He understood, the ugly memories of that night were so debilitating he couldn’t think of them without feeling a wave of remorse. “As long as the wedding plans have a contingency for speed,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been suffering without you too long. I can’t wait.”
She grinned. “I think that’s my line. But don’t worry, Father Alessandro will arrange things,” she said. “He can do anything.”
Chapter 37
In this case, Father Alessandro had a marriage license drawn up swiftly, the bishop signed it and twenty minutes later, Flynn and Jo were married in the chapel of the San Marco monastery. Father Alessandro officiated, the bride and groom were beaming, and the witnesses agreed later that the couple were so deeply in love, they didn’t hear a word of the service.
When Father Alessandro pronounced them man and wife, they looked at each other in the candlelight, their eyes bright with tears.
“You’re crying,” Jo whispered.
“It’s the candle smoke,” Flynn said, swiping his fist over his eyes.
“Me, too. Candle smoke always does that to me.”
He laughed softly. “I’ll have to take care of that now that you’re mine.”
She nodded her head. “You’re mine too, don’t forget.”
He grinned. “Are you sure that’s how it works?”
“Flynn!”
Father Alessandro cleared his throat, not wishing to referee an argument so soon after the wedding. He recognized that obstinate look in Jo’s eyes, having seen it numerous times before—the first time when she was four and told him in no uncertain terms that she was not lost, she was smelling the flowers.
“Thank you for expediting everything, for your kindness and support,” Flynn interposed, shaking the curate’s hand, preferring not to seriously debate degrees of possession at the moment. He’d not quite come to terms with them himself.
“I wish you both all the happiness in the world.” Father Alessandro had tears in his eyes as well, gazing at the young woman he’d helped raise, pleased she’d found the love she deserved.
“I’ll take good care of Jo, Father. She’s my world.”
“I don’t need taking care of,” she retorted, force of habit difficult to break. “Tell him, Sandro. I can take care of myself.”
“It’s my hope you take care of each other,” the curate diplomatically replied.
Tactfully changing the subject, Flynn said, “Father, we’d like you to join us for our wedding breakfast.”
Jo shot Flynn a surprised look. “You didn’t say anything about a breakfast.”
“Everyone has a wedding breakfast,” he replied with a smile. “I thought you knew.”
She beamed and immediately declared, “We have to go to Giacosa! You’ll love it, darling. He’ll love it, won’t he, Sandro!”
And so it was decided. They dined outside under the shade of flowering vines and were feted by the entire restaurant for their newlywed status. It was a lovely wedding day, sunny and warm; it was a splendid wedding feast and they ate and drank and basked in the blissful enchantment of their love and the absolute perfection of their world.
On their return to the hotel, Flynn bought her a ring from one of the jewelry stalls on the Ponte Vecchio. “You decide,” he said and she picked out a square-cut emerald the jeweler claimed had come from a Spanish Infanta. She admired it and enthused over it all the way back to the hotel, waving it in front of him, holding her hand out before her, twisting it this way and that so the gem caught the light, telling him he shouldn’t have spent so much, making him enormously happy he could buy her presents.
And when they walked into her suite and she saw all the flowers, she squealed with delight. “How did you do it? How, how, how?” she cried, throwing her arms around him, causing the maid who was carrying in a bottle of wine to almost drop it.
“Just set it down anywhere,” Flynn said, nodding at the maid over Jo’s head. “That will be all.”
And the minute the door closed, he grinned at her and said, “You’re so much fun to buy things for. . . such enthusiasm.” “We’re not all stoic warrior-monks,” she retorted, grinning. “So tell me”—she waved her hand at the flowers, baskets and vases of them, the fragrance scenting the suite—“how did you do this when you never left my side?”
“I sent a message from the restaurant.”
“For that, too?” She indicated a large package on one of the few tables not occupied by a vase of flowers.
He nodded and unlacing her arms from around his waist, turned her and gave her a little nudge toward the package. “See if you like it.”
When she’d unwrapped the present, she discovered a beautiful scale model of the Duomo, every detail precise, the various components lifting apart so the interior could be viewed, each fresco and altar and column lovingly approximated. “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered. “I’ve never had such a lovely gift.” She’d had very few gifts in her life. Lucy wasn’t ungenerous, just unthinking.
“I saw it yesterday when I was wandering the streets and I know how much you love Florence. I thought wherever we are, you’ll have this as a remembrance.”
His tone had suddenly changed and looking up from the model, she turned to him. “What do you mean wherever we are?”
He held out his hand and a tiny shiver of fear struck her. He looked so grave. When she went to him, he sat down, pulled her onto his lap and kissed her gently.
“You’re frightening me, Flynn,” she said, a moment later, her voice hushed, her eyes dark with apprehension. “You’re not dying of something?”
He smiled and she felt better. “That’s only in operas.”
She thought of the battle with the Empire. That hadn’t been an opera, but very real and if he hadn’t been so serious, she would have mentioned it. But she didn’t want to argue— not now. . . with his mood so alarming. “Tell me what you meant when you said wherever, ” she said, trying not to show her fear.
