She tried a different approach

After all, she’d had to fend men off before. “If you carry on like that, Pasquale,” she said reasonably, “then you’ll really leave me no choice other than to scream, and I’m sure that would do your reputation no good whatsoever.”

“My reputation is of no concern to me,” he drawled with dismissive arrogance. “But if that is what you intend to do, then I must give you fair warning that you will really leave me no choice other than to silence you most satisfactorily.”

Her confusion must have shown in her eyes. “By kissing you, of course,” he elaborated silkily. “And as I recall you liked me kissing you, didn’t you, Suki? You liked it ve-ry much!”

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Mistress Material

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

She tried a different approach

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT COULDN’T be! Suki thought frantically. Not him! Anyone but him! And yet who else could it be? For who on earth could be mistaken for Pasquale Caliandro—the most diabolical man it had ever been her misfortune to meet?

Dear God, please no, she prayed silently, but she could do absolutely nothing to stop the slow pull of desire unfurling in the pit of her stomach as her traitorous eyes feasted themselves on the most delectable example of the male species she had ever seen in twenty-four years.

And she had seen the lot.

In the course of her career she had worked with male models, actors and rock stars—whose seductive faces and sexy bodies graced the bedroom walls of millions of women all over the world. But not one, not a single one, had come even close to the kind of impact that this man had on her. And not just her, either, she observed caustically, since every other woman present seemed hypnotised by that spectacular, long-legged frame.

Suki’s heart was thumping erratically. What the hell was he doing here, in the South of France? And what on earth should she do? She wondered if he’d seen her—but even if he had, would he remember the brazen young girl who had offered her body so eagerly to him when she was barely seventeen?

Completely forgetting that she’d loosened the thin gold straps of her bikini, Suki struggled to sit up, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, and then she saw that he was moving. He was walking.

Towards her!

She gave a helpless little whimper as her eyes were drawn to the powerful thrust of his thighs. Then upwards. Dear Lord! This man didn’t need to flaunt himself in tight jeans—indeed, she suspected that if he ventured outside in anything other than the cool, pale, beautifully cut linen trousers he wore he would be arrested immediately for indecent exposure.

Up still further her eyes roamed. Oh, what a chest! Abroad, powerful sweep of hair-darkened muscle beneath the cream silk of his shirt.

Her mouth dried as her eyes finally reached his face, lingering all too briefly on the beautifully shaped lips which somehow managed to be both sensual and cruel. And that nose—with its proud, aristocratic Roman curve. Who would have guessed that a nose could be such a turnon? she thought, unable to stop herself from ogling it, like an art-lover confronted with a masterpiece for the first time ever. Reluctantly, her gaze drifted upwards to meet his eyes, and her heart stilled as she acknowledged the cold fire and the contempt which sparked from the dark depths and which he made no effort whatsoever to hide.

His mouth was nothing more than a derisory slash as he reached her lounger and towered over her. ‘So,’ he drawled contemptuously, ‘I see that the years have done little to temper your appetites, cara.’

Her precariously thin veneer of sophistication was vanquished in a moment by the wounding words, delivered in the deepest, sexiest voice she had ever heard, an intriguing mixture of transatlantic with a seductive European undertone.

Logical thought was impossible, and she was instantly on the defensive. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded furiously.

‘Oh, come on...’ The mouth twisted with devilish scorn. ‘I refer to your leisurely scrutiny of my body, Suzanna.’

‘Suki,’ she corrected immediately.

Dark eyebrows were raised in a silent and aloof query. ‘Ah! Of course—Suki.’ He emphasised the word so that it sounded like some sultry profanity. ‘The name you acquired along with your glittering fame as a model, and your many lovers...’

Her mouth fell open and she made a little murmur of protest at such a patent untruth, but he carried on regardless. ‘But no matter,’ he said softly as he surveyed her from slitted, dangerous eyes, ‘what you call yourself. Your basic gutter instincts remain the same, do they not? You looked as if you would like to eat me up. Every inch of me,’ he emphasised hatefully.

Swine!

Colour rushed up to form two heated flares over her high cheekbones as she tossed the thick waves of her hair back over her slender shoulders. Head held high, she spoke from a throat which felt as if it had been lined with the roughest, coarsest sandpaper. ‘You flatter yourself, Pasquale!’ she shot back. ‘But then you always did!’

He gave a small smile then, allowed it to linger and play around his lips. ‘Do I—Suki?’ he returned silkily. ‘Flatter myself?’ And the sudden change in the timbre of his voice, the velvet caress as he spoke her name, sent her senses jangling. The flow of blood around her veins altered; became slow and heavy. She felt the pulse-points beating insistently at her temples, her wrists... and ... shamefully.. deep, deep within her groin as he stared down at her.

But more was to follow as his eyes roamed almost indifferently over her face, seemingly careless of her enormous eyes gazing helplessly at him or of her wide mouth throbbing in an unconsciously provocative moue.

The only flash of life and of interest came when his gaze came at last to alight on her breasts and then the indifference was replaced by a feral light and his eyes darkened as they took in the lush, creamy mounds. She felt them tingle, become heavy and swollen, the tips burning with tingling excitement. And as he gave a coldly triumphant smile she realised to her horror that the forgotten bikini-top had slipped right down, exposing most of her for his scathing delectation. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried, and clapped both palms protectively over her breasts.

He said something very softly in Italian as his eyes narrowed. ‘Please do not cover them, cara,’ he murmured, on a husky entreaty. ‘Such magnificent breasts. How I long to touch them. To take each tip into my mouth and to suckle each one until—’

Suki grabbed a towel and threw it over herself, squirming with embarrassment and an excitement which was painfully acute as she struggled to haul the flimsy gold material back into place, but faced with that look of hunger in those dark, magnificent eyes she was all fingers and thumbs.

She hadn’t seen him for seven years, and yet two minutes in his company was enough to plunge her into dark and erotic waters which were threatening to completely submerge her. It was a nightmare. ‘Get—away from me,’ she managed, on a croak. ‘Now!’

