Nothing but the soft, even rhythm of her breathing. She was practically comatose. Unless I wanted to make love to an unconscious woman, I wasn't getting lucky tonight.
* * *
Kayla
I woke to the gentle whir of airplane engines. The sky was still dark outside the jet windows toward the rear of the plane. I'd become so used to the lights of the city sparkling into the penthouse, I'd left the shutters open. That's what homey was becoming to me, being on display and feeling like I was sleeping in the middle of the open sky. We were driving into a hint of dawn over the nose of the plane. Next to me, the guest pillow was rumpled and smelled like Jus.
Jus!
I sat up and looked around. The bed was empty. So was the room. His jacket was slung over a chair.
So much for being a seductress. I'd meant to wait up for him. Give him a greeting that would make him happy. Instead, I'd zonked out completely, fallen asleep in full makeup. There were lipstick and foundation stains on my pillowcase. And I was sure I looked lovely with my tangled hair, smeared makeup, and one false eyelash coming off. Why hadn't he woken me?
I slid out of bed and took a quick shower, hoping he'd join me. Airplane shower sex had to be on his list, right?
He left me alone and disappointed in the shower. I dressed and made myself presentable. I found him in the main body of the airplane, sitting in a plush leather seat, working on his laptop at a table. Working, always working.
His back was to me. I slipped behind and beside him and slid my arms around his neck. "Welcome back. Why didn't you wake me?"
He looked up and gave me a sweet, quick kiss that made me ache inside with want, and what, if it wasn't love budding, was a damn good imitation.
His lips curved in a smile. "I tried." He stroked my cheek. "But waking you was like trying to wake the dead. I figured you needed your sleep and gave up."
Did he sound disappointed? Selfishly, I hoped he was. I was. Suddenly I was becoming the sex fiend in this relationship, craving his eager, caring touch.
"Sorry." I put on a playful pout to show him I genuinely was. "I took something for motion sickness. It was supposed to be non-drowsy. But it must have knocked me out."
I was lying. During the last week I'd become hormonally tired. I'd been in denial before, but now I'd been assailed by the first damning symptom of pregnancy—bone-weary exhaustion and a desperate need for sleep at the drop of a hat. But it wouldn't do to make him suspicious right out of the gate. Not that he would be looking for signs of pregnancy. But why court trouble?
He frowned. "Was there turbulence?"
I shook my head. "Just the fear of it."
"Statistically, flying is the safest mode of transportation—"
"I suppose you've heard the one about the statistician who drowned in a river that averaged three feet deep?"
He laughed. "The fear is all in your head. You have to face it."
"I did. With the help of over-the-counter meds."
He shook his head. "We have a big day ahead of us. Are you ready for Milan?" He snapped his laptop shut a little too casually.
Jus was always understanding and kind. Eric would have been in a rant or a major man pout over a missed opportunity. Reunion sex was sacred to him.
"I've been ready for Milan my whole life." I slipped into the chair across from Jus. "I'm hungry." The sudden sick hunger was another symptom I was just discovering. "What time is it? Time for breakfast yet?"
"It's time for breakfast somewhere in the world. If you're hungry, we'll eat." He signaled for Merry.
What I was really hungry for was him. Why didn't I just tell him? Because of the baby. Because I had to be sure. About everything.
* * *
Justin
Via Monte Napoleone was the most important street in the Quadrilatero della moda, the fashion district of Milan. Every major Italian designer, every major designer period, had a boutique along the brick streets. As a surprise for Kay, I'd booked private appointments at half a dozen of her favorites. I'd asked Sarah for help choosing which designers. And asked her to use her contacts. She was our Italian buyer. She knew the fashion industry, and Kay's tastes, much better than I did. At heart, I was a programmer, a guy who thought baggy jeans and T-shirts were all the style I needed, and who still confused colors and couldn't tell pink from gray. Sometimes I was still surprised to be in the business I was. It was all Riggins' fault.
I sat in the perfumed private dressing room area, beneath a crystal chandelier, in a chair reserved for guests of the shopper—husbands, benefactors, friends—sipping a fine Italian wine. I was surrounded by mirrors that flattered the shopper, and lighting designed to make anyone with money enough to be there look good.
