“Don’t be scared. It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it okay—”
She silenced him with a furious slap across his face, hitting him hard, as hard as she could. She could hear the slap echo shockingly loud in the chamber. Worse, the blow stung her hand, making her palm ache.
Even so she moved to slap him again, but he caught her hand, trapping it in mid-air so she couldn’t. His grip was like iron around the slight bones of her wrist but he didn’t hurt her, just held her hand immobile, frustrating her further.
“I hate you.” She spat the words at him, unleashing the full weight of her rage and sorrow. “And if what you say is true, I will never, ever, forgive you.”
For a moment all was silent, his hand still clasped around hers, his eyes boring into her.
She thought she already hated him. He had entered her life in a blaze of glory and then he’d left it just as abruptly, in a blaze of fire. And yet all this time he’d been alive. All this time he’d had their son…
How could she forgive him?
And, more to the point, how could she forgive herself for loving someone who had such power to hurt her? Break her? Because he had. He had five years ago and he’d do it again if she let him.
“Then you will never forgive me,” he countered, his fingers sliding down her wrist, making her skin tingle and burn even when his head dropped, blocking the light, and his mouth captured hers.
Diane jerked at the touch of his mouth, her senses splintering as he pulled her body against his. He was warm—so warm and strong. She shouldn’t be surprised. His costume had revealed layer upon layer of dense carved muscle but, pressed to the length of him, his power overwhelmed her. He wasn’t merely male and virile. He was male and physical, and impossibly sexual.
She stiffened at the pressure of his lips on hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, nor tender, was punishing more than anything. The barely leashed tension in his body made her aware of just how far things had gone.
He was suffering. Suffering as much as she was. Maybe even more. Ignoring her whimper of protest, he deepened the kiss and then parted her lips, allowing his tongue to ruthlessly claim her mouth. He was, she thought dizzily, possessing her, taking her mouth the way he’d once taken her body.
Fiercely. Thoroughly. Passionately.
And that was when she felt the change in him. The kiss was no longer angry. It was still hot, perhaps even hotter, but it had exploded into something else. Something far more dangerous.
Something like hunger.
Like desire.
Like love.
But, no, he didn’t love her anymore, and she didn’t love him, but it didn’t seem to matter. Not when she shivered in his arms, body aching, humming, throbbing. Yes, he was a beast, this new Domenico, this man with the savaged face, but his lips, his skin, his body stirred her, tormented her, making her want—him, skin, satisfaction.
There’d been no one else since the accident. No other man in the past five years. No one for her but Domenico. She’d only ever loved Domenico. But he’d moved on…he’d—
She dragged her head back, breaking the kiss. “Take your hands off me,” she gritted, heart pounding, blood drumming in her head. “Now.”
For a long moment he stared down into her eyes, and then took a slow, measured step back. “You might hate me, Diane, but you still want me.”
She did want him. She would probably always want him. He was a monster, inside and out, his interior perhaps even more scarred than his exterior. But the warmth of his lips and the touch of his tongue to her sensitive inner lower lip had made her burn, made her inner thighs, that place between her legs, ache.
“Where is my son?”
“He is not here right now—”
“Of course not.”
“But he’s returning in two days. You’ll be reunited with him the moment he’s back in Venice.”
Her heart still raced, and blood still pounded in her ears. “How can I possibly trust you now?”
“You can trust me. I’m not my mother, not my family. I would never keep your son away from you. Stay. Wait—”
“How?” she cried, thinking that he might have suffered but he’d had their child, he’d had his family, he’d had their support while she’d had no one. And the loneliness had been crushing. To go from Domenico’s arms to the stillness of her new life. It had been such a quiet, hollow life. “How can we do this?”
“How can we not? You’re his mother. You’re the one he’s missed his whole life. You’re the one he desperately needs.”
She was the one the child desperately needed? She was the one? And yet Domenico had been set to marry Valeria.
Diane drew an unsteady breath, her emotions chaotic, thoughts whirling in a dozen different directions. She put a hand to her temple, where the white wig dug into her forehead.
She’d never met her own child and she would have to wait another two days still. Two days wasn’t that long in the big picture, but at the moment it felt like forever.
“Can you not send for him? Two days is too long to have me wait now. There’s so much I want to know. So many years I’ve missed out on. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not,” he agreed bluntly, his expression almost sympathetic. “You should have been there these past five years. He needed you. He needs a mother.”
Diane’s heart suddenly felt as though it was being ripped apart. Her son needed a mother. Was Valeria to have been that mother? “I’ll stay. Until my son arrives. Then, and only then, we’ll discuss the future.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE stayed. How could she not? More than anything in the world she wanted to see this boy, this child of hers. The child she’d thought she’d lost.
Domenico sent for her things from her small hotel near St. Mark’s Square, and then showed her to a suite of rooms which would be hers. Like the rest of the palazzo, her suite on the fourth floor had been renovated, and yet here the rooms hadn’t simply been redone, but intelligently and sensitively updated. Walls must have come down and smaller rooms joined to create a large, spacious suite. The design was clean, classic, and aesthetically pleasing.