He didn’t move; he didn’t need to—because he was actually standing beside her, not touching her at all, but at her words he seemed to pull himself together, because the raw heat of need was wiped from his face leaving nothing but a coldly contemptuous mask. ‘Certainly,’ he concurred, in a voice which was strangely harsh and a touch unsteady. ‘There is little pleasure to be gained from a woman who offers herself so freely.’

Stung, Suki glared up at him from narrow amber eyes which threatened to glimmer with tears of self-disgust. But she kept them at bay.

Just.

‘I wouldn’t offer myself to you if you were the last man in the universe!’

‘No? You have undergone a radical change of personality, then?’ he mocked.

What could she say? She wasn’t hypocritical enough to deny just how dreadfully she had once behaved with Pasquale Caliandro.

Still clutching the towel to her, she sat up, and the glint in his eye was unmistakable. Curiosity warred with common sense; and curiosity won hands down. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, her heart beginning to race erratically as a schoolgirlish hope she’d thought long dead re-emerged with startling strength. ‘You haven’t—followed me here?’

To her fury, he actually threw his dark head back and laughed aloud, a glorious, mellifluous sound which made several people turn round to look at them. But when he’d stopped laughing the face which regarded her was cold and unsmiling. ‘Followed you?’ he queried, and the trace of sardonic incredulity made her blood boil. ‘Now why on earth should I want to do that?’

Suki shrugged, a desire for revenge chipping away at her insistently. ‘Your reputation with women is legendary,’ she said coolly.

‘Is it, now?’ he queried softly. ‘I wasn’t aware that you had such intimate knowledge of my behaviour.’

She sought to disillusion him of the idea that she somehow spent all her spare time finding out about him and his fabled exploits with the fairer sex. ‘I read the gossip columns like everyone else,’ she said.

‘Ah!’ He nodded. ‘So you do. But at least, cara, I do not have the reputation of breaking up other people’s relationships. Unlike you,’ he accused, and he nodded again when he saw her colour heighten. ‘Yes,’ he affirmed. ‘You see, I too read the gossip columns.’

Oh, those wretched tabloids! According to them, she’d had more lovers than Mata Hari! ‘If you’re referring to that ridiculous scandal in New York—that was a pack of lies!’ Suki defended hotly.

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Oh, really? So the photographer’s girlfriend made the whole thing up, did she? You weren’t sleeping with her boyfriend?’

‘No, I wasn’t!’

His mouth curved contemptuously. ‘And the newly married Arabian prince who courted you so assiduously in front of his young bride last year... Tell me, was that also a pack of lies?’

Suki sighed as she remembered that sorry little affair. She’d met Prince Abdul at a cocktail party thrown by the Foreign Office in Paris. He had been ridiculously infatuated—mostly, Suki suspected, because she hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in him. He had always had everything he’d always wanted, and he had wanted her!

He had actually asked her to be his second bride—but without even bothering to divorce the first one! She had intended telling Prince Abdul exactly what she thought of him, but one of the diplomats at the Foreign Office had sought her out for a quiet word. There was a big oil deal going through between Prince Abdul’s country and Britain. Best not to actually turn him down outright, but to let him down gently...

In fact, afterwards the diplomat had told her that she had been a great help to her country—maybe Pasquale should hear about that! She held her head up proudly and looked him straight in the eye. ‘There happens to be a perfectly simple explanation for that,’ she said reasonably.

But it seemed that he wasn’t interested in reason, or an explanation, because his dark eyes were boring into hers, an expression of scorn lifting the corner of his exquisite mouth. ‘And even given my supposed reputation,’ he gritted, ‘do you somehow imagine that I am so desperate as to follow and to find you? You who are everything that I most despise in a woman?’

Stung by the biting criticism, Suki was momentarily lost for words, her cheeks flaring at the denigrating accusation he’d thrown at her. Yes, OK, she hadn’t behaved too well, but surely her foolish youthful behaviour with him didn’t warrant that kind of censure? ‘I really don’t think that’s fair...’ she faltered.

But he had crouched down so that their eyes were on a level, and she could almost see the hostility emanating from him in pure waves towards her. ‘When I go searching for a woman,’ he said deliberately, ‘it will be for someone as unlike you as possible. Though I’m not sure that she exists—because I’ve certainly never come across her.

‘You see, Suki, I’m waiting for the woman who doesn’t give me the green light the instant that I meet her. Most men-and certainly this man—are turned on by the thrill of the chase before the capture. Something which is gained so easily has little intrinsic value, I believe.’

Suki was shaken to the core by the depth of his dislike, but she was damned sure she wouldn’t show it. Her amber eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I don’t have to lie here and listen to this—’

‘No, indeed,’ he agreed, in his deep drawl, his eyes hot and hungry with sexual mischief. ‘I have a much better idea. Why don’t we move away? You could lie down somewhere else. With me...’

Somehow he managed to imbue the suggestion with so much sensual promise that it took Suki every last ounce of pride she possessed to answer him back. ‘Spare me your cheap innuendo!’ she said, her eyes sparking amber fire. ‘And make your mind up! Either you despise me so much that my very presence contaminates you or you’re extending an extremely unsubtle invitation to get me into bed with you—you can’t do both, Pasquale.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Dear, dear—a supposedly intelligent man like you really ought to be able to see such gaping holes in your logic.’

She saw the warning light of battle in his eyes, but when he spoke his voice was very soft. ‘A man does not always think with his head,’ he said insultingly.

That did it! ‘Get out of my way,’ she said from between gritted teeth, and she swung her long, faintly tanned legs over the side of the lounger. First glancing down to check that she was halfway decent, she dropped the towel onto the lounger, then got to her feet, looking around in vain for Salvatore, the photographer who had brought her to this house-party outside Cannes.

It was supposed to have been the relaxing finale to two days of solid shooting for a book of photographs Salvatore was producing. Relaxing—huh! About as relaxing as being on the front line of a war-zone, with the arrival of Pasquale Caliandro. Suki began to move away.

