EMILY sighed and kicked off her shoes, leaning back against the beach wall as she stared out at the blue-grey stretch of sea. The weak late-autumn sun shone down on her upturned face and the soft sand supported her comfortably. It was just so good to be still and on her own at last.

For the moment, all was silence—and peace. And it felt wonderful.

She sighed again, savouring the quiet around her, enjoying it after five long weeks of non-stop wretchedness. She thought she’d known what misery was like in the past, but this last month had shown her another sort of hell.

She had had to get away.

She couldn’t have taken another moment of being stared at, talked about, with every last move she made the subject of comment and gossip.

And disapproval.

But here, at last, she could be on her own—be herself.

For now.

After the confines of the hospital, the space was wonderful. The air felt fresh and clean, touched with the exhilarating tang of ozone, and it was a delight after the artificially maintained temperature of the wards.

But best of all was the fact that no one was watching her.

‘And I thought it was all over…’

Bringing her fist down on the sand with a thud, she snatched up a handful of the slippery grains, clamping them tight between her fingers and her palm, blinking fiercely to fight against the hot tears that stung at her eyes, blurring her vision. But then, with a fierce effort, she forced a new control on herself, shaking her head in both denial and despair.

Today was the day that she should have been free. The day when everything should have been signed and sealed, when it was all over and she could move on into a new life. Instead, she had been pulled back into the old one, with no hope of any liberation, no light at the end of the long, dark tunnel she was looking down.

‘No…no. Let it go!’ she commanded herself. ‘Let it go.’

And slowly, reluctantly, her fingers obeyed her, uncurling, opening, letting the sand slither through the openings between them to fall back onto the ground.

She only needed a day, she’d said. Just twenty-four hours before she would go back, face them all again. She knew her duty—and she would do it. But she just needed time to breathe.

The sound of the sea lapping against the shore brought her head round again, her eyes staring out at the distant horizon. The wide expanse of the ocean looked cool and inviting, calling to her in a way that nothing had done for so long. Living in the city meant that she hadn’t been to the beach in…

In how long? Far, far too long. And she hadn’t been paddling in the sea since she was a child. Life had closed in on her and Mark would never have countenanced seeing her indulge in anything so undignified and unrestrained.

But there was nothing to stop her now!

A whole new rush of enthusiasm flooded her thoughts, driving away the sadness and the tiredness of just moments before. With excitement pulsing in her veins she scrambled to her feet and set off down the sloping beach towards the water, moving slowly at first, then speeding up, breaking into a run, and finally racing full pelt down towards the white foam-topped waves as they broke upon the shore.

‘Ooooh!’

The water was cold. Icy. Far colder than she had ever anticipated on a day like today. The shock of the chill against her skin was stinging, sharp, making her dance awkwardly, up on her toes, lifting first one foot and then the other out of the water, then letting them down again for the sheer thrill of the exhilarating sensation.

And suddenly it was as if the past days—the past months—had never been and she was a child again, free, uninhibited and laughing. Throwing her head back and opening her arms wide, lifting her face to the sun, she danced for sheer joy at the sense of freedom. Her blonde hair spun out around her face and the salty water splashed against the tight denim jeans she wore, soaking into the plain white long-sleeved T-shirt as she splashed, whirling round and round and laughing as she hadn’t laughed in years.

It didn’t matter if she looked like an idiot. She didn’t care if she appeared as mad as a hatter—because no one was looking. The beach was totally deserted from end to end. There was no one there. No one to see or hear her. No one to care.

No one was watching her.

He couldn’t stop watching her.

On the deserted promenade, the tall, dark man stood, feet planted square on the paving stones, hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed against the sun, staring down at the woman on the beach before him.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

He had spotted her from a distance as she drove the compact blue car down the hill from the town, travelling at just enough of a speed to draw his attention but not enough to be totally reckless. And even as he’d turned his dark head to watch she pulled up sharp against the kerb, yanking on the brakes and switching off the engine. Even from this distance he’d been able to see the brusque sharpness of every movement, the way that she had seemed almost to jump out of the car. She’d barely paused enough to slam the door and lock it before she’d been striding across the pavement, almost running down the worn wooden steps that led to the beach.

