“How could he ostracize the child he’d raised since birth?” she asked, her other hand coming up to his arm, the muscle so tense she felt as if she were grasping a stone pillar.
He stopped in the lee of the arch leading onto the bridge, his gaze so bleak and pained she wanted to cry. “Papa held to old-world beliefs and I was a bastard in his eyes. A constant reminder of his wife’s betrayal. Though they argued fiercely and he ignored me as much as possible, he never physically mistreated me. In fact, he did me a favor.”
“How can you say that?”
“Papa discouraged me from working with him at Cabriotini’s vineyard or for my Nonno Toligara. He insisted I get an education. That I learn business so I wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of my ancestors,” he said. “I balked at first, thinking if I worked with my father it would strengthen our relationship, that we would become close again. A few months after I began secondary school, my parents died in an auto accident and I was sent to Montiforte to live with my Nonni Toligara.”
“That’s so tragic,” she said, a fist pressed to her heart.
One shoulder lifted. “Yes, but a blessing as well. They saw that I got an education, both at the winery and press and later at the university.” His fingers tangled with hers. “Come.”
What could she say to that? That they would be proud he’d done so well? That he’d done the impossible insofar as he’d regained the family business and made it far better?
It seemed wiser to keep those thoughts to herself as he led her onto the bridge, his hand tightly clasping hers. Ponte Vecchio teemed with people, from single shoppers to mothers with children to couples strolling hand-in-hand.
It was unlike any place she’d seen before. The vibrant colors of the awnings over some shops and the array of finery glistening in the line of windows left her as excited as a child at Christmas.
When they walked past the breaks between buildings, she caught a breathtaking view of the river winding though vineyards and olive groves painted in muted golds and bronze with the shadow of mountains in the distance. It was a vista painters coveted, yet her gaze was drawn time and again to Marco.
He stopped before a shop framed in wood, stained a rich patina by much polishing. A bank of bay windows overflowed with a stunning array of gold jewelry, its glow blinding in the late-day sun.
“This is the place,” he said and dragged her inside.
Delanie craned her neck as she passed a glass case with the most dazzling array of gold bracelets, the size and intricate designs begging a second look. But the next showcase was just as stunning, just as breathtaking as the other.
Everywhere she looked, her gaze fell on the warm liquid sensuality of ultra-fine gold. Or on one arrogantly gorgeous Italian who had yet to release her hand.
“Is it really all eighteen-carat?” she asked Marco as he caught a clerk’s eye.
“Yes, all the goldsmiths here pride themselves on selling the highest grade gold.” He bent over a case. “Which one do you think Bella would like?”
She pointed to a display of pendants suspended on fine twisted gold chains. “Any of these freeform designs should appeal to her.”
“I like the middle one,” he said.
She smiled in agreement. “I think that will be perfect for your sister.”
Marco nodded to the patient clerk and the older man hurried to comply. Delanie grasped the opportunity to put distance between her and Marco, to focus on the array of jewelry instead of on the doubts that were hammering away at her, an insistent ache that left her shaken inside, left her questioning everything to do with him.
How different her life would be if the lies hadn’t gotten between them. If she had walked away from her business and her family. If she were his wife instead of his lover….
“You like?” Marco asked, appearing at her elbow with that same maddening stealth that had stolen her heart so long ago.
With effort she tore her gaze from the dark liquid languor glowing in his eyes to the warmth of the gold pendant suspended from an equally exquisite chain. “It’s fabulous. I’ve never seen anything quite like the chain or the pendant.”
“They are unique blends of modern design and fabled Florentine craftsmanship,” he said, smiling, relaxed, his command of his world so appealing. “In many ways, the Etruscan influence still runs deeply here.”
In the craftsmanship and the people? She’d read about the indigenous people while in school but had trouble dredging up any specifics. Not so for Marco.
But then he’d been born here. He’d been surrounded by this curious mix of old world and new most of his life. The rich cultural wealth that flowed alongside the Apennines coursed in his blood as well.
That only proved again how little she’d known about him ten years ago. How little she’d attempted to learn about his life.
Her cheeks heated as she admitted to herself that she’d been too selfish to think beyond her own world.
She bit her lower lip, the gold before her blurring into a liquid burnished sea. The life she’d wanted was close enough to taste, to embrace. So why did her heart ache at the thought of leaving here? Leaving Marco?
“Which piece would the lady like to see?” the clerk asked, appearing on the other side of the case as if by magic. As if expecting Marco to buy more of the lavishly expensive jewelry.
For her? Not on her life! She would make love with him but she would not take a token of gold back to London.
Her fingertips grazed the polished edge of the case, blinking frantically to disperse her sudden tears. “Nothing, thank you. I’m just window-shopping.”
Marco edged closer, his arm touching hers lightly, yet sending her insides into a tumble all the same. “Come on. You must like one piece more than the other.”
With Marco so close and behaving so charmingly again she was having trouble thinking straight. If she didn’t know better, she would swear he was flirting with her. But that was preposterous. Wasn’t it?
