‘What are you afraid of, Lily?’
Raffaele’s voice, rough suede, caressed her skin, drawing it to tingling life. Lily’s eyelids flickered, weighted by the desire rolling through her, inexorably growing, clogging every sense. All she knew was the scent and taste of Raffaele, the heat of his breath on her lips, the pulse of longing throbbing within.
‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied.
She was terrified. Thrilled. Exultant. Curious.
Lily felt her hand settle against the muscled plane of his chest. Beneath her palm beat a steady pulse that seemed leisurely compared with her own wildly careering heartbeat. He was real. Not the phantom lover of her dreams. He was one of the most beautiful men on the planet, and she—
She shifted back. ‘This is a mistake.’
He moved with her, his thigh brushing hers. Ripples coursed up her leg to the spot between her thighs where a different pulse beat—needy and quick.
‘No mistake. Admit it, Lily. This feels right.’
His lips touched hers again—once, twice—before settling on her mouth. For a moment he held utterly still. She absorbed the rich, warm scent of his skin, the delicious tang of him on her tongue, the long body hard up against hers and the gentleness of his hand at the back of her head, cradling, tender …
A mighty shudder ran through her—a sigh that made no sound in the whirling ecstasy of the moment. A sigh of surrender as Lily let herself go and for the first time in her life kissed a man.
Growing up near the beach, ANNIE WEST spent lots of time observing tall, burnished lifeguards—early research! Now she spends her days fantasising about gorgeous men and their love lives. Annie has been a reader all her life. She also loves travel, long walks, good company and great food. You can contact her at [email protected] or via PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.
The Flaw in Raffaele’s Revenge
Annie West
An enormous thank you to dear Abby Green, who heard my plot ideas then asked why I didn’t combine them. I loved our rare chance to talk stories!
And a huge thank you to Franca Poli for your support and patient assistance with your lovely language. Any errors are mine.
Contents
RAFFAELE PETRI POCKETED his credit card and left the waterfront restaurant. Ignoring the stares, he nodded his thanks to the waiter. The service had been excellent, attentive but not fawning, the tip well-earned.
Raffaele hadn’t forgotten how it felt to depend on the goodwill of rich foreigners.
He paused, his eyes adjusting to the sunshine. The sea glittered as it slapped the whiter-than-white yachts. The salt tang was strong on the air and he breathed deep, relishing it after the overpowering perfume of the women who’d tried to catch his attention from the next table.
He sauntered past huge yachts and motor cruisers. The Marmaris waterfront was packed with ostentatious displays of wealth. Just the place to invest, if his research was right, which it always was. This trip to Turkey would be profitable and—
A bray of laughter froze his footsteps. The hoarse, distinctive sound ran up his spine like dancing skeletal fingers, pinching his skin.
Raffaele’s breath rushed in like the snap of a spinnaker in a stiff breeze. The laugh came again, yanking his attention to a towering multistorey cruiser. Sunlight polished the chestnut hair of the man leaning from the upper deck, shouting encouragement at two women on the promenade.
The ground beneath Raffaele’s feet seemed to heave and buckle, mirroring the tumble of his constricting gut. His hands rolled tight as he stared at the florid man waving a champagne glass at the women.
‘Come on up. The bubbly’s on ice.’
Raffaele knew that voice.
Even after twenty-one years he recognised it.
That smug tone, that hoarse laugh, had crept through his nightmares since he was twelve.
He’d given up hope of finding him. He’d never known the man’s name and the slimy villain had disappeared from Genoa faster than a rat leaving a scuttled ship. No one had listened to a skinny twelve-year-old who’d insisted the foreigner with hair the colour of castagne was to