And just for a moment then he’d been really alarmed, a dark expression of concern creasing his forehead, drawing the jet-black brows together in a watchful frown. She seemed so distracted, so absorbed in something that was upsetting her, so close to some edge that every instinct had warned him to be wary—to watch more closely His long body had tensed, muscles tightening. He’d even been on his toes, ready to move—to run—if she was actually, as he had first thought—first feared—heading for the sea.

Was his imagination running away with him, or was she actually…?

But no. The breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding in hissed from him in a sigh of release as he watched her march a couple of metres over the sand, slipping and sliding in its softness, and then throw herself down onto the ground, kicking off her shoes and lying back, her eyes closed.

But still he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t explain why. She was lovely, there was no question about that. Middle height, middle build, with a neat waist and curving hips. Her breasts were small and high as they pushed at the white cotton of the loose T-shirt she wore with rubbed and faded jeans. Her hair was pale blonde, cut neat, smooth and sleek, so different from the colouring and the style of the women back in Sicily where he lived.

So with her cool colouring would there come a temperament to match? If he approached her would she freeze in the so very English way that said without words, Do I know you? We haven’t been introduced.

He didn’t know but he was damn well going to find out. He couldn’t turn his back, walk away, without ever having met her. From the moment he’d seen her, something about her had pulled at his senses, demanded attention. He had to meet her; had to look her in the face. Had to see if her eyes were blue or grey and he had to hear her voice…

But she was on the move again. Even as he started forward she had pushed herself up from her position on the sand and was running down the beach to where the sea lapped against the shore. Her feet slipped and slid in the sand, the movement made her hips press tight against the worn denim of her jeans, and the sway of her breasts made his mouth dry. He felt the clutch of hunger low down in his body reminding him of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman—too long. When he’d come to England, romancing had been the last thing on his mind.

He’d had enough of that with Loretta and the marriage she’d almost trapped him into. Even now the memory of her scheming and lying sent a cold sensation trickling down his spine. This time in England couldn’t have come at a better moment. Here, he could forget about being Vito Corsentino and just be himself.

And until now just being himself had meant no women in his world or in his bed. Life was easier, less complicated that way…

But one look at this woman had changed all that.

Right now the thought of a woman—this woman—in his bed was the first thing on his mind. The only thing on his mind.

She was running headlong into the sea, dancing a little as the chill foam of the waves broke over her toes, waving her arms in the air like a small child suddenly released from its mother’s hold. The salt water splashed dark patches on her jeans, dampened the white T-shirt so that it clung to the curves of her breasts, and watching her made a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Did she know how uninhibited—how wild—how all-fired sexy she looked like that?

Hell—the smile wavered as desire kicked in hot and hard, making him shift uncomfortably. It really had been too long that he had been without a woman.

But all that was going to change.

Sweeping back the sleek black hair that the breeze from the sea had blown into his eyes, he headed for the steps down onto the sand.

He didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. But tonight she was going to be his.

It was a good thing that no one could see her, Emily reflected as she skipped over the waves, dodging the little foaming eddies and splashing in the cool flowing water, feeling the sand suck at her toes as the tide pulled it forward and then back.

She hadn’t felt this free—this uninhibited in years, not since she had met Mark Lawton and certainly not in the past eighteen months or so. But here, now, it seemed as if some of the burdens that had weighed her down had slipped from her shoulders, leaving her free and liberated at last. It was almost as if the years had slid from her too and she found herself giggling as the cold water tickled her feet, breaking over her ankles as she went in deeper.

She should have rolled up the hems of her jeans, to save them from getting damp, but quite frankly she didn’t care. They were old, old and worn, and almost at the stage where she should have thrown them away—perhaps after this, when she finally found peace with herself, and peace with her life, she would do that.

But for now she didn’t care if she got soaked to the skin. Jumping high, she landed with both feet, sending up another spray of the water in an icy splash, laughing as she stamped hard, wetting her jeans even more.

Oh, this was fun—kicking the water up before her, she danced further and further from the shore, heedless of the way that the sea soaked into the legs of her jeans, dancing, whirling spinning, the clear blue of the sky with its white puffs of clouds revolving round and round her until she felt dizzy. Her breath was coming in shaky, breathless gasps, laughter bubbling up inside her, as she turned faster and faster and…

‘Oh!’

