Ruthlessly Bedded Forcibly Wedded(16)

Vicenzo threw her suitcase into the boot of a sleek car and then gestured for her to get into the front passenger seat, holding the door open. Cara took a deep breath as he shut the door on her and came around the front.

When he started the car and pulled out onto the road, a car coming in the opposite direction made Cara flinch back into her seat reflexively.



Vicenzo slowed down and shot her a look. ‘What is it?’



Cara shook her head, feeling clammy and shaky. ‘Noth… nothing. I just got a fright, that’s all.’ She stared straight ahead.



‘We weren’t even close.’



‘I know,’ Cara said quickly, horrified that she’d reacted so strongly. ‘It’s just…it’s my first time in the front of a car since…’



She couldn’t finish. Her reaction wasn’t even rational. She’d been sitting in the back of the car the night of the accident. She was dismayed that the crash was still so vivid in her mind, and sensed Vicenzo tense beside her.

But he didn’t speak. No doubt she’d just reminded him of why he hated her so much. Miserable, Cara turned her head and looked unseeingly out of the window.



Vicenzo wasted no time getting her out of the country and onto his turf.

They were airborne in a small private plane within the hour, and landing in Rome into the dark night just a few short hours later. Not a word was exchanged between them, and the journey to a sleek penthouse apartment in the centre of the city was over in what seemed like minutes.



Vicenzo showed Cara where the kitchen was, telling her perfunctorily that she could help herself to what she wanted, and then he took her to a massive guest bedroom. After taking a shower, Cara felt a wave of tiredness wash over her, and she slipped between the most deliciously soft Egyptian cotton sheets, falling into an instant dreamless sleep for the first time in a long time.



The following morning Cara woke, and was amazed to see what she hadn’t noticed the previous night. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city. A little bubble of excitement bloomed in her chest. She hadn’t ever really traveled anywhere. Not since her parents had died and she’d moved to London to live with Cormac. Growing up, they’d always taken holidays around Ireland, not having the finances to go elsewhere.

But now… She found herself climbing out of the huge bed and going to stand at the window, awe-struck. The beauty of the city laid out below her was breathtaking, and in the distance she could make out the iconically familiar shape of the Collosseum.



Just then she heard a noise and whirled around, her heart in her mouth as reality rushed back, mocking her. She was hardly on holiday. Vicenzo stood in the doorway, tall and powerful, dressed in dark trousers and a steel-grey shirt. She couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling self-conscious in nothing but an oversized T-shirt with pictures of scampering sheep racing across its surface.



‘I trust you slept well?’ he asked, for all the world a solicitous host.



Cara nodded, determined to play along. ‘Yes, thank you. The bed was…most comfortable.’



He inclined his head. ‘When you’re ready come and join me in the dining room. We have things to discuss.’



He stepped back and shut the door. Cara stuck her tongue out at it briefly—not that the childish gesture made her feel any better.



Vicenzo tried to focus on his newspaper, but the image of Cara standing silhouetted against the window in nothing but a T-shirt, with sleep-mussed hair over one shoulder, was burned onto his retina. Her long and slender pale legs called to mind the way she’d wrapped them around his back, holding him to her as he’d embedded himself deep within her. The urgency of that night, the overwhelming desire to bed her, despite knowing who she was, was something that Vicenzo still couldn’t forgive himself for.



A sound came from the door and he looked up, his jaw locked hard against his unwelcome thoughts. Cara stood on the threshold in the same clothes she’d had on yesterday. It made irritation flare through Vicenzo.

The fact that she stood there so hesitantly, with her hair pulled back, made irritation prickle even more.



He stood jerkily. ‘Sit down and help yourself—and give up the act, Cara.

You’re here now, and I’ve been nothing but honest about what you can expect to happen, nothing will change that now.’



Cara was feeling seriously intimidated in the face of his overwhelming good-looks against this backdrop, with all of Rome laid out as if for his pleasure only. He looked like something out of a magazine for the quintessential modern-day tycoon. Although she had to admit his look wasn’t pretty enough for a model. He was more like a modern-day pirate.



