Marco sank down to the floor, taking her with him. As he moved over her, her body opened for him in a demand as fierce as his own.
It was not a gentle mating. Their mutual desire was too wild—too urgent for that. Their hands and mouths clung, tore, ravaged, as their bodies fought their way to the waiting glory.
It was upon them almost before they knew it. Flora cried out half in exhilaration, half in fear as she felt herself wrenched apart in a pleasure so dark and soaring that she thought she might die.
Almost fainting, she heard Marco crying out in an anguish of delight as he reached his own climax.
Afterwards she lay, supine, feeling the beloved weight of his head on her breasts, his arm across her body, his hand curved possessively round her hip. Lay very still, incapable of movement, speech or even thought.
Eventually it was Marco who stirred first. He raised himself and looked down at her, a sheen of moisture still clinging to his skin, his eyes remorseful.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he whispered. ‘Tell me the truth, my sweet one, my heart.’
She smiled up at him, slowly, languorously, her lashes veiling her eyes. ‘I don’t remember,’ she told him softly, her arms lifting to draw him down again. ‘And I certainly don’t care,’ she added as her lips parted for his kiss.
After a while she said, ‘Won’t everyone be wondering where we are?’
‘They are not paid to wonder,’ Marco said lazily, his hand stroking her arm.
She gasped. ‘Aren’t you the autocrat? You just take all this for granted—don’t you?’
‘No, mia bella. I take nothing for granted. But I agree we cannot spend the rest of our lives here on the floor.’ He got to his feet, pulling her up with him. ‘We’ll take a shower, then I’ll show you the way down to the beach.’
‘What about our clothes?’ Flora looked with dismay at the crumpled garments strewn across the carpet.
‘Leave them. They will be attended to.’ Marco swept her briskly into the bathroom.
It seemed strange to share the shower with him. To see her toiletries set out on the marble top beside his. To know that her clothes were hanging beside his and laid away in drawers in his dressing room.
She had never known this level of intimacy with anyone before, she realised blankly.
Even when she’d shared a flat with two other girls she’d had her own room. Up to now she’d kept her space inviolate—in more ways than one, she thought wryly, remembering the pristine white bedroom in London.
And then Marco had invaded her life, overturning all the careful structures and beliefs that she’d built up. Taking her to another dimension. But only on a temporary basis, she reminded herself, pulling on a black bikini and covering it with a black and white voile shirt.
And, she thought, thrusting sun oil and dark glasses into her pale straw shoulder bag, she must never let herself forget that.
The grounds of the castello were a riot of blossom. As they made their way down the path Flora was assailed by scent and colour on all sides. Roses hung in a lovely tangle over stone walls and the stumps of trees, studded by the paler shades of camellias. Terracotta urns, heavy with pelargoniums, marked each bend in the track, which occasionally became shallow stone steps.
At one point their way was blocked by a tall wrought-iron gate.
‘My grandfather had it put there when I was a small child,’ Marco explained, releasing the catch. ‘He wanted to make sure I never went down to the beach to swim unsupervised.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And did it work?’
‘No.’ He slanted a grin at her, and for a moment she glimpsed the boy he’d once been. Her heart twisted inside her.
The cove was bigger than she’d expected. At one end there was a boathouse, and a small landing stage, at the other, separated by a crescent of pale sand, was a platform of flat rock.
‘You can dive from that rock,’ Marco said. ‘The beach shelves quickly and very deeply. It is easy to get out of one’s depth.’
She thought, I’m out of my depth now—and drowning.
Aloud, she said, ‘Then I’ll have to be careful.’
There were sun loungers on the sand, two of them, under a large striped umbrella. And under the shadow of the cliff was a small pavilion painted pale blue, with a pretty domed roof.
‘It has changing rooms and a shower,’ Marco explained, as if it was all a matter of course. ‘Also a refrigerator with cold drinks.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Naturally it would have.’
His brows lifted. ‘You disapprove?’
‘No.’ She pulled a face. ‘I was just thinking of the poor souls who have to schlep down here to arrange the sun beds and refill the fridge.’
‘They provide a service for which they are well paid,’ he said, after a pause, adding drily, ‘As you do yourself, mia cara.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘Would you prefer me if I lived in a city flat without air-conditioning and cooked for myself?’
‘No.’ Her tone was defensive. She gestured wildly around her. ‘I’m just not prepared for—all this.’
‘I hoped San Silvestro would please you.’
‘It does. It’s unbelievably beautiful and I’m totally knocked out by it. But I’m Flora Graham, and I do live in the city, without air-conditioning, and I do my own cooking—and I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘You are here because I asked you, Flora mia. Because I wanted you to spend some time with me in a place that I love.’ He stripped off the shirt he was wearing and held out his hand to her. ‘Now, let us go for a swim.’
The water felt like warm satin against her skin. She swam, then floated for a while, looking up at the unsullied blue of the sky, then swam again, making her way over to the rocks. She clambered up on to one of them and perched there, wringing the water out of her hair.
After a few moments Marco joined her, bringing the sun oil with him.
‘You must use this, cara, or you will burn.’
She applied the fragrant oil to her arms and legs, then handed him the bottle. ‘Do my back for me, please?’
He dropped a kiss on her warm shoulder. ‘The pleasure will be all mine,’ he assured her softly. He undid the clip of her bikini top, pushing away the straps, and began to rub the oil into her skin with deft, light strokes. She moved luxuriously under his touch, lifting her face to the sun, smiling when his hands moved to her uncovered breasts.
Then felt him halt, tensing suddenly.
‘Don’t stop,’ Flora whispered protestingly, teasingly.
‘Listen.’ His tone was imperative.
Mystified she obeyed, and heard the throb of an approaching engine. Next moment a boat, low, sleek and powerful, appeared round the headland, a solitary figure at its wheel.
Flora saw an arm lifted in greeting, then the boat turned into the cove, heading for the landing stage.
Marco said something quiet, grim, and probably obscene under his breath. Then, ‘Cover yourself, cara,’ he ordered.
Flora retrieved her bikini top and he clipped it swiftly into place.
By the time they had clambered down from the rocks the boat had come to rest and its occupant was on the landing stage, making it secure.
He was of medium height, and stockily built, with a coarsely handsome face. He was wearing minuscule shorts and a striped top, and he strutted towards them,