The Italian's Pregnant Mistress(24)

'Are you sure it's okay for us to even be here?' she asked ingenuously.  'In your townhouse? Considering it's all about sex, wouldn't it make  more sense for us to meet in a hotel somewhere? Maybe we should think  about eliminating conversation completely.'

'Now you're being ludicrous.'

'If a No Cooking rule applies on the premises, then that's fine with  me.' She hated herself for the desperation that kept her rooted to the  spot, but if he was using her then wasn't she similarly using him? She  loved him and wanted him and if she chose to indulge those feelings for a  while, then what was wrong with that?

For the first time, she envied Jack his cavalier attitude towards  members of the opposite sex, the blithe manner in which he could have  passing relationships and be perfectly happy. It was a damn sight  healthier than being hunkered down in a hole of her own making.

'Just so long as you know that you'll never sample my fabulous cuisine  now, even if you begged.' She kept her voice light as she slipped out of  the bed and headed towards the en suite bathroom.

Angelo followed her. He had had to be frank with her but, still, it was a  relief that she hadn't walked out. Not that it would have been the end  of the world, but it would have been a tad disappointing when his  expectations had been raised.

She wasn't aware of him pushing the door open and for a few seconds he  stood there and stared as she stepped under the shower, catching her  hair in her hands and raising her face to the shower head. She had the  most exquisitely graceful body he had ever seen.                       
       
           



       

He entered the shower cubicle before she was even aware that he was in the bathroom and relieved her of the shampoo.

'Stay still,' he ordered, massaging it into her hair. With her back to  him, his imagination provided all the necessary details of her nudity,  turning him on even as his fingers worked their magic on her scalp. He  rinsed her hair, then took the soap and very thoroughly began soaping  her, sliding his hands along her shoulders and then over her breasts.

'I don't want to do a rushed job of this,' he murmured into her ear, as  she arched back against him, 'so you'll have to keep as still as  possible.'

Francesca allowed the luxurious sensuality of the moment wash over her,  just like the warm darts of the shower were washing over her body. When  he was touching her like this there was no room in her head for thought  and that was fine because thinking wasn't something she wanted to do. It  was something she couldn't afford to do. She gasped as his fingers  played with her nipples before travelling down across her belly, then  between her legs, which she parted as his fingers probed places that  made her want to squirm.

'You're moving,' he warned.

'And you're impossible.' She spun around, laughing, dripping, wanting  him so much that it hurt. Her body felt alive and fired up and, without  bothering to switch off the shower, he took her. She barely noticed the  discomfort of the marble wall against her back as he thrust into her and  they came together, a powerful explosion that had him panting and  propping himself up, eyes shut, his body shuddering from the aftermath  of his orgasm.

The last thing Francesca felt she needed was the bother of getting  dressed and setting foot outside the heated cocoon they had created for  themselves, but dress she did, blow-drying her hair until it gleamed.  The only make-up she had was in her bag, and amounted to no more than  some mascara and lipstick, but when she looked back at her reflection it  was glowing. A woman in love and living dangerously. Not a good  combination.

She caught him looking at her in the mirror and smiled, asked him about  the restaurant, teased him that too much rich food would have him  putting on weight and enjoyed the sound of him laughing back with her.  Keeping it light all the time.

They strolled to the restaurant, which turned out to be an Italian and a very good one.

Looking at her across the table, he was amazed to find himself getting  turned on by her, by the habit she had of resting her chin in her hand  and frowning slightly, as though every piece of conversation was being  given the utmost consideration. Even when the topic of conversation  happened to be work, a subject guaranteed to turn off the most ardent  female and therefore one he had never felt the slightest inclination to  discuss. Francesca, though, made a good listener. She offered opinions,  which, he had to admit, were not entirely frivolous, and teased him out  of his seriousness by telling him one or two amusing anecdotes about her  own job and the near disasters they had had over the years.

