He held up a hand, stopping the protest that was about to leave my lips. “I am, as you have so eloquently put it, ancient. You may, ten years from now, decide that I am too old for you. You may decide that you settled down too young, that you missed out on other opportunities. You just got out of a two-year relationship, an engagement. You haven’t had any time to be single, to have a normal college experience. That may not seem important to you now, but it could later.” His brow furrowed and he looked at me intently. “I’ve never really cared if a woman ‘broke up’ with me. With you it is different. I am a gambler, Julia—I love the thrill of it. But with my heart, with my life, with you, there is too much at stake.”
I frowned at him, trying to understand the meaning behind his words. “So, what are you saying? You are breaking up with me? Because you love me?”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “No. I just want you to really think this through. I want you to understand what is at stake for me, and for you to really look at what you are giving up by being with me. I want you to really ask yourself if what you are feeling is love. Because for me, I have no doubts. I hate it, it scares the hell outta me, but I know it is true. I know that my life, from this day forward, will be incomplete unless I share it with you. I’m asking if you will be my wife.”
His wife? This was so unexpected that I blinked, my jaw literally dropping as my mind tried to comprehend the statement.
“Julia, will you marry me?”
I was so flustered I hadn’t even noticed him standing up, walking over to me and kneeling at my chair, a small box in his hand, unopened. He looked at me gravely, with such intensity, his handsome face waiting, expectant.
It was like time stood still, as if even the piano player took a break midsong. I was still adjusting to the fact that he had admitted love, to being “in love” with me. This was too much, too overwhelming, and I stared at the small box in his hand, in terror, afraid to open it, afraid that it might contain something beautiful that would be the final crack that would cause this whole beautiful glass ball to break into a million pieces. I understood what he was doing, understood what my saying yes would mean—to my situation, to the danger that threatened my life. Marrying him would protect me, but chain him. Possibly chain us both, and it was too soon. There was too much unknown about each other. Yes, I loved him. I was surer of it than I had ever been of anything. But did he really love me? Or was this a gallant form of chivalry that had invaded his senses, chloroformed his heart?
He shifted, waiting, his face growing stressed, and I stared at his eyes, the depths I loved, though I could never tell a damn thing from them.
I moistened my lips, my eyes stuck in the channel between us, then spoke.
“No.”
Fifty
His eyes blinked, but stayed on me. “No?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
He looked down at the rough roof beneath his knee, then hefted himself to his feet and sat down across from me. He gave an exasperated smile and looked at me, waiting.
“I would love to marry you, and to be your wife. But I want you to propose to me for the right reasons—not because we are in a bad situation. Am I correct in my understanding that getting engaged is your plan for keeping me safe?”
“Are you even going to look at the ring?” He set it on the table in front of me, pushing it forward, his eyes excited.
I glared at him. “Are you listening to me? I’m not going to look at the ring.”
“Why not?”
Grrrr. “Am I correct in that you are proposing so that your family does not hack me into little pieces?”
He grinned, still not getting the idea that I was rejecting him. “They don’t ‘hack.’”
“Answer the question.”
“I am in love with you. Something I never expected, didn’t want, but am now ecstatic over. You know me well enough to know that when I want something, I go after it. I love you, and want to let everyone know it—want to make our relationship permanent.”
“And...it would also conveniently fix our problem.” I folded my arms at him, the damn black box in front of me screaming for attention. I fought against looking down, against giving credence to its screams.
He shrugged. “Well, yes. As my wife, you would be untouchable. Protected.”
“Under lock and key.”
His eyes narrowed, a hard edge coming to them. “I don’t know what you mean by that comment. I have no desire to put you up in a big house and leave you alone, if that is what you are referring to. I want a partner in life, not a trophy in my case.”
“And you will be faithful?”
He reached forward, grabbing my hand and clasping it in both of his, pulling my eyes to his, dark and solemn. “Julia, you are incomparable. I know what I risk in straying from you, what I would lose if you left me. I promise to never kiss, caress or fuck another woman without you there, watching it happen. And I promise to allow you to be as unfaithful as you want, as long as I am there to make sure you’re satisfied.” His mouth curved into a grin and he brought my hand to his mouth, kissing it gently.
“Or flirt.”
“What?”
“You can’t flirt with women either. And by the way, you really do suck in the romance department. Hallmark will never put that last paragraph on a card.” My mouth moved without order, and I found myself grinning back at him. He nudged the box again, practically pushing the damn thing into my lap, his eyes lit with anticipation. He was like a damn kid at Christmas. I looked at him expectantly, and he frowned, then understood what I was waiting for.
“Oh. Right. No flirting. Do you want me to kneel again?”
I exhaled, frustrated. “You are treating this as a joke.”