“I don’t know if I want to go back to Montana, that’s all.”
She was instantly relieved. “We’ll stay here for a time then. It doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“I don’t know if I ever want to go back,” he said, softly.
“Oh.” It was the smallest of exhalations.
“I started training as a warrior when I was very young,” he quietly explained, his words subdued. “It seems as though I’ve been fighting all my life. I’m tired. My enemies are all dead. My family’s gone. I want peace. I want a normal life.” His dark gaze held hers for a poignant moment. “Now that I have you, I want it even more. You are my Kwannon, my goddess of mercy.”
“You were going back though, when I saw you at the station.”
“I’m not sure I would have gotten there. I might have gone somewhere else.”
“What about the ranch?”
“I left McFee with power of attorney and a half interest. But if you want to go back,” he said, quietly, his gaze open, “we will.”
“I’d like to go back from time to time—to see Mother and Hazard and my family. Would you mind?” She was being as cautious as he, trying to read his expression, his feelings.
“I just want to be with you. Somewhere, I don’t care where as long as I don’t have to prove myself to every man with a gun and an attitude.” He wanted to say, Do you know how many men I've killed? but he couldn’t without seeing forever the look of horror that would appear on her face. So he said instead, “I’ve been fighting since I was sixteen. I don’t have anything more to prove.”
“Should we stay in Florence for a time?”
He smiled. “With Charles?”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Why not stay then,” he agreed, because he could tell she wished to. And he could deal with Charles well enough. “Just make sure you explain to him that I don’t want to fence with him,” he said, smiling.
She grinned. “Done. Hazard bought me a villa that I haven’t lived in because I think I wanted t
o go back and find you, although I didn’t realize that until just now,” she said, finally understanding why she’d been reluctant to settle down. “Would you like to stay there? It has the advantage of being an hour away from Charles.”
“No more need be said. The villa it is.” Flynn smiled. “First thing tomorrow.”
“Because we have to admire all these flowers today.”
“And tonight—among other things.”
“Umm .. . whenever I hear that tone of voice I get all tingly.”
“Do you get tingly in any special place?”
“It depends what you mean by special?”
“As in specially mine, ” he said, hushed and low.
“As long as what I want of yours is mine, ” she answered with a smile, as possessive as he, as independent.
“I can see we’re going to have to negotiate this issue of ownership delicately.”
“Delicate is good,” she said, grinning, shifting her bottom faintly on his thighs.
His dark gaze was amused. “Is there anything that’s not good for you?”
“Not when you’re around.”
His brows drew together in mild reproof. “Perhaps you’d like to rephrase that, now that you’re a married woman.”
“You’re my everything, always and only.” She grinned. “Better?”
“Much.”
“I’m relieved. Since this is supposed to be our honeymoon,” she said with a considering look.
He offered her a rueful smile, his fierce jealousy resistant to reason. “Forgive me. I’m completely at fault.”
“Perhaps you could show me the degree of your contrition in a more physical fashion,” she murmured. “A personal gesture, as it were, to show your devotion.”
“I’m not getting on my knees again.”
“Not ever?”
The way she pronounced the words made him immediately change his mind. “You want me on my knees? You need but say the word, darling. But if that’s what you want, you have a great deal too many petticoats and other sundry articles of clothing in the way.”
She instantly slid from his lap and lifted her skirts and petticoats. “Even now?”
He laughed. “Haste is no longer a requirement. We have all the time in the world.”
“Which fact does not, however, negate the need for speed right now”—her brows rose—“if you please.”
His mouth lifted in a slow, lazy smile. “Why don’t I play lady’s maid and dispose of all those unnecessary clothes. You’re not going to be needing them anyway.”
“Ummm . . . what a delicious thought. Are we going to spend our honeymoon in bed?”
“Isn’t that what a honeymoon is?”
“According to some women of my acquaintance, honeymoons are for shopping and sightseeing.”
“Then their husbands must have very lovely mistresses.” Suddenly recalling Flynn’s former life of dissipation, she turned a darkling look on him. “Which you will never have— is that clear?”
“Why would I want one when I have you?”
“I would prefer a more definitive reply. One that contains the word no or none or never. ”
Reaching out, he unclasped her hands from her skirts and pulled her close. “I will never have a mistress,” he said, softly. “My word on it.”
“Thank you.” She made a moue. “I should be more sophisticated, I know,” she said with a little sigh. “But in that regard, I’m terribly ungenerous.”
“We’re both of the same mind. You need not explain to me. In fact, I’m sure I’m even more ungenerous than you.”
“So we will be in each other’s pockets.”
He grinned. “And other places as well.”
“Libertine”—she pulled her hands away—“I thought we were being serious.”
“I am serious.”
She held his gaze for a potent moment. “How serious?” “Whatever you want, darling,” he said without hesitation. It stopped her for a moment—that casual unbridled license. “You’re only rash with me, right?”
