Awakened by the Scarred Italian Page 10

  How had he missed it? He who considered himself a connoisseur of women?

  He didn’t like getting things wrong. Underestimating people. He’d learnt a harsh and brutal lesson at the hands of those kidnappers. The kidnappers who’d yet to be caught and whom he was still investigating—with not much luck.

  Until that day he would have been the first to admit that life had always come easily to him. Blessed with good looks, a keen intellect and a sizeable family fortune, he’d lacked for nothing. But since those days at the hands of violent thugs Ciro had learnt not to be so complacent. And since the day Lara had informed him she’d never had any intention of marrying him he’d learnt not to underestimate anyone.

  His cynicism had become even more pronounced. Any kind of easy charm he’d displayed before had become something much darker.

  Unbidden, a memory resurfaced at that moment. Lara, not long after they’d met, admitting to him sheepishly that she’d looked him up on the internet. He’d immediately felt betrayed. And disappointed. She was like everyone else. Assessing his worth. Looking for the salacious details of his family history.

  And then she’d stunned him with an apparently sincere apology, saying that she should have asked him face to face. Normally he abhorred women trying to get him to reveal personal details, but within seconds he’d been saying to Lara, ‘Ask me now.’

  That was the night she’d confided in him about her family and their history. How she had a trust fund worth millions. For the first time in his life someone had surprised Ciro. And it had only added to her allure.

  Until she’d pulled the rug out from under his feet.

  For the first time in a long time he wanted to know why she’d done it. Created that persona. But something held him back. Some sense of self-preservation. A feeling that he’d be exposing himself if he asked the question.

  As if sensing his brooding regard, she turned and looked at him, and for a second Ciro couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful. And the memory was so vivid. He could almost imagine that the previous two years hadn’t happened.

  But they had.

  He cast aside memories and nebulous dangerous thoughts. She was here by his side. His. That was all that was important.

  He lifted his hand and crooked a finger, silently commanding her to come to him. He saw the way her eyes flashed, the subtle tensing of her shoulders. The resistance to his decree. But then she came. Because she was here in her own milieu and of course she wouldn’t cause a scene.

  It was time to remember why he had spent two years keeping tabs on her and why he’d married her at the first opportunity. For revenge, yes, but so much more. He caught Lara’s hand in his, very aware of the absence of his little finger. The reminder firmed his resolve to stop thinking of the past.

  He bent his head close to hers, inhaled her scent drifting up to tantalise his nostrils and threatening to dissolve that resolve. He directed Lara to look across the lawn to where heads of state, royalty and A-list celebrities sipped champagne and mingled. ‘Do you see Lord Andrew Montlake over there?’

  Lara nodded.

  ‘He was a friend of your father’s, yes?’

  Lara nodded again. ‘Yes—a good friend.’

  Ciro smiled. ‘Good, then introduce me. I’ve been trying to get a meeting with him for months, to discuss the chateau he’s selling outside Paris.’

  * * *

  A few hours later Lara’s feet were aching almost as much as her facial muscles ached from smiling and pretending that it was totally normal to be back in London society with a new husband just over a week after burying her previous husband. She’d felt every searing look and heard every not so discreet whisper and had held her head high with a smile fixed in place.

  They were in the back of Ciro’s car now, and she looked out of the window at the streets of London bathed in late summer sunshine. Young couples stood hand in hand outside pubs, drinking and laughing. Carefree.

  She’d never had the chance for a life like that. As soon as her uncle had taken over his role as guardian he’d had his nefarious plan mapped out for Lara and she’d been totally unaware of it.

  Pushing down the uncharacteristic welling of self-pity, Lara thought of the event they’d just been to. As much as she’d been the centre of attention, so had Ciro. Lara had noticed the looks and whispers directed his way too, the way people’s eyes had widened on his scarred features. It had made her want to stand in front of him and stare them down. Shame them for their morbid fascination.

  She’d seen the masterful way he’d operated, winning people around, charming them into submission. He might have needed someone like her for access into this rarefied world, but it wouldn’t be long before he became an indelible part of it. And then her role would be obsolete.

  Ciro turned to look at her then, as if aware of her regard. The back of the luxury car suddenly felt tiny. All evening Lara had been acutely aware of Ciro, of his every movement as he’d taken her hand, or touched her arm, or the small of her back. Her skin felt tight and sensitive. Her body ached with a wholly new kind of yearning. And her lower body tightened with need every time his dark gaze rested on her. Like now.

  She didn’t feel in control of herself at all any more. If she ever had around this man. And she hated it that he seemed so cool, calm and collected.

  If he so much as touched her right now she knew she wouldn’t be able to control her reaction, but he surprised her by saying, ‘We’re going to stay in London for a few days. I have some meetings lined up.’

  Lara hid her skittishness and said, ‘Fine.’

  And then, just when she thought she could gather herself, he reached for her, taking her hand and tugging her across the divide in the seat, closer to him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Lara cast a glance at the driver in front.