“And you are way too serious about this—this is supposed to be a happy time. I am finally throwing off my stubborn bachelor ways and professing my love to you. You should grab the damn ring and run for the closest altar.” He reached forward, plucking the box from the table and opening it in one quick motion. Then he held it forward, and leaned across the table at me. “Julia, please. Ignore the bullshit and the drama going on in our lives. I truly believe that I was made for you, and there is not a woman on the planet that is more perfect for my troublesome self. I know you deserve better than me. But please, give me a chance to be a husband worthy of you, and I will spend my life becoming the man you deserve. Please, Julia. Marry me.”
His intense eyes, with darkness that I never could decipher, stared at me, and I saw truth in their depths. My eyes flickered from the heat of his stare, and I glanced down at the ring. I expected the ring to weaken my resolve, to be the final straw that broke the camel’s back. I expected that I would not be able to resist a diamond. It was a gorgeous setting, a perfect, breathtaking stone, but I wanted more. And looking back into his eyes, I found it.
I wanted him. Needed him. And in that desperation, I wanted to push him away, badly. Because in that vulnerability, there was certain heartbreak. But in the ring, in the engagement, there was safety. And I needed to be smart.
I exhaled slowly, decisively, and nodded. “Yes.” I held up my hand when he rose, his face lit with excitement. “Wait.” He stayed standing, but leaned forward, resting his hands on the table, waiting for me to finish.
“I’ll accept your proposal,” I said carefully. “But I’m not getting married. Not for at least a year, long enough for me to feel like you will be faithful to me. I’m not worried about us being happy, about us having enough love, about you being ‘the right one’ for me. I worry about you not being happy in a monogamous relationship, whether we are engaged in a swinger lifestyle or not. I just need time to make sure that you will be loyal, and will be happy being loyal.”
I paused, trying to keep a smile from my face. “But to appease your bloodthirsty family, and because I can’t imagine life without you, I will accept your proposal.”
I was in his arms before I could take a breath, his arms around my body, his mouth on min
e. He lifted me, spinning me around, and I laughed when he finally let me come up for air.
“Thank you,” he said, his mouth at my ear, voice gruff. “You have made me so happy.” Then he bent me back into a Hollywood dip, and my eyes found his in the dim light. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too,” I said, smiling up at him.
“Will you wear the damn ring now?” he said, pulling me back to my feet, the rooftop spinning a little, city lights and night sky everywhere.
I smiled and rolled my eyes. “Well, if you insist.”
And then my unromantic future husband knelt again on the rough rooftop and, with the sounds of Sinatra floating through the night air, put the ring on my finger and made it official.
Epilogue
We rode back to Brad’s house, the new engagement ring sparkling on my hand. It shone at me in the dark car, claiming me as its own, and I slid it off, then back on, just to prove to myself that I could. He reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing it reassuringly, and I looked over at him. His profile was strong, beautiful, mine. It felt odd, having security in our relationship. And at a point when I had just come to terms with the feelings I had for him.
“So. What’s next?” I spoke over the music, and he reached forward and turned it off.
“Tomorrow morning, I will speak to my father. If you feel comfortable enough, I’d like you to be there.”
“Me?” I blinked, considering the situation.
“Yes, you. He will love you, I promise.”
“Did he love your first wife?”
“Hillary?” He shifted in his seat. “Ummm...”
“Oh my God—he hated her.”
He grimaced, an overdramatic expression that turned into a smile as he started to laugh. “He, uh, wasn’t fond of Hillary. But you are different. He’ll like you.”
I crossed my arms, pulling my hand from his. “Really.”
He groaned, hanging his head a fraction too long, and I glanced worriedly back and forth between him and the road. “He is going to love you because I love you.”
“Ah, no. That didn’t work for Hillary.”
“You are different than Hillary. She was reserved, collected.”
I straightened in the leather seat. “I’m collected.”
He laughed, reaching for my hand again, and I moved it away. “No. You are lovable, funny, quirky and feisty, but you are not collected. You are classy. I’m not saying you aren’t a lady, but you have an air of energy and spunk that keeps you from being collected and reserved. It is why I fell for you, and why my father will, too. He didn’t like Hillary because he didn’t think she could make me happy. He was right, but I would never admit that to him or myself until it was too late.”
I blew out a puff of air and allowed his hand to find mine. “What if he shoots me?”
“My father will not shoot you.” My scrunched face must have showed my disbelief. “I promise! Now, come on, I want to take my fiancée to bed.” He put the car in park and leaned over, asking for a kiss. I grumbled slightly and met his lips, pressing mine chastely to his. He grabbed the back of my head and pulled me harder to him, taking my breath and my senses and communicating more sex, desire and need in one kiss than anyone I had ever met. I pushed him away, gasping for breath, laughing a little. “Fine. Take me to bed, if you must.”
“How kind of you.” He eyes held a glint of the devil I knew lay inside him. Then he blinked, and there was nothing but arousal and desire.
We started on the stairs, not the interior ones, but the wide, stone steps of the back porch, a passionate kiss against the column that led down to the ground, small groans emerging as he stripped off my dress and examined me closely, my back arched against hard stone, his hands traveling down between my breasts, worshiping them each in turn, his mouth quickly following the path of his hands.
