“Don’t let your imagination run wild, Chloe,” he advised, accurately reading her mind. “I’m not talking about Mediterranean cruise ships with swimming pools and casinos. Mine are ocean-going container ships carrying cargo from all over the world.”
“So that’s the reason you have business here?”
“Certainly. As you must be aware, Vancouver is the largest foreign tonnage port on the west coast of North America. My ships arrive here regularly, carrying goods from Asia, Europe and South America.”
She swallowed and tried not to gape. “You must be very proud of having accomplished so much in such a short time.”
“You’d think so, yes? Yet today, I am not so proud. I am ashamed. I fancy myself a gentleman of means, but this afternoon I behaved like a thug, losing my temper and threatening a man who was nothing but the unfortunate go-between for someone every bit as unscrupulous as I can be when things don’t go my way.”
“Why, Nico?” She sank down on the window seat in the breakfast nook, disturbed by his admission. “During our marriage, you craved success. Pursued it with a determination bordering on obsession. Why, now that you’ve found it, isn’t it enough? Why does it matter that you weren’t able to buy another ship?”
“It matters,” he informed her flatly, “because it amounts to more than a sale falling through and Nico Moretti having one less toy to play with. A domino effect is taking place. My Vancouver agent has sold container space contingent upon my having that extra vessel in operation. I am unable to honor those commitments. My company’s reputation is at stake. I have to subcontract the work out to another shipping line, at substantial cost to my company.”
“And money is important to you.”
It was a statement of fact, not a question, and he recognized it as such. “I have made it important,” he said, joining her on the window seat. “It has driven me to where I am today. It is why I ignored the advice the experts gave me, and staked everything I had on a fleet of ugly, seaworthy vessels with plenty of cargo space. Not the kind of thing you’d choose for a honeymoon cruise, certainly, but then, I’m dealing with freight, not romance.”
“And you prefer that?”
“It suffices,” he said, staring down some dark, invisible tunnel of regret. “Marriage, love, they can turn on a man and squeeze every last drop of blood from his heart. Can take the things he prizes above all else in the world and turn them to dust. But if he acquires worldly possessions, he retains control of his life. They keep his bank account healthy without robbing his soul.”
“Oh, Nico, I’m so sorry!” she whispered brokenly, grabbing his hand in both of hers. How, when Luciano died, could she have been so caught up in her own pain that she never fully understood Nico’s? Why couldn’t they have turned toward one another, instead of away?
“Don’t be.” Misunderstanding, he swung his empty gaze on her. “I shall overcome this latest setback, because it has to do only with money. And that is something a man can hold in his hand and bend to suit his will. And if, by chance, he loses it through some unkind turn of fate, there is always more where it came from.”
“But is it enough to make you happy?”
“Does anyone ever have enough of anything, for that?” His hand tightened over hers, crushing her engagement ring against her finger. “Are you happy with all you have? With this sleek, expensive town house, with your work?” He glanced down as she winced and tried to withdraw her hand. “With this big diamond ring, and the man who gave it to you?”
“What if I were to say I’m not?” she said, bringing them back full circle to the question she’d put to him yesterday. “What would you have me do about it?”
And just as he had yesterday, he threw the question back in her lap. “Why ask me, Chloe, when you’re the only one who knows that?”
“Because I’m afraid of the answer,” she quavered, all her carefully constructed defenses crumbling under his scrutiny. “Because, despite everything, I’m very much afraid that I’m still in love with—”
Something slapped wetly against the window just then and remained plastered there, cutting short her confession. “The landscape blueprints!” she wailed, leaping up and running to the sliding door to rescue them.
They came away from the glass in soggy strips, their neat blue lines blurred beyond any sort of recognition, and clung to her fingers when she tried to spread them over the kitchen counter. “I was supposed to keep these for Baron to see, and now look at them!” she cried, silly, pointless tears rolling down her face. “Now they’re ruined, just like everything else to do with this marriage!”
