“Well, I never!” Phyllis exclaimed, immediately recognizing him, and hugging him even though his hands were grimy and he had soot smears all down the front of his T-shirt. “Imagine seeing you, of all people! Are you here for the wedding?”
“Only by accident,” he replied, favoring her with a grin that would have put a floodlight to shame. “It’s coincidence that I happen to be here the same week that Chloe’s getting married again.”
Practically swooning with pleasure, Phyllis said, “Well, it’s lovely to see you, whatever the reason! And it’s wonderful that you and Chloe have remained such good friends, even though you’re divorced.”
Taking immediate advantage of her godmother’s misconception, he’d slipped his arm around Chloe’s shoulders and squeezed her fondly. “I’ll always want what’s best for Chloe,” he’d announced magnanimously.
What a liar! If he really had her best interests at heart, he’d have made himself scarce. Taken off for New Guinea, or some other far-flung port of call. But no, he was in her face every time she turned around, watching her every move, and smiling an enigmatic little smile the whole time, as if he nursed some hilarious secret.
After lunch—to which Nico was invited, though why he couldn’t make his own meals in the lodge kitchen, was beyond her understanding—Chloe shut herself in the library, on the pretext of sorting through the wedding gifts still waiting to be opened, and writing notes of thanks. But concentrating was difficult, with the low murmur of Nico’s voice drifting through the open French doors every other minute.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” her mother had scoffed, when he’d made diffident noises about spending the afternoon in his quarters because he didn’t want to intrude on family time. “It’s too nice a day to be indoors. Get your swimming trunks, and join us by the pool. And if you really feel you have to earn your keep, you can man the barbecue later on. Whenever I use it, I more often than not end up setting fire to whatever I’m cooking.”
So there he was, sprawled out on a chaise, basking in sun and approval, and charming the socks off everyone. Meanwhile, Chloe, who had a right to be outside, hid in the library and tried not to give in to the urge to sneak a peek at him from between the slats of the blinds on the door.
Why bother? She knew what he looked like, wearing next to nothing. Too darn sexy for his own good—or hers! Which no doubt explained why she couldn’t keep her mind on the task at hand.
“What am I trying to prove here anyway?” she muttered, tearing up another ruined envelope in disgust, and adding it to the pile of crumpled paper in the waste basket. “And why in the world am I ostracizing myself from relatives whose company I seldom get the chance to enjoy, and acting as if I don’t belong, when he’s the interloper?”
Because you’re afraid of how he makes you feel, Chloe, the brutal, go-for-the-jugular lawyer in her replied. If, as you claim, you’re sure Baron’s the man you want, you’d be out there enjoying the afternoon with the rest of your family, regardless of who else happened to be there, not hiding from temptation in here.
“I’m not afraid,” she informed the rows of crystal and sterling and bone china gifts, lined up accusingly on the big library table. “And I’m not tempted!”
No? her alter ego snorted. You could have fooled me!
Outside, a chair scraped over the patio paving stones, and Nico’s voice, so loaded with the flavor of Italy that she could practically smell the medieval streets of Verona, floated on the air. “Scusi, per favor, signore e signor. Much though I’m enjoying your company, there’s a business call I must make.”
“Use the phone in the library,” her mother was quick to offer. “Chloe’s in there, but I’m sure she won’t mind being disturbed.”
Go ahead and do your worst, Mom! Chloe thought sourly, making tracks for the door to the hall before he could act on the suggestion.
But he had other ideas. “Grazie, Jacqueline,” she heard him reply, “but I need my notes which are in my briefcase. Better, I think, that I phone from the lodge.”
“Well, all right. Just don’t forget we’re counting on you to take charge of the barbecue, later on.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
And mine, Chloe decided, scuttling upstairs to change into the sleek black one-piece bathing suit she’d been saving for her honeymoon, to establish my rightful place in this cozy little family gathering, while you’re gone.
When he came back some thirty minutes later, she was ensconced in the chaise he’d previously occupied, with a towel draped ever so casually over her lap, sipping iced tea and giving a very good impression of utter indifference to his return.