I'd insisted Kay try on sexy, formfitting outfits. Everything should show off her fabulous figure. If I was going to have a trophy wife, she should look it. She always looked hot. But I wanted the very best in Italian fashion for her.
Italian women, especially the Milanese, knew how to dress to provoke the male eye to ardor and lust. It was a special pride of theirs. The women were thin, yet lush, in their tight clothes and stiletto shoes. They caught the eye with their sultry looks. Kay was blond, but she could have been one of them, their American sister.
She came out of the dressing room in a violet dress as tight as second skin and a pair of four-inch heels. My mouth went dry. My pulse raced. All I could think about was sex.
"Get it." My voice nearly cracked. I was that desperate and horny.
She turned sideways, biting her lip as she studied her reflection. Her hand skimmed her perfectly flat stomach. She frowned, looking unhappy and displeased with what she saw. Kay had abs ordinary girls would kill for. I cursed the sorority for instilling a sense of unrealistic body perfection. She looked pretty damn perfect to me.
"I don't know—"
"Get it," I reiterated.
She smiled uncertainly at me. "You're spoiling me. It's expensive—"
Another girl would have taken advantage of my generosity and abused it. Kay had to be convinced. Which was one reason I loved her. She didn't take my generosity for granted. "What's money for if you can't spend it on the woman you love?"
Too much? Maybe. Angelina, the Italian woman helping us, smiled at the amore.
"I love that violet color. It looks great on you and matches your eyes," I said, trying to encourage Kay.
Her forehead creased before she broke into a soft laugh. "Jus! This dress is blue. And so are my eyes, and you know it. I'm not Elizabeth Taylor with her famed violet eyes."
I shrugged. "You are to me."
It hadn't escaped my notice that she'd begun wearing my favorite colors. I was enormously pleased.
She turned to Angelina. "He's colorblind."
Angelina made a sympathetic noise.
"Don't you ever wish you saw the world as it really is?" Kay asked me.
"No. I like my version of it just fine." I motioned to Angelina. "We'll take it. Mail it home with the rest."
* * *
Kayla
Angelina spoke perfect English. Inside the dressing room, I held my breath as she unzipped the back of the dress for me. I couldn't have gotten in and out of it without her help. The dress, all the clothes Jus had bought me, were beautiful, the kinds of things you see in high-fashion magazines and dream about. But don't think you'll ever be able to afford.
Ordinarily, I would have been on top of the world, waiting for fall when the season turned so I could wear these new luxuries. But given my current condition, it seemed a waste to buy a dress for fall unless it was maternity fashion.
As I stepped out of it, I turned to Angelina. "Can this dress be taken out?"
She gave me a curious look. "You're so slender, signora. It's a perfect fit. You don't need it let out at all."
I leaned into her and put a hand on her arm, glancing cautiously toward the door as if Jus could hear. I lowered my voice. "I'm pregnant." I put a finger to my lips. "My husband doesn
't know."
So the first person I told was a saleswoman, a complete stranger, who couldn't have cared less, except that I might balk at more purchases and cut her commission. Even so, I felt lighter at sharing with someone.
She nodded knowingly. "I can keep the secret. Congratulations."
I pinched my mouth to one side. "Hmmmm…thanks."
She sensed my worry. "You aren't happy?"
I couldn't say too much. "I'm uncertain. This wasn't planned. We've only been married a few months." I paused. I was running off at the mouth. "Can you show me anything that will hide a pregnancy for a few months longer?"
She nodded. "Of course. But you won't be able to hide it in the bedroom." Italians were frank about sex.
"No, of course not. He'll have to know soon. But as for the rest of the world, I'd just as soon keep them in the dark as long as possible."
Angelina studied my figure. "Your husband wants to show you off. We'll have to be very clever to get what we want past him. Something with ruching, I think."
I nodded, relieved.
"Have you been to the Duomo di Milano yet?"
It seemed and odd, out-of-the-blue question, especially from a saleswoman.
"Not yet. We haven't had time for sightseeing," I said. "We will before we leave Milan."
