to be in love with a man to enjoy what he does to her in bed. His own words, and he clearly believed them.

      But it isn’t true, she thought, her throat tightening. Not for me. Simply wanting someone isn’t enough, and never could be. I’d have to be in love to in order to give myself, and even then there’d have to be trust—and respect as well.

      Things that Renzo had probably never heard of as he swanned his way through life from bed to bed.

      Besides, he didn’t really want her. She was simply a means to an end. But what happened on their honeymoon obviously still rankled with him. For once his seduction routine hadn’t worked, and with his wife of all people.

      His pride had been damaged, and he couldn’t allow that, so now he didn’t only want a son from her, but an addition to his list of conquests. To have her panting to fall into his arms each time he walked through the door.

      Well, I don’t need this, she thought fiercely. I’ve no interest in his technique as a lover, and I won’t let myself be beguiled into wanting him. It’s not going to happen.

      I’m going to be the one that got away. The one that proves to him, as well as myself, that there is life after Lorenzo Santangeli.

      She filled the kettle and set it to boil, noting with rebellious satisfaction that there was no fresh coffee. So he’d have to drink instant and like it.

      She spooned granules into a beaker, then glanced around her, wondering what would happen to her little domain when she returned to Italy. It was hardly likely she’d be able to retain it as a bolthole when her role as Santangeli wife and future mother became too much to bear.

      Although she supposed she could always ask. Because she’d need somewhere eventually, after she’d given Renzo his heir and became surplus to requirements.

      In fact, she could impose a few conditions of her own on her return to him, she thought. Let him know that her acquiescence to his wishes now, and later, was still open to negotiation.

      Not just a place to live, she told herself, but a purpose in life, too. For afterwards …

      In painful retrospect, she’d worked out that any plans she might have for her eventual child—the bond she’d once envisaged—would be little more than fantasy.

      She’d seen the stately nurseries at the Santangeli family home, and knew that once she’d given birth her work would be over. There’d be no breastfeeding or nappy-changing for Signora Santangeli. The baby would be handed over to a hierarchy of doting staff who would answer its cries, be the recipients of its first smile, supervise the tooth-cutting and the initial wobbly steps, with herself little more than a bystander.

      So she’d be left to her own devices, she thought bleakly, in Julia’s classic phrase. And would need something to fill her time and assuage the ache in her heart.

      And quite suddenly she knew what it could be, what she would ask in return for her wifely compliance.

      Simple, she thought. Neat and beautiful. Now all she required was Renzo’s agreement, which could be trickier.

      The coffee made, she carried the brimming beaker back to the bedroom. But it was empty, the covers on the bed thrown back.

      He was in the adjoining bathroom, standing at the basin, shaving, a towel knotted