Zena moaned and lifted her head and Marco instantly focused his attention on the animal. The dog responded by stilling with a weary exhalation.
His broad shoulders relaxed, his hard features softened. It was all she could do to keep from going to him, rubbing the taut muscles, soothing him as he was comforting the dog.
“I just assumed …” She rubbed the chill from her arms again. “My apologies.”
That earned her a negligent shrug. “It’s ok. You made the same assumption most make considering my biological father had a penchant for gambling.”
Delanie bit her lip, debating whether to let the subject drop or pursue it. There was certainly more to it. More that bothered him or else he wouldn’t have gone to all this expense. Wouldn’t have been so emotionally invested in building a shelter just moments from his home.
“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.
“Please, sit,” he said, and the dog did no more than cast big brown eyes her way. Eyes that had clearly seen too much hurt and very little of the affection she was reaping now.
She bit her lip as she eased down on the other side of Zena. “I’ve never been around dogs.”
He looked up. “You never had a pet?”
An image of chasing a dog flickered in her memory. “Mother was given a puppy once. He looked like a puff of fur and was so soft and so full of life.” Too full of life for her household.
“What happened to him?”
She frowned at her clasped hands. “Father told us he had to find a new home for the dog because his allergies prevented close contact with animals of any kind.”
He snorted. “Did you believe him?”
“Back then I did,” she said. “But now? No.”
Her gaze lifted from the dog to the man and her breath caught as her gaze locked with his dark somber eyes. The last thing she needed now was his compassion.
“What about you?” she asked. “Did you grow up around animals?”
“We had a dog when I was a boy. A mongrel, really.”
He cracked a smile and her heart ached as she imagined him playing in the streets of Florence with his pet. Ached because she envied him that memory when her own was so fleeting.
“Tell me about your dog,” she said. “What was his name?
“Sebastian,” he said. “He followed me home from school one day, so scrawny he was little more than matted fur over bones.”
“So you took him in,” she said.
“Yes. Mama gave him scraps and he made himself at home on our back stoop.”
His features softened, his eyes glowed, as he launched into a slice of life about a poor Italian boy on the winding cobbled streets in Florence, running with a mutt of a dog. Laughing. Free. Enjoying his childhood with parents who were passionately close at that time.
A gnawing pain that was simply jealousy for what he’d had and she hadn’t popped up in her, as ugly as a sudden pimple on a cheek or chin. A mark to ignore or treat, and she struggled to do either.
At one time she’d pitied him for the dire straits he’d come from. But in truth it was she who’d lived in emotional poverty in the mansion in Mayfair. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t remember her mother and father laughing, together or apart. Couldn’t remember the wealthy Tate family doing anything for the sheer enjoyment of it.
The only time she’d truly lived was when she’d met Marco. He’d pulled her out of her staid life and showed her a world bright with promise. He’d been exciting and loving and powerful.
When he’d left her, she’d retreated to what she’d known—protecting her mother as best as she could. Enduring.
Her budding career as a wedding planner became her only outlet. Through it she lived vicariously, enjoying others’ happiness without risking her own heart again.
Sitting with Marco on the floor of a fabulous dog shelter terrified her more than she wished to admit. Her heart beat too fast, her thoughts whirled like a tempest, all centered around the man who had stormed back into her life and forced her really to look at her existence.
Gaining her independence had been all she’d wanted for so long. It still was her goal.
Entertaining thoughts of Marco remaining in her life was moot. Nothing had changed between them.
She deserved more than a one-sided affair of the heart. He couldn’t open his heart to love. Or was there hope that would change?
That thought remained front and center in her mind as she reached out to stroke the dog. The stiff coat was surprisingly soft, much like Marco: He projected a hard exterior but clearly had a much softer spot in his heart for animals.
The dog was a breathing, needy connection between them because it was safer to touch the dog than each other. Safer than opening herself up to those feelings that were already battering down the door she’d locked them behind.
“I’m jealous of your memories of a happy home and family,” she said.
He shrugged, and she coveted even that careless surety he affected without effort. “I have good ones and not so good ones. There are more chapters of the latter than the former.”
“Mine range from bad to indifferent,” she said, though she suspected her bad memories outweighed his. “But you had more than just parents at odds. My maternal grandparents died long before I was born. My father was estranged from his family.”
He frowned. “So you were cut off from kin?”
