by Ella James
Fuck…she’s shaking. I squeeze her hands, frowning at her face; she’s pale, with red along her nose and cheekbones.
“Rosa…how’s it going?” I ask quietly.
She moves in closer to me, bowing her head against my chest, so her forehead presses against my pec. “I’m okay.”
But her voice sounds weak. I glance around. Seeing no one in our quiet vicinity, I can’t help folding her against me. “What’s the matter?” I rub her back. “Are you sick? Or hurt or upset?”
She feels like she’s shaking, and her body’s rigid even as my hand moves up to cup her nape.
She shakes her head once.
“You feel okay?”
Another glance around, and when it looks all clear, I let myself kiss her hair.“La mia rosa perfetta. Mi Manchi tanto…”
Her hair smells so goddamn good. There’s nothing like having my arms around her. Then her arms coming around my waist. Her nose nuzzles my temple, and somehow our mouths join. Her kisses are deep, hot, and minty. I feel like she’s breathing quickly, pulling away to gulp breaths more than normal—and by now I can tell for sure she’s shaking. Every time our tongues stroke, she lets out a mewl-like groan, and she trembles.
“Bella,” I murmur between kisses. “Bella Elise…questo è un così adorabile ciao.”
“Why are you here?” It’s a whimper.
I press my cheek against hers. “Why does the sun rise?”
She kisses my cheek and chin and brow—just gentle pecks. “I missed you.”
“I miss you more, la mia rosa.”
We kiss, hard and rough and aching, until she’s panting again. Then her eyes are on mine, making my knees weak. “Be careful when you’re moving things.” It’s barely whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“In Queens.” Her eyes are wide, imploring.
I smooth her hair off her warm forehead. “If you’re looking into that, you need to talk to Nicci Woodbern at the FBI.”
Her brows gather. I can see wheels turning in her head, which makes my heart kick up a notch. “You can’t talk to me about it, rosa.” I cup her flushed cheek with my hand and try to really look her over. “Are you okay?”
Her face is pale under the spots of color on her cheeks, and I think her eyes look glassy.
A little shiver ripples through her shoulders as she closes her eyes. “I had the flu. I’m better now.”
I hold her closer, and she sort of sags against me. “Is Jace around?”
“He’s away,” she says. “For work.”
Her cheek is on my shoulder, her arms holding onto my waist. I press my face against her throat and listen to her heartbeat. When she glances up at me, her eyelids look heavy.
“Povero tesoro…”
She’s not better. Sweet Elise is curled against me, holding on as if her legs might give out. Fuck, and I can’t really help her. Hugging her with one arm, I reach into my pocket with my other hand and dig out my key. Then I press it into her palm. “I’m parked at the Lutheran church across the street and a little down from Tavern on the Green. Can you walk to my car?”
Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, and I know it’s bullshit—that she’s better—when she just nods.
“That’s right.” I sweep her hair back off her forehead again. “Just get in and wait for me. I’ll come right after.”
She nods.
“You know where that church is?”
“Yes.” She gives me a small smile and steps away. With just a foot or two between us, she lifts her slender hand, as if to wave. Then she turns away from me and drifts into a slow jog.
Fifteen minutes later, I find her reclined in my front passenger seat, buckled with her eyes closed and an arm wrapped around her middle. When I get in the car, she peels her eyelids open, smiling a smile that looks painful.
“Stellina.” I smooth my hand over her warm forehead. “Anywhere you need to be?”
She shakes her head, closing her eyes. Then a shiver ripples through her, and she draws into herself as if she’s cold.
“Let me take you to my place, la mia rosa. Only for a few hours. Let me take care of you like you did for me at the cabin.”
She peeks up at me, looking definitely dazed. I lay my hand over her forehead again. Then I reach into the back seat for a hoodie I keep there. At the next stop light, I spread it over her.
“This might be a bad idea.” Her glazed eyes peek at me, even as she starts to shiver again. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I take all my vitamins.”
