by Megan Mulry
His breathing stops while he waits for me to continue. “But?”
I look up at him and smile. “No buts.”
His eyes are gleaming with hope and tenderness. “Tell me you love me.”
Of course that’s the bastardy way he would tell me he loves me. “You’re impossible,” I say instead, but I’m kissing his neck and his jaw through the words.
“Tell me you love me,” he whispers again, sounding deliciously strained, as if he’s about to lose control of . . . everything.
He leans his forehead against mine and shuts his eyes. I can feel his heart pounding beneath the palm of my hand where it’s resting against his chest.
“Do we need to start over?” he asks. “I’m happy to court you and prove it all. I want to earn you, Mikhaila. Everything I did before was so”—he moves his forehead slightly, right and left, against mine—“impulsive. And I want everything from here on out to be filled with purpose. I want you to know it.” He touches my chest over my heart. “To feel it here.”
“I already feel it, Rome. You’ve been inside me since the first time I heard your voice, the first time I laid eyes on you.”
He’s kissing my neck and bare shoulder and I’m melting against him.
“Would you move to Saint Petersburg?” I ask, considering practicalities for a moment, before the spell of his kisses pulls me back under.
“Yes.”
I pull his face up so I can look into his eyes.
“Yes?”
“Of course. Turns out I have a bit of money and I can live wherever the hell I want.” His lips are swollen, and his turquoise eyes are gleaming with happiness. “I don’t care where I live, as long as we’re together.”
I can see the boy in those eyes, the child who was never told how wonderful he was, never praised for being himself. I get to tell him those things for the rest of my life. “I love you. I love your impetuous nature, your generosity, your thoughtfulness, your loyalty . . .” His eyes try to track away, as if it embarrasses him to be praised. To be loved. “Look at me, you beautiful man.” His gaze returns warily. “You are mine, damn it.”
“I’ve always been yours, Miki. Always.” He leans in and kisses me again, and I feel it like a vow, a touch that binds us to each other completely.
We spend the rest of the night floating around the city—holding hands, kissing under bridges, eating caviar, touching each other as we glide along ancient canals. He assures me that the public-indecency laws are far more lenient here than they are in the States, but we definitely come close to breaking a few.
As the sun starts to rise over the lagoon, my head rests in the crook of Rome’s shoulder while he reclines next to me. I pull a blanket over us as we stare up at the morning stars. The sound of the water against the side of the boat lulls me into a lovely half sleep.
I’m not sure how much longer we ride around, but the sun is definitely above the horizon when the boat pulls up in front of Vivian’s villa. “Time for Cinderella to go back to her evil stepsister,” Rome jokes. I look up into his eyes with obvious desire, but we’re both exhausted.
“Tonight,” I promise. “Will you come to the gala with us?”
“Yes, if you like. I was going to avoid it, thinking you wouldn’t want me there, but now . . .” He leans down and kisses me again, and, god, it feels so damn right. My body begins to heat up immediately. “You need sleep,” he finishes.
I groan at the truth of it, wanting him in my arms and wanting sleep. “I would love it if you came to the party. I even packed a special dress with a bare back just for you. But it might be wrinkly.” I look down at my happily disheveled self.
“I’ll send over a new gown this afternoon,” he offers easily. My little fixer.
“I can get my own dress.”
“I know you can,” he smiles, touching my jaw. “But will you let me?”
“I’m afraid it will be something totally over the top.”
“Of course it will be over the top. I don’t think I ever misrepresented myself with false promises of being run-of-the-mill, did I?”
I laugh and kiss him again. “Certainly not.” The two of us walk back to the front door of the villa, then make out in the narrow via for another twenty minutes. “Why am I not going up to your bed, again?” I ask.
“Because you’re tired . . . and on vacation with Isabel,” he answers between kisses. “Or something.”
“Right. Tired.” I kiss him one last time, then hold his face in my hands again. “Mine.”
“Yours,” he whispers.
“Forever.”
He nods solemnly. “Forever.” He kisses me one last time. “Sleep well, my paper doll.” He winks.
“You’re going to pay for that.” I wink back and tap in the code to open the door.
“I want to pay and pay,” he replies suggestively, touching my back with a single finger while I reach for the door handle.