She nodded. “Henry sent word to a younger sibling of Father’s upon his death, but they didn’t respond.”
“That’s wrong.”
“Perhaps, but it was proof that Father reaped what he’d sown with family and business associates,” she said.
She was spared saying more as the veterinarian strode into the room, her dark blue surgical scrubs a sign she was ready to operate. The woman didn’t spare Delanie a glance.
“Marco, we are ready for Zena,” the veterinarian said.
He shifted to a squat, his gaze on the dog as Delanie rose to her feet. “Should I carry her for you?”
“Grazie.” The veterinarian held the door open. “Bring her in here, please.”
He gently lifted the dog in his strong arms and disappeared through the door with the veterinarian trailing him. The metal panel closed with a clang.
Delanie paced the room and rubbed her bare arms again, debating whether to stay or to go back to the villa. She had no desire to witness a surgery though she suspected Marco would remain here until Zena was on the road to recovery.
She slipped out the door and headed to the path that wound back to Marco’s house. Yes, she was running away, even though she couldn’t run far from her troubles.
Once Marco had time for her, he would seek her out. Wine her. Dine her. Seduce her until she begged him to make love to her—to ease the torment of desire.
And when they’d rested, she would welcome his passion all over again.
Stolen days of bliss, that’s all she had with him.
Halfway down the hill she paused at the breathtaking vista of Montiforte far below. She drank in the beauty like one famished, convinced she would never tire of letting her gaze wander the hills and quaint villages where hustle and bustle were foreign concepts.
How odd that she, the girl who had craved the excitement of London, would come to appreciate the quiet beauty of this landlocked part of Italy. Not once had she pined for her typical breakneck routine that was mired in the city. She had rarely thought of her friends.
An anomaly.
She’d been busy planning the wedding, getting to know the village and the people who were always quick to help. Then she’d gotten caught up in Marco’s charisma, lost in his arms, addicted to his passion.
Too soon it would all end and she would return to her world. She would have the company she’d sacrificed years of her life to regain. She would lose Marco all over again.
Her shoulders slumped, her stomach knotting. Why couldn’t her heart race with excitement over finally gaining what she wanted? Why
was the world she’d known less appealing than this laid-back lifestyle?
“It’s a beautiful sight, no?” Marco said.
She let out a yelp, startled he’d sneaked up on her. “I thought you would stay with Zena.”
He shook his head. “She is in good hands.” His gaze roamed her length, as intimate as a caress. “What are your plans for today?”
“I have none,” she said.
He slipped an arm around her, pulled her into the heat and hardness of his body and she melted against him effortlessly. Her heart leapt to life, thudding hard in her chest. Her breasts grew heavy, the nipples peaking to aching awareness.
“Then let’s return to the house and enjoy the time left us. Okay?” he asked.
Asked!
She smiled and hoped he couldn’t tell it was pained.
He offered the one thing he could give her without reservations. With total honesty. Passion.
Denying herself the pleasure wouldn’t make leaving him any easier. A heart couldn’t break any more than it had, could it?
“How can I say no?” she said.
Something had changed between him and Delanie in the shelter and damned if he could put his finger on it. But he didn’t like it.
Her smile was just as warm as the sun. Her fingers still clung to his with the same urgency. Her eyes still burned with passion.
Yet he felt the distancing between them as if she were leaving him now instead of in a few days. That would come soon enough. For now, while he had her here they would make the most of their time together.
He would know for sure before she left him again if his pride had cost him the most important thing in his life.
“That sweet spicy smell. Is it coming from that flower over there?” she asked, pointing to a light purple bloom that had newly unfurled its petals.
“Yes, the much-prized zafferano,” he said, and at her pulled brow added, “Saffron. It grows wild here and has been a major export for centuries.”
“It’s so delicate.”
Much like Delanie, he thought, smiling. “Ah, but she is stingy with her treasure. Zafferano is the world’s most expensive herb.”
“Our chef made saffron rice,” she said.
He snorted. “As does the world. But a saffron risotto with cinnamon pork—” He kissed his thumb and forefinger. “Delizioso.”
Her kissable mouth pulled into a playful smile but it was the fingers tightening on his that sent a surge of heat blazing through him. “Okay, where do I sample this delicacy?”