I rub her soft hair, using my fingertips to massage along her hairline while I drive us slowly toward the bridge.
“You hot or cold?”
“I’m fine.” She gives me a tiny smile. Now that she’s stationary and curled up, I can see how sick she really is.
“What happened to make you go out running? You go a little stir crazy?”
She shuts her eyes again, and her lips curve slightly. “Something like that.”
“Gotta rest when you’re not feeling well, la mia rosa. Stay in bed.”
She gives me another smile, and I stroke my hand over her forehead again. “Is it wrong I’m glad you didn’t?”
I keep messing with her hair, her forehead, and she doesn’t answer. She’s asleep by the time we get to the bridge. It’s a slow drive into Queens. As we’re passing Fort Totten Park, she peeks her eyes open, squinting around before her gaze settles on me. There’s this moment where a cute grin overtakes over her face. Then she seems more ponderous. She sits her chair up and looks down at her chest, which is covered with my hoodie.
“Curious to see where I live, rosa?”
She gives me a tiny smirk. “I already know it’s in Kings Point.”
Elise
I wonder if he knows about the camera I had in his yard. When I say “Kings Point,” his lips twitch like he’s going to say something, but when his gaze dips back to mine, his handsome face is at polite neutral.
Despite the headiness of this adventure—I’m covered with his hoodie, and he’s taking me to his house—my eyelids feel weighted. I shouldn’t have run, I guess, but I’ve been cooped up at home for four long days, and I was tired of being alone with my thoughts. Needed to do something to feel…capable. Like I can handle my new, insane situation.
When I saw him as I stood behind the lemonade stand, every cell in me went still. It was such a shock, but in a way, it felt so unsurprising. Of course he would find me this morning, when I’m feeling so alone and afraid. Of course he would sweep me up and spirit me away. And I would let him.
I close my eyes and keep them closed for what feels like a long time, playing silly film reels only I can see. Maybe they aren’t silly. Maybe they’re just crazy. My skin feels like it’s burning, and my mouth feels too dry. When I peel my eyelids open, I’m confused at first by the thick line of green I’m seeing out the upper quadrant of the car’s windows.
The leaves.
Because it’s summer, and the trees are lush here.
I peek at Luca, stunned anew by being in his car. I’m admiring his familiar profile when the car slows and his hand comes to my forehead again—long, cool fingers pushing lightly on my temples and the spot between my brows. He nudges his knee under his black leather steering wheel, uses his other hand to press something near the ceiling. Then his hand returns to the wheel, turning the car sharply left, and we drive through a black, iron fence.
His gaze flits down to me, and he gives me the sweetest smile, and he’s so handsome; I’m basking in his presence in a way that’s almost hard to comprehend. He gives my head a little stroke with two fingertips.
“Sleeping beauty,” he murmurs. I wrap my hand around his, bringing it to my cheek as I sit up more and blink at the sprawling property before me.
We’re rolling down a long, narrow driveway that runs straight for a few hundred yards and then veers slightly left into a double garage. Beside the driveway is a long, manicured lawn, the green gras
s rolling like a red carpet before the house, which is a stately, brick two-story with a roof that looks like gray stone or…are those wooden shingles? I squint and decide they are wood.
The door is white; the window frames are done in white. The windows are curved at the top, like slight arches, and I can see a brass knocker on the door as we move closer. The grass is cut in rigid lines, which likely means he doesn’t cut it himself. I look at the shrubs and the stone path leading to the front door. It looks somewhat Hamptons, somewhat quaint despite its obvious—if understated—elegance.
“This is yours.” I smile up at Luca.
“So the bank said.”
This is the house the mob bought, I can’t help thinking.
He reaches up toward the ceiling again, and one of the garage doors lifts. And then we’re rolling in. An automatic light blinks on, and I see two large bikes mounted on the wall in front of the car’s hood. He touches my shoulder, as if his hand is saying goodbye to my body, before climbing out of the car, walking around the car’s hood—he wiggles his brows as he passes in front of me—and opening my door.