‘Oh, no. Not so fast.’ In a single, snake-like movement Pasquale had captured her tiny wrist in the strong grasp of his hand and Suki was horrified how her body thrilled to that first contact of flesh on flesh. And why did he have to be so tall? So powerful? So gorgeous? Her throat constricted.

‘Let me go—’

He shook his head with implacable confidence. ‘No. You and I need to talk.’

‘I have nothing to say to you—’

‘But I,’ he said, and his voice was husky with intent, ‘have plenty to say to you.’

‘I’m not interested.’ But oh, what a lie, for despite her instinctive and purely protective need to put as much distance between them as possible she was bursting to know what he wanted—and she was certain that he’d guessed as much.

He gave a small, humourless smile. ‘On the contrary—I think you might be.’

He still held her wrist and she was powerless to move, and Suki realised that to an outsider it would appear that he was holding her lightly, almost affectionately—the steely determination of his grip would not be apparent to anyone else.

She tried a different approach. After all, she’d had to fend men off before. She tipped her head to one side, so that the long curls—the colour of golden syrup glinting in the sunshine, or so she’d been told—fell over her bosom. ‘If you carry on like that, Pasquale,’ she said reasonably, ‘then you’ll really leave me no choice other than to scream, and I’m sure that would do your reputation no good whatsoever.’

‘My reputation is of no concern to me,’ he drawled with dismissive arrogance. ‘But if that is what you intend to do, then I must give you fair warning that you will really leave me no choice other than to silence you most satisfactorily.’

Her confusion must have shown in her eyes. ‘By kissing you, of course,’ he elaborated silkily. ‘And as I recall you liked me kissing you, didn’t you, Suki? You liked it ve-ry much.’

Oh! That occasional lilt to his voice was so devilishly attractive! Suki took a deep breath and met his gaze full-on. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to you.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘For now.’ The words sounded ominous.

She’d been little more than a child when she’d known him before, and then she had been so enraptured by his physical magnetism that she had seen little beyond his tantalising exterior. Now, as an adult, she recognised the quiet determination about the man which he wore like a mantle. If Pasquale wanted to talk to her, she realised, then attempting to avoid him might prove to be more trouble than it was worth.

‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘Talk to me. I’m listening. But I’m giving you five minutes to say whatever it is you want to say—and then I’m out of here!’

‘Out—of—here,’ he repeated slowly, in a voice of fascinated horror. He made a little clicking sound of disapproval. ‘Such an expensive Swiss education,’ he mused. ‘Wasted. That all those years of tuition should culminate in such bald, inelegant little statements...’

His elegant censure hit a raw nerve as something inside her snapped. The realisation that he was playing with her, teasing her, as an angler would a fish, made Suki realise that she was putting herself into an unnecessarily weak position. She didn’t have to stay and talk to him. She didn’t have to do anything. She was no longer a naive and gullible schoolgirl—she was an independent career-woman in her own right, for heaven’s sake!

Without another word, she stalked off towards the house, pushing her way through the milling throng, but she knew from the buzz which accompanied her movements that Pasquale was following her.

Let him follow her! she thought with a stubborn resurgence of resolve. She would slam the wretched door in his face and then lock it! That would call his bluff. He had arrogantly stated that his reputation was of no concern to him, but she doubted whether he would want this select and privileged bunch of guests witnessing him beating her door down!

She was aware of people watching them, of the women staring at Pasquale, their eyes full of ill-concealed lust. She had been like that once. She shuddered in disgust as she glanced over her shoulder to see that he had paused to speak to one of the waitresses. Vaguely, Suki wondered where Salvatore was, but he was nowhere to be seen. But then perhaps it was better that he wasn’t around. He would want to know who Pasquale was—and how could she tell him? How could she say, He’s the brother of the girl who was my best friend—the man I once begged to make love to me?

And he hadn’t.

That was the most galling thing.

He hadn’t.

It was a story she was not proud of and to this day it had the power to make her flinch when she remembered exactly how she had behaved. Over the years she had deliberately pushed the memory to the recesses of her mind and seeing him today had brought it all flooding back with painful clarity.

She slipped through the house, her bare feet moving over the cold marble floors, her tall, dark, silent pursuer making her heart thunder with dread and excitement.

Her room was on the first floor, at the opposite end of the corridor to Salvatore’s, and she hurriedly pushed the door open, aware of Pasquale’s footsteps, of the soft sound of his breath, of that strange, elusive masculine scent, still so startlingly familiar, even after seven years.

She turned to face him, her chest heaving, her almond-shaped amber eyes narrowed like a lioness’s. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said.

His face was infuriatingly enigmatic. ‘I agree,’ he returned. ‘You are injecting an element of farce into my simple request that we talk.’

She thought of the intimacy of the room just behind them. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But not here.’

He smiled, but the smile did not reach his cold, glittering eyes. ‘Oh? And why not—or can I guess? The presence of a bed bothers you, does it, Suki? Are you afraid of what might happen if you’re alone in a bedroom with me?’

She swallowed. All those nights she’d spent imagining how she’d behave if she ever had the misfortune to see him again. She had planned to ignore him, look down her nose at him. In her wilder fantasies she had even been prepared to pretend not to recognise him at all, planning to stare at that dark, handsome face with bemused bewilderment, although looking at him now she knew that that would have been asking a little too much of her general acting ability.

It had certainly not been her intention to let him know that his presence still had the power to disturb her. Profoundly. And wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now?

Taking a deep breath, she switched into superficial hostess mode. Giving him the bright smile she normally reserved for the lens of a camera, she waved her hand invitingly.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, sounding deliberately insincere, and saw from the cold twist of his mouth that her insincerity had been noted. ‘I’ve been under a lot of strain recently—working too hard—you know how it is.’ She glanced down at the waterproof watch on her wrist and gave him a cool, self-possessed smile. ‘I can give you—ten minutes. Is that time enough?’

‘Plenty,’ he said abrasively, and followed her into the room.

