by Abby Green
He flushed as if she’d hit a nerve. ‘Clearly I made a mistake in not taking you along to those dinners with me.’
Lara started backing away around the kitchen island, her jitteriness increasing as Ciro advanced. ‘No, it’s fine—honestly. I know those things are work-related...not interesting. I’d only cramp your style.’
Then, as if she hadn’t spoken, Ciro said almost musingly, ‘I had no idea you liked going to bed so early. I seem to remember you telling me that you loved the night-time—after midnight, when everyone else is asleep and the world is finally quiet and at peace.’
Now Lara flushed. He’d remembered that romantic stroll when he’d taken her through deserted Florentine squares under the moonlight? She’d been such a sap, believing he wanted to hear all her silly chattering about everything and anything.
He waved a hand. ‘None of that’s important. There’s only one thing I’m interested in right now, and that’s repairing an area of our marriage that seems to have become neglected, thanks to my workload and your proclivity for early nights.’
Lara could see the explicit gleam in his eye and felt herself responding as if she literally had no agency over her own body.
‘Actually, I think this week is a good example of how this marriage will succeed,’ she blurted out with a sense of desperation. ‘You know, if you want to take a mistress then please go right ahead. It might be better, actually, if we’re to keep things clear and separate. After all, my worth is only really in helping you to network.’
Ciro barked out a laugh and shook his head. ‘Take a mistress and give you grounds for divorce? I don’t think so, cara mia. And you do yourself down. Your worth isn’t only for your social standing and connections—it’s also in the place where I want you right now.’
Lara stopped moving, feeling a sense of inevitability washing over her that, treacherously, she didn’t fight. ‘Where’s that?’
Ciro came and stood in front of her. ‘My bed...under me.’
The lasagne growing cool on the island was forgotten. Everything was distilled down to this moment and the way Ciro was looking at her.
He reached out and she felt air caress her skin. He was undoing her shirt and she slapped at his hands. ‘Stop! What if someone comes in?’
Ciro was spreading her shirt apart now, his hands spanning her waist. She was finding it hard to focus as he tugged her forward.
‘Dominique isn’t here and Nigel has gone home. I passed him on my way in.’
Lara knew all that. They were entirely alone in this vast townhouse. She was so close to his body now that she could smell his scent. It reminded her of Sicily, of the sun baking the ground and something far more sensual and musky. Him.
She knew he was distracting her, and also punishing her on some level for having had the temerity to bring domesticity into this situation, but all she could think about was how she had denied herself his touch all week.
His head was coming closer, and Lara fought a tiny pathetic internal battle before she gave up and allowed Ciro’s mouth to capture hers. He pressed her back against the island but Lara didn’t even notice. Nor did she notice when Ciro pulled off her shirt and undid her bra, freeing her breasts into his hands, bringing her nipples to stinging life.
She squirmed against him, instinctively seeking flesh-on-flesh contact. He smiled against her mouth and Lara felt it, just as he broke the kiss and trailed his mouth down over her jaw and her chest to her breasts, tipping up first one and then the other, so that he could feast on them, sucking and licking and biting gently, causing a rush of hot blood to flow between Lara’s legs, damp and hot.
Suddenly she was being lifted into Ciro’s arms and he was carrying her out of the kitchen and up through the house. Lara’s breathing was uneven. She realised she was bare from the waist up, but she could feel no shame, only a sense of rising desperation.
When they got to Ciro’s bedroom he shed his clothes with indecent haste. Lara was equally ready, pulling off her jeans and panties, her skin prickling with need as she lay back and took in the sight of Ciro standing proudly by the bed, every muscle bulging and taut as he rolled protection on.
She wanted to weep because she was so ready. It made a mockery of the nights when she’d feigned sleep and believed herself to have scored some kind of victory. It had been a pyrrhic victory. Empty.
Ciro came down on the bed by Lara and she bit her lip. He put a thumb there, tugging her lip free, before claiming her mouth in a drugging, time-altering kiss. Ciro’s hands explored every inch of her body until she was incoherent with need, past the point of begging.
But he knew. Of course he knew. Because he was the devil.
He settled his body between her spread legs, and in the same moment that he thrust deep, to the very core of where she ached most, he took her mouth and absorbed her hoarse cry of relief.
It was fast and furious. Lara reached her peak in a blinding rush of pleasure so intense she blacked out for a moment. Ciro’s body locked tight a moment after, his huge powerful frame struggling to contain his own climax. It gave Lara some small measure of satisfaction to see his features twisted in an agony of pleasure as deep shudders racked his frame.
One thing was clear in her mind before a satisfaction-induced coma took her over. Ciro had just demonstrated very clearly where the parameters of this marriage lay: in the bedroom and on the social circuit. Not in the kitchen.
* * *
When Lara woke the next morning she was back in her own bed. She really hated it that Ciro did that. What was he afraid of? she grumbled to herself. Was he afraid he’d wake up and she’d have spun a web around his body, turning him into a prisoner?
