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flared between them. His hands had dug into her tender flesh, and her legs had wrapped around his of their own accord. She'd ground her aching pussy into the erection straining his jeans. Yes, yes, yes. This is what she needed to keep the fear at bay, to help her ground herself—this man, his hands all over her.
    His teeth had nipped, his lips suckled at the tender skin on her neck, hard enough to leave bruises, and a rush of arousal had coated her underwear. Her stomach had clenched in anticipation, and she'd shivered in his arms, as hot harsh breaths against her heated flesh sent darts of awareness along her sensitized nerve endings. Her needy moans had mingled with his deep groans, when he'd thrust his hips between her legs. His mouth had found hers again, the kiss harsh and unrelenting, designed to hurt, to punish. Every atom of her had been on fire for him, drinking in his scent, his anger, and his desperation. It had matched hers, and frustration had built at the constraints of their clothing. She'd needed to be closer. She'd needed him, all of him inside her now, but at her whispered plea, he had released her instantly. Hands either side of her head, his body still crowded her against the wall had taunted her with what she craved so desperately, yet could not have.  Breathing hard, his eyes cold and calculating, he had shaken his head.
    "You'd like that wouldn't you, cara ." The ice cold words had stung and settled like a poison dart in her heart. It clenched in on itself, as his mouth had hovered over hers, and his hot breath had fanned across her face.
    "So tell me, how you are going to repay the widow of the man, who was killed tonight, defending your sorry ass? How are you going to explain to his unborn son why he will never meet his father?" He had stepped away from her, the slump of his big shoulders reiterating the bone weary tiredness once again edged into the lines of his face. "And for what? To defend you? A lying, cheating whore?"
    "I'm not a whore…" Her voice had sounded feeble even to her, the conviction lacking, as images assaulted her—images she knew to be true. Oh God, what have I been involved in? And how was she ever going to repay the hurt she had caused due to her own idiocy? How was she going to convince him that she had changed, that she was worth saving?
    Jemima closed her eyes, recalling the way his cruel, disappointed laugh had chilled her bones.
    "Just a liar and cheat then? Take your pick. It really doesn't matter." And with one last look of sheer contempt he had slammed the door shut on his way out.
    With a deep sigh Jemima fixed another piece of paper to her easel, trying in vain to seek some refuge in her paintings. Even that wasn't working. All she seemed to produce were images so disturbing she couldn't bear to look at them. One face kept swimming at the edge of her consciousness, and with a frown she settled down to the impossible task of capturing that image in paint.
    ****
    Giorgio watched her paint from his study. He'd always loved to watch her. Jemima was a supremely talented artist. Back then he'd tried to convince her to exhibit. The get-together of local art connoisseurs he'd arranged had proven to be a disaster, however, because one of them had taken a far too personal interest in Giorgio's new wife. The pen he was holding in his hand broke, and Giorgio swore at his renewed loss of control.
    It was no use raking up the past, even if the past had a habit of catching up with you. Luc Beauchamp had been a pain in his ass ever since, especially since Marco had entered into a business venture with the French vineyard owner. Giorgio narrowed his eyes and grew thoughtful. Luc had been remarkably quiet, ever since Jemima had been found in that hospital room. The French man was known for his dubious business practices, and rumors were rife about his personal depravities. Whether he would stoop as low as this remained to be seen, but the fine hair on Giorgio's arms rose. This would