He walked over to the window, where the balcony overlooked the poolside, and there was silence for a moment as he stared down at people tearing apart the glistening red lobsters which the waiters had now produced, at women delicately devouring the sweet pink flesh as they tried not to smear their lipstick. Suki felt a shiver of unknown origin tingle its way up her spine.

‘How’s Francesca?’ she asked suddenly.

He tensed immediately and his face was like granite when he turned around to capture her in a cold, dark stare.

‘Do you care?’

‘Of course I care! She was my best friend—before you pulled her out of school and forbade me ever to see her again!’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘That was a decision I have never regretted. I did not approve of the company she was keeping.’

Suki lifted her chin. ‘By that I suppose you mean me?’

He gave her a steady look. ‘Yes, Suki—I mean you.’

‘The bad influence,’ she observed acidly.

He gave a low laugh. ‘Precisely. I had no intention of letting my sister start copying the kind of behaviour you were indulging in. Young girls are notoriously affected by what their peers do. And whilst you might have considered it perfectly normal to sleep around I had no intention of letting Francesca do the same.’

Sick at heart, Suki turned away from those dark, intent, judgemental eyes. He still thought of her as nothing more than a tramp—so why bother defending herself? Indeed, how could she possibly defend herself when he spoke nothing more than the truth?

‘Is that what you’ve come here for?’ she asked bitterly. ‘To go over the past? You’ve made it clear what you think of me—not that I care what you think any more—’

‘Did you ever?’ he interrupted softly. ‘Or was I just one more virile male for you to wrap those beautiful legs around?’

Suki hesitated painfully, the cruel censure behind his words making the erotic image they created disintegrate immediately. Her amber eyes glittered as she found herself speaking without bothering to analyse her words. ‘Of course I cared! You were the older brother of my dearest friend—I was a guest in your house, and you threw me out! Hustled me away like some criminal—flown away at high speed, my holiday cut short. Having to explain to my mother...’

A look almost of pain crossed his face. ‘What,’ he said, very softly, ‘did you tell your mother?’

Her eyes were amber ice. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she told him scornfully. ‘Your telephone call to her managed to allay any worries she might have had. I don’t know how you managed it, but you certainly sweet-talked her into thinking that everything was just fine and dandy. I certainly wasn’t going to enlighten her with the truth—that you kicked me out of your bed and out of your house within a few hours!’

‘Dio!’ he swore raggedly. ‘Must you put it quite so—crudely?’

‘I’m sorry if it’s crude,’ she said deliberately. ‘But it’s the truth. It’s horrible, it’s something I’d rather forget—and I will tell you for the last time that I’m simply not interested in rehashing the past—if that’s why you’ve come.’

He stared at her for a long moment of consideration before shaking his head. ‘That isn’t why I’ve come,’ he told her.

‘What, then?’ she asked him in bewilderment.

‘I’ve come to ask you to do something for me,’ he said simply, but as she was caught up in his direct stare the substance of his words drifted away like gossamer on a breeze because the soft, dark blaze of his eyes had the power to confuse her, to merge the years and send her mind racing back to a time almost eight years ago—the first time she had ever set eyes on Pasquale Caliandro...

CHAPTER TWO

‘ARE you sure they won’t mind?’ asked Suzanna hesitantly as, with a flick of charcoal, she completed the small portrait she’d been doing of her friend, just as the plane began to make its final descent towards Rome airport.

‘Who?’ Francesca was too busy batting her eyelashes outrageously at the uniformed male flight attendant to pay much attention to her schoolfriend.

‘Your family, of course.’ Suzanna flicked her pale auburn plait back over her shoulder. ‘It’s very kind of them to invite me to stay with them.’

Francesca shrugged. ‘They don’t care who I invite—they’re never around. Papà’s always working and is away a lot on business, and my stepmother’s away in Paris, apparently. She’ll probably be trawling the streets looking for gigolos—’

‘Francesca!’ exclaimed Suzanna in shocked horror. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Aren’t I?’ queried Francesca with unfamiliar bitterness. ‘She’s twenty years younger than my father. She spends his money like water, and she flirts with anything in a pair of trousers,’ she finished, in disgust.

‘So why does he stay with her, then?’ asked Suzanna softly.

‘Because she’s beautiful. Why else...?’ Francesca’s voice tailed off momentarily, and when she spoke again it was with her customary, rather sardonic verve. ‘Which only leaves big brother—and he’s worse than any jailer. But at least with you there you can be my alibi.’

‘Alibi?’ echoed Suzanna uncertainly.

‘Sure.’ Francesca’s dark eyes flashed. ‘He tries to stop me going out with boys, so I don’t tell him any more. And if he asks you anything, then you tell him you last saw me praying in church!’

‘Francesca!’ said Suzanna uneasily because she didn’t know sometimes whether to take her effervescent friend seriously, and her fingers began to pleat the hem of her white dress nervously. ‘You know you don’t mean that!’

‘I know that going home for the holidays is going to cramp my style,’ muttered Francesca. ‘The discos I go to during term-time are fantastic —I wish you’d come along too.’

Suzanna shook her head. ‘Discos aren’t really my thing.’ In discos she felt gangly, awkward. And when you stood at almost six feet in your stockinged feet that was inevitable.

‘That’s because you’ve never given them a chance!’ Francesca’s attention was caught by the thumbnail sketch in Suzanna’s hand. ‘Hey! That’s good—it’s me, isn’t it?’

‘Do you like it?’ smiled Suzanna.

‘Yeah. May I keep it?’

‘Sure.’

The plane was coming in to land, and there was little time for talking again until they were seated in the back of the shiny, chaffeur-driven limousine and heading towards the Caliandro mansion. Francesca spent the entire journey chattering as she freed Suzanna’s hair from her plaits and teased it into a blazing and magnificent furnace of waves, and Suzanna was so enraptured at the spectacular landscape passing them by that the subject of alibis was all but forgotten.

