‘But how delicious,’ he said, softly. ‘Bought for your lover?’
Polly shook her hair back from her face. ‘I dress to please myself.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And now you will undress to please me. Per favore,’ he added silkily.
She could hear nothing but the wild drumming of her own pulses, and the tear of her ragged breathing. See nothing but the heated flare of hunger in his eyes. A hunger without gentleness, demanding to be appeased.
And his hands reaching for her—like some ruthless hawk about to seize his prey.
Not like this, she thought in anguish. Oh, dear God, not like this. Not to lie naked in his arms and be taken—enjoyed for one night alone. To be used, however skilfully, just so that he could get her out of his system, only to find herself discarded all over again when his need for her was finally assuaged. And to be forced to go through all that suffering a second time—unappeased.
It was unthinkable—unbearable.
Her voice shook. ‘Sandro—please—don’t hurt me …’
She paused, knowing she was on the edge of complete self-betrayal here. Realising too that she must not let him see that he still had the power to inflict more misery on her.
The sudden silence was total. He was completely still, apart from a muscle which moved swiftly, convulsively in his throat.
When at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘Dio mio, you think that I’m going to rape you? That I might be capable of such a thing?’ He shook his head. ‘How could you believe that? It is an insult to everything we have ever been to each other.’
He lifted his hand, and touched the scar. ‘This has only altered my face, Paola. It has not turned me into a monster.’
‘I—I didn’t mean …’ Polly began, then bit her lip. This was a misunderstanding that she could not put right—not without the kind of explanation she was desperate to avoid, she told herself wretchedly.
‘Basta,’ Sandro said sharply. ‘Enough.’ He bent and retrieved his shirt from the floor, dragging it on with swift, jerky movements.
‘Now dress yourself and go,’ he instructed icily. ‘And be quick. Otherwise I might lose all self-respect, and justify your low opinion of me. Punish you in the way you deserve,’ he added grimly.
He went to the door, unlocked it, then turned.
‘Remember this, mia bella.’ His voice grated across her taut nerve-endings, just as his contemptuous gaze flayed her skin. ‘Even if I had taken you there on the floor like the sciattona you are, it would still not have been rape.’ He smiled at her with insolent certainty. ‘You know it as well as I do, so do not fool yourself.
‘Now, get out of my sight,’ he added curtly, and left, slamming the door behind him.
SHE had missed her plane, but eventually managed to catch the last flight of the evening, thanks to a no-show.
Her escape from the hotel had been easier than she could have hoped. She had dressed quickly, her shaking hands fumbling so badly with the buttons on her dress that she had to begin again.
Then she’d wasted precious moments listening tautly at the door for some sound from the room beyond. Dreading that Sandro might be waiting there for her, still angry and possibly vengeful.
But when she had finally risked taking a look, the room was completely deserted, and she left on the run. The hotel commissionaire had summoned a cab for her, allotting her dishevelled state a discreetly impassive glance.
She had prowled around the airport, her eyes everywhere. Terrified that he might change his mind, and come to find her. To prevent her from leaving. Even when she presented her boarding card, she was half expecting his hand to reach over her shoulder and take it from her.
When the plane finally took off, she was almost sick with relief. She ordered a double brandy from the stewardess, and fell asleep before she’d drunk half of it.
She took a cab from the airport to her flat, unlocking the door and falling inside in the same movement. There was a strange empty chill about the place that she had never experienced before, that seemed to match the cold hollow inside her.
A voice in her head whispered, ‘You’re safe—you’re safe …’ But somehow she couldn’t believe it. She even found herself picking her way in the darkness to her living-room window, and drawing the curtains before she switched on the lights.
Then she sank down on the sofa, and tried to stop trembling.
I didn’t suspect a thing, she thought. To me, the contessa was simply another very demanding client, nothing more—but it was all a trick.
She had to be deeply in Sandro’s power to agree to something like that, Polly told herself, and shivered as she remembered how nearly she’d surrendered to that power herself.
Oh, God, she thought. He only had to touch me …
But it had always been like that. From the first time his hand had taken hers as they walked together, her body had responded with wild yearning to his touch. She had hungered and thirsted for his mouth on hers—for the brush of his fingers over her ardent flesh. For the ultimate mystery of his body joined to hers.
Sandro had enraptured her every sense, and she had mistaken that for love. And he had cynically allowed that—had said the words she wanted to hear—whispered the promises that would keep her enthralled until he chose to leave her.
She’d been just one more girl in his bed, easily discarded, instantly replaced. Except that he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of her on television and discovered, for some inexplicable reason, that he still wanted her.
Sandro Domenico, she thought painfully. A man rich enough to pay for his whims, and powerful enough to pull the strings that would satisfy them.
And yet he’d let her go, outraged at the idea that he could rape her physically, but too arrogant to realise he’d already done far worse damage to her emotionally.
Still, it was over now, and she had nothing more to fear. She’d insulted his sense of honour, such as it was, and he would never come near her again.
In fact, she’d got off comparatively lightly, she told herself. Yes, she was bruised by his anger and disgust, but she’d recover from that—given time. And her future held plenty of that.
In some ways, it all seemed like a bad dream—some torment dredged up from the depths of her unconscious. But the faint lingering tenderness of her lips forced her to face reality.
Wincing, she touched her mouth with her fingertips, telling herself that it could all have been so much worse. That at this moment, she might have been in his bed, and in his arms, with a whole new cycle of heartbreak and regret to endure.
For all she knew he could be married to someone ‘suitable’. A dynastic union from the criminal network he belonged to, she thought with a pang.
But she—she was all right, she rallied herself. She’d had a narrow escape, that was all.
Just the same, her vague plans for a change of location had become a firm resolve as a result of the past twenty-four hours.
She and Charlie would move, somewhere anonymous and preferably far away. And, to ensure she could never be so easily traced again, she’d find out the legal implications of changing her name.
Drastic measures, she thought, but, in view of her recent scare, perfectly justified.
She stripped in her tiny bathroom,