Forgiven but Not Forgotten? (11 page)

‘This time—’ he was grim ‘—we’ll make it to the bedroom.’

* * *

When Siena woke a couple of hours later it was to feel fingers running up and down her bare back, along the indentations of her spine. It was delicious, and yet she felt as if she would never be able to open her eyes again. She frowned and made some incoherent mumble, distantly aware of pleasurable aches and sensations in her body, a faint tingling.

‘Come on...we don’t have much time to get ready.’

Siena’s eyes snapped open when she heard that deep dark voice. Andreas was sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but a small towel, smelling clean and fresh, his hair damp. He’d just had a shower. Siena was instantly awake.

He stood up, and she couldn’t help but watch his sheer leonine grace as he unselfconsciously dropped the towel and went to the wardrobe to look for clothes. Siena averted her eyes. She still felt shellshocked by what had just happened. The way Andreas had stripped her bare, laid her on the bed and proceeded to explore her entire body with a thoroughness that had had her gasping, pleading and begging. Like some wanton stranger.

When he’d finally surged between her legs it had been all she could do not to explode right then, and Andreas had been a master of torture, bringing her close to the brink but never over...until she had been crying genuine tears of frustration. She could still feel them now, slightly sticky on her face. She hated that feeling of being a slave to his touch.

Humiliation washed through her and she cursed her relative innocence, not liking the thought of other, more proficient lovers who undoubtedly drove
him
over the edge.

After all, hadn’t he specified that he expected her to be an inventive lover? Except when he touched her any semblance of thought went out of the window and she could only feel.

Realising that she was still lying there, naked and mooning, Siena sat up and took advantage of Andreas disappearing into the bathroom to jump out and pull on her dress again, covering up. She noticed that one or two buttons were missing and blushed when she thought of Andreas’s big hands, fumbling until he’d become irritated and yanked it open. A small glow of pleasure infused her. Perhaps he wasn’t as insouciant as she thought?

Andreas reappeared, and Siena avoided looking at him buttoning his shirt and scooted into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She rested with her back against it for a moment, breathing in his provocative scent, then closed her eyes and tried to convince herself that she could get through this week and emerge at the other end unscathed and intact.

* * *

Andreas heard the shower running and imagined the water running in rivulets over Siena’s breasts and body. Arousal was instant and Andreas cursed, gave up trying to close a cufflink as if that was the problem.

He closed his eyes, but all he saw was how Siena had looked lying face down in the bed moments before, naked, arms stretched out, the curve of her breast visible. That stunning face looked somehow very innocent and young in repose, her mouth a soft moue.

Making love to her this time had had none of the madness of last night, but a different kind of insanity. Sliding into her body had felt disturbing—as if he was touching a part of himself that was buried deep. He’d never lost himself so much while making love to a woman that he literally became some kind of primal animal, able only to obey his body’s commands.

He’d expected that after making love to her he’d feel a steady beat of triumph. After all, this was exactly what he’d envisaged. Siena, naked and undone on his bed. Underneath him, begging for release.

She’d cried just now, when they’d made love. Sobbed for him to let her go, to stop torturing her. And he didn’t like how her tears had affected him, making him feel guilty.

He’d been punishing her as much as himself, and when she’d finally tipped over the edge the strength of her orgasm had almost been too much for him to handle. He’d worn protection, but Andreas wouldn’t have been surprised if the strength of his release had rendered it impotent.

In truth he hadn’t expected sex to be this good with Siena. He’d expected her to be cool, distanced. Too concerned with how she looked to let herself be really sensual. Slightly uptight. And yet she was blowing his mind.

He heard the shower stop and suddenly felt a very uncustomary spurt of panic. He couldn’t guarantee that if she walked out of that bathroom right now he wouldn’t be able
not
to take her again and to hell with the opera.

Only one woman had ever entranced him so much that he’d deviated from his plans. And the fact that he’d willingly invited her back into his life was not a welcome reminder of his weakness.

