Free Passion's Mistress by Helen Bianchin Page B

off duty,' she declared, uncaring of his reaction.
    'Careful with your claws, my little cat,' Stefano warned softly. 'Or I may
    choose to unsheathe my own.'
    There was nothing she could add, so she didn't even try. Instead, she turned
    and walked towards their suite, and once inside she carefully closed the
    door.
    He didn't follow, and she moved into the en suite and shed her clothes, then
    took a long shower, and, towelled dry, she pulled on a thin cotton shift and
    emerged into the bedroom, to stand hesitantly, unsure which of the two beds
    she should occupy.
    Dammit, she swore softly. With her luck, she'd choose the wrong one, and
    then Stefano would be cynically amused by her mistake.
    There was only one solution, and she caught up a towelling robe and slid it
    on, then walked through to the sitting-room, activated the television, and
    sank into a comfortable chair.
    If necessary, she determined vengefully, she'd sleep here, rather than slip
    into the wrong bed!
    Sunday evening television offered the choice of three movies, an intellectual
    book review, or a play spoken entirely in Hungarian. A karate-kickboxer
    epic wasn't her preferred viewing, nor was a terminator blockbuster, and she
    wasn't in the mood for a chilling thriller. After switching channels several
    times, she simply selected one for the sake of it and allowed her attention to
    wander.
    At some stage she must have dozed, for she was aware of a strange sense of
    weightlessness, a desire to sink more comfortably into arms that seemed
    terribly familiar.
    A small sigh escaped her lips, and she burrowed her face into the curve of a
    hard, muscular shoulder, then lifted her hands to encircle a male neck.
    It felt so good, so right , and she murmured her appreciation. Her lips
    touched against warm skin, moving involuntarily as they savoured a texture
    and scent her subconscious recognised—not only recognised, but delighted
    in the discovery.
    Except that she wanted more, and the tip of her tongue ventured out in a
    tentative exploratory tasting, edging up a deeply pulsing cord in search of a
    mouth she instinctively knew could bestow pleasure. Then the barriers
    between unconsciousness and awareness began to disperse, bringing a
    horrifying knowledge that, although the arms that held her belonged to the
    right man, it was the wrong time, the wrong room, and her dream-like state
    owed nothing to the reality!
    For a moment her eyes retained a warm luminescence, a musing witchery,
    then they clouded with pain before being hidden by two thickly lashed veils
    as she struggled to be free of him.
    'Put me down!'
    'I was about to,' Stefano drawled as he placed her between fragrantly clean
    sheets, and her lashes swept up to reveal intense anger.
    His touch was impersonal, yet she felt as if she was on fire, with every
    separate nerve-end quivering into vibrant life, each individual skin-cell an
    ambivalent entity craving his touch.
    Carly snatched the top sheet and pulled it up to her chin in a defensive
    gesture. 'Get away from me!'
    His eyes speared hers, darkly mesmeric as she forced herself not to look
    away.
    'You're as nervous as a kitten,' he drawled musingly. 'Why, when we've
    known each other in the most intimate sense?'
    Reaching out, he brushed gentle fingers down the length of her cheek to the
    edge of her mouth, then traced the curving contour with a stray forefinger.
    'What are you afraid of, cara?'
    'Nothing,' Carly responded carefully. 'Absolutely nothing at all.'
    Liar , she derided silently. No matter how hard she tried she was unable to
    still the fast-beating pulse that hummed through her veins, seducing every
    nerve and fibre until she felt incredibly alive.
    His smile was wholly cynical, and his eyes held a gleam of mockery as they
    conducted a deliberately slow appraisal of her expressive features, lingering
    over-long on the visible pulsebeat at the base of her throat before travelling
    up to meet her gaze.
    'Goodnight, Carly,' he bade her