Suzanna and Francesca were both at finishing school in Switzerland. ‘It’s bound to finish me off sooner or later!’ Francesca always joked. It was the expensive kind of school which was intended to produce young ladies. Daughters of the rich and the noble attended, most of them from privileged but broken homes.

Suzanna’s own father had died, leaving a wife, a son and a daughter, and a car-manufacturing plant which her brother had over-ambitious plans for. Money was tight, but a savings plan taken out at her birth had ensured that at least Suzanna’s expensive education would be paid for. But she worried about her mother’s well-being, and she worried about her feckless brother, Piers, being in charge of the family business...

Francesca’s own mother had died a few years back, and her father had quickly remarried. A mistake, according to Francesca, and it seemed that there was little love lost between her and her stepmother. ‘And my brother really hates her!’ she’d added. ‘He can hardly bear to be in the same room as her.’

It didn’t sound like a very happy house, thought Suzanna suddenly.

Francesca’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘We’re here!’ she exclaimed as the car swept down a gravelled drive and came to a halt in front of an imposing white building, and then her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘And here comes Pasquale, my brother—so don’t forget—if he asks whether I date men you just tell him that I’ve shown bags of disinterest!’

Through the window of the limousine, Suzanna could see the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on, and her heart lurched painfully in her chest. She blinked several times, as if afraid that she’d simply dreamt him up.

Quite unbelievably, she hadn’t.

He was tall—quite spectacularly tall for a man of Italian origin. His shoulders were strong and wide and his hips were narrow. His nose was a proud Roman curve and his eyes were dark and glittering. For Suzanna, naive and unused to men, the experience of staring up into the face of Francesca’s brother was like something out of the romantic novels she’d read since her early teens; she looked, and was, completely smitten.

Afterwards, she was to tell herself that she had been ripe to fall for someone—anyone. It was just unfortunate that it had happened to be Pasquale...

He greeted his sister with a kiss on both cheeks and then held his hand out formally to Suzanna.

The sun was behind her and seemed to create a halo of golden-red around her hair—or so Francesca whispered to her later that night when Suzanna’s heart was still pounding in that strange, unfamiliar way which hadn’t left her since she’d first set eyes on Pasquale.

The short white cheesecloth dress she wore merely hinted at the outline of the smooth young flesh which lay beneath, but when he looked at her a stillness and a watchfulness came over Pasquale Caliandro. He caught her small hand in his firm, warm and masculine grip and as she gave him a look of helpless fascination his eyes narrowed, his mouth hardening as he stared down at her.

‘I think my brother fancies you,’ Francesca said that night as they got ready for bed. ‘He gave you a real mean, hungry look!’

‘Rubbish!’ said Suzanna, blushing furiously. Of course it was rubbish, she convinced herself as she dived into the pool one morning, a few days after she’d arrived. Men who fancied you didn’t virtually ignore you in a way which she thought bordered on downright rudeness. And they certainly didn’t speak to you in that awful, brusque way he had of addressing her. One day he’d actually had the nerve to tell her to stop hanging her head and to be proud of her height!

Sometimes, she thought as she ploughed up and down the swimming pool in an effort to get rid of the heat in her veins which just wouldn’t go away—sometimes she thought that Pasquale almost disliked her—his manner towards her was so abrupt.

And yet at others...

She shivered. Other times she would turn around to find him watching her. Just watching her with a dark and brooding intensity which frightened the life out of her, yet thrilled her at the same time.

Just about the only nice thing he’d said to her had been when he’d found her sketching quietly in the garden one day.

He had stood silently looking over her shoulder for at least a minute, and had given a little nod as he’d watched her long fingers cleverly recreating the glass summer house, which was overhung with vines.

‘That’s good,’ he observed. ‘Good enough to make it your career, I think.’ And Suzanna had blushed furiously at the unexpected praise.

She turned on her back and lazily kicked her legs around in the cool water. It was indeed a strange household she was staying with, she reflected. Francesca seemed to spend her whole time concocting schemes to get to one of the discotheques in the city, but so far she hadn’t succeeded, since Pasquale vehemently blocked every suggestion. ‘You’re far too young,’ he’d told her emphatically, and then his eyes had narrowed and he had given Suzanna one of his rare looks. ‘Do you girls go to many discos?’ he’d queried, his dark eyes suspicious.

‘Never!’ Suzanna and Francesca had replied in unison, but Suzanna hadn’t been able to stop herself from blushing at Francesca’s easy lie, and she was certain that Pasquale’s sharp eyes had noticed, for he’d frowned severely.

Francesca and Pasquale’s father she hardly saw at all. A still handsome man of sixty, with streaks of silver in his dark hair, he seemed to spend most of the time working—as Francesca had prophesied—making it home only in time for the evening meal. Usually at dinner it was just the three of them, as Pasquale always seemed to be out on a date with one of the many glamorous-sounding women who telephoned him, and their stepmother was still in Paris.

But today Suzanna was alone in the house. Pasquale was working and Signor Caliandro had flown to Naples for the day. Francesca had gone to visit her godmother on the other side of the city. She’d invited Suzanna to go along, but Suzanna knew that the elderly lady spoke little English and had decided that it would be fairer to let Francesca go alone. Besides, she rather liked having this luxurious house to herself.

The swimming pool was vast and deliciously cool and Suzanna dived to the depths of the turquoise water and swam around. She’d almost used up all her air, when the devastatingly sharp pain of cramp stabbed ruthlessly at her calf.

Perhaps if she’d had a lungful of air and hadn’t been near the bottom of the pool she wouldn’t have panicked, but panic she did, doing the worst thing she could possibly have done—she gulped water down, her arms and legs flailing wildly in all directions.

Her head and chest felt as though they might actually burst, but suddenly she felt a pair of hands tightly grasping her waist. She tried instinctively to wriggle free, but whoever was holding her had an indomitable strength and would not let her go.

She found herself being propelled to the surface, where her mouth broke open and greedily sucked in air, and she fell back against the chest of her rescuer, a solid, hard wall of muscle, but she knew without turning to look at him that it was Pasquale.