The image gave her more than a little dart of satisfaction. The thought of Ciro being totally at her mercy...
She didn’t hear any sounds coming from his bedroom and checked the time, realising that Ciro would have gone to the office already.
After showering and dressing she went downstairs to find Dominique in the kitchen. The woman turned around and smiled widely, and it was only at that moment that Lara had a mortifying flashback and saw her shirt and bra neatly folded on a chair near the door.
She grabbed them, her face burning, gabbling an apology, but the older woman put up a hand.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s your home. I might have been married for twenty years, but I do remember what that first heady year was like.’
Lara smiled weakly, welcoming the change in subject when Dominique said, ‘The lasagne—did you cook it? It smells delicious. I’ve put it in the fridge but I can freeze it if you like.’
Lara had been taught a comprehensive and very effective lesson last night in not expecting to see Ciro sitting down to a home-cooked meal any time soon, so she said, ‘Actually, do you want to take it home with you this evening for you and your family? I thought we’d have a chance to eat it but we won’t.’
Dominique reached for something and handed a folded card to Lara. ‘That reminds me—Ciro left this for you. And, yes, I’d love to take the lasagne home if you’re sure that’s all right? It’ll save me cooking!’
Lara smiled and retreated from the kitchen. ‘Of course. I hope you enjoy it.’
She looked at the card once she was out of sight. The handwriting was strong and slashing.
Be ready to leave for a function at five this evening. Dress for black tie.
No, she could be under no illusions now as to where her role lay.
On her back and at Ciro’s side as his trophy wife.
* * *
Ciro’s driver came for Lara at five. She checked her appearance in the mirror of the hall one last time. The long sleeveless black dress had a lace bodice and a high collar. She’d pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and kept jewellery and make-up to a minimum.
The car made its way through the London traffic to one of the city�
�s most iconic museums. She saw Ciro before he saw her in the car. He was standing by the kerb, where cars were disgorging people in glittering finery.
For a moment Lara just drank him in, in his classic tuxedo. He must have changed at the office. He was utterly mesmerising. She could see other women doing double-takes.
Then he saw the car and she saw tension come into his form. She felt a pang. They might combust in bed, but he still resented her presence out of it. Even if he did need her.
The car drew to a stop and Lara gathered herself as Ciro opened the door and helped her out. Even her hand in his was enough to cause a seismic reaction in her body. But she felt shy after what had happened last night.
Ciro said, ‘You look beautiful.’
She glanced at him, embarrassed. ‘Thank you. You look very smart.’
A small smile tipped up his mouth. ‘Smart? I don’t think I’ve been called that before.’
Lara felt hot. No... Ciro’s lovers would have twined themselves around him and whispered into his ear that he was magnificent. Gorgeous. Sexy.
She felt gauche, but he was taking her elbow in his hand and leading her towards the throng of people entering the huge museum near Kensington Gardens, one of London’s most exclusive addresses.
It was only when they were seated that Lara realised it was a banquet dinner to honour three charities. One of which had Ciro Sant’Angelo’s name on it.
She read the blurb on the brochure.
The Face Forward Charity. Founded by Ciro Sant’Angelo after a kidnapping ordeal left him facially disfigured.
There was an interview with Ciro in which he explained that after his injury he’d realised that any physical disfigurement, not just facial, was something that affected millions of people. And that a lot of disfigurement came about due to birth defects, injuries of some kind—whether through accident, war or gangs—or domestic violence.
His mission statement was that no one should ever be made to feel ‘less’ because of their disfigurement. His charity offered a wide range of treatments, ranging from plastic surgery to rehabilitation and counselling, to help people afflicted. To help them move on with their lives.
Lara looked at Ciro. She was seated on his right-hand side and his scar seemed to stand out even more this evening. A statement.
He glanced at her and arched a brow. She felt hurt that he hadn’t mentioned this before. ‘I didn’t know you’d set up a charity.’
He shrugged minutely. ‘I didn’t think it relevant to tell you.’
Something deeper than hurt bloomed inside Lara then. Something she couldn’t even really articulate.
She stood up abruptly, just as they were serving the starters, and almost knocked over the waiter behind her. Apologising, she fled from the room, upset and embarrassed.
Once outside, in the now empty foyer, she stopped. She cursed herself for bolting like that. The last thing Ciro would want was for people’s attention to be drawn to them.
She heard heavy footsteps behind her. Ciro caught her arm, swinging her around. ‘What the hell, Lara?’
She pulled free, her anger and hurt surging again at the irritated look on his face. ‘I know you don’t like me very much, Ciro, but we’re married now. The least you could have done is tell me what this evening is about. You’re the one concerned with appearances. How do you think it would look if someone struck up a conversation with me about your charity which I know nothing about?’
Ciro felt a constriction in his chest. Lara was right. But he hadn’t neglected to tell her about it in a conscious effort not to include her. He hadn’t told her because he didn’t find it easy to mention the kidnapping. Even now. Even here, where he was in public and talking about something that had arisen out of that experience.