I begged for him on those steps, soft pleas that went unfulfilled, his focus on me, his hands and mouth, that soft mouth that held such a wealth of carnal knowledge, taking me to that sweet, perfect arc. I came, my legs trembling around his head, my hands gripping rough stone, my new stilettos digging into the strength of his back.
Then we moved, him carrying me through the house, my bare breasts resting against his suit, his eyes on mine, a small smile tugging on those lips.
The bed was our next stop, soft down pillows where stone had just been, that magnificent cock finally let loose on my eager body. I rolled, I bent, I rode and I was conquered, six times in all! It was a long and lengthy session of firm hands, soft kisses and positions I had never even dreamed off. And in the end, I wanted to watch, and with his eyes on mine, furious, dark depths that reached in and grabbed my heart, throwing out all reason and restraint on their treacherous path, he finished, my hand taking the final steps to bring his body to the point that I had already traveled so many times that night. And as I watched him, as he marked my body with his ownership, I focused on those depths, those intense, dark eyes that led right to his soul, and the realization of the night’s events hit me hard. This man, this beautiful, incredible, strong man, was close to being mine. Completely and forever mine.
That night, after a long, hot shower, I lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling. Tomorrow held so much. My return to the office, his father’s decision, the beginning of my second life as a fiancée. Hopefully, this engagement would stick. The diamond glittered at me in the dim room. It would have to stick. My heart couldn’t survive a fall, not from the height that my feelings had climbed.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound of Brad’s breathing, a strong, steady cadence that spoke of confidence and assurance. I borrowed some of his confidence, dreaming of tomorrow and of the security his father’s blessing would bring. Of the changes that being Brad’s fiancée, his wife, would bring to my life. Me, a wife. And I knew, as I finally fell asleep, that my life was never going to be the same again.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from BLINDFOLDED INNOCENCE by Alessandra Torre.
Acknowledgments
I owe this book, and any success it has, to a team of individuals.
First and foremost—the readers. Wherever you are, whether it be curled up on your couch or in the break room at work—you rock my world. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for taking a second chance with Brad and Julia. Your time is valuable, and I am so grateful for it. I was (and still am!) a passionate reader—and I never realized my worth as a reader until I sat on this end of a book. For every friend that you share a good book with, or for every review you leave online, you grow another pair of angel wings. Thank you.
The bloggers. I don’t know how you find time for it—with work, lives and family—but you are my rock stars. As a reader, you helped me find those perfect, often-unknown gems. As a writer, you helped the readers find this story. Thank you so much for everything you do for us. You are all amazing.
My husband. Thank you for being the inspiration for Brad. It is also oh-so-helpful how you are always on hand to “inspire” me whenever the need arises. You are incorrigible and so much like me it is insane, but I love you, baby, forever and always. Thank you for giving me support and time to write, and for spoiling me incessantly.
My family. Thank you for giving me an ear when I need one, space when I need to write and advice when I don’t know what to do. You are my core support and I love you all. Most of all, thank you for not judging me for writing hot, dirty, scandalous smut.
The team. Maura Kye-Casella, you are the best agent a girl could hope for. Thank you for always being available and for never pressuring me. Emily Ohanjanians, thank you for all of your work on Blindfolded and Masked—you took those books and strengthened them in ways I couldn’t. Kate Dresser—thanks for jumping in midstream and breathing more life into Masked. You have been a dream to work with, thank you for being so flexible and insightful, all at the same time. And to the entire Harlequin HQN team—you have been brilliant, patient, helpful, timely and supporti
ve. I feel as if I have joined a family; thank you all for taking me under your wing and showing me such love.
My God. Thank you for giving me these ridiculous, crazy ideas that somehow, when written on paper, seem to make perfect sense. Thank you for creating my soul mate and somehow making him just lovable enough to steal my heart. And thank you for keeping me focused. You keep the ideas coming, and I will keep putting them on paper.
Thank you all. Without you this book wouldn’t be the book it is today. I appreciate you all and apologize for not telling you each and every day how much you mean to me.
Sincerely,
Alessandra
If you loved Masked Innocence by national bestselling author Alessandra Torre, be sure to also catch Blindfolded Innocence. Available now in ebook format.
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For more erotic tales be sure to also check out titles by acclaimed author Tiffany Reisz, all available in ebook format:
The Siren
The Angel
The Prince
The Mistress Files (novella)
The Mistress
The Saint (June 2014)
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One
Four months earlier
I decided to break off my engagement on a Wednesday night at 2:20 a.m. I was drunk past the point of walking a straight line, but not yet to the point of slurring my speech. Drunk wasn’t the best mind-set to be in to make a life-altering decision, but a thin curtain had finally been ripped away and a truth that I had evaded for the past two years now stood front and center in the middle of my head, waving its arms and screaming.
Masked Innocence Page 23
