Constantino's Pregnant Bride Page 5

  He found the zipper holding closed her dress and lowered it far enough that the wide shawl neck of her dress slid away from her shoulders. She wore cream satin underneath, trimmed with French lace. It whispered audacious permission for him to push it aside. And then—at last, praise heaven!—he was cupping her bare breast, and lowering his head to tug gently at her nipple as if he were seeking to rob her of her soul.

  She very nearly cried out loud. Desire skittered over her, puckering her skin and puddling between her thighs. She ached inside, a heavy, crescendo of sensation, part pain, and part ecstasy.

  When his hand slipped over the curve of her bottom and began inching up her skirt, anticipation became craving; hunger turned to greed. She wanted him touching her bare skin; wanted him to find that throbbing, hidden place and answer its silent, tormented pleas.

  She wanted to touch him. To feel the silken weight of him against her palm; to make him groan and shudder uncontrollably, just as he made her.

  Perhaps she said as much. Perhaps, because of the fever consuming her, the words came tumbling out involuntarily, raw and shockingly frank. I want to see your penis, stroke it…help me…give me permission…!

  Yes, she must have said exactly that because, in the next instant, he was the one holding her hand captive, right there, where the fine black wool of his dress pants stretched taut and expectant over the swell of his erection. She fumbled with his zipper, too eager, too clumsy, and so he helped her, showing himself to her without shame.

  He was beautiful beyond anything she’d ever known. At once primitive and elegant. Strong and smooth and vital.

  Awestruck, she gazed at him. Touched him tentatively and, encouraged by his smothered exclamation, closed both her hands around him and reveled in the convulsive jerk of his flesh. “Am I doing this right?” she whispered. “Do you like it?”

  He rolled his eyes, growled something explosive in Italian, and the next instant, she was lying flat on her back on the carpet, with the full skirt of her dress spread around her like a collapsed parachute. When he discovered her sheer silk stockings left the top of her legs bare, he brushed his lips along her inner thigh, and murmured, “Tua pelle…perfetta.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” she quavered, teetering on the fine edge of a dazzling unknown, “but it sounds wonderful.”

  He lifted his head and let his gaze drift over her, warm and caressing as a lazy tropical breeze. “Your skin, Cassandra, it is perfect. You are perfect.”

  Then he touched her, in the exact spot where her body cried out for him with thick, heavy tears. Swept his finger and his tongue over her, and finally, when she was weeping all over, and begging him to end the torture, he entered her. Filled her completely.

  For a few divine minutes, the outside world ceased to exist. He was her world; her universe. And when she shattered in his arms mere seconds before he relinquished control of his own body, she felt as if she were stardust free-falling from heaven.

  Up on the afterdeck, cheers and whistles broke out. Ships’ horns echoed across the Bay. Fireworks exploded, filling the sky with fountains of color. But she, still caught up in the euphoria of spent passion, did not at first recognize their significance. Then, as reality seeped back, she stared up at him, horrified. “We missed midnight!”

  He shrugged. “I doubt anyone noticed.”

  They weren’t the words she wanted to hear. Too dispassionate by far, they brought her back to earth with a bang. Squirming with embarrassment, she turned her face away and he, taking the hint, rolled off her and sprang lithely to his feet. By the time she’d done the same, albeit less vigorously, he’d restored his clothing to order and merely looked slightly disheveled.

  She, however, was a complete mess. Her panties hung from one ankle, and maintaining her dignity while she put them back where they belonged proved an exercise in futility. She’d lost one shoe; it sprawled upside down under the table, looking every bit as wanton as she now felt. Her dress was as crumpled as if she’d slept in it—which, to phrase it delicately, was pretty much what she’d done. In retrospect, though, and as the afterglow faded, a much uglier term assigned itself to her behavior.

  Benedict cleared his throat. “Cassandra,” he began.

  “Don’t!” she said sharply, refusing to meet his glance. “Don’t say another word. Just please go and spare us both the embarrassment of trying to behave as if what just happened amounted to anything other than animal lust.”

  “And leave you in complete disarray? That would not be gentlemanly of me.”

  “Gentlemanly?” If she hadn’t been so utterly mortified, she’d have laughed at the notion that he understood the meaning of the word. “It’s a bit late to be thinking along those lines, Mr. Constantino.”

  “And more than a little late for such formality, cara. My name, as you very well know, is Benedict.”

  “Fine. Go back on deck, Benedict, before your good friend Nuncio comes looking for you. I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

  Not bothering to wait for his response, she marched to the bathroom and locked herself in. When she came out again fifteen minutes later, the only reminders that he’d ever set foot in the suite were the champagne flutes and half-empty bottle of 1992 Bollinger Vieilles Vignes Francaises….

  Trish’s face was a study in curiosity. “You appear to be having difficulty processing my question, Cass,” she remarked snidely, “so let me rephrase it. Did you lead Benedict on?”

  “If I did,” Cassie said uncomfortably, “it was unintentional. I certainly didn’t expect we’d end up having sex, and to be fair, I don’t think he did, either.”