Lara looked...hurt. And then she said, ‘I was there too, you know. I didn’t experience what you experienced, and I’m so sorry that you went through what you did. But they took me too, Ciro. So I do have some idea of what you went through, even if it’s only very superficial. I might not have any physical scars to prove I had that experience, but I had it.’
She turned and went to walk back into the room, but Ciro caught her arm again. For the first time, he felt the balance of power between them shift slightly.
She looked at him, her full mouth set in a line. Her jaw tight.
‘You’re right,’ he said, and the words came easier than he might have expected. ‘I should have told you—and, yes, you were there too.’
‘Thank you.’
Ciro realised in that moment that she had all the regal bearing and grace of royalty, and something inside him was inexplicably humbled. She’d been right to call him out on this. And he wasn’t used to being in the wrong. It was not a sensation he’d expected to feel in the presence of Lara.
Lara felt shaky after confronting Ciro, but his apology defused her anger. She realised now that she’d been hurt because she’d felt left out, which was ridiculous when Ciro had set up the charity well before they’d met again.
After the meal people got up to give speeches, and Lara was a little stunned when Ciro was introduced and he got up to go to the podium. He was a commanding presence. The crowd seemed far more hushed when he spoke. And how could she blame them? He stood out.
His scar also stood out, in a white ridged line down the right side of his face. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice his missing finger, too transfixed by that scar.
He spoke passionately about the psychological effects of being scarred and how, with pioneering plastic surgery treatments, people could have the option of going on to live scar-free lives. Especially children.
There was a slideshow of images of some of the children and people his charity had helped so far, and Lara had tears in her eyes by the time he was finished.
When he came back to the table Lara felt humbled. She’d seen a new depth to Ciro tonight. Ever since she’d met him he’d always projected a charming, carefree attitude to life. He was someone who’d been graced with good looks, wealth and intellect. Taken for granted—as his due. Not any more. That much was blatantly obvious.
When they had returned to the townhouse Lara said, ‘I think what you’re doing is amazing. If there’s ever anything I can do... I’d like to be involved.’
Ciro turned to face her. ‘There is something you can do...right now.’
He took her hand and tugged her towards him.
Instant heat flooded Lara’s body at the explicit gleam in his eyes. ‘Ciro...’ she said weakly.
‘Lara...’ he said, and then he stopped any more words by fusing his mouth to hers.
It was only much later, when Lara was back in her own bed, her body still tingling in the aftermath of extreme pleasure, that she realised he’d effectively dismissed her desire to help with the charity.
Clearly it was an arena, along with the kitchen, that she wasn’t allowed to enter. Which only made Lara determined to do something about it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘SHE’S WHERE?’
Ciro stood up from his chair and stalked over to the window, which took in a view of the Thames snaking through London.
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded nervous, ‘Er...she’s in one of the Face Forward charity shops, boss. It looks like she’s helping with the display in the window.’
Ciro was terse. ‘Send me a video and stay with her until she leaves.’
About a minute later there was a ping on his phone and he played the video. There was Lara, in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair pulled back, helping to dress and accessorise a mannequin in the window of one of his charity’s shops on the King’s Road.
She looked about sixteen. He saw her turn and smile broadly at a young staff member. She looked...happy. Happier than he’d seen her since they’d met again.
Something dark settled into his chest. A heav
y weight. And confusion. Who the hell was she doing this for? What was she up to?
* * *
‘What do you mean, what was I up to? Nothing! I wanted to prove that I was serious about helping with the charity. Or do you expect me to sit around all day waiting for the moment you decide to dress me up and take me out as your trophy wife?’
Ciro had been festering all day and he’d come home in a black mood. Which had got even blacker when he’d found Lara in the kitchen again, cooking.
‘I thought I told you that I don’t expect you to cook?’
She smiled sweetly at him, which made his blood boil even more, because it only reminded him of the very real smile he’d seen on that video earlier.
‘I’m not cooking for you. I’m cooking for me. And Dominique. She can take the leftovers for her and Bill.’
‘Bill?’
‘Her husband. He’s not well.’
‘And you know this...how?’
Lara looked at him now as if he was a bit dense. ‘Because I have conversations with her.’
Ciro was aware that he was being totally irrational and ridiculous. His wife was cooking in the kitchen. Most men would be ecstatic. Especially as it smelt so delicious.
Lara said, ‘I know there’s nothing on tonight, thanks to the helpful events calendar your assistant installed in the phone you gave me. Unless that’s changed?’ She suddenly looked less happy.
‘No,’ Ciro bit out. ‘It hasn’t changed. The evening is free.’
‘Well,’ Lara said, sounding eminently reasonable, and far calmer than Ciro felt, ‘have you made plans for dinner or would you like to join me? It’s boeuf bourguignon.’
Ciro forced himself to stop being ridiculous. He had no idea what Lara was up to with this little charade—helping at the charity shop and revealing her domestic goddess side—but he wasn’t foolish enough to cut off his nose to spite his face.
