threw it onto the bed. She didn’t intend to waste a second longer on a man who couldn’t even remember sleeping with her. A shallow, cold-hearted playboy, with eyes like black ice and a heart of stone.
Straightening up for a moment, she clenched her fists and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes and her throat burned with the tears that she couldn’t shed yet. Not while humiliation and fury and bitterness were still so raw.
And the desire.
Her stomach still fluttered with it, and her legs felt weakand shaky. Passing the long mirror on her way to the wardrobe, she caught sight of her reflection and saw that her eyes were huge and dark-centred, her make-up smudged, her lips red and swollen.
She stopped, one trembling hand flying to her mouth, her rapid heartbeat seeming to echo in the muffled silence of the opulent room as her mind replayed the kiss.
How could she have been so stupid ?
Not just tonight, she thought bitterly, kissing him like that, but for the last four miserable years. All those nights of waiting, looking out into the darkness and wishing for him. The loneliness of antenatal appointments, when all the other expectant mothers had had their husbands with them and she’d been alone. Visiting times in hospital, when she’d watched proud fathers take their newborns in big, awkward hands and gaze down at them adoringly—all those times when she’d silently wished for Cristiano, silently held onto her memory of his kiss, his touch, the way he’d looked into her eyes that night and the sound of his voice in her head.
This isn’t over…Last night was just the beginning. Wait for me.
Well, she had waited. And she’d hoped and believed that it was the accident that had kept him away. That somehow he’d been trying to reach her, thinking of her the way that she’d been thinking of him, but that something or someone had stopped him making contact.
How unutterably, embarrassingly stupid that seemed now. She had spent four years pining for a man who didn’t exist.
Well, at least tonight hadn’t been a complete waste of time and expensive make-up. At least she had finally learned that Cristiano Maresca was not the kind of man she wanted as a father for her son. She picked up her velvet evening bag from where she had thrown it on the bed and shoved it into the bottom of her open suitcase, suppressing a shiver of relief that she hadn’t handed over the letter. Alexander was better off without him in his life, and Cristiano…
A fat tear wobbled for a second on her eyelashes and thenfell, glittering, and sank into the thick blue carpet as she pictured her son. Cristiano didn’t deserve to know Alexander, she thought fiercely. Children weren’t possessions to be passed between rightful owners. It took more than one night of great sex to make a parent, more than genes and chromosomes. It took love. Selflessness. Dedication. Patience. Being there.
And Cristiano Maresca didn’t qualify on any of those counts.
Gathering herself, she yanked open the wardrobe door. Suddenly aware that she was shaking violently, she pulled on the polo-necked jumper that her mother had given her for Christmas over the blue dress and began bundling up the rest of her things and shoving them back into the case from which she’d so recently unfolded them.
A knock at the door made her jump. It must be the concierge, with information about changing her flight home, she thought with a surge of relief, throwing an armful of underwear on the top of the bag and rushing to answer it. Please God, let him have found her a seat on a plane tonight—
She had only opened the door a crack when she realised her mistake.
It wasn’t the concierge who stood there.
It was Cristiano Maresca.
A jolt of electricity shot through her, and acting on pure adrenaline-fuelled instinct she went to slam the door in his face. But he was too quick for her. Too quick and too strong. Before she knew it she was stumbling backwards as he thrust
Straightening up for a moment, she clenched her fists and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes and her throat burned with the tears that she couldn’t shed yet. Not while humiliation and fury and bitterness were still so raw.
And the desire.
Her stomach still fluttered with it, and her legs felt weakand shaky. Passing the long mirror on her way to the wardrobe, she caught sight of her reflection and saw that her eyes were huge and dark-centred, her make-up smudged, her lips red and swollen.
She stopped, one trembling hand flying to her mouth, her rapid heartbeat seeming to echo in the muffled silence of the opulent room as her mind replayed the kiss.
How could she have been so stupid ?
Not just tonight, she thought bitterly, kissing him like that, but for the last four miserable years. All those nights of waiting, looking out into the darkness and wishing for him. The loneliness of antenatal appointments, when all the other expectant mothers had had their husbands with them and she’d been alone. Visiting times in hospital, when she’d watched proud fathers take their newborns in big, awkward hands and gaze down at them adoringly—all those times when she’d silently wished for Cristiano, silently held onto her memory of his kiss, his touch, the way he’d looked into her eyes that night and the sound of his voice in her head.
This isn’t over…Last night was just the beginning. Wait for me.
Well, she had waited. And she’d hoped and believed that it was the accident that had kept him away. That somehow he’d been trying to reach her, thinking of her the way that she’d been thinking of him, but that something or someone had stopped him making contact.
How unutterably, embarrassingly stupid that seemed now. She had spent four years pining for a man who didn’t exist.
Well, at least tonight hadn’t been a complete waste of time and expensive make-up. At least she had finally learned that Cristiano Maresca was not the kind of man she wanted as a father for her son. She picked up her velvet evening bag from where she had thrown it on the bed and shoved it into the bottom of her open suitcase, suppressing a shiver of relief that she hadn’t handed over the letter. Alexander was better off without him in his life, and Cristiano…
A fat tear wobbled for a second on her eyelashes and thenfell, glittering, and sank into the thick blue carpet as she pictured her son. Cristiano didn’t deserve to know Alexander, she thought fiercely. Children weren’t possessions to be passed between rightful owners. It took more than one night of great sex to make a parent, more than genes and chromosomes. It took love. Selflessness. Dedication. Patience. Being there.
And Cristiano Maresca didn’t qualify on any of those counts.
Gathering herself, she yanked open the wardrobe door. Suddenly aware that she was shaking violently, she pulled on the polo-necked jumper that her mother had given her for Christmas over the blue dress and began bundling up the rest of her things and shoving them back into the case from which she’d so recently unfolded them.
A knock at the door made her jump. It must be the concierge, with information about changing her flight home, she thought with a surge of relief, throwing an armful of underwear on the top of the bag and rushing to answer it. Please God, let him have found her a seat on a plane tonight—
She had only opened the door a crack when she realised her mistake.
It wasn’t the concierge who stood there.
It was Cristiano Maresca.
A jolt of electricity shot through her, and acting on pure adrenaline-fuelled instinct she went to slam the door in his face. But he was too quick for her. Too quick and too strong. Before she knew it she was stumbling backwards as he thrust
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