"It's very beautiful. One of the largest cathedrals in Europe. Light a candle and ask Saint Gerard Majella to watch over you while you're there. He's the patron saint of pregnant women. You'll want his help."
Yes, but did you ask saints of pregnancy to help you lose a pregnancy? A miscarriage would solve so many problems.
* * *
Justin
I wanted to buy Kay everything, including the world. A good portion of the clothes in it, anyway. I expected her to be thrilled with the adventure of buying a completely new fall wardrobe in one of the fashion capitals of the world. At the most exclusive boutiques. With personal attention and all the privilege of money. If money couldn't buy me love, I was damn well going to use it to bribe some affection from Kay. And turn her into the hottest piece of eye candy in Seattle.
To my surprise, she fought me on the clothes—dresses, skirts, jeans, and blouses in fabrics so soft they were unbelievable. When she eased off and relented even slightly, she tried to sneak flowing, blousy, loose-fitting clothes past me. What the hell? Suddenly she was fiscally conservative? And modest about her body? Where was that partying sorority girl I knew and lusted after in college?
I appreciated her concern for my wallet. She was sensitive about looking like a gold digger. But damn, it made me all too aware that she wasn't my wife, but my employee. And these days, this was mere pocket change to me.
Make me happy. Behave like a real wife and buy the damn clothes, Kay. Run me broke. Give me a chance to bitch with the guys about how much my old lady spends on rags. Give me that fantasy.
And then she saw a "sweet little pair of shoes" in the window of Gucci. Girly squeal! And that was all she wrote. Her mood lightened and the old Kay I knew emerged, laughing and joyous as she bought pair after pair of stilettos, pumps, and platforms. Every brand, from Gucci to Jimmy Choo. She didn't constrain herself to Italian brands. Shoes that gave her a good four to six inches of height and made me think about nothing but sex. Like an addict, she lost all restraint as she moved on to necklaces, gloves, jewelry, and purses.
There was nothing like Italian leather for purses. And nothing like Italian gold for jewelry.
"Only eighteen karat and above for the Italians!" she said with a glint in her eyes. "Look for the 750 mark and we're golden."
I rolled my eyes at her bad pun, happy to see her so happy. Elated to see my plan working. "That was bad, Kay. So bad."
She only kissed me and laughed.
Damiani, Bulgari, and Milan's own Buccellati. We bought it all.
We spent nearly five days in Milan, shopping and meeting with prospective suppliers, budding designers hungry to be showcased on Flashionista and make their name. Kay knew how to handle and flatter them. She modeled their clothes for me.
We ate fabulous Italian food, though Kay tended to pick at hers. And drank no more than a glass of wine a day. "If I eat like the Italians, I'll never fit into my new clothes! How do the Italian women stay so thin?"
At night, she wore the jewelry and the shoes she insisted she had to have now and we fucked like honeymooners. She wanted it hard. Hard. Harder, Jus!
There was no tenderness in it, just passion and abandon. And lust. Plenty of raw lust.
On our last day in Milan, I took her to the big white Gothic Cathedral of Milan, designed by Leonardo da Vinci. The outside was magnificent. Kay insisted on going in. The inside was disappointing compared to the exterior. Dark and damp. There were better, more majestic Italian cathedrals to see.
I caught Kay buying a candle to light. I laughed at her. "What are you praying for? More money? More good fortune?"
She laughed softly and covered my mouth. "Shhh! You can't be irreverent here. We're in a church!" She shook her head. "Obviously, you have no clue about my character."
"I don't?" I stared at her, waiting for her to continue. "Enlighten me? What are you going to pray for? World peace?"
She shook her head. "You are so rotten. Stop with the beauty pageant crap. If you must know, I was going to pray for something more personal."
I waited for her.
"I'm going to light a candle to one of the patron saints of marriage. Living with you, I need all the help I can get." She winked, teasing me in that flirtatious way that made my heart race. "Maybe Saint Priscilla, the Patron Saint of Good Marriages." She took my hand and batted her eyes at me. "So you'll keep buying me everything I want." Her eyes danced. "You do want a good marriage, don't you, baby?"