* * *

Fear of keeping her father waiting had instilled within Siena an ability to get ready in record time, so she wasn’t surprised when she saw Andreas’s look of shock when she walked into the main salon a short time later.

The way his eyes widened sent a shaft of something hot to her belly. The dress was, after all, exquisite. It was one-shouldered, a swathe of dusky pink layers of chiffon, shot through with gold. It hugged her chest and waist and then fell to the floor. She’d pulled her hair up and wore a pair of large teardrop pink diamond earrings.

Feeling absurdly nervous, Siena asked, ‘Will I do?’

Andreas smiled, but it looked harsh in the soft lighting of the palatial room. ‘You know you’ll do, Siena. I’m sure you don’t need compliments from me.’

Siena flushed. She hadn’t been searching for a compliment. Andreas looked more than stunning in a black tuxedo with a classic black bow-tie. His hair gleamed, still slightly damp, and his eyes looked like dark jewels.

He flicked a glance at his watch and then moved towards her.

‘We should go or we’ll miss the first half.’

Those nerves assailed her again when Andreas took her elbow in his hand, and Siena asked, ‘Which opera is it?’

Andreas was opening the main door and he glanced at her. ‘It’s
La Bohème.
’

Siena couldn’t stop the spontaneous rush of pleasure. ‘That’s my favourite opera.’

Dryly Andreas remarked as they got into the private lift, ‘Mine too. Perhaps we have something in common after all.’

The rush of pleasure died. No doubt Andreas was alluding to the disparity in their upbringings. She didn’t know much about his early life, but she knew it had been relatively humble.

Curious in a way she hadn’t been before, Siena found herself asking when they were in the back of his car, ‘Do you come from a big family?’

Andreas looked at her, but his face was in shadow. She could sense him tense at the question and wondered why.

Eventually he answered, ‘I have five younger sisters and my parents.’

Siena felt her curiosity increase on hearing this. ‘I didn’t realise you came from such a big family. Are you close?’

She could make out his jaw tightening. More reluctance. Clearly he didn’t want to talk about it. Siena confided nervously, ‘It was just me and Serena. I always wondered what it would be like—’ She broke off because she’d been about to say:
to have an older brother.
But of course she did have an older brother.

Andreas, as if seizing the opportunity to deflect attention, asked, ‘What
what
would be like?’

Siena swallowed. ‘Just...what it would have been like to have other siblings.’

Andreas arched a brow. ‘More sisters for your father to parade like ice princesses?’ Before Siena could react to that Andreas was saying curtly, ‘My family is not up for discussion. We come from worlds apart, Siena, that’s all you need to know.’

It was like a slap in the face. Siena sat back into the shadows and looked out of the window. That tiny glimpse into Andreas’s life had intrigued her, but she berated herself now for showing an interest, and hated that her imagination was seizing on what it would have been like to grow up in a large family. How being an only son might have impacted Andreas, fed his ambition to succeed.

She didn’t care, she told herself ruthlessly, as they pulled up outside the opera. A long line of beautifully dressed people were walking in ahead of them. Andreas came around to her door and held out his hand imperiously. Siena longed to be able to defy him but she thought of her only family: Serena, in a psychiatric unit in England, depending on her. She put her hand into Andreas’s.

* * *

Three nights later Siena was standing in Andreas’s London apartment, waiting for him to emerge from his room where he’d gone to get changed. She was already dressed and ready as Andreas had been delayed with work.

Since that evening in Paris things had cooled noticeably between them. Not, she had to admit, that they’d ever really been
warm.
Andreas had barely said another two words to her that night, and when they’d returned from the opera he’d told her he had to do some work and had disappeared into an office in the suite.

When she’d woken the next morning the bed beside her had been untouched, so Andreas must have slept somewhere else. Siena hadn’t liked the feeling of insecurity that had gripped her as she’d waited for Andreas to finish his meetings that morning so they could return to London.

