Page 41 of Unveiled As The Italian's Bride
Kate burst out laughing. ‘Again, you’re being crazy.’ She sobered up and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I could never accept anything from you without knowing that my half of the bargain had been met.’
‘Up to you,’ Dante murmured half to himself but his dark eyes were shrewd and watchful. He slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, which instantly made the caravan shrink to the size of a matchbox. ‘So I get the sofa,’ he said, eyeing it with scepticism.
‘I’m afraid so.’
The logistics threatened to overwhelm her but then she decided that there were sufficient partitions to make the awkwardness bearable, and if need be she could always decamp to her own bed on some flimsy excuse or other. Developing a nasty cold and not wanting to spread it might be weak as excuses went but it could very well do.
She hesitated but was grateful when he seemed to take everything in his stride, moving to take the glasses to the sink. He told her that she should head into the house for a shower and by the time she returned he would be on the sofa, and they could both get as good a night’s sleep as possible given the circumstances.
‘You can say that I have a couple of urgent calls to make,’ he instructed. ‘As a workaholic, I am sure they won’t be too surprised that I’ve dispatched you for a short while so that I can complete them.’
And he was true to his word.
When Kate returned forty minutes later, in her flannel pyjamas with a thick waterproof to hold off the snow, it was to find that he had hunkered down on the sofa. There was one lamp on and his shape was a dark bulk, half-hanging off. He was far too big for it, and guilt slammed into her, because the bed was a double, nicely done up for them both. Her mum had scattered petals on the duvet in anticipation of the glad tidings.
This was a decent and generous guy with a good heart, whatever her misconceptions about him had once been. Yes, he could be cold and remote, but he could also be considerate and kind.
She might get goose bumps because he was just so stupidly good-looking—and she was, after all, only human—but he didn’t fancy her, so why should she refuse to share a bed with him? Why should she force him to try and sleep on a sofa that was too short and too narrow to accommodate anyone of average build?
Why should she act weird?
She quietly slipped off the waterproof, breathed in deep and nudged him on an arm.
‘Problem?’
‘It’s stupid for you to sleep on this sofa.’
She watched as he propped himself up on his elbows. He was wearing a black tee-shirt which, as items of harmless clothing went, somehow managed to emphasise his muscled arms and the sinewy strength of his forearms, turning it from a harmless item of clothing to a flimsy garment highly dangerous to her peace of mind.
Her mouth dried and she hesitated. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not.’ His polite reassurance made her stubbornly more determined to do what was right. ‘You’ll wake up with cramp in every part of your body if you sleep on the sofa. You can use the bed. It’s big enough for both of us. We’re adults, and we both know what the deal is even if no one else does. Besides, we’ll be playing this game for a while to come. What if we get invited somewhere overnight as a couple and we’re stuck in the same bedroom? What then?’
‘You make a valid point.’
She spun round, padded towards the bed and slipped under the duvet, pleased that her pyjamas couldn’t have covered more of her body, and if she happened to be braless under the top then it was hardly as though she was endowed with breasts the size of cantaloupes. Often enough she skipped wearing a bra.
She sneaked a glance at him as he followed in her wake in the black tee-shirt, black boxers...and a body that was designed for salacious flights of fancy.
But this was the pact they had made, and this situation was one that had to be navigated, because she was certain that it would occur again at some point in time. Best get it over and done with.
But she still felt the weight of him on the mattress and the way she had to tighten up to stop herself from sliding towards him, and she was horribly aware of the snow falling outside like a silent, white, all-concealing veil.
And, in her head, she still had the image of him in that black tee-shirt and those black boxers, lean, brown and powerfully built.
His soft breathing was as intrusive as a foghorn and she was conscious of every slight shift of weight until, at last, she managed to fall asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KATEWOKETOsomething unfamiliar, and it took her a few seconds for her brain to engage sufficiently to work out what that something unfamiliar was—arms around her, heavy and hot, and her head resting against a hard, male torso.
She froze and with each passing second it became evident that at some point during the night they had slid together. Maybe the cold had kicked in and they had gravitated towards one another in an unconscious attempt to stay warm. Or maybe his weight had ended up drawing her towards him despite her best efforts to cling to the side of the bed.
Did it matter?
She was here, with him pressed against her, and she was beginning to break out in a light, fine perspiration. She began gently easing herself away. The thickness of her prim and proper flannelette pyjamas, which would have made any Victorian maiden aunt proud, was scant protection against an imagination that was running wild. It was stampeding through all that nonsense she had preached to herself about it being no big deal to share a bed with the guy when she would probably end up having to do it at some point in the future.
She had somehow concluded that his ridiculous sex appeal was something she could acknowledge but essentially remain unaffected by because, in her head, the real power of attraction could only work if it was harnessed to genuine emotion. And, in the case of Dante, she had no feelings towards him. She was involved with him because of a suitable arrangement but that was about the extent of it.