She rubbed her left temple, frustrated she couldn’t concentrate on anything but Marco standing so close. His unique scent drifted in a silken glide over her skin, leaving her trembling.
Marco in his most arrogant persona she could deal with. But when he was like this, sweet, sexy, attentive, she couldn’t think of anything but falling into his arms, holding him, kissing him, loving him. Dangerous thoughts to have for a man she intended to walk away from—for good this time.
“Can’t decide?” he prodded.
With effort, she shook off the drugging effect that was totally him and pointed toward the pendant she’d been admiring earlier. Only as her vision cleared, she realized that the necklaces were no longer there.
She scanned the case, a frown pulling at her brow. When had the clerk exchanged the tray of pendants for rings?
The little man was quick to hold up a stunning ring for her inspection, carefully setting it on the velvet pillow. Her breath caught and her pulse raced. She’d never seen such delicate gold filigree or such an amazing rainbow of fire reflecting off one diamond.
“It’s exquisite,” she said.
The clerk made an appreciative sound. “Would the lady like to try it on?”
“No!” She pushed back from the case, glancing at Marco, then the door. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
With that she fled the shop and the sweet lure of the man she feared she would never forget.
CHAPTER NINE
MARCO credited a good deal of his swift success to the fact that he relied on his gut instincts. So far they hadn’t let him down. He saw no reason to defer from that course now when the object of his desire was in sight.
Or more specifically, his desire was sitting beside him as he raced back to his villa. His suddenly silent, suddenly edgy object of desire.
There had been a major quake between them as they’d walked onto Ponte Vecchio. For some reason he had yet to understand, it had erupted in the jeweler’s shop when the clerk assumed that Delanie was his fiancée and had tr
otted forth the tray of rings.
Delanie had been mellowing toward him all day, even giving him that look that was a green light aimed directly at him. Then, the second the clerk pulled up the engagement ring Delanie had been admiring, she had pulled away. She had actually run from the shop.
What madness had come over him to stand by and watch? Why hadn’t he been the one to immediately pull her out of the shop when the engagement rings were trotted out, ending any speculation of what she meant to him?
Those questions nagged at him as he followed her out, finding her standing in the arched opening of the bridge, wind threading through her hair.
“What is wrong?” he’d asked, pulling her behind a pillar where they had a modicum of privacy.
“It was so hot in there,” she said, her gaze turned to the river. “Didn’t you notice?”
Then before he could reply, she’d slipped from him again and walked back to the stone railing. By the time he’d joined her, she was smiling, though he saw a note of strain around her expressive eyes and the lovely mouth that he longed to kiss.
“I love this view,” she said.
“So do I.” But he wasn’t looking at the fertile hills or the haze of the Apennines in the distance.
He was staring at Delanie, his gaze worshiping her, devouring her. A sudden swift stab of longing twisted in his gut as he stared at her.
In less than a week now, Bella would be married and Delanie would expect him to make good on his deal with her. She would return to London with the success of a much-publicized wedding in her portfolio, in full control of her business.
Both of them would go on with their lives. Except he wasn’t ready to see her go.
Though they shared a refreshing lunch later, all spontaneity was gone the moment they got in his Bugatti for the drive home. The closer they’d gotten to his villa the more remote she had become.
He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, annoyed and frustrated. As they neared Montiforte, he sensed Delanie slipping away from him.
If he didn’t do something to stop this soon, she would lock herself into some secret place that he couldn’t reach. He would lose her again before he truly had her.
But what if she stayed? What role would she play in the life of a man who had sworn never to marry? Mistress?
No, she wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t stay. So he had to make the most of this opportunity.
“Do you need anything from the village?” he asked.
“Everything is done and progressing on schedule,” she said. “It’s just a matter of checking in with the vendors and the bride daily until the wedding day.”
Minutes later they were at his house nestled in the hills. Before they got out of his car, he knew exactly what he was going to do. There would be no altering it this time.
“Thank you for the lovely day,” Delanie said as she stepped into the sunbathed patio.
“It was my pleasure.”
He stopped in the doorway, shoulder braced on the jamb, gaze savoring the enticing view of her very firm, very sexy backside. His pulse kicked up, his groin tightening.
“You have done a remarkable job,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, not slowing. Fleeing, nearly.
He flexed his fingers, aware there would be no going back, jaw firming with his decision. “We will celebrate your success tonight.”
She came to a stiff halt by the chaise, hand gripping the plump backrest. “That isn’t necessary.”
“I disagree.”
He pushed away from the door, crossing to her in three strides. His palms grazed her shoulders and he damned the silk that kept him from feeling the velvet of her bare skin.
“We need this celebration, Delanie. Just us,” he said.
He heard her swallow and was startled to find his own throat felt just as tight, that his nerves were not as unruffled as usual. She did this to him, kept him off balance just that fraction, rocking the stable foundation he’d carved out.
No other woman had ever left him so on edge. Just Delanie. She’d done it from the first moment they’d met, when she’d given all to him that first time before letting fear choke her. He’d had no idea how to deal with it then.