It was a cry of shock and panic. Already further out than she had expected, she hadn’t realised that there was a sort of shelf at the edge of the sea, where the land fell away beneath her feet. Stumbling down it, she missed her footing, twisted her ankle, fell, shocking and hard, down into water that was suddenly up past her waist, her breasts.

She landed with a gasping splutter, tumbling head first into the chilly waves, feeling the sting of salty water break over her head, soaking into her hair.

‘Oh, help!’

She had to get up. Had to get to her feet. But the current was stronger here, swirling round her, tugging at her clothes, dragging her down. The soaking jeans were heavy and clinging, the T-shirt drenched. Her hair was in her eyes and the sting of salt water made her blink hard, vision blurring, tears forming.

‘Help!’

A real panic was setting in now. She scrabbled at the sand, felt it slip and slide away from her as she tried to push upwards to her feet. But just as she thought she was going to manage it, another bigger, fiercer wave thundered towards her, rearing up, the curves at the top frothing white and angry-looking, blotting out the sky. And at the same time the ebb of the tide beneath her tugged away the faint hope of a grip she was getting, knocking her back down again in a rush.

‘No!’

It was a wail of despair, one that was silenced shockingly, blotted out under the heavy fall of water that tumbled over her head, into her eyes, flooding her open mouth. Gasping and choking, she could only give in for the moment, letting herself be carried down, down, deep under the waves, tugged by the undertow, thrown up again to the top…

‘Help!’

She was going to drown…going down again. What was it they said about the third time? Oh, dear heaven—please…

She tried to snatch in a deep breath, hoping to hold it under the water, but only succeeded in inhaling more stinging, burning water, choking on it. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t…

‘I’ve got you…’

The words came to her through the roaring in her head. She could only hear them as another, different sound, one she didn’t really believe in because there couldn’t be anyone else here, couldn’t be someone who had come to her rescue, couldn’t—

But then suddenly, just as she feared she was going to black out, something—everything—changed.

Impossibly—unbelievably—Emily felt strong hands grab hold of her, fixing tightly around her arms. She was caught, held, then hauled up, up, out of the water, her mouth opening wide on a gasp of shock and wonderful, pure, breathable air. The rush of it into her beleaguered lungs after the pressure of the water she had tried so hard not to inhale made her chest heave, cough, her thoughts spin. She was aware of the blue of the sky, clear and spotted with white clouds after the darkness of the water, but her eyes stung and her legs would not support her. Caught once again in the pull of the tide, she swayed weakly, almost fell.

The strong arms around her tightened even more. Changing position slightly so that they clamped about her waist and her chest, they pulled her up against something hard and warm and muscular.

Something—or rather, someone, hard and warm and powerfully male. The heat of him reached through her sodden clothes to warm her shivering body. The power of him surrounded her, supported her. She wasn’t sure if the pounding in her ears was that of her own heart or his, only that it was hard and fierce, and, wonderfully, when she had come close to fearing the exact opposite, marvellously potent and alive.

‘Madre de Dio!’ The voice in her ear was rough and raw, the accented words almost incomprehensible through her whirling thoughts. ‘I feared I would not reach you in time. Are you all right?’

Was she?

Still unable to open her streaming eyes, or form coherent words, Emily could only nod silently, her thoughts further scrambled by the way that the movement brought her face close against the hard bones of a powerful shoulder, her senses tantalised by the ozone-tinged scent of his skin.

‘OK…’ she managed but knew that she was not yet ready to have him let go. Her feet barely touched the ocean bed, her toes simply drifting in the swirling sand, and she prayed that her rescuer wouldn’t let her go, fearing she would be dragged away again with the ebb and flow of the white-capped waves.

But he showed no sign of even thinking about releasing her. Instead he pulled her up closer, moved his hands again. Before she could quite register what he had in mind, he had swung her up off her uncertain feet, his arms coming under her legs as he lifted her high out of the water.

‘Ohhh…!’

Instinctively her own hands flew up, her arms fastening around his neck, holding on tight. She felt the muscles bunch in his shoulders as he took her weight, adjusted his stance, bracing strong legs against the powerful tug of the tide. Then, turning, he began the slow, difficult journey back to the shore, ploughing through the waves that still broke against them, spattering them both with cold spray.

