Redemption of the Untamed Italian by Clare Connelly

Author:Clare Connelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2019-11-12T15:13:31+00:00

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She dreamed of him in that strange way of haunted dreams, where the fragments seemed so real that she couldn’t say if she was asleep or awake. She dreamed of his hands on her body, his lips against hers, his arousal inside her. She dreamed of him, and she writhed for him, and she woke up with a need she couldn’t quell. It was a warm day in London, the kind of day that made her ache to be back at Almer Hall, where she could dive into the ancient pond, surrounded by mossy pavers and arum lilies, then turn onto her back, staring up at the sky until the sun formed little circles against her eyelids.

She’d done it a lot after Cameron had died. She’d wanted to escape the house, her parents, their grief and their arguments. She’d wanted to escape the whole world. In the pond, with its murky darkness, its ancient shape, she’d found a world all her own. In the water, she’d been weightless, her ears dipped below the surface so she couldn’t hear anything except the beating of her own heart.

In the pond, she’d found peace when her whole world had been falling apart. She’d found relief from summer’s bite and loss’s tight grip—the water had made her whole again.

The sun stretched across her bedroom now, long and blade-like, brighter than a star. She lifted her hand, stretching her fingers in its path, and sighed.

Cesare filled her pores, her mind, her soul, her every thought. He was a fever in her blood.

She pushed the duvet back, showering restlessly and dressing quickly—a pair of denim cut-offs and an oversized shirt that had a habit of falling off one shoulder.

Her need for him was insatiable, but there was no point rushing. He’d be working today, despite the fact it was a Sunday, and the thought of returning to their Cannes love nest with no Cesare in sight wasn’t a particularly palatable one. She might as well spend the day catching up with friends, seeing as she was in London anyway, and fly out in the afternoon.

In fact, she made a point of going about her life, business as usual: tidying her flat, lunching with her closest girlfriends. She didn’t tell any of them where she’d been, nor who she’d been with. It was easy enough to say she was on location for a shoot—she travelled so much for work no one really thought to question it.

Despite the fact she kept herself busy, the day passed interminably slowly. As her cab cut through London in the afternoon—she’d refused to call his driver, to appear as though she couldn’t manage to get herself to the airport—she admitted to herself that she’d spent the day in a sort of a trance. It was as though her life, her world, was being viewed through a piece of glass smeared in butter. Everything was blurry and impenetrable. She’d been going through the motions but nothing had felt vibrant or right.

It was the dream that had unsettled her.

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