  Ciro said something in Italian and the privacy window went up, cocooning them in the back of the blacked-out car. The streets outside faded into insignificance as Ciro’s hand sneaked around the back of Lara’s neck, where with deft fingers he loosened her hair so it tumbled over her shoulders.

  Lara’s heart rate increased as Ciro’s fingers massaged her neck—and then his hand moved to where the dress was held up by the jewel over one shoulder.

  Excitement curled low in her abdomen as she protested weakly, ‘Ciro...we’re in the back of the car...’

  He said, ‘Do you know how hard it’s been for me to keep my hands off you all evening?’

  She shook her head, mesmerised by the look on his face. She could see it now—the desire bubbling just under the surface, barely restrained—and she felt it reach out and touch her.

  With a flick of his fingers the dress opened and loosened around her breasts. She gasped and put a hand up, but Ciro caught her hand and said roughly, ‘Leave it.’

  Ciro peeled her dress down, uncovering her breasts. Lara shivered with a mixture of arousal and illicit excitement, aware of the people outside the car on the pavement, where they were stopped at some lights. Only the blacked-out windows and some steel and glass separated her from them and their eyes.

  Ciro looked at her and cupped her naked breasts, thumbs moving back and forth over her nipples. ‘So beautiful,’ he breathed.

  ‘Ciro...’ Lara was almost panting. She stopped talking, afraid of exposing herself even more.

  His dark head bent towards her, and when his mouth closed around one tight tingling nipple the spiking pleasure was so intense she speared her hands in his hair. She quickly got lost in the maelstrom Ciro had unleashed in her body, knowing that she was showing her weakness but unable to do anything about it...

  * * *

  Ciro looked at himself in the mirror of his bathroom and took in his glittering eyes and the still hectic colour on his cheekbones. When they’d returned to the townhouse a short while before Lara had all but fled up the stairs, holding up the t
op of her dress with one hand, her hair in a tangle.

  Ciro had let her go, even though he’d wanted to carry her straight to his bedroom and to his bed. The only thing that had stopped him was the awful suspicion that he’d just exposed himself spectacularly.

  Just an hour before he’d been talking with one of Europe’s heads of state, and within minutes of getting into a car with Lara he’d been all over her like a hormone-fuelled teenager.

  He splashed cold water on his face, as if that might dilute the heat raging in his body. After a moment he went into his bedroom, restless and edgy. He looked at the interconnecting door between his and Lara’s rooms for a long moment before going over and opening it quietly.

  She was in bed. Curled up on one side in a curiously childlike pose, her hair spread out on the pillow. Her breaths were deep and even.

  Something about the fact that she could find the equilibrium of sleep so easily made him feel even more exposed.

  He went back into his bedroom and closed the door. And then he did the only thing he could do to try and dilute the sexual frustration in his body. He headed for the gym.

  * * *

  As soon as Lara was sure that Ciro had left her room she turned on her back and sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. She looked up at the ceiling.

  She was in her underwear under the covers. She’d heard Ciro moving about next door, and after coming so spectacularly undone in the back of his car had felt far too raw to be able to deal with seeing him again. So she’d dived under the covers and feigned sleep even as her body had mocked her, aching for Ciro’s touch. For him to finish what he’d started.

  This evening had been a salutary lesson in the reality of how this marriage would work. Ciro had used her with a ruthless and clinical precision to seek out meetings with the various people he was interested in talking to. She had to remember that was the focal point of the marriage—her desire to make amends to Ciro for what her uncle had done to him.

  What she had done to him.

  And the other stuff? The physical chemistry? The aching desire he’d awoken in her body?

  A man of his extensive experience would surely lose interest soon. Wouldn’t he? And when he did she’d have to live with that. She’d lived with far worse, so she would cope. She’d have to.

  * * *

  The following days brought a reprieve of sorts for Lara. Ciro was out at meetings all day, and each evening he had a business dinner to attend, where she wasn’t required.

  Like a coward, she’d taken the opportunity to make sure she was in bed by the time Ciro came home, pretending to be asleep if he came into her room.

  She’d got used to her surroundings—just a stone’s throw from the old apartment she’d shared with Henry Winterborne—but she deliberately made sure to avoid that street if she was out of the house, and she knew the security men must think she was mad, taking such a long way round to go to the shops.

  Ciro had issued her with a credit card, and Lara had swallowed her pride and taken it. After two years of feeling trapped, due to her lack of personal finances, she was embarrassed at being beholden to someone else. More than ever she wanted to make her own money. Be independent.

  And yet there was something about Ciro handing her some economic freedom that made her feel emotional. A man who had a lot less reason to trust her than her previous husband was trusting her with this.

  She’d also got to know the staff who worked in the house: the housekeeper was called Dominique, and there was a groundsman/handyman called Nigel. Dominique hired in staff as and when it was required for entertaining or cleaning, she’d told Lara. But as yet Ciro hadn’t actually ever entertained in the house.

  Fleetingly Lara wondered again at the coincidence that had Ciro’s new house right around the corner from where she’d been living.