However, when they’d returned to London that evening Andreas had led her straight to his bed and made love to her with such intensity that she hadn’t been able to move a muscle. Siena didn’t like to think of how willingly she’d gone into his arms, or the sense of relief she’d felt. Was she so weak and pathetic after a lifetime of bullying by her father that she welcomed this treatment? She seized on the fact that soon she would be independent again, and that she’d gone into this arrangement very willingly for an end which justified the means.

The following day Andreas had exhibited the same cool, emotional distance, confirming for Siena that this was how it would be unless they were in bed. On one level she’d welcomed it. She didn’t need Andreas to charm her, to pretend to something their relationship would never be.

On both evenings they’d gone out to functions. Last night had been a huge benefit for a charity that provided money for children injured in war-torn countries to be brought to Europe or the USA for medical treatment. It covered all their costs, including rehabilitation.

Siena had had tears in her eyes when a beautiful young Afghan woman had stood up to tell her story. She’d been shot because she’d spoken out about education as a teenager and this charity had transported her to America, where she’d received pioneering surgery and not only survived but thrived. She now worked for the UN.

It was only when the head of the charity had introduced the charity’s patron and invited him up to speak that Siena had realised it was Andreas. She’d sat there, stunned, listening to him speak passionately about not letting the children of conflict suffer. She’d felt absurdly hurt that he hadn’t told her of his involvement.

When he’d come back to the table, Siena had pushed down the hurt. ‘What made you want to get involved in something like this?’

His stern expression had reminded Siena that she was straying off the path of being his mute and supplicant mistress, and in that moment she’d wanted to stand up and walk out. Only thinking of Serena had kept her where she was.

Eventually he’d said, ‘A child in Mexico was caught in the crossfire between drug gangs. Ruben arranged for him to be brought to New York for treatment...unfortunately the child died, despite the doctors’ best efforts. I have eight nieces and nephews and they take their safety and security completely for granted—which is their right. This child from Mexico... It opened my eyes. After he died I knew I wanted to do more...’

Siena had realised then that she could not cling onto any prejudice she’d had about the kind of man Andreas was now she’d met him again. He was not power-hungry and greedy. Or amoral.

Ignoring his silent instruction not to pursue this topic, Siena had asked, ‘Do you want children?’

Andreas had looked at her and smiled mockingly, making Siena instantly regret her reckless question. She’d realised then that she’d asked it in a bid to pierce that cool control, because the last time they’d shared any meaningful dialogue it had been about his family.

‘Why, Siena? Are you offering to be the mother of my children? So that you can bring them up to follow in your footsteps and tease men before letting them fall to the ground so hard that their whole world shatters? Maybe if we had a daughter we could call her Estella, after that great Dickensian heroine who beguiled and bewitched poor hapless Pip with her beauty only to crush him like a fly...’

She had been so shocked at this softly delivered attack that she’d put down her napkin and stood up, saying quietly, ‘You’re no Pip, Andreas, and you don’t remember correctly. Estella was the victim.’

Siena had walked blindly to the bathroom and shut herself inside. She hadn’t been able to stop the hot prickle of tears from overflowing. She’d been stunned at how hurt she felt, and at the mixture of guilt and shame that churned in her gut along with the awful image Andreas had just put in her head.

He could never know how cruel his words were. Her deepest, most fervent dream was some day to be part of the kind of family unit she’d never known.

She’d used to look out of her bedroom window in Florence to a park on the other side of the tiny
piazza
outside their
palazzo.
There she would see mothers and fathers and children. She’d seen love and affection and laughter and she’d ached with a physical pain to know what that would be like. To love and be loved. To have children and give them all the security and affection she’d never known... She’d never even realised until Andreas had uttered those words how badly she still wanted it.

When she’d felt composed enough to return Andreas had been waiting impatiently and they’d left. He’d looked at her in the dark shadows of the back of his car and Siena had instinctively recoiled, unable to bear the thought of him touching her when she felt so raw.

He’d said roughly, ‘You say Estella was the victim? From where I’m sitting she looks remarkably robust.’