“Perhaps destiny is trying to tell you something,” Nico said, watching her. “What is it they say, about the best laid plans going astray? Maybe this is a sign. What were you about to tell me, before you allowed yourself to be interrupted?”
“I don’t remember,” she lied.
“I do. It had something to do with your still being in love with something.” He came closer, unpeeled the paper from her hands, and pulled her around to face him. “Or was it someone, Chloe?”
Beside herself, she said, “You know it was. And you know who it was.”
“I want to hear you say it again, and I want you to look me in the eye when you do so.”
She couldn’t keep up the charade. Never mind pride or decency; right or wrong. The truth would not be silenced. “I’m still in love with you! I’m afraid I always will be! There! Are you satisfied?”
Her words emerged on a howl of pain, and she braced herself for whatever, and however, he might reply. With amusement? Distaste?
But he did nothing, and instead let the silence spin out until she wanted to die from the shame of her outburst. “Say something,” she muttered. “Tell me I’m hysterical, a fool. Just don’t leave me drowning in nothingness.”
“I do not have the words, tesoro. All I have to offer you is this.”
He took her in his arms then, as if he had every right to do so. And she went willingly, because it felt so right to do so. For the first time since he’d stormed back into her life, she offered no resistance. Instead, she lifted her face for his kiss.
His lips were gentle. Warm, tender, life-restoring. They blotted out time, silenced conscience. They gave her courage.
Outside, the rain continued to batter against the window. Inside, her heart beat an echoing tattoo. The blood pounded in her veins. A bone-deep, aching need to feel alive again consumed her.
Yesterday faded. Tomorrow didn’t exist. Nothing mattered but this moment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday, August 26
IF CHLOE had known ahead of time that her matron of honor had planned a bridal breakfast, she’d have locked herself in her room and refused to come out. As it was, she had no idea a celebration was in the offing until she shuffled into the morning room and found her grandmother, godmother and Monica lined up, ready to squeal, “Surprise!”
She didn’t need any more surprises. After last night, all she wanted was to be left alone—in a room with no mirrors, so she wouldn’t have to look at herself and see the shame and guilt stamped all over her face.
Numbly, she allowed Monica to steer her to the seat of honor at the round table. A huge balloon bouquet floated above her chair. “I’m not dressed for a party,” she mumbled, painfully aware that she was the only Cinderella in the room. Barefoot and wearing an old denim skirt and white blouse, she needed only an apron and floor mop to complete her ensemble.
“You look absolutely perfect!” Misty-eyed, Charlotte surveyed her fondly. “Doesn’t she, Phyllis?”
Chloe’s godmother beamed. “Of course she does!”
But Jacqueline, coming from the kitchen to pour champagne and orange juice into her best crystal flutes, looked as if her smile had been glued into place, and her penetrating gaze left Chloe squirming in her seat. “She looks exhausted, if you ask me! What time did you get in last night, Chloe?”
Had it been ten o’clock, or half past?
“I’m not sure.”
“You waited out the storm, I assume?”
“Yes. By then, it was well past the dinner hour, so we stopped for a bite to eat on the way home.”
“I need a drink,” Nico had declared, when they’d finally ventured from the town house and made a run for his car. “And from the looks of you, you could use one, too.”
Her mother’s glance didn’t waver. “Everything went well yesterday afternoon?”
Chloe lowered her eyes, afraid of what they might betray. “Not quite the way I expected.”
“But you’re pleased with the outcome?”
Pleased? Hardly! What woman about to become one man’s wife could approve how she’d behaved with another? Yet despite her guilt, the memory of what she and Nico had said and done last night, left her insides fluttering with forbidden pleasure.
“This is not a good idea,” he’d murmured against her mouth, when that first, comforting kiss had strayed beyond the boundaries of decency into much more compromising territory.
“I know.”
“We should stop now, while we still can.”
“Yes.”
But he continued to kiss her, and she made sure he didn’t stop. She ran her fingers over the polished cotton of his shirtfront and renewed acquaintance with the lovely, sculpted planes of his chest. She felt his heart thudding in time with hers.