  One evening it was Dominique’s night off—she lived close by, so didn’t stay over at the townhouse—and Lara went into the kitchen, feeling restless.

  She’d always loved to cook, so when Henry Winterborne had maliciously turned her from wife into housekeeper she’d welcomed it, far preferring to be in the kitchen than to share space in his presence.

  She’d learnt to cook in the first instance from her parents’ housekeeper—a lovely warm woman called Margaret, who had been more like a member of the family than staff. And then over the years she’d continued to cook...usually surreptitiously, because her uncle hadn’t approved of her doing such a menial thing.

  ‘You were not born to cook and serve, Lara,’ he’d said sharply.

  No, she thought bitterly, she’d been born so he could exploit her for his own ends.

  She shook her head to get rid of the memory and looked around the gleaming kitchen, instinctively pulling out ingredients from the well-stocked cupboards and shelves.

  As she cooked from memory she felt a peace she hadn’t experienced in weeks descend over her. She tuned the radio to a pop station and hummed along tunelessly.

  In a brief moment of optimism she thought that if things continued as they were going, and if she could maintain her distance from Ciro, she might actually survive this marriage...

  * * *

  Ciro had returned home early, to change for a dinner event. He was irritable and frustrated—which had a lot to do with the workload he’d taken on and the fact that he’d barely seen Lara since that first night in London.

  Somehow she was always conveniently in bed when he got home, and he was not about to reveal how much he wanted her by waking her up like some kind of rabid animal to demand his conjugal rights.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see on his arrival this afternoon, but it involved an image along the lines of Lara being ready and waiting for him to take her to his bed when he got in.

  He set down his briefcase in the hall and loosened his tie. For the first time in his life a woman wasn’t throwing herself at Ciro.

  He scowled. The second time in his life.

  The first time had also been with Lara. She’d been like a skittish foal around him when they’d first met. It had taken him weeks of seducing her on a level that he hadn’t had to employ for years. If ever.

  After she’d revealed herself so spectacularly, and walked out of his hospital room, he’d put it down to being part of her act, but now he had to acknowledge that she had been a virgin. She hadn’t lied about that. At least.

  He was about to head up the stairs when a smell caught at his nostrils. A very distinctive smell. Delicious. Mouth-watering. Evocative of his childhood.

  He went towards the kitchen, expecting to find Dominique cooking, but when he opened the door it took a second for his eyes to take in the scene.

  Lara was bent down at the open oven door, taking something out. She was dressed in jeans and a loose shirt. Bare feet. Her hair was up in a messy knot, and as she turned around with the dish in her hands he saw how the buttons of the shirt were fastened low enough to give a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.

  Tendrils of hair framed her face and flushed cheeks. He heard the music. Some silly pop tune. Then realised that Lara was smiling, bending down to sniff the food in the dish. Lasagne, he guessed. It reminded him of the famous lasagne his nonna used to make when he was small, hurtling him back in time.

  Ciro was rendered mute and frozen, because he couldn’t deny the appeal of the scene, nor that it had already existed in the deepest recesses of his psyche, even as he would have denied ever wanting such a domestic scenario in his life. At least until he’d met Lara that first time around and suddenly his perspective had shifted to allow such things to exist.

  She’d cooked for him one evening; a spaghetti vongole. So mouthwatering that he could still recall how it had tasted, and the look of uncertainty on her face until he’d declared it delicious.

  He’d totally forgotten about that until now.

  At that second s
he looked up at him, catching him in a moment between past and present. Between who this woman was and who she wasn’t.

  Ciro felt as if there was a spotlight on his head, exposing every flaw—and not just the very physical ones. His scar felt itchy now, compounding his sense of dislocation and exposure. The scar that didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Lara looked as frozen as he felt. ‘Cooking.’

  ‘For who? Your imaginary friends?’

  Ciro didn’t have to see the rush of colour into Lara’s cheeks to know he was being a bastard, but this whole scenario was unacceptable to him on a level that he really didn’t want to investigate too closely.

  Lara cursed herself for having given in to this urge to do something so domestic, but she refused to let Ciro’s palpable disapproval intimidate her. She wouldn’t let another man tell her she couldn’t cook.

  ‘It’s lasagne, Ciro, not some subversive act.’

  A suspicious look came over his face as he advanced into the kitchen. ‘Why are you doing it, then? Angling to forge a more permanent position in my life by showcasing your domestic skills? As if they might hide your true nature?’

  Lara pushed the dish away from the edge of the island, curbing the urge to lift it up and throw it at Ciro’s cynical head. She said through gritted teeth, ‘I really hadn’t thought about it too much. I merely wanted to cook. It’s Dominique’s night off—how else am I going to feed myself?’

  Ciro was so close now that Lara could see his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. They should have diminished his extreme masculinity. They didn’t.

  Feeling exasperated now, as well as jittery that Ciro was so close, Lara said, ‘You’ve been out for dinner every night, Ciro. Did you really expect that I’d be sitting here pining away for your company?’