His arms were still around her waist, and his head dropped briefly to rest on hers.

‘Dio!’ he exclaimed savagely, and kicked off and swam towards the pool steps. He climbed out first, then picked her up easily and carried her to lay her down on the soft, sun-warmed grass.

She realised that he had dived in fully dressed—that he had not even bothered to kick off his beautiful, soft, handmade shoes, which were now sodden. His silk shirt clung to him like a second skin and his sopping trousers now etched every hard sinew of the strong shafts of his powerful thighs.

His eyes were blazing. ‘You fool! You crazy little idiot!’ he cried out, and he ran his hands thoroughly but dispassionately over her body, like a doctor examining for broken bones.

‘I—I’m sorry.’ She trembled as her body felt his warm, sure touch.

‘And so you should be!’ he told her furiously. ‘Don’t you realise that you could have drowned?’ His eyes narrowed as he took in her white, frightened face. ‘Do you hurt anywhere?’ he demanded.

Humiliatingly, her teeth stared to chatter so that she couldn’t speak.

‘Do you?’ he demanded again, still in that same grim tone. ‘Hurt anywhere? Tell me!’

She couldn’t cope with his harshness, not when she was feeling so vulnerable, and she did what she hadn’t done since her father had died the previous year—she burst into tears.

Instantly, his attitude altered. He looked appalled with himself as he gathered her into his arms and laid his strong hand protectively against the back of her head.

‘Don’t cry, bella mia,’ he whispered. ‘There is no need for tears. You are safe now.’

But the shock of realising what might have happened if he had not been there made her sob all the harder, and he made a little sound, a small, rough assertion beneath his breath, as he picked her up and carried her towards the house. She was too weak to do anything other than rest her head against his chest, and gradually the sobs receded. It was just like visiting heaven, being in his arms like this, she realised, her body all wet and clingy and close. She could have stayed like that all day.

‘Wh-where are you taking me?’ she wondered aloud as he mounted the stairs.

‘To get you dry,’ he answered. His gentleness had vanished, and he spoke again in that grim, terse tone which left her wondering why he still seemed so angry with her.

He carried her to her own room and set her down on the thick carpet, glancing quickly around, his eyes narrowing as they alighted on a tiny pair of knickers which were lying in an open drawer, together with a matching bra.

Suzanna blushed.

‘Do you have a towelling robe?’ he asked.

She shook her head. A towelling robe wasn’t the kind of thing you brought to Italy in the middle of summer. She only had a silk wrap.

‘You’d better wait here!’ he told her, and left the bedroom.

He returned minutes later with what was obviously his own robe—a luxurious, almost velvety towelling garment in a deep, midnight-blue colour—and threw it down on the bed. ‘Now strip off,’ he told her. ‘Completely. Put the robe on and I will run you a bath.’

If any other man had issued such a curt and intimate order, Suzanna would have screamed for the police, but because it was Pasquale she simply nodded obediently. He set off for the en suite without a backward glance, his shoulders curiously stiff and set, and Suzanna began to do as he had told her.

Easier said than done. She’d never thought that it would be so difficult to remove two tiny scraps of bikini, but the wet material was clinging to her cold, damp skin and her fingers were stiff and trembling with the cold.

So when, minutes later, the bathroom door opened and Pasquale came back in, accompanied by clouds of delicious-looking, scented steam, it was to find her almost sobbing with frustration as she attempted to slide her hands round to her back to unclip the clasp of her bikini-top.

There was a moment when he froze, as though he’d never seen a woman almost naked before—but that was nonsense. Francesca had already regaled her with stories of Pasquale smuggling girls out of his room when he was still at boardingschool. And you only had to look at that brooding, almost dangerous physique to know that Pasquale would have tasted most of the pleasures of lovemaking...

A strange look crossed those tight features. A look of anger, but of something else too—something which even the totally innocent Suzanna recognised as desire—and then he said something very softly and very eloquently in Italian, before moving quickly to her side.

‘I... I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I can’t... My fingers are all...’

He shook his head, said not a word but deftly undid the clasp with a single fluid movement that sent a brief spear of jealousy through her as she found herself imagining those strong, bronzed hands undressing other women too. Her unfettered breasts bounced free and she heard him catch his breath on a muffled, almost savage note.

He almost flung the robe over her and swiftly knotted the belt around her narrow waist, and then he knelt at her feet, his hands moving inside the robe until they were on her bare hips. Suzanna held her breath with dazed and exultant shock as she felt the heat of his fingers on her cool flesh, but he kept his eyes averted as he peeled the damp bottoms off all the way down the slender length of her thighs, and her cold and discomfort vanished completely as she felt the brief slide of his hand against her inner thigh.

Something hot and potent and powerful bubbled its way into life in her veins as rapidly as bush-fire, and Suzanna was racked with an uncontrollable shudder as she became sexually aware of her body for the first time in her life.

Had he seen her automatic response to his touch? Was that why his mouth had twisted into that harsh, almost frightening line? Why the hard glittering of his dark eyes now transformed him into some unforgettable but slightly forbidding stranger?

‘Now get in the bath,’ he said roughly, and he tossed the bikini away from him as though it had been contaminated. He rose to his feet and moved towards the door, but without his customary elegance and fluidity of motion. ‘And be out of there in twenty minutes—no longer,’ he ordered, but then a wry note which bordered on amusement entered his voice and, thankfully, removed some of the awful tension from the air. ‘No falling asleep is permitted! Understand?’ he finished softly.

‘Yes, Pasquale,’ she answered meekly.

‘Good. I’ll be downstairs making you some coffee.’

She wandered into the bathroom in a heady daze, wrapped in the thickness of his robe, reluctant to remove it because the scent of it—of him—was just too heavenly for words. She hugged her arms against her breasts, then wiped away some of the steam from the mirror and stared into it, mesmerised by the heightened colour of her cheeks and the strange, almost feverish glitter in her eyes.

But what was she imagining? That he had been as affected by that brief encounter as she had? Pasquale Caliandro, the toast of Rome, bothered by a schoolgirl?