Nearly two and a half hours later, Angelo was prepared to admit that he  felt relaxed. Relaxation, he reasoned, was not an intrusion into the  ground rules he had laid down. Sex was one thing, but it had to be  interspersed with something else. Obviously, not as a rule, but  occasionally they might surface sufficiently to go out for a meal and at  such times conversation was fine.

Perfectly satisfied with how the day had progressed-in fact, how life  seemed to be progressing at the moment-he instinctively began walking  back to his townhouse. Lord knew, but the blood was already surging  through his veins at the prospect of ravishing her again. After a couple  of steps he realised that she wasn't next to him. In fact, spinning  round on his heel, he saw that she was standing on the kerb, hand  outstretched to hail a passing cab.

'What are you doing?' he demanded, waving away the taxi that had slowed down for the fare.

'Going home.' Francesca looked at his darkly scowling face and smiled.  'It's late and I'm going to have to get up early to catch up on all the  things I should have done today but didn't get around to.'

Angelo looked at her through narrowed eyes, weighing up whether to try  and entice her back to his house. He knew he could. Instead, he nodded  and smiled. All told, it wouldn't be a good idea to have her back  anyway. It was late and he had no intention of her sleeping over.

'I'll call.'

Francesca dropped her eyes. Those two words said it all. She had become  the puppet and he the all-powerful puppet master, holding the strings,  in control. If sweet revenge had been what he was after, then he had got  it because he had reduced her to a state of voluntary helplessness. But  she believed what he had told her, that revenge was not the name of the  game. If it had been, he would have walked away the very first time he  had proved to himself that he could have her. He certainly would not  have broken off his engagement with Georgina and wrecked his perfect  plans. Angelo Falcone was not a man to disturb the onward march of his  well-planned life on the spur of the moment. He wanted her and had given  her the option of satisfying him and herself in the bargain, and she  had taken it because she was a coward when it came to him. He had  stormed back into her life and revealed it for what it was. A life  devoid of any emotional passion or connection to anyone else, given  meaning only by virtue of the career she had chosen.                       
       
           



       

She nodded and turned away, stretching out her hand once again for a  passing cab. She neither expected, nor was surprised by the fact that he  didn't see fit to wait by her side until one arrived. Why should he?  She meant no more to him than a body that could excite him. Any feelings  beyond that were illusory. They could chat and laugh but her main  purpose was to be his willing bed companion. Everything else orbited  around that one central need.

And she would do it, because she loved him and loved life when he was in it, for better or for worse.

The fact that her circumstances would never change, that she would never  be able to even dream of anything more, was her cross to bear.

In the meantime, she would snatch what she could get. A black cab pulled  up and she hopped in, tempted to look back and seek him out, and making  herself stare straight ahead, destination unknown.





CHAPTER EIGHT




SOMETHING wasn't quite right. Angelo could feel it in the small breaks  in conversation, during which her eyes slid away from his and her hand  fiddled with the damn wineglass, from which she was drinking very  little.

'Okay, you might as well spit it out. What's wrong?' The Italian  restaurant, at which they had dined for the first time almost six weeks  ago, had become their staple eating out place. It was convenient and  convenience counted when sitting down and eating was something that they  wanted to do in the minimum amount of time.

Because their need for one another had not diminished. Angelo looked at  her broodingly across the table and raised his wineglass to his lips. He  was mildly surprised that she was still a fixture in his life,  considering they now saw each other several times a week, which had  given him ample time to grow bored, but he wasn't questioning the  situation. He just knew that when he clicked his fingers she came  running and that suited him superbly. He had also been careful not to  allow any complacency to enter into the well-oiled arrangement. No cosy  cooking in the kitchen, not even a take-away. They either ate out or  didn't bother to eat at all. And no sleeping over. He left, whatever the  time, when they utilised her house and she did the same when, as more  often than not, she came to him. His boundaries were perfectly intact,  allowing him to enjoy himself without any bothersome stirrings of  conscience or doubt.