  “Obviously not, or one of you would have had the foresight to use protection, and you wouldn’t now be facing your present dilemma.” Trish eyed her sympathetically. “Do you think you could learn to love him in time?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So you’re not against the idea?”

  “No,” Cassie said. “I’m just afraid of it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “For a start, he’s such a control freak—one of those drag-you-off-by-the-hair, Me Master, You Slave types!”

  “Fifty-one per cent wonderful, forty-nine per cent impossible, in other words.” Trish lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Well, nobody’s perfect, Cass, and I can’t see you ever submitting to being molded to the underside of any man’s heel, so I’m not worried on that score.”

  “Well, I am, because I don’t want to wind up falling in love with a man who might never love me back. I’m not putting myself or my baby through the misery my mother went through when my father decided he’d had enough of the family scene.”

  “It’s not fair to label Benedict with your father’s sins of omission. He deserves to be judged on his own merit.”

  “I know—which is why I agreed to meet him again and take another look at our options.”

  “Then don’t let me keep you. It’s almost noon, and you need to apply a bit more blusher and some lip gloss. Nausea might make some women look pale and interesting, but it doesn’t become you at all.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHE did not look well. Unaware that he was watching her from the other side of the lobby, she stepped out of the elevator, and hovered near a smoked-glass wall mirror to check her appearance. Apparently dissatisfied with what she saw, she fluffed a hand through her short blond hair, pinched her cheeks to give them added color, and retied the crimson scarf at her throat.

  As if any of that was enough to disguise the mauve shadows beneath her eyes, or the general pallor underlying the carefully applied cosmetics!

  “Oh, there you are!” she said, on a nervous breath, when he intercepted her as she mingled with the stream of people headed for the sandwich shop she’d mentioned. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Long enough to see that you need a change of pace from what this place has to offer.” He took her elbow and steered her through the building’s massive main entrance, an
d out into the street. “We’ll eat in the park. I’m told there’s one not five minutes walk from here.”

  “They don’t serve lunch in the park,” she objected, dragging her feet.

  “There’s a delicatessen two doors away. We’ll get them to fix us a picnic.”

  “I don’t have time for that. Half an hour is all I can spare.”

  “Make the time, Cassandra,” he said flatly. “Half an hour isn’t enough.”

  She wrenched her elbow free and flung him a resentful glare. “I don’t have much taste for petty dictators, either.”

  “And I seldom find it necessary to issue orders, but when the need arises, when a woman doesn’t show the good sense she was born with, as is the case now, then I’m more than equal to the task.” He took her arm again, and marched her into deli. “So, here we are, cara mia. What do you feel like ordering—besides my head on a plate?”

  “Nothing,” she snapped, pinching her lips into a tight line and stubbornly refusing to look at the selection of prepared foods arranged in the glass-fronted display case. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then I’ll decide for both of us.”

  “Why am I not surprised to hear that, I wonder?”

  “Someone has to make sure you take proper care of yourself,” he pointed out, “and who has a more vested interest in your health than I?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just get a move on, will you? I don’t have all day, and we have more important issues waiting to be resolved than whether you want pastrami on rye for lunch, or smoked beef in a bun.”

  Then, as if the mention of food was enough to turn her stomach, she grew paler than ever, and hurried outside to sit in the shade of an umbrella at one of the sidewalk tables.

  Keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn’t bolt, he bought slices of cold roasted chicken breast, Melba toast squares, a small wedge of mild cheese, some pale green grapes, and two bottles of mineral water. “We can eat out here, if you wish,” he said, joining her at the table.

  But she shook her head. “No. I’d rather sit in the park.” She swallowed, mopped her glistening upper lip with a dainty handkerchief, and gestured weakly at the open door of the deli. “The smell in there…anything like that…it’s overpowering these days.”

  “I understand. Do you feel up to the walk, or shall I call for a taxi?”

  “Oh let’s walk, and the sooner, the better!” She pointed across the street to a pedestrian lane winding between two apartment complexes. “We can take that short cut. It’ll get us there in no time.”

  He put his hand in the small of her back while they waited for a break in the traffic, and couldn’t help noticing not only that she looked unwell, but that she felt much more fragile than she had just over two months ago. Not that she’d ever been a big woman, but there’d been a sweet roundness to her arms and legs before, a gentle flare to her hips, a softer curve to her cheek.

  Now, she was all skin and bone; fragile to the point of brittle. Still beautiful, of course—she had the kind of skeletal structure which would make her beautiful even when she was old and gray. But there was no bloom to her; no evidence of the radiance he’d witnessed in his sister when she’d been pregnant. Simply put, Cassandra looked ill.

  “Still queasy?” he asked, as they left the buildings behind and followed a path over a grassy slope in the park to a sunlit glade where a little waterfall splashed into a pond.

  “No,” she said irritably. “Stop fussing! And stop looking at me as if you’re afraid I’m going to drop dead at your feet.”

  But he wasn’t deceived by her flimsy bravado. She was wilting visibly, and he regretted that he’d not gone along with her wish to remain in her office building. Alas, where she was concerned, he regretted many things!

  “Sit,” he said, spreading his jacket on the grass.