Like the finest, most luxurious five-star hotel room one could imagine. The softest of linens, fat and fluffy feather comforter and pillows, ambiance lighting.
The bathroom was even more opulent. It sparkled and gleamed from the creamy vanilla stone on the floor and the shower enclosure to the custom cabinetry stained a dark, rich bittersweet chocolate shade. The massive sunken tub was surrounded by endless Italian marble. The silver fixtures shone. A Murano crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and matching glass sconces were set into the stone of the wall.
It was, in short, simply gorgeous.
Domenico had been watching her face throughout the tour of the suite. He’d opened doors, turned on lights, pointed out the switch for a reading light at the bedside table without a single comment or change of expression.
But then at last, in the chocolate and cream marble bathroom, she’d caved, her eyes widening, a hint of rose in her cheeks as her lips curved in awe and delight. For a moment she was the Diane of old—eyes bright, expression open. She loved the bathroom, appreciated its beauty, and she turned to him.
“It’s—” she started to say, and even her voice was lighter, buoyant. But then she looked at him, saw him, took in his scar and his ruined face and she disappeared again. It was like a door being slammed. Her mobile features froze. Her expression turned blank. Her eyes shuttered.
Domenico’s chest grew tight. His lungs ached and he realized he was holding his breath, hanging on to his emotions by a thread.
He’d been wrong. She wasn’t an angel. She was a ghost. A ghost of the woman she once was. And he’d done that to her. Done this to all of them.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you here,” he said, his voice pitched so low it grated on his own ears. “There’s a robe and slippers in the closet. A cashmere throw on the armchair. Make yoursel
f at home. Your things should be arriving in the next half hour.”
And then, without waiting for a response, he left her in the bathroom, with its decadent swirl of hot chocolate, marshmallow and cream.
“And your wedding?” Diane demanded thickly, her husky voice following him to the door. “Aren’t you getting married soon?”
He stopped in the doorway, turned slowly around. “How can I marry again when I’m still married to you?”
“But you can’t be. Your mother—”
“Probably pulled strings to get the death certificate issued. But you’re not dead—which means we’re still married, because there was no divorce. No annulment. It’s something I’d never consider.”
“So Valeria—”
“Is my concern.” He cut her off before walking out the door.
WITH HER BAGS AND HER CANE transferred from her hotel to her suite at Ca’ Coducci, Diane finally stripped out of her white tulle costume with its snug corset. She peeled off the white hose and the white beaded shoes and, wrapped in the plush robe from the closet, headed into the bathroom to soak in the tub.
She’d told herself she wasn’t going to indulge in any of the little extravagances provided in the bathroom—no sea salts or scrubs, no candles, no soft lighting. But just soaking in the tub was luxurious, especially as she so rarely pampered herself.
But then she wasn’t here at Ca’ Coducci for pleasure, she wearily reminded herself. She wasn’t here for Domenico, or to rekindle their relationship. She was here for one reason and one reason only: her child.
Her son.
Leaving the bath, Diane changed into pajamas, then wandered up and down the fine Persian carpet covering the marble floor before the pain of walking forced her to take a seat on the edge of her mattress. Sitting on the bed, Diane massaged her throbbing hip, hoping to ease the pain. Her pelvis and hip had been crushed in the accident, and even though the surgeons had rebuilt the hip socket with plates and screws there was still discomfort, and Venice’s cold dampness just made it worse.
Still rubbing her hip, she let her thoughts scatter in every direction. The fantastical costumes at the masquerade ball. The candlelit ballroom with its golden shimmering ceiling. The winged lion that was Domenico.
So impossible. So incredible.
And then all the lies.
Domenico had never died. The baby had survived his premature birth. The late Contessa had deliberately kept them apart…
A picture of a small boy flashed before Diane just at thinking of the injustice of it all. A child with dark hair and dark eyes like Dom.
Their baby—their boy—would be almost five. And it hit her suddenly, violently, that she didn’t even know her son’s name.
Even as she was struggling to digest this newest realization she heard the sound of raised voices from down the hall. It was Valeria and Dom. Only Dom wasn’t yelling. His voice was pitched too low to be heard through the door, but Valeria was definitely angry. Very angry. She was shouting at Dom, and then there was a thud and a crash as something fragile smashed into the wall and shattered into pieces.
Diane tensed, waiting for more, but nothing else happened. No sound, no voices, no footsteps. But a few minutes later a knock sounded on her door, and then the door opened.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Domenico said. He too had showered and changed from his costume into street clothes. He wore dark pants and a dark shirt, and with his thick hair the color of wet onyx combed back from his face he looked impossibly elegant. Until he turned his head, revealing the scar. The thickened skin puckered across his right cheekbone. Once Domenico’s beauty had left her speechless, breathless, aroused. But this Domenico wasn’t that man. This one had a face savaged by tragedy. An accident. A fire. A terrible burn.
And just like that she felt the impact of the accident all over again. One moment she was gloriously pregnant and vivaciously alive, riding in Dom’s sports car on the way to a New Year’s Eve party, and the next she was being airlifted to a hospital in New York.