“So,” he murmured, dropping down beside her, “you were waiting for me to leave before you came out to enjoy the afternoon?”
She lowered her glass, and swung her head toward him, eyes wide with feigned astonishment. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“But you hoped I would stay away.” There it was, the know-it-all smile.
“Believe it or not, Nico,” she retorted scathingly, “you play no part in any decision I make. I was busy earlier. Now I’m not. It’s as simple as that.”
“Ah, yes.” He shrugged off her lie with the same disregard that he rid himself of his short-sleeved white shirt, leaned back on one hand, and stretched his long, powerful legs out in front of him. “Weddings can consume a person to the exclusion of all else, can they not?”
Unfortunately, in her case, not. At that moment, all her attention was fastened on him, despite her best efforts to keep her eyes averted. But the sight of Nico Moretti in navy swimming trunks, lazing like some great tawny cat sunning itself on the warm paving stones, was not a sight any woman in her right mind could ignore easily.
He’d said he had money now, and judging by the expensive rental car he was driving, the very classy gold watch he’d left lying on the patio table, the sunglasses he toyed with in his free hand, and the fine quality cotton shirt he so carelessly cast aside, she supposed it must be true. Yet his body retained the toughness of a man used to hard physical labor. No soft middle or overhanging waistline for him; he was all lean, iron-hard muscle, with arms as strong as ropes and shoulders wide enough to fill the average doorway.
I’m afraid I’ll crush you, he’d sometimes say when they were making love, and he’d lift her on top of him, and settle her astride his hips, fitting himself so deeply inside her that she could almost taste him. That’s better, he’d murmur huskily, cupping her breasts. I can touch you…watch you…cosi bella….
He had wonderful eyes; lover’s eyes, dark and long lashed. With one meaningful glance, he could make her stomach turn over, her heart take flight, and leave her damp and aching for him.
Aware that his gaze was fixed on her now, that memory had left her nipples hard as pebbles and her skin flushed, she swallowed to relieve her parched throat, and said, “Please excuse me. The sun’s a bit more than I can take.”
Then, schooling herself not to scuttle away like a frightened mouse, she threw off her towel, and strolled as nonchalantly as she could manage along the deck to the deep end of the pool.
Leaping to his feet, he joined her, and making hardly a ripple, dived cleanly into the water. “Come join me,” he invited, surfacing with his hair plastered to his skull and his lashes clumped together in glistening black triangles.
“No, thanks!”
She shied away from the edge, but not soon enough. His hand shot out and fastened around her ankle.
“But if, as you already admitted, the sun is too much for you, why such reluctance? Surely there is no sin in two people sharing such a big pool, as long as they remain in sight of their three chaperones?” His voice, already low and hypnotic, fell to a near whisper. “So what is it that you’re really afraid of, tesoro?”
“That I might not be able to resist the urge to drown you.”
The way he laughed tore at her heartstrings. There’d been a time when they laughed together so often. In public, sometimes, o
ver silly things, but so infectiously that people hearing and seeing them would shake their heads and smile. And sometimes in private, in the quiet intimate way of a couple so deeply in love that all it took to make them happy was being with each other.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said now, and jerked at her ankle so suddenly that she toppled into the water almost on top of him.
They went under together in a tangle of arms and legs. Of tough masculine muscle and soft feminine curves colliding, then floating apart again. Of hands sliding and clutching at body parts they hadn’t touched in years. Of such primal physical contact that Chloe’s eyes flew open in shock, and she saw that he had his eyes open, too, and the fire in their depths was such that no amount of water could have quenched it.
Deliberately, he pulled her toward him again, his movements slow and graceful. She drifted close, flotsam caught in a tide too powerful to withstand. Felt herself bump gently against him a second time, limb to limb, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Felt his leg slide between hers, his hands skim past her ribs to cushion her bottom and pull her intimately against him. Against the erection he made no effort to disguise.