He helps me out, and when I wince—I turned my ankle slightly as I jogged to his car—he flashes me a gentle smile before he scoops me up, so he can carry me like a bride over the threshold. He holds me with just one muscular arm as he presses his finger to some kind of touch-screen lock.
I giggle like a woman unhinged as we move into a spacious laundry room done in pale olive. I’m fascinated by the fresh, clean smell and dark wood cubbies topped by five iron hooks, where he’s got baseball caps, a beanie, and a brown belt hanging. He carries me into a narrow hall. I’m overwhelmed by the contemporary feel of sleek hardwood and crisp crown molding, by the art that’s everywhere, and by the knowledge this is his home. Every time I wonder where he is or what he’s doing, Luca is here.
There’s a kitchen with black granite counters and pale gray cabinets that stretch almost to the ceiling. I note double ovens and an interesting chandelier before we’re in a gorgeous living room. Fireplace and dark brown leather couches, a rug that looks like fur… I spot a dining nook which has a wall that’s dominated by a single canvas—something dark and abstract.
I nuzzle his throat, wiggling my butt in his arms.
“Put me down…so I can see your beautiful home.”
He grins wickedly down at me, hugs me tighter, and takes long strides down another hall, which has tall, gorgeous, slightly rounded ceilings. It smells like clean linen. This is his house. Then he turns toward a tall, thin door, which he nudges open with his foot, and we’re in his room.
The walls are gray, and the floor is that same walnut hardwood, covered by a massive, Oriental rug. His king-sized bed is done in navy, beige, and gray. But it’s the walls that really draw my eye. Above his bed, between two windows, over a suede-looking couch, there are abstract rose paintings.
I glance up, and he’s smiling this little smile—it’s that twitch of a smile he does—and I think maybe he’s embarrassed. But he blinks down at me, holding my gaze with his blue one, and he looks somber. Like I’m a priest and he’s confessing.
I touch the base of his throat. “I love it,” I whisper.
There’s the twitch again, and then he won’t look down at me again as he says, “You want bed or bath, la mia rosa?”
“How do I decide?”
“You feeling warm or cold?”
“A little cold.”
“Let’s come in here then.”
He walks to a door to the left of the bed, between a tall, mahogany-looking dresser and what I think might be a record player. He nudges the door open, and we move into a sleek bathroom with what just might be the largest walk-in shower I’ve ever seen, and a deep, bowl-shaped tub that would hold both him and me with ease.
He sets me on the rug, turns the tub on, and takes one of my hands.
“You good in here if I do a few things?”
I nod, trying not to feel disappointed.
“I’ll step into my room,” he says. “You hand me your clothes through the door and I’ll start the wash.”
That makes me grin—with mostly relief. “You’re stepping out for me to undress?”
“You are someone else’s wife.” His voice is rough, but he looks like he’s trying to tease. He ruffles my hair, and I know for sure that he is.
I wrap my arms around his lean waist, resting my forehead against his chest. “I hope your mother knew she raised a good man.”
His low laugh echoes as his palm smooths down the back of my hair. “Elise…” I feel his chest move as he laughs. “Have I brainwashed you?”
“You’re good. I don’t know how it makes sense, but I still think it does.”
He says nothing, just breathes deeply. “I know you probably don’t want to get too close to my disease-ridden self, so I think it is a good idea for me to pass you my clothes through the door.” I wiggle my brows. “Don’t want to tempt you into Illsville.”
He winks, and as he steps away, I think he looks awkward. Then he’s moving toward the counter. He turns back to me with a tall bottle filled with liquid. There are pearls at the bottom. “Isa brought this back from Paris. Smells like…something you might like.” He gives me a silly little look as I peer closer.
“Thank you.”
