Page 32 of The Italian's Marriage Bargain

But she couldn’t do it—couldn’t slip back between the sheets, into his arms, and make love as if everything was okay, when everything around her seemed to be falling apart. When the charade she was half of was unravelling at the seams.

‘I need to go to the bathroom…’

‘Felice…’ His hand snaked around her waist and the sheet slipped away from his dark, toned body. The full beauty of his arousal caused her breath to catch in her throat, a million wrongs righted with just a fleeting glimpse of his naked splendour. ‘Come back to bed.’ It was an order, not a request, but delivered with such silken promise that she felt her insides turn to liquid. His hot lips nuzzled her pale stomach, his devilish tongue working its way downwards, and her eyes closed with the agony of indecision.

Oh, she wanted him,howshe wanted him. To lie on the bed, for his skilful lovemaking to work its undeniable magic, for him to take her to that special place he had shown her, quieting the impossible conundrums stamping through her mind, for the aftermath of her orgasm to obliterate the hopeless questions that taunted her, more soothing than a pill, more toxic than any drink and more addictive than any drug.

But what then?

‘Luca, no!’ Felicity’s words came out more harshly than intended, and her body tensed as he instantly pulled away. She was missing him already, wishing she could somehow take back those two little words, or at the very least the ferocity with which she had expelled them. ‘I mean…’ Her voice tailed off, the hurt in his eyes surprised even Felicity. ‘I really do need to go to the bathroom.’

‘I get the message, Felice. My English might not be perfect, but you’ve made yourself pretty clear.’

Sitting on the bath-edge, she pulled the tiny folded paper from the Pill packet, opening it up and scanning the tiny writing. How many times in the last few days had she done this? Felicity had lost count. Each time the words had offered some assurance, some ray of hope that she wasn’t pregnant.

Tender breasts, labile moods, nausea; Felicity gave a rueful laugh. Three out of three so far—of courseit was the Pill making her feel this way; according to this it might even account for her being so late.

But…

God, she hated the bold print, the thick black letters that warned missing even one tiny pill could cause pregnancy, to take extra precautions for the next couple of weeks, oh, and by the way, could she please see a doctor if symptoms persisted!

Screwing up the flimsy paper in her fist, she threw the tiny ball into the bin and then clasped her fingers to her temples. The truth was too terrifying to contemplate.

How could she tell him, when babies weren’t part of the deal?

Babies had never been on her agenda.

Ever.

A whimper of fear escaped into the still night air, echoing around the high walls of the bathroom, the impossibility of the situation overwhelming her.

Suppose she could do it—suppose she could push aside her own fears, embrace the future, however unplanned. How could she possibly tell Luca when even at a stretch, this could only be called a tenuous relationship? Looking down at her flat pale stomach, she tried to imagine it rounded and swollen, heavy with a child, with Luca Santanno’s child, her breasts heavy with milk. Whatever way Felicity looked she couldn’t see it—couldn’t see his hand there, touching their unborn baby, revelling in every little kick, facing every milestone together.

It was all too much, too soon, and just so very terrifying.

Creeping back into the bed beside him, she lay staring into the darkness. Never had she felt more alone, more scared, and never had she needed him more.

One small hand crept across the pillow, trying to turn his rigid cheek, to force him to look at her, honesty just a breath away. ‘I’m sorry for before, Luca. Of course I want you; I always have.’ Still he wouldn’t look at her, his face set in stone, his eyes staring at the ceiling, and she did the only thing she could, to show how much she wanted him.

Pushing her face to his, she kissed his unmoving mouth, her tongue forcing his lips apart, willing him to respond, but he lay rigid beneath her. She knew she had hurt him, rejected him, and suddenly it seemed imperative she put things right, restore their closeness with the only language Luca seemed to want to speak. Her hand moved down, her boldness terrifying her. Yes, he was her husband, yes, they had made love over and over, but never had she instigated it, never in her life had she been the one calling the shots.

Inching down, she felt the soft scratch of his chest hair thin out; she imagined the delicious snaky line of hair over his abdomen and her nervous fingers dusted it, following the trail, her breath on hold as she tentatively lowered her head, tasting the salty warmth of his skin as her tongue worked down. She could feel his arousal against her cheek, nudging, soft and hard and warm all at the same time, and instinctively she turned, ready to take him, to taste him, to revel in him. But in one swift movement his hands shot to her shoulders, pushing her back, his dark eyes blazing with contempt.

‘Are you worried when pay-day comes you won’t get your bonus?’ he spat as Felicity reeled backwards, her cheeks stinging, every nerve burning with mortification at his brutal rejection. ‘Worried if you don’t sleep with the boss, he’ll renege on the contract? Well, let me tell you this, Felice. I’ve never had to beg for sex and I don’t intend to start now. I suggest you do the same.’

Reeling with humiliation, stunned by the venom in his attack, she stared into the darkness, blinking away the lonely tears as she listened to Luca’s rhythmic breathing. Trying to fathom what on earth she had done and worse, far worse, what Luca was going to say when he found out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SOMEHOWthey limped along, the endless army of staff at least ensuring their rows were confined to the bedroom.

Luca, used to a multitude of people swarming around, tending to his every whim, still sucked in his breath in indignation when Felicity stopped talking mid-sentence or dropped her voice to whisper whenever Rosa the housekeeper appeared.

‘She barely speaks English,’ Luca hissed one morning as they glared over their coffee cups at each other. ‘Yet you carry on as if you were at a funeral.’

‘I feel like I’m at a funeral,’ Felicity retorted. ‘Have you any idea how boring it is here? It’s okay for you, swanning off to work every day.’

‘I thought you were busy with your precious studies.’

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