‘Almost there…’

Emily didn’t know if he expected a reply. She couldn’t give him one if he did; couldn’t find the words. Her head was against his chest, the heavy, regular beat of his heart under her cheek.

If she opened her salt-crusted lids she could see the smooth line of his throat, the olive skin tanned gold even this late in the year. A slight movement of her head made it possible to see the point where his hair, jet black even without the soaking that the sea had given it, covered the bronzed skin at the nape of his neck. He wore his hair longer than most men she knew, the dark strands brushed against the neckline of his navy T-shirt, slightly unkempt, so very, very different from the tightly controlled, cropped way that Mark had always worn his.

But that was Mark. Everything about him had always had to be controlled. Except his drinking. When he drank all sense of control went out the window, and a very different man took over.

‘No!’

The word escaped her as she shook her head, trying to drive away the thoughts she didn’t want. She had come here today to get away from all that and she was not going to spoil her hard-won freedom by letting unwanted memories intrude and upset her.

‘No?’

The man who held her had heard her and his determined stride slowed, halted, his dark head turning, looking down at her. She saw the sudden flash of deep dark eyes, stunningly beautiful eyes fringed with impossibly long, luxuriant lashes, watched his black brows draw together in a frown.

‘What…?’

‘I’m fine…’

She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t want him to stop; wanted to stay in his hold, in his arms like this forever. Or at least in the space that seemed to have reached out to enclose her like a bubble, suspended in time.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Oh, yes, I’m sure—don’t let me go.’

Had she really said that?

The water must have battered her brain more than she’d realised. She felt as if she’d completely lost touch with reality. Had she really just asked this man—her unexpected rescuer, the man who had scooped her up from the waves when she had felt that she was going to drown, not to let her go? To keep her in his arms?

But the truth was that in those arms she felt wonderfully safe, protected as never before. It was as if the broad shoulders that supported her, the chest against which her head rested, had come between her and the world, acting as a defence against the trials and disasters that had darkened her life over the past months. With those arms around her she could, if not forget about the disasters that she had run away from and the problems and situation that awaited her when, inevitably, she had to go back, then at least put them out of her mind.

‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ that wonderful rich, deep voice with the surprisingly lyrical accent assured her. Just the way that he spoke sent warm waves of sensation running over her skin, easing the cold of her drenching in the sea, warming her blood. ‘Not until I’m sure that you can stand on your own.’

And most likely not even then, Vito told himself. He had hold of this woman now; he wasn’t going to let her go.

His heart had barely stopped racing, hardly slowed from the moment he had seen her dancing wildly in the sea, her hair swirling round her face, arms waving in the air. But then there had been that pulse-stopping moment when she had seemed to stumble, when her hands had flown up into the air. She had spun on one leg, fallen—and the white-crested waves had crashed over her head.

He hadn’t even been aware of moving, of racing down the strand to the sea. At some point he had kicked off his shoes and left them, careless of where they fell. His jacket had followed somewhere and all the time he had been running, running through the sand, into the water…

When he reached the spot where he’d last seen her he’d thought he’d lost her, the sea had already closed over her head. But then he’d seen, in the depths, the swirl of pale hair, an even paler face; the white of her T-shirt. And he’d plunged into the water. Eyes struggling against the sting, hands reaching out, closing over her arms, dragging her close, lifting her up and out…

At first he’d feared he was too late. She was terribly limp—too limp. But then she’d choked, coughed, and the air had rushed into her lungs on a huge, gasping sigh. Her head had fallen back against his shoulder, blonde hair splaying out across his chest.

And suddenly everything had changed.

She was cold and wet. He was cold and wet. But what he actually felt was a heavy, heated pulse that throbbed through every vein. The soft weight of her in his arms, made his own body tighten in hungry need and it was all he could do not to turn his head to hers and press a wild, demanding kiss on her parted lips.

But for now practicality was what mattered. Already the woman was starting to shiver in his arms. He had to get her to the shore, check that she had suffered no ill-effects from her accident. And so, gritting his teeth against the clamour from his inner senses, he turned and ploughed his way back towards the land.

‘Don’t let me go,’ she said again. ‘Don’t let me go!’

