The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [83]
Alice didn’t care.
The rest was a blur of kisses and roaming hands, Alice pressed almost horizontal in the backseat of a taxi as she lost herself to the pressure of his touch until they jerked to a sudden stop. Rafael dragged her from the car. They must have passed a lobby, and the stairs, but clutching Rafael’s jacket—his hands burning against her skin as they slipped beneath the draped back of her dress—Alice barely noticed. The only surroundings she registered were the hasty rattle of keys and a distant church bell and then the polished floor was hard against her, cold as he dragged her down. She gasped. Pinning her arms above her head with one hand, Rafael paused to watch her, his eyes dark with lust. Alice’s blood was surging. She wanted more, before she lost her nerve and this all faded away. Pushing up, she tried to reach his lips, but he ducked back just an inch, teasing her. Alice tugged at her wrists, but his weight was too heavy, pressing them into the floor, so she made a noise of frustration, and arched up again, this time reaching far enough to capture his mouth in a ragged kiss. She bit down on his bottom lip and then he broke, releasing her arms and kissing her hungrily again, his hands tangling in her hair, her dress, her thighs. Alice was mindless. Her usual detachment was gone, and instead, the world had shrunk to nothing but the heavy press of his body on hers and the heat of their mouths and the gorgeous pressure—“Oh, God. There”—as he pushed up her dress and drew his hand firm against her.
It wasn’t enough.
Pulling herself from his embrace, Alice rose to her feet. Her heart was racing, and her breath was coming fast, but still, she found herself steady as she turned away from him and took a few steps toward the open bedroom door, slow and provocative. She paused for a moment, the shock of reality suddenly threatening to strip her of her bold abandon—was she really doing this?—but then Rafael groaned “Angelique,” and cloaked in her foreign name, Alice felt a rush of power. This wasn’t real; it didn’t count.
She unhooked the slim straps of her dress, letting it fall to the floor in a flutter of red silk before continuing into the bedroom.
Chapter Nineteen
It was still dark when Alice climbed out of her taxi and skipped up the hotel steps. She felt almost drunk from the events of that night—dizzy, and faintly disbelieving. Vivid flashes kept flooding her mind, and without the murmur of somebody else’s name to give her distance from her own actions, Alice’s cheeks flushed hot with the memories.
She’d been shameless.
“Signora Love?”
A determined-looking woman moved across the lobby toward her. She was dressed in a red suit with crisp shirt, but despite the name tag that gleamed on her lapel, it took Alice a moment to realize this must be the elusive Carina.
“Yes?” Alice wavered by the elevator, still half existing back in Rafael’s tangled sheets. “Is the computer back up? Because I’d rather go through check-in tomorrow. It’s late,” she apologized, patting down her disheveled hair. “So I’d really—’”
Carina turned her back on Alice and snapped her fingers. Two uniformed men appeared from beside the reception desk: young, and dark haired, with neat blue shirts and navy shorts. Police uniforms, Alice registered. She looked at them blankly.
“Is something wrong? Did something happen, back at home?”
They didn’t reply. Instead, the men studied her curiously while Carina began to speak in rapid Italian, gesturing emphatically with every other sentence. Alice waited, confused, until she caught sight of Pascal in the background.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, taking a step toward him. Immediately, one of the policemen moved to block her path. For the first time, Alice felt a tremor of fear. “What’s happening?” she demanded, louder this time. “What is this?”
Carina finally broke off her tirade. She glared at Alice. “You are foolish, yes, to come back? To make fun and scorn me?”
Alice shook her head, still trying to follow. It was too far from the gloss and glitter of her