No way! she thought with honest reluctance as she pulled off the robe and stepped into the fragrant, steamy water.

The bath made her feel almost normal again. She washed her hair and left it hanging loose, dressing in a pair of white jeans and a loose white cotton sweater before going downstairs to find Pasquale, and the coffee.

She stood in the doorway watching him, enjoying the sight of such a very masculine man looking so thoroughly at ease in the domestic domain of the kitchen.

His dark eyes flicked over her impassively. ‘Feeling better?’ he enquired.

Physically, yes, certainly. But there was still that tingling awareness fizzing around her veins which his touch had brought to life. ‘Much better,’ she answered politely, and then her gratitude came out in a rush. ‘I wanted to thank you, Pasquale—for...’ it sounded a bit over the top to say it, but say it she must ‘... saving my life,’ she gulped.

He shook his head and smiled gently. ‘Let’s forget it.’

But she would never forget it, she knew that, and the burgeoning, almost schoolgirlish attraction she had felt towards Pasquale suddenly flowered and blossomed into mature life.

I’m in love with him, she thought, with a calm certainty.

‘Sit down,’ he offered, and she drew up one of the tall stools he’d indicated and sat, leaning her elbows on the counter as she struggled to say something which didn’t involve the fact that he’d seen her half-naked just minutes ago. Sitting there, with her still damp hair and her face completely bare of make-up, she suddenly felt very young and very boring.

‘You look very efficient in the kitchen!’ she remarked brightly. ‘I’m surprised!’

He raised his dark eyebrows fractionally, but didn’t comment on the sexism inherent in her remark; instead he began to pour the fragrant brew into a large porcelain cup. ‘The Italian male is renowned for many things, but not, I think, for his prowess in the kitchen,’ he said as he pushed the cup towards her.

She knew that. She knew, too, exactly what they were renowned for... For being wonderful... lovers... She gulped, and took a deep breath. ‘So you decided to break with tradition?’ she joked.

A sudden bleakness dulled the magnificent eyes as he added sugar to his own cup. ‘Unhappily, yes. One cannot have servants on hand every minute of the day, and when my mother died...’ He hesitated. ‘Well, Papà was in a state of shock for such a long time, and Francesca was too young...’

Suzanna could have kicked herself for her blundering insensitivity. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she groaned softly. ‘I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.’

He gave a small smile. ‘Time gives a certain immunity against pain, Suzanna.’ And his accent deepened. ‘Didn’t your own father die very suddenly?’

Suzanna went very quiet. ‘Francesca told you?’

‘Yes.’ He paused, and the dark eyes were very direct. ‘It was a car crash, I believe?’

If it had been anyone else but him, she suspected that she would have found the question a gross intrusion, but Pasquale asking it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. ‘Yes,’ she said, and swallowed.

‘You were thinking of him by the pool—when you began to cry?’

His perception quite took her breath away. ‘How on earth could you know that?’

‘I know quite well the difference between shock and grief. And bottling it up won’t help, you know.’ He gave her a gentle smile. ‘Now drink your coffee and I will take you out for lunch. Will that cheer you up?’

‘Lunch?’ She felt like Cinderella. ‘Are you sure?’

His mouth moved in an enigmatic smile. ‘Quite sure,’ he said drily. ‘You see, another characteristic of Italian men is their enjoyment of being seen with an exceptionally beautiful young lady.’

She knew that he had deliberately emphasised the young bit, but she didn’t care. Pasquale was taking her for lunch and that was all that mattered.

In the event, that lunch ruined her for every future meal of her life. He took her to a lovely restaurant, and he was charm personified. The food was delicious and the half-glass of wine he allowed her incomparable. He seemed so at home in the discreetly elegant surroundings, and she tried to emulate his cool confidence. The down side was that at least three women came over to greet him—women with stacks more experience and poise than Suzanna—and she found herself wishing that they might totter and trip on the ridiculously high heels they all seemed to be wearing!

It was past three when they drove back, and she felt warm and contented and wondered what he would suggest doing that afternoon. But he did not get out of the car.

‘I will leave you to amuse yourself,’ he told her, and he gave her a stern look. ‘But pleaseno more swimming—not today!’

She found it hard to hide the disappointment. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To work. Be so kind as to tell Papa and Francesca that I shall be late—and that I shall not be in for supper.’

Suzanna felt as flat as a pancake as she walked slowly back into the flower-covered villa. She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to write a letter, but it was difficult, because outside a wind was insidiously whipping up, while in the distance she heard the ominous rumble of thunder.

She began to long for the return of the others, but no one came back. No Francesca or Signor Caliandro. The villa suddenly seemed awfully big and awfully empty with just her and the cook, who was busy in the kitchen.

Francesca rang at six to say that she would be staying at her godmother’s. ‘The storm is very bad here,’ she explained. ‘And it’s moving down towards your part of the city. Will you be all right? Is Pasquale or Papà back yet?’

Suzanna didn’t want to worry her friend, so she didn’t bother telling her that Pasquale was not in for supper and that there was no sign of her father.

She decided to keep herself busy, and there were enough adult toys in that house to amuse anyone—rows doute of film classics in the room where the video and large viewing screen were kept and a whole library of books, with an English section which would have kept an avid reader going for years.

So Suzanna passed the rest of the day amusing herself as best she could. She gave herself a manicure and a pedicure. She borrowed Francesca’s tongs and made her curls hang in brightly coloured corkscrews.

The cook was clearly worried about the weather, and so Suzanna told her to go home early.

But later, as she perched upon the stool in the kitchen, eating the chicken and salad which had been prepared for supper, Suzanna could hear the distant rumbling of the storm growing in intensity.

At the best of times she wasn’t fond of storms, but when she was marooned and isolated in a large villa in a strange country—well...

She went around securing the windows as the wind began to howl like a hungry animal outside, and the rain spattered and thundered in huge, unforgiving drops against the glass.

She was sitting up in bed reading a book, when the room was plunged into darkness and she screamed aloud at the unexpected blackness which enveloped her like a suffocating blanket.