Lured past all caution, she undid the buttons and slid her hands inside his shirt. Oh, the tactile bliss of rediscovery! Crisp dark hair and smooth tanned skin. Muscle and bone; sinew and strength.
“Here, girlfriend.” Monica reached over, tucked a linen napkin on Chloe’s lap, and raised her glass. “Happy breakfast, happy wedding, happy life!”
Chloe did her best to smile and project the image of radiant bride everyone but her mother seemed to expect. Lifting her own glass, she stared blindly at the beads of moisture on its delicate surface.
He’d lifted his head. “La mia inamorata,” he’d whispered thickly, his eyes devouring her, “do you know what you’re doing? Where this will end?”
“I don’t care,” she’d told him.
“But you will care, once you’ve had time to reflect. You aren’t one who likes to live dangerously. You’ve said so yourself, many times in the last few days.”
She’d pressed her fingers to his lips. Shaken her head in reproof, shushing his well-intentioned warning. The intensity of his gaze had seared her. Rendered her weak and oh, so willing!
Without volition, her head had fallen back, leaving her neck exposed and vulnerable. Eyes heavy with desire, she’d watched the rain slip-sliding down the window in long, diagonal streams.
Then his mouth was doing the same, but tracing a path from the corner of her mouth to her jaw, and from there down her throat, leaving behind a chill, damp trail that made her skin pucker.
He ducked his head lower…lower. Nudged aside the collar of her blouse, worried its buttons with his teeth until, frantic with impatience, she pushed him aside and with her own two hands ripped the damned things open and unsnapped the front clasp of her bra.
His mouth danced over her naked flesh, evoking lost sensation, invoking newer, greedier desire. She whimpered a soft plea. He answered with another deft touch of his tongue. Lit a fire in her that sent warmth shooting from her toes to the distant, befuddled area of her brain that cared not a whit for what was decent or proper, but craved only him.
“What happened to your appetite, dear?” Her godmother shook a reproving finger at the minute amount of food on Chloe’s plate. “You need to keep up your strength. Getting married takes a lot out of a woman.”
“I’m just so…overwhelmed. I had no idea you’d planned all…this.” Chloe eyed the tray of fresh fruit, the Belgian waffles heaped with raspberries and snowy mounds of whipped cream, the Canadian back bacon, the hot chocolate, poured from her grandmother’s prized antique china mocha pot, and drunk from matching cups so delicate they were almost transparent.
She nearly gagged. Repressing a shudder, she said, “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, especially not with everything else that’s going on this week.”
“You didn’t leave us much choice,” Monica pointed out. “You wouldn’t let me host a bridal shower, but I’m your best friend as well as your matron of honor. I wanted to give you something special to remember.”
“I’ve tried to forget you, Nico,” she’d whispered, holding the back of his head close, to imprison his mouth at her breast.
“Some things are meant to be remembered, tesoro. You and I, together as a couple, are among them,” he said, before closing his lips over her nipple.
He swirled his tongue around its beaded tip. Nipped gently at it with his teeth, then drew it deep into his mouth. The ensuing electrical charge short-circuited the last of her control. She let out a startled squeak and arched convulsively as a spasm shook her.
Growling low in his throat, he straightened to tower over her. Fleetingly, his palms cupped her breasts, shaped her ribs, smoothed over the slight curve of her abdomen, the flare of her hips.
He caught at her skirt and gathered it up, a handful at a time, until it lay bunched around her waist. Then cushioning her bottom, he brought her up snug against him; against his erection, thrusting powerfully despite being confined by his clothing.
From behind, his hand stole between her legs. They fell slackly apart, giving him freedom to wreak whatever havoc he chose. His finger caressed the strip of smooth bare skin above her stockings, and eased under the elasticized edge of her panties. Found the slick seam of her femininity. Stroked over it lazily. Once, twice.
The second spasm shook her to the core. She staggered, dug her fingers into the firm muscle of his shoulders, and clutched at him for support. He raised the pressure a notch, trespassed more deeply between the folds of her flesh. Sank his fingers deep inside her.