Her lungs were burning, her heart thudding. She shook her head, pointed up to where the blue sky shimmered high beyond the water, and pushed against his chest. He nodded understanding, touched his mouth briefly to hers and, with a powerful kick, sent them both shooting to the surface.
“Were you trying to drown me?” she gasped, when she could draw breath enough to speak.
“No,” he murmured ambiguously, his hands circling her waist, his thighs nudging at hers, and his gaze never wavering. “I was trying to save you.”
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean!”
“Don’t you?” he purred, his eyes stripping her to the soul.
“Chloe? Are you all right?” Another man’s voice, horrifyingly familiar, cut through the moment, and Baron, his dear, dear face creased with concern, came running along the deck to where she and Nico bobbed like corks near the diving board. Worse yet, his parents, their expressions variously painted in shades of perplexity and disapproval, observed the entire scene from the patio.
Wishing she had drowned, Chloe kicked herself free of Nico’s hold and grasped the hand Baron extended to haul her onto the deck. “I’m fine,” she said, praying he’d attribute her flush to a coughing fit, and not the guilt which was the real cause. “I just…tripped into the pool and…”
“Swallowed too much water?” He smiled, and tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear.
“Um…yes.”
“Good thing you didn’t hit your head on the diving board when you took a tumble.”
Pity she didn’t! At least if she’d knocked herself out cold, there’d have been some excuse for being found languishing in Nico’s arms, and her future mother-in-law might now be regarding her with a smidgen of sympathy, instead of outright suspicion.
“What are you doing here, Baron?” Chloe asked, turning her back on the pool and its lone occupant. “I thought we weren’t supposed to get together until Tuesday, at the town house.”
“Well, that’s the reason we stopped by, honey. I’m hoping you’ll let me beg off going with you to meet the landscape architect. You’ve got a much better eye for design than I have, anyway, and I thought, since we’re booked pretty solid from Wednesday on, that I’d take my folks up to Whistler tomorrow, for a couple of days. It’s the only chance they’ll get to see the area. They’re flying home again right after the wedding.”
“Oh…well, of course. Do that.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind being left behind?”
What, two days when she didn’t have to deal with his overbearing mother, whose expression grew blacker by the second? “Not in the least! Go, and have a good time,” Chloe said, almost as dismayed by her relief as she was to notice that Nico had swum the length of the pool, toweled himself off, and was in the process of being introduced to Baron’s family by her godmother.
Phyllis, bless her heart, didn’t subscribe to the theory that less was more; in her view, you could never have too much “more.” And given the astounded disbelief with which Mother Prescott was regarding Nico, it was pretty obvious that she was being regaled with a whole lot “more” than she cared to hear.
“Yes, Chloe’s first husband,” Phyllis confirmed, as Chloe and Baron joined the group. “He lives in Italy, but he comes over on business once in a while, and always stays here, I’m told. Even though they’re divorced, he’s still part of the family. Quite an unusual arrangement, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite!” Mrs. Prescott replied frostily. “Baron’s ex-wife is certainly not welcome in my home. I wouldn’t dream of entertaining her.” She turned a glacial eye Chloe’s way. “Hello, Chloe. I gather we should have phoned before we dropped in. We obviously caught you unprepared.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Prescott,” Chloe replied, meeting her glance head-on. “You’re welcome anytime, as I’m sure my mother’s already told you.”
“Exactly,” Jacqueline said. “In fact, why don’t the three of you stay and have dinner with us? Nico’s going to barbecue a salmon, and there’s plenty to go around.”
“He cooks?” Mrs. Prescott regarded Nico with the kind of acute disfavor anyone else might have reserved for a serial killer. “I hope you aren’t expecting my son to don an apron, once he becomes your husband, Chloe? I’ve always considered it the woman’s job to prepare the meals.”
Clearly aiming to keep the peace at any price, Baron jumped in before Chloe could dish up an answer to that one. “Times are different now, Mother,” he pointed out. “I daresay Chloe and I will share the household chores. Don’t forget she plans to continue working at the law firm after we’re married.”