Didn’t she know that that wouldn’t be the problem? That the thought of letting her go had never entered his head? From the moment he had first seen her arrive at the beach, he had been caught, entranced, and now that he actually had her in his arms there was no way he was going to let her go. Not without exploring what this whole thing meant. Not without taking this unexpected, fiery connection to the furthest limits possible.

‘Oh, I’ve no intention of letting you go,’ he said again, disturbing himself even with the intensity of the way it came out. So much so that he amended it hastily, adding some nonsense about wanting to see her on her feet first.

And why, when they finally reached the shore, when his feet were on solid land, with the sand firm beneath them, did he not act on that? Why did he not let her down, still holding her, still supporting her, waiting to see if she could stand up by herself?

Because his whole body, everything that was in him, rebelled at the idea.

He had her where he wanted her and he wasn’t about to let go.

‘We’re here,’ he said when she didn’t appear to be about to stir either. Certainly she showed no sign of wanting to move but just lay in his hold as if she belonged there. ‘Signorina…’

That caught her attention, brought her head up. Her eyes—they were, he now saw, the softest, clearest blue, blue like the sky reflected in the sea—widened, looked straight into his.

‘You’re Italian!’

‘Sicilian.’

‘Oh…’

It was the last thing Emily had expected. When she had fallen into the cold, turbulent waters of the English Channel on a very English beach, she had never imagined that the man who had come to her rescue, like some knight of old racing to the defence of his lady, would be anything other than local. But now, looking up into his face, she saw that there was no way he could ever be taken for an Englishman. The olive-toned skin covering powerfully carved features, high, angular cheekbones, and the full, sensual mouth that now curved in a devastating smile, revealing white, white teeth, were definitely not the sort of looks she saw around her every day.

‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. My name is Vito…’

‘Emily…’ she managed awkwardly, her tongue stumbling even over her own name as she struggled with the over-heated race of her heart.

Those deep-set dark eyes burned down into hers with an intensity that seared her skin, making it flame with heat. It was as if the sun had suddenly come out from behind a cloud, almost blinding her, and she had to turn her head away, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder.

She should say thank you, she knew. She should say thank you for rescuing me and now would you please put me down? Let me stand on my feet…?

But she couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t say anything.

The scent of his skin surrounded her. Warm and musky and still overlaid by the ozone from the sea. She took it in with every breath, felt it enfold her like the strength of his arms. No man had touched her, no man had held her in too long. No man except Mark, but Mark’s hold had never affected her like this. Even in the beginning. Mark’s arms had never felt so strong, his skin hadn’t had that wild, intoxicating scent that went straight to her head like a swallow of the most potent of spirits, making her thoughts spin.

‘Emily…’

That voice, that accent made her name into a totally different sound. They took away the clipped, essentially English, pronunciation she was so used to hearing every day and transformed it into a warm, lyrical sound, one that stirred her senses so that she nestled even closer, burying her face against Vito’s chest, in the curve between his neck and his shoulder.

The warmth of his skin was against her cheek, the still damp strands of his hair brushing her ear as he moved his head, making her draw in a long, ragged breath. And with that breath she took in once more the essence of him, the scent of his skin, the taste…

In the warm, concealing darkness her closed eyes fluttered open, fixed on the point where just inches away from her, the heavy, regular throb of his pulse beat just under the skin. The firm stretch of olive skin was so smooth, so tempting…If she just moved her head…

It was only when her lips touched the warmth of his flesh that she realised what she’d done. And by then it was too late, way too late. Just the feel of it underneath her mouth, the taste of it on her tongue, was like a drug, making her blood heat, her senses yearn. Something hot and hungry and uncontrollable was uncoiling in the pit of her stomach, sending shivers of reaction along the pathway of every nerve. She couldn’t stop herself from pressing her lips to that pulse again, breathing in the scent of his skin, tasting it with her tongue.

‘Emilia,’ Vito said again but this time on a very different note. One that matched the thunder in her head, the sensations in her body.

‘Vito…’ she breathed against his neck and slowly lifted her head, turning back towards him, tilting her mouth…

And found it taken in a sizzling, blazing kiss that sent reaction scorching through every inch of her.

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The Sicilian's Red-Hot Revenge

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Kate Walker
THE SICILIAN’S RED-HOT REVENGE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

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