And all the time, from the front, he rocked against her, the rhythm of his movements measured and deliberate, awakening a clawing, desperate need in her. She wanted to touch him; to hold him in both her hands and return in full measure the same exquisite torment he inflicted on her.
She wanted to prolong the moment, to make it last all night and for the rest of her life. But he was making her come, and nothing she could effect could prevent the climax from gathering strength. It rolled closer; threatened to destroy her. But she wanted him to die with her. Wanted to hear again his stifled groan of defeat. Feel the hot, urgent spurt of his seed. Taste life again in its most elemental form.
Catching him by surprise, she wrestled down the zipper at his fly, and found the opening in his shorts. Already he was seeping with the prelude to full ejaculation.
Beholding his awesome strength again, feeling the heavy, silken weight of him in her hand, tipped her over the edge. Burying him between the soft inner curve of her thighs, she rode the lavish tide of orgasm. Let it wash over her in undulating waves, each more ferocious than the one before. And realized, from the sudden hot stream scalding her skin, that she had not traveled alone to that sublime and distant place. Nico had succumbed as helplessly as she.
“More hot chocolate, dear?” Charlotte held the mocha pot poised over her cup. “Or would you prefer something cooler—juice, perhaps? You’re looking a little flushed.”
“Water would be nice,” Chloe managed, using her napkin to fan her face. “With lots of ice.”
“If you’re all done eating, we can get started on the fun part.” Monica rolled forward the brass tea trolley loaded, Chloe noticed belatedly, with ribbon-tied boutique gift boxes.
“Now you’re really going overboard,” she protested. “The breakfast was more than enough.”
“The breakfast was merely the introduction. This is the main event.”
This turned out to be elegant trousseau items nestled among layers of tissue paper. A silky peach peignoir trimmed with creamy marabou feathers; a very brief, very sexy nightie; sheer cream stockings to match her wedding shoes; hig
h-cut panties paneled in embossed satin and embroidered with dainty blue forget-me-nots. And perhaps the most extravagantly ridiculous of all, a Merry Widow strapless bridal corset threaded with ribbons and overlaid with cobweb-fine lace.
“You’ll need nimble fingers to help you get into this,” Phyllis predicted, counting the long row of hooks and eyes down the back.
“That’s where I come in,” Monica said. “We’ll have a dress rehearsal, just to make sure we don’t run into any snags on the big day. But it’ll have to wait awhile because we’ve got something else to take care of, first.”
Unable to contain her dismay, Chloe said, “Oh, please! Not another surprise!”
“Try to act like the blushing, ecstatic bride you’re supposed to be, instead of a prisoner about to be given a lethal injection,” Monica admonished. “Although now that I come to think about it, you’re not having too much trouble blushing this morning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a guilty conscience.”
“I do,” Chloe said, grasping at the first plausible excuse to present itself. “You’ve got a husband and two children who need looking after. You shouldn’t be here, spoiling me.”
“Your mother and grandmother did most of the work. I just gave directions.” Monica squeezed her arm affectionately. “Don’t look so worried, girlfriend. Nothing terrible’s about to happen. We just decided we’d do the ‘something old, something new’ thing today, instead of waiting until Saturday, that’s all. By then, you’ll have a houseful of guests and likely be pressed for time.” She produced a shiny, tiny gift bag patterned with daisies. “So here’s your ‘something new’ from me.”
Chloe’s heart flopped around inside her chest like a wounded bird when she saw the gold locket, engraved with her new initials. They’d been C.A.M. all her life, including the years she’d been married to Nico. There was something disturbingly final about the curlicued C.A.P.; it marked a definite break with the past.
“I expect you know what the ‘borrowed’ is,” Jacqueline said matter-of-factly, dropping a jeweler’s box into her lap. “Grandmother Matheson’s pearl and diamond necklace and earrings. They’ll look quite lovely with your wedding dress.”
The Moretti Marriage Page 9