There had been no goodbyes.
No funerals.
No closure.
It had taken her years to shut the door on him—them—and when she had it had nearly broken her. It had been the worst, hardest, most terrible thing she’d ever done.
And so she studied his scarred face, struggling to be as dispassionate as possible. It was an ugly scar. He’d always have it.
“I actually didn’t hear much,” she confessed. “Just some shouting.”
“And the broken figurine?”
Diane grimaced. “Yes, and that. Was it valuable?”
“Of course,” he answered dryly.
Her lips quivered and she nearly smiled. His tone had been so droll. A little amused, a little mocking. So much like the old Domenico.
“She’s gone,” he added. “Permanently. She won’t be back.”
So he had ended their engagement. Diane shuddered a little, unable to help feeling sorry for Valeria. Valeria had begun the evening as Domenico’s fiancée and ended it being cast out on the doorstep.
“Did you love her?” Diane asked.
Domenico looked down at her, dark eyes narrowed, expression unflinching. “No.”
“But you were going to marry her.”
“It was a practical arrangement, not a love match. She knew it, and she accepted it. And don’t look so appalled. Valeria was quite happy with the arrangement. She likes fine things and she enjoyed what my title and success provides.”
Diane shivered. “That’s so cold.”
He shrugged and walked toward the bed. “It’s what it is. I am what I am.”
Diane tipped her head back to better see his face. “And what is that?”
Standing next to the bed, he reached out and lightly, intently, traced her profile with his fingertip. His touch was warm, sensual as it caressed down from her brow over her small straight nose, across her lips, to rest at her square chin. “Ruthless.”
Air caught in her throat even as fire licked her limbs. Her body clearly remembered him. Her body still wanted him. “You were never ruthless before. You were compassionate. Generous—”
“No.”
“Yes. And loving. I’d never met a more loving man in my life.”
He flinched as though she’d struck him. “Is there anything else you need tonight? Something to drink? A snack from the kitchen? Just let me know and I’ll have it done.”
She was going to refuse, and then thought it silly to let pride get in the way. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“Your head hurts?”
“No. It’s my leg and hip. They’re both really achy tonight. The cold makes the pain worse.”
He gazed down at her, expression brooding. “Surgery hasn’t helped?”
“I’ve had so many. But there was so much damage done I’m lucky that I can walk at all.”
His jaw hardened as she spoke, his features growing increasingly harsh. “I did this to you.”
“No, Domenico, it was an accident—”
“I was careless.”
“You looked away from the road only a moment—”
“And it only took a moment, didn’t it? I should never have looked away.”
“You’re human. People make mistakes. I never once blamed you, so you can’t blame yourself—” She broke off when she saw that he wasn’t even listening. He was waging a war inside his head.
“Dom…” She whispered his name but he didn’t appear to hear her, too lost in the dark places of his mind.
Scooting forward on the bed, Diane reached for his hand, captured it in hers. “Domenico. Look at me.”
It seemed like forever before he turned his head toward her, but still he wasn’t seeing her. He was living and reliving some private hell.
“Dom,” she said roughly, pressing his hand to her cheek without even realizing she’d done so. “I don’t blame you. I never have. Not once. Not ever. Please. Please. Don’t do this to yourself. Especiall
y not now—not when you can see I’m here and safe—”
“And injured.” His dark eyes bored into hers. “You have pain every day, don’t you?”
“I’ve learned to live with it, and it doesn’t hold me back. I’ve a new job as an art curator. I travel when I can. I have a good life. I’m not complaining. I refuse to. Life’s too short. We both know it.”
He gave her a jerky nod and carefully extracted his hand from hers. “I’ll get you the pain medicine now.” And he left quickly, closing the door behind him without a sound.
Domenico went to his own room, stepping over the shattered sixteenth-century marble figurine of St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice, still lying in the hallway. The figure was the one Valeria had thrown not even a half hour ago. It had been his mother’s favorite. Ironic that it was the one Valeria should choose to toss at his head.
Not that he didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t been exactly gentle when he’d ended their engagement tonight.
Summoning one of the maids, he had her take the medicine to Diane. He couldn’t do it himself—couldn’t look into Diane’s eyes and her lovely face…not when it hurt so much.
She was far more beautiful now, in her early thirties, than she’d been at twenty-five when they’d first met. He didn’t know if it was age or suffering, but her face had matured, the sweetheart-shape transformed by new curves and planes, hollows and edges. And tonight he’d found himself wanting to explore her face with his fingertips and mouth, wanting to memorize her, know her, possess her again.
But it was too soon. She was afraid of him. He saw it in her eyes every time she looked at his disfigured face.
He’d have to give her time to accept him the way he was now. Scarred. Ugly.
And yet tonight she’d taken his hand, pressed it to her cheek.
She’d said she didn’t blame him. She’d said she’d never blamed him. Not once. Not ever. But how could she not? How could she not look at their ruined lives and blame him? Hate him? He certainly did.
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