steady thud of the axe as Cristiano chopped logs for the fire. A delicious shudder of remembered pleasure rippled up her spine as she imagined the movement of his muscles as he unleashed all that tightly restrained power and strength, and, waiting for Lizzie to answer, she found herself walking towards the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of him.
He had his back to her as he took another big cross-sectionof pine bough from the haphazard pile and put it down on the deeply scarred cutting block. Kate’s mouth dried as she watched him pick up the axe, weighing it between his hands for a second before swinging it down. The wood split cleanly open, showing its pale inside.
For someone so strong he moved with an easy, mesmerising grace. He had been wearing a soft and faded denim shirt, but with the heat of exertion he’d taken it off and tied it around his waist, so that she could easily see the outline of his body beneath his fitted white T-shirt. The palms of her hands tingled as the memory of gripping his iron-hard shoulders as he’d thrust into her came back to her. She’d dug her fingers into his flesh and cried out with—
‘Hi—you’ve reached Dominic, Lizzie and Ruby…’
Kate jumped out of her skin as Lizzie’s cheerful answer-machine message cut right through her X-rated reverie, and guilt and shame washed through her. She’d completely forgotten she had the phone pressed to her ear. Unable to form a coherent message, she quickly cut the call and darted back to the stove, just in time to pull the furiously bubbling pan off the heat.
Slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans, she began to stir the pan again, breathing in the wine-and-herb infused steam and distantly thinking that usually she would be frantic with worry if Lizzie didn’t answer, imagining all sorts of catastrophes had befallen Alexander. But it was as if Cristiano’s touch had stilled her and some of his strength had seeped into her.
After her attempt to explain the events of that night had come to such a breathtaking conclusion, they had spoken little. Drugged with pleasure and drained from exertion they had simply lain together, and Kate had understood in some deep-down part of herself that if this was all there was, if there was no future for them, the quiet bliss she felt then would last her for a lifetime.
But she wasn’t going to think like that. Not yet. She still had this evening…tonight…to help him remember, or to makehim feel that way again. To get past the remote, guarded stranger with the expressionless eyes and the cynical smile and find her way back to the man she had got to know that night in Monaco. The man who had told her his secrets and cried in her arms.
It wasn’t over yet.
Cristiano stood up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He should go in. The low sun had moved around to the other side of the house now, the light was fading, and the heap of logs he had split in the last hour was enough to keep the fire blazing for a month.
In truth there had already been more than enough logs, and although he’d told himself that the least he could do to repay Francine’s kindness was build up supplies for next time she visited, he knew that his real reasons were far more selfish.
He’d come out here to try to rouse himself out of the unfamiliar lethargy that had gripped him since they’d arrived last night. He carried an armful of logs around the corner of the house and looked out towards the distant slopes. The dying sun was painting the snow an unlikely shade of orange, and he paused to watch two skiers weave their way down, plumes of white flying up in their wake. Usually he would be desperate to get out and join them, but today, with his body still sated and slow with pleasure, the impulse to throw himself down a black run was spectacularly absent.
It bothered him.
During the endless weeks Cristiano had spent lying on his back in a hospital bed he’d been so restless
He had his back to her as he took another big cross-sectionof pine bough from the haphazard pile and put it down on the deeply scarred cutting block. Kate’s mouth dried as she watched him pick up the axe, weighing it between his hands for a second before swinging it down. The wood split cleanly open, showing its pale inside.
For someone so strong he moved with an easy, mesmerising grace. He had been wearing a soft and faded denim shirt, but with the heat of exertion he’d taken it off and tied it around his waist, so that she could easily see the outline of his body beneath his fitted white T-shirt. The palms of her hands tingled as the memory of gripping his iron-hard shoulders as he’d thrust into her came back to her. She’d dug her fingers into his flesh and cried out with—
‘Hi—you’ve reached Dominic, Lizzie and Ruby…’
Kate jumped out of her skin as Lizzie’s cheerful answer-machine message cut right through her X-rated reverie, and guilt and shame washed through her. She’d completely forgotten she had the phone pressed to her ear. Unable to form a coherent message, she quickly cut the call and darted back to the stove, just in time to pull the furiously bubbling pan off the heat.
Slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans, she began to stir the pan again, breathing in the wine-and-herb infused steam and distantly thinking that usually she would be frantic with worry if Lizzie didn’t answer, imagining all sorts of catastrophes had befallen Alexander. But it was as if Cristiano’s touch had stilled her and some of his strength had seeped into her.
After her attempt to explain the events of that night had come to such a breathtaking conclusion, they had spoken little. Drugged with pleasure and drained from exertion they had simply lain together, and Kate had understood in some deep-down part of herself that if this was all there was, if there was no future for them, the quiet bliss she felt then would last her for a lifetime.
But she wasn’t going to think like that. Not yet. She still had this evening…tonight…to help him remember, or to makehim feel that way again. To get past the remote, guarded stranger with the expressionless eyes and the cynical smile and find her way back to the man she had got to know that night in Monaco. The man who had told her his secrets and cried in her arms.
It wasn’t over yet.
Cristiano stood up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He should go in. The low sun had moved around to the other side of the house now, the light was fading, and the heap of logs he had split in the last hour was enough to keep the fire blazing for a month.
In truth there had already been more than enough logs, and although he’d told himself that the least he could do to repay Francine’s kindness was build up supplies for next time she visited, he knew that his real reasons were far more selfish.
He’d come out here to try to rouse himself out of the unfamiliar lethargy that had gripped him since they’d arrived last night. He carried an armful of logs around the corner of the house and looked out towards the distant slopes. The dying sun was painting the snow an unlikely shade of orange, and he paused to watch two skiers weave their way down, plumes of white flying up in their wake. Usually he would be desperate to get out and join them, but today, with his body still sated and slow with pleasure, the impulse to throw himself down a black run was spectacularly absent.
It bothered him.
During the endless weeks Cristiano had spent lying on his back in a hospital bed he’d been so restless
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