He pours some into the tub and waggles his brows before stepping out. A minute later, I hand him my clothes through the door crack. God, I hope he doesn’t get too near my sweaty undies.
I’m so relaxed that I’m nearly asleep when I hear something. I look up, finding him just inside the door, clearly in motion, with one leg in front of the other, as if he paused mid-step.
“Sneaking around,” I murmur with a smile.
“Checking in.” He brings his legs together, standing up straight with his hands behind his back like a solider, sans salute. He looks slightly bashful. I notice my water’s cool.
“Wait, how long have I been in here?”
“About forty minutes.”
“Wow, I didn’t even realize.”
He moves closer, turning the hot water knob. “Wait” —I frown— “how did it not overflow?”
He smirks.
“You’re the bathtub angel.”
“L’angelo delle belle donne.”
“The angel of beautiful women.” I grin. “How many have you had in here?” I splash the water, and he chuckles.
“Scratch that,” I say. “I don’t want to know.”
He pulls a stool over beside the tub and sits on it, running a hand back through his hair. “Why’s that?” There’s a soft smile on his lips.
“Because I don’t want to know.”
“You let your guard down with me too much, rosa, for someone who’s afraid to hear this answer.”
“What, you mean what we did in the closet at the party?”
His eyes dip to the floor. “In every way.”
“Does that mean I shouldn’t trust you?”
“No.” It’s so soft. I can see him chew the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the floor. “I feel like I don’t deserve it.”
“I’m gonna hit you with a quote I love from The Sopranos. Because tell me that’s not appropriate.”
He grins.
“Do you know it?”
He lifts a shoulder. “From The Sopranos?”
“I think it is.”
“Deserve’s got nothing to do with it,” he says in a perfect Clint Eastwood voice. Then he lifts his brows. “That’s from Unforgiven, rosa.”
“Drat. Well, still true.” I trace the creamy remnants of the bubbles in the water as I feel him watching me.
“No one’s been in there.”
“What?”
He’s still looking at his shoes—black Nikes—as he splays his hands in front of him with fingertips steepled.
“No one’s been in your tub? Since we saw each other at the cabins this past winter?”
He looks up, pinning me with his blue eyes. “No one�
��s been in my tub ever.”
I’m stunned silly, trying to remember when the deed said he bought this house.
“No one’s ever been in here.” He stands and walks out the door without a look back at me.
26
Luca
Good job, dumbass. Hit her with some random heavy stuff when she’s sick and half asleep. Then walk out and leave her confused.
It takes a few minutes for me to go back in there. When I do, I find her sitting straight up, looking at the door with wide eyes and raised brows, as if she’s contemplating getting out and finding me.
“I’m sorry.” I drop my gaze down to my feet, feeling like a kid who hit a baseball through the window. “That was weird, right?”
Some noise comes from my throat—it’s like a laugh but not.
She grins, though, and lays her bare arm on the tub’s side, curling two fingers as if to say, come here.
I sit on the stool, and she says, “Come into the tub. Unless you’re scared of germs. And I think, actually, that’s really valid.”
I swallow and look up at her. “I got a flu shot.”
“Did you?”
She looks so surprised, it makes me laugh. “Believe it or not.”
“Socially responsible.”
I give her a small smirk. “I do what I can.”
She runs her palm over the surface of the water. “Come in. Now you’re out of excuses.”
I blink toward the ceiling, where recessed lighting casts a glow over the tub—like a spotlight.
“You don’t have to if you don’t—”
I stand and take my clothes off, moving slow and somewhat careful, mostly so she won’t notice the pink scar on my hip and ask about it again.
I go for the opposite side of the tub, thinking we can face each other, but she holds her hand out. In a soft voice, and with heavy-lidded eyes again, she says, “Behind me.” It’s almost a whisper.
You don’t want me behind you, I almost say, because my dick’s going to poke you in the back. But she smiles sweetly, like it means the world to her, me sitting behind her, and then she scoots forward.
