curtain.
She had to repress a whistle of dismay, because there was the snow. And not the genteel icing sugar effect she was used
to either. Overnight, the world outside the cottage had become a series of anonymous lumps and bumps, shrouded by
drifts.
It looked, she thought unhappily, as if she was going to be stranded here for a while—and with him. And there wasn’t a
damned thing she could do about it.
She sighed, then went quietly round the room collecting a handful of underwear, a pair of dark blue cord trousers and a
cream roll-neck sweater in thick wool.
Then she slipped out, closing the door noiselessly behind her, and went to the bathroom, running a tub as hot as she could
stand. For a while she sat in a little huddle while the water cooled, legs drawn up to her chin as she stared into
nothingness, as she came reluctantly to terms with what had happened to her.
She felt exhausted too—by the unexpected strain of the passive resistance she’d managed to sustain until Rafaele had
eventually turned away from her to sleep and her taut, obdurate body had finally been able to relax.
Not that her stance had deterred him in the least, she thought bitterly. In fact, there’d been moments when she’d
suspected he was even amused by her obstinate refusal to permit herself even the slightest response to his lovemaking.
He’d simply shrugged and continued to use her for his own entertainment, as if she was merely some expensive toy with a
range of possibilities that he was curious to exploit.
And doing so, Emily realised, with a complete lack of inhibition that she found impossible to relate to the cool, elegant
young man who’d appeared from time to time in her life over the past three years.
Causing her, she thought, the kind of humiliation that she would never be able to forget. Or forgive.
She regretted now that she hadn’t fought him off, kicking and scratching, because instinct told her that Rafaele Di Salis
would have never lowered himself by resorting to using his superior strength.
But now it was much too late.
Dry eyes burning, she picked up the soap and began to wash herself from head to foot, massaging the lather carefully into
every inch of her skin so not one trace of him would be left behind.
Until next time, a small wintry voice in her head reminded her and she flinched, wondering just how much of him she
would be made to endure.
Surely he would become irritated with her stubbornness before long and find himself a more responsive lady.
He wouldn’t have to look far, she thought. His name had most recently been linked with that of Valentina Colona, a
twenty-seven-year-old former model who’d retired from the catwalk several years before to marry a wealthy industrialist
from Milan, three times her age. He was now in failing health and confined to his villa in Tuscany, but his money had
helped her start a chain of boutiques called Valentina X and she’d just launched her own perfume brand with the same
name.
And for the last six months she’d been coyly referred to in the gossip columns as Raf Di Salis’s ‘constant companion’.
Emily even knew what she looked like—raven hair, a heart-shaped face almost doll-like in its beauty and a stunning body
that managed to be lissom and voluptuous at the same time.
And last night Raf dared call me beautiful, she thought stormily. Compared with her, I’m a stick insect.
But what made his current behaviour truly inexplicable was the widely quoted story that Signora Colona would one day
become the next Contessa Di Salis.
As if Emily herself did not exist, her marriage to Raf brushed to the sidelines, she’d told herself when she read the
newspaper gossip. But she felt strangely stung just the same. Which was why she’d gambled that Raf would accept the
offered annulment as a quick way out of his marital dilemma.
Only Raf, as he’d made only too clear last night, had not seen it that way.
Maybe he doesn’t wish to give
She had to repress a whistle of dismay, because there was the snow. And not the genteel icing sugar effect she was used
to either. Overnight, the world outside the cottage had become a series of anonymous lumps and bumps, shrouded by
drifts.
It looked, she thought unhappily, as if she was going to be stranded here for a while—and with him. And there wasn’t a
damned thing she could do about it.
She sighed, then went quietly round the room collecting a handful of underwear, a pair of dark blue cord trousers and a
cream roll-neck sweater in thick wool.
Then she slipped out, closing the door noiselessly behind her, and went to the bathroom, running a tub as hot as she could
stand. For a while she sat in a little huddle while the water cooled, legs drawn up to her chin as she stared into
nothingness, as she came reluctantly to terms with what had happened to her.
She felt exhausted too—by the unexpected strain of the passive resistance she’d managed to sustain until Rafaele had
eventually turned away from her to sleep and her taut, obdurate body had finally been able to relax.
Not that her stance had deterred him in the least, she thought bitterly. In fact, there’d been moments when she’d
suspected he was even amused by her obstinate refusal to permit herself even the slightest response to his lovemaking.
He’d simply shrugged and continued to use her for his own entertainment, as if she was merely some expensive toy with a
range of possibilities that he was curious to exploit.
And doing so, Emily realised, with a complete lack of inhibition that she found impossible to relate to the cool, elegant
young man who’d appeared from time to time in her life over the past three years.
Causing her, she thought, the kind of humiliation that she would never be able to forget. Or forgive.
She regretted now that she hadn’t fought him off, kicking and scratching, because instinct told her that Rafaele Di Salis
would have never lowered himself by resorting to using his superior strength.
But now it was much too late.
Dry eyes burning, she picked up the soap and began to wash herself from head to foot, massaging the lather carefully into
every inch of her skin so not one trace of him would be left behind.
Until next time, a small wintry voice in her head reminded her and she flinched, wondering just how much of him she
would be made to endure.
Surely he would become irritated with her stubbornness before long and find himself a more responsive lady.
He wouldn’t have to look far, she thought. His name had most recently been linked with that of Valentina Colona, a
twenty-seven-year-old former model who’d retired from the catwalk several years before to marry a wealthy industrialist
from Milan, three times her age. He was now in failing health and confined to his villa in Tuscany, but his money had
helped her start a chain of boutiques called Valentina X and she’d just launched her own perfume brand with the same
name.
And for the last six months she’d been coyly referred to in the gossip columns as Raf Di Salis’s ‘constant companion’.
Emily even knew what she looked like—raven hair, a heart-shaped face almost doll-like in its beauty and a stunning body
that managed to be lissom and voluptuous at the same time.
And last night Raf dared call me beautiful, she thought stormily. Compared with her, I’m a stick insect.
But what made his current behaviour truly inexplicable was the widely quoted story that Signora Colona would one day
become the next Contessa Di Salis.
As if Emily herself did not exist, her marriage to Raf brushed to the sidelines, she’d told herself when she read the
newspaper gossip. But she felt strangely stung just the same. Which was why she’d gambled that Raf would accept the
offered annulment as a quick way out of his marital dilemma.
Only Raf, as he’d made only too clear last night, had not seen it that way.
Maybe he doesn’t wish to give
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