“I know you’re good for it. Now go get some sleep. I’ll see you tonight.” I shut the door slowly, but not all the way, so I can watch him walk away until he’s turned at the end of the via and I can’t see him any longer. I push the door shut, and soft tears of happiness trail down my cheeks. Walking up the stairs, I can feel everywhere he touched me, every kiss, every light caress. My body is covered with him.
When I get up to the bedroom, Isabel rolls over and mumbles something in her sleep. I tiptoe across to my side of the room and pull off the dress and throw on an oversize T-shirt. I crawl into bed, and as my eyes are drifting shut I hear my phone vibrate on the floor, inside my clutch. I fumble for it and pull it out.
You are my perfect.
I fall asleep with the phone cradled to my chest.
EPILOGUE
Two Years Later
Hurry up, or we’re going to be late to our own wedding,” I call up the large stone stairs of Le Cloître. Rome and I have spent the past two weeks in Provence, being very lazy and keeping the world at bay, but now it’s time for the big day.
He appears at the top of the stairs, and I’m tempted to call off the whole damn thing just so I can push him back into bed and spend the rest of the day in his arms. “You’re so disgustingly handsome.”
He smiles like the devil and walks down the stairs toward me. He’s in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt that’s a glinting contrast with his tanned complexion, and his silvery-gray tie reflects the morning sun.
“What took you so long, anyway?” I ask.
“I needed to get something out of one of the safes, and I couldn’t remember which one it was in.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe I’m marrying someone with so many safes he can’t even keep track of them.”
He shrugs. “They’ll be your safes within the hour. You can keep track of them after that. Turn around,” he orders.
I sigh. “Rome. We have to go.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Turn. Around.”
I’m wearing the red Lanvin gown I wore in Venice two summers ago, and I know how much he loves its low, exposed-back. I turn slowly, for full effect, and feel him put on a long double strand of pearls. He fastens the clasp, then wraps his strong fingers around my neck, adjusting the necklace so it rests like a choker in front and falls to the middle of my back. He kisses my nape, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“Remind me why we’re getting married?” he asks, his voice husky.
“Because you want our baby to have your name?”
“That’s easily accomplished without a wedding. Why else?”
“Because you are mine,” I whisper hotly. “And I’m a possessive witch who loves you.”
“Yes,” he whispers. “You love me.”
“I do.” I turn in his arms and kiss him on the lips. “Now let’s go, already.”
We walk out to the car and are driving down
the curving road soon after. I rest my hand on his forearm. I love the feel of his muscles tensing and relaxing as he works the gearshift. My mind is busy thinking about a big deal I’ve got going in Brazil, and then I’m thinking about my house in LA, which is finally going to be sold. And then for some reason I am reminded of Landon Clark. I see a copse of trees and a small lane up ahead.
“Say, Rome?”
“Yes, love?” He’s concentrating on the road, but I love how he always concentrates on me when we’re talking, whatever else he’s doing.
“See that lane up there on the right?”
“Yes?”
“Even if it meant we were going to be late for our own wedding, if I were to suggest we pull over and—”
Before I even finish, he slams on the brakes and fishtails into the shady lane.
We are only about fifteen minutes late arriving at Margot and Étienne’s house, where about a hundred of our closest family and friends have gathered for the ceremony. No one seems to notice or care about our tardiness, except to remark that we look so particularly happy today.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Love and thanks to everyone who helped make this book a reality: to my agent, Allison Hunter; to my editors, Krista Stroever, Maria Gomez, and Kelli Martin; to my reader/writer heroines, Janet Webb, Anne Calhoun, Miranda Neville, Alexandra Haughton, Mira Lyn Kelly, Lexi Ryan, Alison Kent, and Jeffe Kennedy; to my beloved family and friends, Peg, Jeff, Helen, Jeb, Electra, Bobbi, Maté, and Dorothy. Finally, a special thanks to everyone who hangs out with me on Twitter. This book underwent extensive revisions and major overhauls during the past two years, and the random “you can do it” or “can’t wait to read it” in my Twitter stream at two in the morning meant more than I can adequately convey. Most of all, thanks to you, gentle reader!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2011 Wheaton Mahoney
Megan Mulry writes sexy, stylish, romantic fiction. Her first book, A Royal Pain, was an NPR Best Book of 2012 and a USA Today bestseller. Before discovering her passion for romance novels, she worked in magazine publishing and finance. After many years in New York, Boston, London, and Chicago, she now lives with her family in Florida.