He wasn’t entirely sure now, but he knew passion churned deeply in her, passion that she felt for him. His fingertips tingled with the need to touch her, hold her, release that need in her that coursed through him as well. A whirlpool of unrest swirled in his gut, a gnawing hunger that only she could sate.
She faced him then, eyes wide and cheeks kissed with a rosy flush. “You want sex,” she said frankly.
“I wanted you the moment I stepped onto Ponte Vecchio with you,” he said, hand cupping her head, canting her face gently up to his. “Perhaps even sooner.”
And then his lips were on hers, hot, ravenous. Flames exploded in his blood, a firestorm of desire that licked through his veins.
He slipped an arm around her narrow waist and pulled her flush against him, the sizzle in his blood popping like a champagne cork in his head.
His skin was on fire, the hot tips of her breasts branding his chest. Her scent was on him, in him, blotting out the world, blotting out everything but her. This moment. Them.
This is how it had been between them before. It was how it was meant to be: a fire of consuming need and blazing heat that they danced in when they were wrapped in each other’s arms.
She was his. He knew it in his gut, his soul.
He only had to convince her of that. Coax her to soften, to surrender. To realize that this was where she was supposed to be.
With him. By his side. In his bed.
His lips traced the curve of her jaw, her slender neck, her delicate stubborn chin before settling over her sweet mouth in a kiss that sang through his veins. The rightness stealing over him dashed any doubts.
This was right. This was what should be. Surely she knew that. Felt the depth of emotions rejoicing within him.
She moaned, bowing into him as if to remind him how well their bodies fitted together. Not that he needed a reminder. He recalled every delicious moment he’d spent with her; the memories tormented his sleep.
Yet another sign she was the only woman for him. Yes, he’d had other lovers in the ensuing years. Lovely women he’d romanced. Women he’d treated well but who weren’t around for long. Women who failed to compare to Delanie Tate.
Weeks after being with them, he had trouble remembering their faces. But not Delanie’s.
He remembered everything. How her pupils darkened when they came together. Her breathy pants. Her touch, her scent, the beat of her heart against his.
He pulled back, breath sawing heavily, blood raging like a swollen river. “I want you, cara mia.”
“I want you as well,” she said, the husk in her now-breathy voice the most erotic thing he’d ever heard.
He leaned back further, just enough to stare into the dreamy depths of her eyes, her pupils dilated, her lips plump and wet from his kisses.
He cupped her hips and yanked her against him, rocking his engorged shaft against her softness. “I want to make love with you until we are too weak to move, until we have freely spent our passion. And then, after we have rested, we will do it again. And again.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a sexy huskiness that played over his senses in sweet abandon. “Let’s make love all night long.”
She flung her head back with a gasp and threaded her fingers through his hair, her nails scraping his scalp, the match to flint that sent a firestorm raging through his blood. Heat flared, roared through him with every erotic grind of her hips against his hard length.
Still she held part of herself back, denying him his conquest. And so he cast off his own reservations and kissed her with all the passion trapped inside him.
A moment passed, then another. Finally her very proper veneer went up in ash, revealing the earthy soul of a woman lost to abandon. Lost to him.
He gritted his teeth, sweat beadi
ng his brow as pressure pounded through his veins so fiercely he feared he would explode. Feared the fire raging in him would burn him to a crisp.
Structured thoughts scattered under the blaze of desire sweeping over him. He could barely draw a decent breath, but he dug deep to clutch the cold steel in his spine to temper his lust. To hold on to a modicum of control.
His body ached for a quick tumble to ease the mountain of tension stacked inside him like the village houses against the hills. One fracture was all it would take to break free the desire he’d dammed up for too long.
Once would never be enough with her. A taste would only leave him hungering for more. And he would have it, a long sensual feast of the senses to last the night and beyond, to fog the issues he avoided with her, that he refused even to consider with another woman.
Her kisses turned wild, the rake of her fingernails stoking the fire in him. If he didn’t know better, he would swear she was more ravenous for this than he was. Would think it had been far too long since she’d reveled in this sweet pleasure with a man. But that couldn’t be.
Even if it were true he refused to dwell on it now. Thoughts of her with anyone but him were poison in his soul, dangerous and undermining.
She was in his arms now. Soon she would be in his bed where he intended to keep her until this driving need left him. A night, a day. Maybe two and this urgency would be gone.
For now he would enjoy her. For now she was his. For now they were together.
His fingers bit into the inviting curve of her hips covered in the slim tight skirt. “I will explode if I don’t have you soon.”
“It’s okay,” she said, nipping his chin while drilling the hard points of her nipples into his chest. “I can’t wait much longer either.”
He stripped off her blouse and skirt with hands that trembled, then helped her rip his shirt off his heated body, unable to bear her tender attempts. Though cool air whispered over his flesh he still burned deep for her.
When was the last time he’d been this desperate to possess a woman? Ten years ago, he thought without hesitation. Ten long years ago with the same enchanting woman.
Innocent of His Claim Page 13