I swallowed hard, resisting the urge to say I wanted a long marriage. I wanted her for life. She wanted a good marriage? Was she just toying with me? Because she already had me dancing on her string. "Good is good."
"That was totally eloquent." She leaned her head against my arm and smiled up at me adoringly. "Or maybe Saint Rita of Cascia, Saint of Difficult Marriages." She put on a pout. "You drive me crazy at times. Like now."
She was wearing a pair of Gucci shoes we'd bought the first day in Milan. They made her nearly even with me in height. She whispered in my ear, "No one who knew the truth would say we don't have a challenging marriage, Jus."
She grinned. "Though not in the usual way." She bit her lip. "Or maybe to Saint Valentine, the Patron Saint of Happy Marriages. What do you think? Good marriage? Happy marriage? Difficult marriage? Whom do we appeal to?"
My heart hammered. "I didn't think you were religious. And you're not Catholic."
"No, but when in Rome. One of the saleswomen who helped me the first day suggested I light a candle here while we're here. She saw how happy we were and said lighting a candle was insurance to help our marriage stay happy. What can it hurt?" Her smile was dazzling.
My heart was in her hands. Did she know how much I wanted what she was teasing about so lightly? I shrugged. "Or when in Milan."
I pulled a handful of bills from my wallet and handed them to her. "I'm partial to Saint Valentine. But why shouldn't we have everything? Good and happy, and definitely not difficult. Light a candle to each of them."
Chapter Four
Kayla
Compared to Milan, Naples was meh. But then, what wasn't? Naples was dirty and old. A large city. Filled with history, yes. But after the heady shopping in Milan? Just about anything would have been a disappointment.
Because it was my first trip to Italy, it was easy to forget that Jus had been dozens of times. Nearly every summer since he was little. His parents had had the rugby tournament business forever. Jus spoke Italian fluently. It shouldn't have surprised me. I loved listening to the romantic language fall off his tongue, making that deep voice of his even sexier.
I didn't speak a word beyond pizza, ciao, and gelato. But after being in the country a few days,
I was beginning to pick up the cadence of the language. In Naples, the sound of the language was different.
"They speak Napolitano here," Jus told me while we arrived. "It's a different dialect from official Italian. Naples used to be its own duchy until the regions of Northern Italy consolidated the country and forced their language on it."
We were in a hired car taking us to the campus where the tournament was being held. Jus sat next to me, squeezing my hand in the air-conditioned car. Outside, the heat radiated in waves off the pavement.
I was nervous about this meeting. But maybe I could pawn my growing morning sickness off on mere nerves. It was nearly August. A few more days and all of Italy would shut down for the summer. It was hot, as Southern Italy was bound to be in the prime of summer. Naples was on the water. I imagined the beaches—were there beaches in Naples?—would be crowded.
Justin's insecurities had begun to spring. We'd come directly from meetings with a buyer in Milan. I'd offered up the suggestion to change into something more comfortable before we flew to Naples. He said there wasn't time, and suggested the summer dress I'd worn to our meetings was perfectly appropriate. For what was essentially a collegiate rugby camp? I wasn't so sure. But I found myself dressed in a tight sundress and heels, dripping in Italian gold necklaces and baubles, wearing a pair of Gucci sunglasses. And feeling pretentious. But there you had it. Jus was the baby. He had something to prove to the older boys.
We wound through the city. I'd been so preoccupied with my problems, I'd left all the planning of our trip to Jus. I hadn't even bothered to look ahead to where the rugby tournament was being held.
"At a local college," Jus said, and rattled off an Italian name. "They hold it here every year. We'll be staying at a nearby pensione. It's not fancy. More like a dorm." He frowned.
I got the feeling he wasn't filled with warm fuzzies at the memories here.
He smiled at me. "We just have to endure these next few days and then the fun begins. You'll love the Amalfi Coast." He squeezed my hand as we pulled down a tree-lined street and came to a stop in front of an ancient-looking building. "With any luck we can escape Naples for a day and take in Vesuvius and Pompeii."
In Sickness and in Wealth Page 3