She tried to reason with herself that it was just a power-cut, not unusual in a storm of this ferocity, but it was no good—she began to scream anew as a branch hurled itself against the window-pane, like an intruder banging to come inside.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, cowering with fear, but suddenly she felt the cover being whipped back and there stood Pasquale, his clothes spattered with rain, his dark, luxuriant hair plastered to his beautifully shaped head.

He took hold of her shoulders and levered her up towards him to stare down intently into her face.

‘You’re OK?’ he asked succinctly for the second time that day, and she nodded tremulously.

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘Francesca says the storm’s too bad to travel back. I don’t know about your father.’

‘They’ve closed the airport,’ he said briefly, and then his eyes softened. ‘Were you very frightened here, on your own?’

Bravado made her lie. ‘Not—really,’ she said in a small voice, but as she stared up at him all in her world suddenly felt very, very safe.

‘Wait here,’ he told her. ‘Don’t move. I’m going to try to do something about the lights.’

She had no intention of going anywhere! So she sank back obediently against the pillows until she heard him calling her, then leapt out of bed to find him outside the door, holding a candelabra in his hand, with three flickering candles casting strange, enticing shadows onto his face. He looked like someone who had stepped out of a painting; someone from another age, she thought fleetingly.

‘Come downstairs and get warm,’ he said, and she followed him downstairs, watching while he built a fire and fetched two brandies, which he placed on a small table in front of the roaring blaze.

He’d changed, she noticed. Gone was the sodden suit, replaced by a black cashmere sweater and black jeans. On his feet he wore nothing, and she couldn’t help noticing how beautifully shaped his toes were. Imagine even finding someone’s feet attractive! She really was in a bad way! Her mouth dried and her heart thundered as he looked up from the logs and answered her shy smile almost reluctantly.

‘Brandy?’ he asked coolly.

She remembered him policing her at lunchtime and allowing her only half a glass of wine, and perhaps he remembered it too, because he laughed.

‘It’s purely for medicinal purposes. You look white and shocked to me. This has been quite a day for you, Suzanna.’

It would sound extremely naïve to say she’d never tried brandy before, wouldn’t it? she thought. Besides which, his words were accurate enough, and she felt shocked. ‘I’d love some,’ she agreed, and sat on the rug, holding her hands out towards the blaze.

The brandy was hot and bitter-sweet in her throat, but she felt its effect stealing over her immediately, and she wriggled her toes as the warmth invaded her.

‘Feeling better now?’ he asked.

‘Mmm! Much!’ She briefly closed her eyes and gave a blissful smile and when she opened them again it was to find him staring at her intently, something unfathomable written on his face, and, quite suddenly, he got to his feet.

‘Bedtime,’ he said abruptly, in a firm voice. ‘It’s late. I’ll tidy up down here—you go on up. Here, take this candle, but don’t leave it lit.’

But Suzanna couldn’t sleep. Outside the storm raged, but inside her own storm was raging. She recalled the feel of his arms as he’d carried her upstairs from the pool. The feel of those firm hands freeing her breasts, removing the bikini.

Restlessly, she tossed and turned, until she gave up the whole idea of trying to sleep. She decided to go in search of some matches to light the candle and read her book.

She pulled on her silken wrap and silently made her way downstairs to the kitchen, and after a bit of hunting around she found the matches she was after.

She was just creeping back along the corridor towards her bedroom when a dark figure loomed up in front of her and she almost collided with Pasquale.

He wore black silk pyjama trousers and nothing else. She found her eyes drawn to the beautiful breadth of his hair-roughened chest. His dark hair was ruffled and his chin shadowed in the strange yellow light of the storm.

‘What are you doing creeping around the house?’ he demanded in a voice which managed to sound both dangerous and soft, his eyes briefly flicking to the rise and fall of her breasts beneath their thin layer of silk. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

He made it sound as if she’d been committing some sort of crime. ‘Because I couldn’t sleep,’ she told him defensively.

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the harsh sound of his breathing. ‘Neither could I,’ he said eventually, and then his voice softened. ‘Does the sound of the storm frighten you?’

She nodded. ‘A little.’

‘There is nothing to be frightened of,’ he said, and with his hand in the small of her back he propelled her along to her bedroom door. ‘Don’t you know that it’s simply the gods clapping their hands? Didn’t they tell you that when you were a little girl?’

But at that moment an enormous clap of thunder seemed to rock the very foundations of the house, and Suzanna jumped in fright.

‘Get into bed,’ he told her brusquely.

She did as he asked, but her eyes were huge in her face as she stared up at him in mute appeal.

He shook his head. ‘No, Suzanna. No. You don’t know what it is you’re asking,’ he told her obliquely.

She hadn’t really been aware that she was asking anything, but now it dawned on her that she wanted him to stay. She wanted him to shield her from the elements which raged outside.

And those within? she wondered briefly.

She heard his reluctant sigh.

‘Very well—I’ll sit here until you fall asleep,’ he said in an oddly resigned kind of voice.

Suzanna slithered down beneath the duvet, hearing the slow, steady thump of her heart beating loudly in her ears.

Pasquale sat on the edge of the bed, as far away from her as possible. ‘Now sleep,’ he urged softly. ‘Nothing can hurt you while I am here.’

She awoke to find herself wrapped tightly in his arms beneath the duvet, her head resting on his shoulder while he slept. She heard the comforting steadiness of his breathing, and, acting purely on the instincts of one who was only halfawake, she nestled even closer into his embrace. He tightened his arms around her, and she had never felt so cosseted or so safe in her whole life. She let her head drift down so that her cheek lay on his bare chest and she could hear his heart beating loud and steady as a drum.

She couldn’t resist it; she simply couldn’t help herself. Lifting her mouth, she kissed his neck, and he sighed and stirred, his hand moving lazily from her waist to cup her breast over the thin silk of her nightdress, finding its tip and inciting it into immediate tingling life, stroke by glorious stroke.

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