led to the bathroom.
That achieved, he rapped loudly on the solid wood. ‘Flora? It’s Angelo. Are you all right?’ he asked urgently.
Flora was very far from being all right. White and shaking, she clung to the edge of the sink to steady her wobbly lower limbs. She felt like death warmed up andher brain was woozy, thoughts coming only slowly. Why on earth had Angelo come to see her again? She felt too sick to protest as she usually would have done. Sickness had a way of making one concentrate only on the immediate. In any case, Angelo was so determined that protest would have been a waste of time and energy. Like a steamroller chugging unstoppably downhill Angelo just kept on rolling no matter what she said or did.
Flora opened the door a crack and clung to the handle for support. Angelo pressed the door wider open and she stepped back awkwardly. She was so much more colourful and somehow
real
than other women, he thought helplessly, immediately admiring the flame colour of her bright hair against her creamy skin and the sheer leggy elegance of her tall, slender figure. And his libido, which had steadfastly refused to react to a single one of the nubile models whose numbers were stored in his mobile phone, suddenly took high-voltage flight. That surge of intense sexual arousal froze Angelo in place and the source of it so much took him aback that he then viewed Flora with instantly cooler and more critical eyes. Just as quickly he saw the change in her and consternation took hold of him instead.
‘I’m fine … I’m just suffering from nausea,’ she told him wryly. ‘Welcome to the reality of being pregnant.’
But Angelo was shocked by her shadowed eyes and pallor and he recognised from the sharpness of her cheekbones and the loose fit of her clothing that she had lost a good deal of weight since he had last seen her.
’Dios mio,
you look terrible,’ he breathed, backtracking from his opinion a mere sixty seconds earlier when justa welcome glimpse of her warm familiar colouring had instantly convinced him that she looked terrific.
Pain pierced Flora as she still secretly cherished the memory of him calling her beautiful. This revised opinion hit her hard, even though she was aware that she looked less than her best in jeans and a shirt with not even a dash of make-up to brighten her up. Angelo, on the other hand, looked absolutely effortlessly gorgeous. The breeze had tousled his thick black cropped hair and scored colour along the splendid line of his high cheekbones, accentuating his superb bone structure. Even this early in the day his golden skin was beginning to shadow with dark stubble across his stubborn jaw line and round his wide sensual mouth. He was more casually dressed than she was accustomed to seeing him in jeans and a fine expensive sweater worn with a very masculine jacket. Her mouth running dry, she was quite overpowered by his magnetic presence for a couple of minutes.
‘You should lie down for a while,’ Angelo instructed.
‘I can’t,’ Flora groaned. ‘I have guests waiting for their breakfast downstairs …’ And she was dreading the prospect, having already learned that certain cooking smells could make her feel horribly nauseous.
‘I will deal with them. Go to your bed,’ Angelo urged with impressive assurance.
Flora had never seen Angelo as a guy likely to be handy in the kitchen and she hovered uncertainly.
’But …:
‘Go and lie down,’ he said again, stepping to one side to thrust open the door to the room he had already identified as hers.
The sight of her comfortable bed was all the pressure Flora needed at that moment and she crossed the corridor to gratefully collapse in a heap on top of the duvet. Her weary limbs were heavy as iron. She was so tired, indeed she was convinced that she had never been so tired in her whole life. The bouts of constant sickness that seized hold of her at all times of day and the exhaustion of continually feeling unwell had
That achieved, he rapped loudly on the solid wood. ‘Flora? It’s Angelo. Are you all right?’ he asked urgently.
Flora was very far from being all right. White and shaking, she clung to the edge of the sink to steady her wobbly lower limbs. She felt like death warmed up andher brain was woozy, thoughts coming only slowly. Why on earth had Angelo come to see her again? She felt too sick to protest as she usually would have done. Sickness had a way of making one concentrate only on the immediate. In any case, Angelo was so determined that protest would have been a waste of time and energy. Like a steamroller chugging unstoppably downhill Angelo just kept on rolling no matter what she said or did.
Flora opened the door a crack and clung to the handle for support. Angelo pressed the door wider open and she stepped back awkwardly. She was so much more colourful and somehow
real
than other women, he thought helplessly, immediately admiring the flame colour of her bright hair against her creamy skin and the sheer leggy elegance of her tall, slender figure. And his libido, which had steadfastly refused to react to a single one of the nubile models whose numbers were stored in his mobile phone, suddenly took high-voltage flight. That surge of intense sexual arousal froze Angelo in place and the source of it so much took him aback that he then viewed Flora with instantly cooler and more critical eyes. Just as quickly he saw the change in her and consternation took hold of him instead.
‘I’m fine … I’m just suffering from nausea,’ she told him wryly. ‘Welcome to the reality of being pregnant.’
But Angelo was shocked by her shadowed eyes and pallor and he recognised from the sharpness of her cheekbones and the loose fit of her clothing that she had lost a good deal of weight since he had last seen her.
’Dios mio,
you look terrible,’ he breathed, backtracking from his opinion a mere sixty seconds earlier when justa welcome glimpse of her warm familiar colouring had instantly convinced him that she looked terrific.
Pain pierced Flora as she still secretly cherished the memory of him calling her beautiful. This revised opinion hit her hard, even though she was aware that she looked less than her best in jeans and a shirt with not even a dash of make-up to brighten her up. Angelo, on the other hand, looked absolutely effortlessly gorgeous. The breeze had tousled his thick black cropped hair and scored colour along the splendid line of his high cheekbones, accentuating his superb bone structure. Even this early in the day his golden skin was beginning to shadow with dark stubble across his stubborn jaw line and round his wide sensual mouth. He was more casually dressed than she was accustomed to seeing him in jeans and a fine expensive sweater worn with a very masculine jacket. Her mouth running dry, she was quite overpowered by his magnetic presence for a couple of minutes.
‘You should lie down for a while,’ Angelo instructed.
‘I can’t,’ Flora groaned. ‘I have guests waiting for their breakfast downstairs …’ And she was dreading the prospect, having already learned that certain cooking smells could make her feel horribly nauseous.
‘I will deal with them. Go to your bed,’ Angelo urged with impressive assurance.
Flora had never seen Angelo as a guy likely to be handy in the kitchen and she hovered uncertainly.
’But …:
‘Go and lie down,’ he said again, stepping to one side to thrust open the door to the room he had already identified as hers.
The sight of her comfortable bed was all the pressure Flora needed at that moment and she crossed the corridor to gratefully collapse in a heap on top of the duvet. Her weary limbs were heavy as iron. She was so tired, indeed she was convinced that she had never been so tired in her whole life. The bouts of constant sickness that seized hold of her at all times of day and the exhaustion of continually feeling unwell had
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