“When I became a wife, I managed to pursue a career and cater to your father’s needs,” Myrna Prescott declared loftily. “I’ve no doubt that’s one reason our marriage has lasted.”
Charlotte, who until that moment had been content to listen without comment, said mildly, “I rather think there’s more to making a marriage work than who wears the apron. Chloe’s grandfather served me coffee in bed every morning until the day he died—and we were very happy together for over forty-five years.”
“Which just goes to prove there’s no right or wrong way to go about things,” Jacqueline said, and gestured to the comfortable chairs scattered around the patio. “Have a seat, everyone, and I’ll bring out a little refreshment. Chloe, will you come and help?”
“Of course.” She nodded at the Prescotts. “Excuse me, please. I’ll be right back.”
“Well!” her mother exclaimed, the moment they were safely out of earshot in the kitchen. “If you didn’t know before what’s expected of a Prescott wife, I guess you do now!”
Beleaguered on every front, Chloe wilted in despair against the counter. “This whole wedding week’s turning into a nightmare that never ends, Mom! First, Nico and now Baron’s mother! What’s next, I wonder?”
“Marriage, and spending the rest of your life with Baron,” Jacqueline said somberly, removing plastic wrap from a tray of appetizers she took from the refrigerator, and turning on the oven. “And you do keep insisting how much you’re looking forward to that. Or are you ready to admit you’re having second thoughts on the matter?”
Chloe buried her face in her hands, caught in the sense of time running out, of impending doom, much like the opening scenes of a movie in which the camera switches from a car racing along a darkened road to a train speeding along the tracks. Without a word being said, people watching know instinctively that, sooner or later, disaster will hit, and all they can do is sit there helplessly, with the tension tightening like an unforgiving screw, until their nerves are ready to snap.
“Don’t keep asking me that,” she said brokenly. “I feel as if I don’t know anything, anymore! My head tells me I’m doing the right thing, but…”
“Your heart tells you differently?” Her mo
ther’s arms came around her. “Maybe you should listen to it, darling.”
She wiped a hand across her eyes and broke away. “The last time I did that, it ended up getting broken. I swore then that I’d never let anyone put me through that kind of agony again.”
“You can’t control everything life throws at you, Chloe. Part of being adult means coming to terms with what fate hands out, and another part means having the guts to admit when you’ve made a mistake. If you’re not ready to get married, just say so. It’s not too late to call off the wedding, or even just postpone it. It won’t be too late until you’ve said ‘I do.”’
“Have you any idea what you’re suggesting? Half the guests who live across country are already on their way here. There’s enough stuff in the library to open a gift store. Baron and I have bought a town house. We’ve ordered furniture and rugs and window blinds.” She stopped just long enough to draw an overwrought breath, then rushed on, “There’s a five-tier cake being decorated, even as we speak, and over a hundred Cornish game hens had their necks wrung and their feathers plucked, to provide the main course at the reception!”
“So?” Jacqueline calmly popped the tray in the oven and began setting out wineglasses and napkins.
“So it’s not just about me, Mom!” she almost screeched.
Her mother stopped what she was doing and fixed her in a very direct look. “Is it about Nico?”
Chloe turned to the window, unable to meet Jacqueline’s gaze. Outside, her godparents were doing their best to keep Baron’s mother and father entertained, which was surely a lost cause. Baron, meanwhile, stood to one side, chatting with Nico.
Both men were tall, well over six feet, but there the similarity ended. Baron was slender, and very handsome in a subdued, refined sort of way. With his wide, intelligent forehead, mild blue-gray eyes, and slow, sweet smile, he looked exactly like what he was: a fortyish, rather shy lawyer of indisputable moral integrity.
Nico, on the other hand, stood larger than life; a man who took it in his bare hands and bent it to suit his ambitions. Black-haired, dark-eyed, strongly built and tanned, he exuded raw animal magnetism at its most alluring. He had the face of a Roman centurion, all high, angular cheekbones and hard, determined jaw—and the driving will of a gladiator bound to succeed, or die trying.
The Moretti Marriage Page 5
