Reunited with Her Italian Ex by Lucy Gordon Page A

touch him, but she snatched them back, unsure whether she would embrace him or push him away. She understood nothing except the disturbing pleasure of his lips on hers, and the maddening instinct to slap his face.
    For two years she’d wanted to be in his arms, dreamed of it while mentally rejecting it in her rage at his betrayal. Now the sweetness of holding him again struggled with fury at his assumption that he could do as he liked and she would have to accept it.
    But she could not repulse him. Whatever common sense might dictate, she must appear to react to him blissfully and chance what the future might bring. She let herself press against him, eager to feel his response, and then—
    â€˜All right, Giorgio?’ Mario cried, standing back. ‘Is that what you want?’
    Natasha froze, barely able to believe what had happened. It seemed that the feelings that had pervaded her had been hers alone. Had he felt anything beyond the need to get the photographs right? Fury simmered inside her.
    â€˜That’s fine,’ Giorgio said. ‘Do it just like that, for the camera.’
    Then Mario’s hands were on her again, drawing her nearer so that he could lay his lips on hers and hold her against him, unmoving. She could feel the warmth of his mouth, of his whole body, and her own responded to the sensation whether she wanted it to or not. Her anger flared further.
    Somewhere in the background she could hear the sound of a camera, clicking again and again until at last Giorgio called, ‘All right, that’s it. Well done, you two. Now let’s think about the next scene.’
    â€˜I need a little fresh air first,’ Natasha said, quickly slipping out of the nearest door into a corridor.
    She ran until she reached a corner behind which she could hide. She must escape Mario lest he suspect that she’d just discovered the power he still had over her.
    But when she looked around she found him facing her.
    â€˜Did you follow me?’ she demanded.
    â€˜I thought that was what you meant me to do. Don’t you have something you want to say to me?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, I have a thousand things,’ she said furiously. ‘You’ve got a nerve, doing what you did back there.’
    â€˜Kissing you, you mean? But you owed it to me. When we parted you never kissed me goodbye.’
    â€˜I never thumped the living daylights out of you either, which I was surely tempted to.’
    He seemed to consider this. ‘So you think I deserve to have you slap my face? Very well. Do your worst.’
    â€˜What are you saying?’
    â€˜Go ahead. Slap me if it will make you feel better.’
    He jutted his chin out a little and stood waiting.
    â€˜Stop talking nonsense,’ she snapped.
    â€˜I mean it. You can do what you like and I promise not to retaliate.’
    â€˜This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it?’
    He shook his head. ‘My sense of humour died the day you left. In the weeks I spent trying to find you I buried it deep underground. So what now? Aren’t you going to hit me?’
    â€˜Certainly not. It would be unprofessional. I might leave marks on your face that would spoil the next photographs. The matter is closed.’
    He saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.’
    â€˜Oh, stop it—stop it! Stop trying to make a fool of me, of yourself, of both of us.’
    Suddenly, his manner changed. The wry irony died and a bleakness came into his eyes. ‘You silly woman,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t you realise that we all have our own way of coping.’
    â€˜And that’s your way? Well, this is my way.’
    Without warning, the swift temper she’d vowed to control swept over her, driving her to do something she knew was madness. She seized his head in her hands, drew it down and covered his mouth with her own. At once she could feel his hands on her and sensed the same confusion as she had