  This time, she didn’t object to being told what to do. With obvious relief, she sank down with her legs tucked beneath her, and accepted the bottle of water he handed to her from the picnic box. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “I’m very concerned, Cassandra. You are too pale, too thin. What does your doctor have to say about this?”

  “You mean to say, you didn’t show up at his office first thing this morning, to ask him yourself?”

  “How could I? You refused to tell me his name.”

  Two spots of angry color stained her cheeks, emphasizing the pallor of the rest of her face. “I’m in no mood for your lies, Benedict.”

  “What lies?” he asked, suppressing the surge of anger her accusation inspired. Had she been a man…! “I do not lie.”

  “How can you stand there looking so offended, when we both know you made it your business to find out who my doctor is, and we both know how you went about it?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he told her stiffly. “Nor do I care for your tone.”

  “Oh, please!” She cast him an evil glance from under her lashes. “Drop the act! You’re too sophisticated and about twenty years too late to carry off the role of injured innocent.”

  “I’m thirty-four, Cassandra, and yes, I’m a man of the world. But I’ve yet to master the art of mind reading. So, I repeat, I don’t know what it is that you think I’ve done. Enlighten me, please, before I lose all patience.”

  “You made yourself at home in my kitchen last night.”

  “Indeed yes. And I explained why. I was trying to spare you having to clean up after the meal. Did I not meet your standards of housekeeping excellence?”

  “Indeed, yes!” she exclaimed with heavy sarcasm. “You’ll make some woman a fine wife, one day—either that, or an international spy!”

  He’d never thought he’d find himself so livid with her when she looked so frail, but her last insult was something he would not overlook. “Are you so mired in middle-class mores that my turning my hand to domestic chores when you’re ill makes me less of a man in your eyes? Because if so, Cassandra, then we have both made a grave error in judgment, I for believing you to be a woman of intelligence, and you for having taken me to be a fool.”

  To her credit, she had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about being someone’s wife. But I’m sticking with your making a good spy.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You found my day-planner.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And the crime attached to having done so?”

  “You looked in it. You deliberately sought out information which was none of your business.”

  “Take care,” he warned her, and knew from the sudden wary look in her eyes that she felt the chill in his tone. “Because you’re carrying my child, I’m willing to make allowances, but even you step on dangerous ground when you question my integrity and continue to fling unfounded accusations in my face. Don’t push me too far, mia bella gestante. You might not like the outcome.”

  Her eyes, a deep, enchanting blue, turned dark with suspicion. “What’s a gestante?”

  “An expectant mother. What did you think?”

  “That if I’m tossing insults at you, you might be inclined to toss a few back at me.”

  “No, Cassandra. I have other ways of getting even.”

  “I’m sure you have,” she said, “but we’re straying from the subject. If you weren’t snooping for information last night, what was one of your business cards doing on the floor next to the table where I’d left my day-planner?”

  “I planned to leave without saying goodbye. You were so long in your room, I thought perhaps you’d gone to bed because the sickness did not pass. So I took out one of my cards, to write a note telling you I’d be in touch later today, but found I’d left my pen in the briefcase in my car. I saw there was a pencil on the table and was about to use it when I heard you return to the salone. I forgot about the note then, and made you toast and tea instead. The card must have fallen to the floor without my noticing, perhaps because I thought it more important to
attend to you in person. What was so terrible about that?”

  She plucked at the blades of grass edging his jacket, and looked so abject that his irritation melted into compassion. “Nothing,” she said finally. “Except that I’ve made an idiot of myself over nothing. I seem to be doing that rather often, these days.”

  “It’s a trying time for you,” he said, wishing she didn’t stir him so deeply. She was confident and successful, a woman of many talents and a great deal of charm. She didn’t need his protection. And yet, he felt the need to look after her. Or was it the baby she carried that moved him so profoundly?

  He couldn’t say. Mother and child were inextricably bound together. They always would be.

  Briefly, she met his gaze. “For you, too. A week ago, I’m sure you had no intention of asking me to marry you.”

  “That is true,” he said. “A week ago, many things occupied my mind, but taking a wife was not among them.”

  “You see? That’s why marriage is all wrong for us. We were never lovers in the real sense of the word, nor even friends. We’re merely acquaintances.”

  “We are also adults, and therefore accountable for our actions. Our child is not to blame for having been conceived. This is a situation entirely of our own creating, and we have to make the best of it.”

  “You make it sound as simple as one and one adding up to two. But it’s not.”

  He smiled. “Indeed no. In this case, one and one adds up to three—unless you happen to be carrying twins.”

  “Perish the thought! This is no joke, Benedict!”

  “It doesn’t have to be a tragedy, either.” Drawing her to her feet, he grazed her chin with his knuckles, a fleeting caress only, and tried not to notice how, set in mutinous lines though it might be, her mouth remained temptingly delicious. It was obsessing about just such trifles that had landed him in so much trouble with her to begin with. “Look at me, Cassandra. Am I so hideous that you can’t bring yourself to like me just a little? Do I repel you? Does the thought of my kissing you, touching you, leave you sick to your stomach?”