He sat back down, and Cara came into the room warily. As she helped herself to coffee and a pastry she forced herself to remember that he was a controlling, vengeful autocrat. With every sip of coffee and bite of the pastry she repeated that in her head, like a mantra.



‘I’ll need your birth certificate and your passport.’





Cara looked at him sharply. The walls were closing in on her. ‘I’ll need them back.’



Vicenzo smiled cruelly. ‘Don’t worry—I’ve no intention of holding your passport like some medieval overlord. Once you see where we’re going to be in Sardinia, you’ll know that escape will be difficult in the extreme.

Not to mention the fact that even if you were to attempt such a thing Cormac’s debt would be back in your name within twenty-four hours, with the relevant authorities duly notified. However, I’ll keep the passport for insurance’s sake while we’re in Rome.’



Cara’s cup clattered down into the saucer. Anger coursed through her.

‘As much as I’d love to walk right out of here and never see your face again, the thought of sticking around and becoming a monumental thorn in your side has its appeal too.’



Vicenzo leant forward and said with a cold smile, ‘Don’t test me, Cara, and don’t attempt to play with fire. You won’t win.’



Later on that day Cara had to admit to herself that Vicenzo Valentini was possibly the coldest person she’d ever met. The man from the club that night was so far removed from the stranger who was now waiting in the main salon of the boutique he’d brought her to that she had to question her sanity—and how on earth she’d felt so at ease with him that she’d allowed him to become her first lover.



It had to be the grief and shock of that week. Had to be. Otherwise how could she live with the lack of judgment she’d displayed?



Her wandering thoughts were brought back jerkily to the present as the boutique assistant gestured to the clothes that lay in a pile around them.



‘Are you sure you don’t want to see anything else, madam?’



Cara shook her head. The assistant looked at her a little nervously, ‘And are you sure you don’t want to…brighten the palate up a little?’



Cara looked at her and shook her head forcibly. She knew what she was doing was a little childish, but it was giving her pleasure to know that Vicenzo’s extreme absorption in everything other than the clothes he was buying for her would have its consequences.



‘No, I’m quite sure,’ she said firmly.



The assistant, however, was not giving up easily, ‘But, madam, even the dress you’ve picked out to wear at the register office—’



‘Will be fine,’ she said harshly, and then softened it. This woman was just doing her job, ‘Really—I…that is, my fiancé and I—’ she nearly choked on the words ‘—we’re both in mourning…so it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear white.’



The young woman flushed prettily. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea… That is, I knew about Signore Valentini’s sister, but…’ She trailed off in embarrassment.



Her genuine compassion reached out and made Cara feel a surge of emotion. What was she doing? Vicenzo had told her not to play with fire and here she was, about to jump into it.



But before she could say anything the girl was packing up the clothes and showing Cara where she could get dressed again. They had been followed by a scrum of paparazzi all day, as soon as they’d left the apartment.

Vicenzo had ushered her along the streets into various shops, and once inside he’d dropped any pretence of being the chivalrous fiancé, largely ignoring her until the clothes were packed and she was ready to leave.



That was what had prompted her little rebellion—which now felt silly and flat. Cara put it out of her mind and told herself that he wouldn’t even notice. A hair shirt and nothing else was all Vicenzo would be interested in seeing her wear.



When they left this last shop a newsstand nearby caught Cara’s eye. And a picture and a headline. The paparazzi had mercifully disappeared—

probably happy with the wealth of shots they’d gleaned from this impromptu shopping trip that Vicenzo had insisted upon once he’d realised the dire state of her wardrobe. But now Cara found herself wanting to inspect the paper.



Vicenzo was right behind her, and lifted it free from the rack. He smiled sardonically as a picture that had been taken of them only that morning emerging from the apartment stared back out at them. Cara was shocked at how quickly the story had been turned around. No wonder the paparazzi had stopped following them for the day.