Hot-Blooded Italians. Sharon Kendrick

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      ‘What is it, Emma?’ he asked softly.

      ‘I…I…’

      ‘Do you want me to touch your breast? Your beautiful breast?’

      His other hand grazed negligently over an aroused nipple and it felt as if it were scorching her skin—even though she was covered by her dress—and Emma only just managed to bite back a startled yelp of pleasure. She felt as if she were standing on sensual quicksand—one false step and she would be submerged.

      And then she stiffened. Had she imagined the faint buzz of her phone which was buried at the bottom of her handbag? She’d switched it to silent but left it on vibrate—so was she imagining that she could hear it? That her friend was trying desperately to get through to her to tell her that Gino was sick, or crying or just wanted his mummy.

      Gino.

      She had come here today—spending money she could ill afford on an expensive train ticket—in order to ask her estranged husband for a divorce. So what the hell was she doing in his arms, letting him kiss her, letting her body begin to flower beneath his practised touch? This was a man who despised her—he had made that quite plain.

      Despite the screaming protest of her senses, she jumped up from the sofa and immediately felt dizzy, but at least she was away from his dangerous intoxication. Hiding her despairing expression, she walked over to the vast window—scarcely noticing the amazing view outside as she leaned back against the glass for support and forced herself to look him in the eye once more.

      ‘Don’t do that again, Vincenzo,’ she said huskily. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’

      ‘Oh, come on, cara,’ he taunted silkily. ‘Never is a long, long time—and you enjoyed that just as much as I did.’

      ‘You…you forced yourself on me!’ Emma accused, but to her fury he simply laughed.

      ‘If that was force, then I’d love to see you capitulating,’ he mocked. ‘And please don’t play the little innocent with me, because it won’t work, not any more,’ he warned. ‘I know women well enough to know when they are longing to be kissed—and I know you better than most.’

      This was his territory, she reminded herself—and he was looking dark and predatory and dangerously aroused. He had the upper hand in so many ways—mentally, physically, emotionally and financially—so what was the point in pursuing an argument she wasn’t going to win? And did it really matter in the grand scheme of things whether she had surrendered or whether he had manipulated her? In the end it all came down to pride—and she had already decided that pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford. So she should forget what had just happened and get down to the important bit.

      Yet Emma knew that she was blocking out the most important bit of all. What about Gino? Now that you can see for yourself that he is the living image of his father—aren’t you going to tell Vincenzo that he has a son? But she was scared—too scared to even want to try. If she told him—who knew what would come of it? Couldn’t she just get what she had come for and think about the rest later?

      ‘Are you going to give me a divorce?’ she questioned unsteadily.

      Silently, he rose to his feet and Emma eyed him as warily as she might have eyed a deadly snake which had just been set loose in the luxurious office. But to her surprise and fury he didn’t come anywhere near her, instead went back behind his desk and appeared to check the screen of his computer! As if she had been a brief interlude—already forgotten—and he was now concentrating on far more important things!

      ‘Are you?’ she repeated.

      ‘I haven’t decided, because, you see, I’m still not sure about your motives for wanting one. And you know me, Emma—I like to have all the available information at my fingertips.’ He looked up, his black eyes narrowing thoughtfully. ‘You’ve told me that it isn’t because you want to marry another man,’ he mused. ‘And I believe you.’

      ‘You do?’ she questioned, taken aback.

      ‘Sure. Unless you’re planning on marrying a eunuch,’ he observed sardonically. ‘Because you kissed me like a woman who hasn’t had sex in a very long time.’

      Emma blushed. ‘You’re disgusting.’

      He laughed. ‘Since when was sex disgusting? I’m being honest, that’s all. So if it isn’t a man, then it must be money.’ He saw the automatic jerk of her body and knew he’d hit the spot. ‘Ah, yes. Of course it is. My guess is that you’re broke,’ he continued softly. ‘You dress like a woman who’s broke and you have the general appearance of somebody who hasn’t been taking care of herself. So what happened, Emma? Did you forget that you were no longer married to a billionaire but forgot to curb your spending?’

      How laughably far from the truth he was—if this was anything to laugh about. And yet he was on the right track, wasn’t he? He’d accurately judged her to be hard-up—and in Vincenzo’s world, money mattered more than anything else. He could understand money. He could deal with money in a way he could never deal with emotion.

      So why not let him think of her as just some gold-digger who missed the good times? Surely that would throw him off the scent of why she really wanted the money. And she knew enough about Vincenzo to realise that he would despise her even more if he thought she was simply inspired by greed. Why, she wouldn’t see him again for dust!

      ‘Something like that,’ she agreed.

      Vincenzo’s mouth twisted. So much for all her pretty little denials that she had married him for his money. She had been seduced by his wealth, as he had suspected all along. But in a way, it made dealing with her far simpler.

      ‘Some people might say that you weren’t entitled to anything,’ he observed.

      An arrow of fear ripped through her. ‘What are you talking about?’

      Vincenzo shrugged. ‘We were only married for a couple of years and there were no children. You’re still young, fit, healthy—why should I bankroll the rest of your life simply because I made an error of judgement?’

      She flinched. She’d thought that she had reached an emotional-pain threshold, but it seemed she had been wrong. ‘I think that a lawyer might see things differently given the disparity in our circumstances,’ she said in a low voice. ‘As well as the fact that you wouldn’t allow me to go out to work, so I’m not exactly number-one choice in the job market.’

      ‘No.’ He studied her, at the sudden shaft of harsh winter sunlight which turned her hair into pure, spun gold. ‘And just how far are you prepared to go to get a quick divorce?’ he questioned softly.

      Emma stared at him. ‘How far?’ she repeated blankly. ‘I don’t…I don’t quite understand.’

      ‘You don’t? Then let me explain it to you so that there can be no possible misunderstanding,’ said Vincenzo. ‘You want a divorce, while I do not.’

      ‘You—don’t?’ In spite of everything, her foolish heart gave a wild leap and she could barely breathe her next words out. ‘May I ask why?’

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