And how long was he going to do that?
He smiled as he stretched out naked on the bed. The reaction of his body when he thought about Cassandra said it wouldn’t be too long.
* * *
She heard the latch slip on the front door at about the same time she heard the maid and chef leave—her prison guards, as she’d come to think of them. In fairness, she had enjoyed the rest. She’d needed it. Once she’d slowed down the sickness had gone, just as the doctor had predicted. She tensed, hearing footsteps approaching. Who else had the key to the door? It had to be Marco. Her heart was thundering. This was the first time she’d seen him since she’d settled into his apartment. Feeling self-conscious, having allowed herself to relax, she quickly finger-combed her hair and bit some colour into her lips, and was then angry with herself for being so obvious. She was supposed to be resting after all.
‘Can I come in?’
Why ask when he was already inside the room?
Her heart was hammering so hard she couldn’t trust herself to speak. She wanted to be angry with him for giving her no word of when he’d be back—or if he’d be back. But she was hungry for company—Marco’s company—and her heart turned over at the sight of him, though he looked more dark and menacing than ever in his immaculately tailored suit.
And more remote, she thought as he stared at her. They really did come from two different worlds.
‘It’s not too late, is it?’ he enquired crisply.
Much too late, she thought, pressing back against the pillows as he walked deeper into the room. He took her breath away. He was so handsome, so swarthy, so compelling, and yet there was danger in those cold, remote eyes. She was determined not to let him see how forcefully he affected her.
‘I think I can stay awake long enough to say hello.’ She shrugged, as if having a man like Marco walk into her bedroom didn’t put her at a huge disadvantage. She was rumpled, and practically naked in bed, while he looked as if he had just stepped from the pages of a society magazine. Catching the pillow close, she hugged it like a shield. ‘I wasn’t expecting you tonight.’
‘I didn’t say when I was coming back,’ he conceded.
‘Did you have a good trip?’
‘Yes, dear,’ he said dryly, reminding her that where he went and what he did was nothing to do with her.
She held her breath as he prowled closer. There could be no running away or backing off. And that wasn’t in her nature. She had come here of her own free will, with the intention of recovering her health. That was why Marco had brought her here... Or was it? she wondered, seeing the look in his eyes. It was a look she knew she should ignore, but her body thought otherwise. And it wasn’t just her body calling out to him. It was her soul, her being, her essence doing that too. Because Marco was the father of her child. He was her mate. And she wanted him. She wanted to be in his arms again. She wanted to be lost with him—one with him.
Her world tilted on its axis as he sat down on the bed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just drew her into his arms.
‘Tell me if you don’t want this and I’ll stop,’ he whispered huskily.
She might have pressed her hands against his chest in some sort of weak protest, but there was no force behind it because she did not want to push him away. Whether or not it was pregnancy hormones driving her, the way Marco made her feel couldn’t be ignored. It wasn’t just the sex or the pleasure he gave her, it was being with him—just being with him and being close to him. There was no one on this earth who could make her feel the way he did.
She helped him to shrug off his jacket and watched as he loosened his tie. Breath shot out of her when he yanked her against his body, and she groaned when his hand slipped through the buttons on her pyjama jacket on its way to cupping her breast. His touch was so familiar, and so long missed. She grabbed a noisy breath, wondering if she would ever breathe normally again.
He set about teasing her senses, his thumbnail lightly abrading her puckered nipples. ‘Your breasts are bigger,’ he commented with approval as he stripped off the rest of his clothes. ‘I like that.’
And he was magnificent. Naked and fully erect, Marco di Fivizzano was a big, rugged man, with none of the city sheen people generally associated with him. This was the man who hefted sandbags and hewed logs. This was the father of her child. And she wanted him—no questions, no criticisms, no complaints—she wanted him in the most primal way possible. She wanted to be one with her mate.