He understood it was going to be a matter of serious negotiation—this mutual jealousy. “I am only rash with you,” he said with utter simplicity.
Her face lit up with delight, her smile piquant. “In that case, I’d like to make love on the balcony with the sun and breeze and the great blue sky above us.”
“Now?” It was midday and the square below was bustling with activity, not to mention the various other nearby balconies that might be occupied.
“A balcony has always seemed so romantic—I’ve always wanted to . . . well—”
“Expose yourself?” he said with a grin.
“And you’ve always been discreet?” she countered, her raised brows offering challenge.
Discreet was not a word ordinarily applied to Flynn Ito and his amorous escapades as they both knew.
“Not entirely,” he answered, carefully succinct, glancing at the balcony through the half-opened doors.
“We could leave our clothes on.”
His mouth twitched into a smile. “I see.”
“Well—will you?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Why didn’t you say that right away?”
“No reason.” He was still smiling.
“You’re highly aggravating for a man on his honeymoon.” “And you’re sweet as sugar candy,” he said, agreeably, beginning to unbutton his frock coat.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking off my coat. No one’s likely to take issue with me”— his brows flickered in amusement—“for various reasons, one of which is my extreme generosity to the concierge. I don’t see why we should have sex with our clothes on.”
“Flynn! Don’t you dare!”
“You started it.” He kicked off his shoes.
“Well, I’m stopping it right now!”
“Do you know how tantalizing you look when you stamp your foot like that? It makes me very lustful,” he said with a grin, dropping his frock coat to the floor, his waistcoat following a second later.
“Flynn! I’m not going out there naked!”
“You have no sense of adventure.” He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it atop his other discarded clothing.
“I know too many people here!”
“Believe me, no one will say a word to you.” He was unbuttoning his trousers with swift, facile movements.
“To my face, you mean.”
“What else did you think I meant. They won’t.” He slid his trousers and underwear down, stepped out of them and pulled off his socks. “Now, then,” he said standing up, “let me help you undress.”
Jo ran—not very far, as it turned out. Flynn was faster, stronger and in truth as intemperate as his reputation alleged. He disrobed his new bride with only a few minor scratches and bruised shins while gaining a new appreciation for his wife’s extensive repertoire of Italian curses.
But her fury transmuted after a time, her struggles quieted and while it wouldn’t be fair to say her sexual needs were paramount in that eventual capitulation, or that Flynn’s powerful nude body and blatant arousal were prime incentives— certainly they were strong inducement. But he kissed her too—over and over again—everywhere and whispered heated words of love that quickened her senses and kindled her ready desires.
It was really quite impossible to long deny Flynn’s very agreeable charms.
“Don’t think you can always have your way with me,” she whispered, twining her arms around his neck, her nude body melting against him, “just because I happen to find tall, dark, handsome men particularly sensual and enticing.”
“I would never presume to think that,” he said, grinning.
“Are you being impertinent?”
“Not in the least. But if you had a moment to indulge me,” he murmured, pushing her gently backward, “I feel sure I could further entice you.”
“What makes you think I wish you to?” But she didn’t resist his gentle press
ure.
“The flush on your cheeks,” he whispered, brushing his knuckles over her face as they slowly moved backward, “and your stiff little nipples,” he added, touching one taut crest with the lightest of pressures. “And of course—this,” he murmured, slipping his finger into her throbbing slit, bringing it up drenched, sliding it up her throat as he eased her against the wall. “You seem—well. . . cordially disposed . .
“To be enticed.”
His smile was cheeky. “Or fucked,” he said, his fingers curling over her shoulders, his body leaning into hers.
His blunt suggestion spiked through her brain, his rigid erection pressed hard against her and an answering flare of desire curled downward—pulsing, liquid, flame-hot, urgent. She moaned softly.
“Soon, darling,” he whispered, exerting pressure on her inner thighs with his palm, gently spreading her legs. “You can have it all.” Bending his legs to adjust his height to hers, he guided the crest of his erection to her heated cleft and entered her with a swift upward thrust of his hips.
She exhaled in a low, breathy sigh as he buried his rigid length inside her, and when he lifted her legs around his waist and leaned into her, holding her hard against the wall so he had better leverage, so he could plunge deeper, she clutched at his shoulders and sobbed and cried out his name and climaxed before he’d established a decent rhythm.
“It’s been so long,” she whispered in the way of an apology, the words warm on his throat.
“Good, that’s good, perfect,” he murmured, her celibacy gratifying, his penis surging higher as though in reward for her good behavior. Mildly shocked at the overwhelming pleasure he felt at her disclosure, he’d not thought himself so punctilious. Sliding his hands under her bottom, he slowly drew her toward him, filling her, stretching her, moving in her with deft finesse and exquisite deliberation, as though in compensation for her constancy, wanting to make her as happy as she’d made him. And midway through one of her fierce, panting, tempestuous orgasms, he carried her outside because she was past noticing anything other than the surging fever pitch of ravenous desire.
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