One jerk brought her slamming against him, full lush breasts to hard heaving chest. He kissed her mouth quickly, then swooped back for another one, longer this time, lingering over her as one would a scrumptious dish.
“At my house, of course,” he said, his voice thickened with his growing need to have her. Not any woman. Her. “With a stop in the village for ingredients.”
“Who is going to cook this delicacy?” she asked as he inched toward the crocus and plucked off the three reddish stigmas.
He held such a treasure, yet it paled in comparison to the woman. She was the rare treasure.
“Me, of course,” he said as he picked his way back to the trail, careful not to tread on new tender shoots. “I am not just a pretty face!”
She laughed, a rich playful sound that lifted the weight of worry from him. They had this. The spontaneity of lovers that had not faded with time. But was it enough?
It had to be.
Delanie Tate wanted love. Wanted hearts and flowers. Wanted a man who would let her spread her wings and fly independently of him.
Marco simply couldn’t do that. He couldn’t allay his doubts that she would return to her lies. That in the end, she would find a man more dashing, more amiable than he and would betray him.
No, all he had with her was her time in Italy planning Bella’s wedding. He intended to make the most of it.
He pressed a fortune’s worth of fresh herb into her hands. “I will have you know that one of my early apprenticeships was cooking, and I was damned good at it.”
“You’re good at everything,” she said with a smile.
If only he could be…. But nothing had changed.
“I am just a simple Italian,” he said, and she laughed harder.
“There is nothing simple about you,” she said, her teasing smile a balm to his doubts.
Hand in hand, they wound their way to the house, stopping for the occasional kiss. Each one lasted longer, firing his blood and numbing his mind well before they left the trail.
A drive to the village netted a selection of vegetables, a loaf of crusty bread and cuts of prime pork.
“You’re serious about cooking for us,” she said.
“Very. I will make a risotto that will melt in your mouth,” he promised on the short drive back to the house.
“I’m embarrassed to admit I’m horribly inadequate in the culinary arts,” she said, helping him carry their fare into the house. “Did your mother teach you?”
He smiled at that thought and poured two glasses of rich sagrantino. “My nonna taught me. She was an amazing cook. An amazing woman with only one fault—she was too trusting.”
Her eyes swam with intense hurt, but it was the touch of her fingers urgently gripping his hand that made his heart lurch. “I’m so sorry my father maliciously destroyed your family’s business.”
He shrugged, the fury that usually swept over him thankfully absent, leaving only the slow burn of deceit on his tongue. “I am too. But it’s over. He is dead. The winery and olive press are mine again. And you are here with me.”
She bit her lower lip and he caught the barest tremor shaking her before she managed a smile. “I’m glad we had this time together. That we’ve cleared the air of misconceptions.”
His hand closed over hers, his pulse gaining speed as he stepped closer and cupped her cheek with his other palm. Her gaze lifted to his—open, questioning. Hesitant?
“Our affair doesn’t have to be temporary.”
She wet her lips, the pulse in her throat fluttering as wildly as his own. “Yes, it must end. Unless your feelings toward me have changed.”
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think beyond the fact she’d called his hand, that she expected a declaration of his feelings before she would consider staying here.
It’s what he’d known she would do all along. So why had he brought it up when he knew the answer would push them further apart?
“Nothing has changed,” he said honestly, dropping a kiss on her nose, her chin, her mouth. “Especially not my hunger for you.”
She held herself stiffly for a moment, then lifted her face to his. Was that a flicker of pain in her eyes?
He couldn’t tell, and she drove the question from his mind by threading her fingers at his nape, bowing her body into his length. She kissed his chin, then nipped the flesh, sending a flash fire of desire racing through his blood.
“Then I suggest we enjoy good food and each other,” she said, definitely taking the lead this time.
He ran a hand down her back, damning the soft barrier of clothes that kept him from caressing her silken skin, dragging her body flush against his with an urgency that totally lacked finesse. His mouth settled on hers, as hot and hungry as he’d been for her years ago. Maybe more so because having her again was better than a memory, richer, hotter.
She was a fire in his blood, making him burn from the inside out. His shirt clung to his slick back and chest. His jeans were a nagging constraint to his sex.
“We have on far too many clothes,” he said, tearing his shirt off and flinging it aside.
“Way too many,” she said, her voice a breathy huskiness that fired his libido another notch.
She raked her nails down his chest to his waistband, the white-lacquered tips he liked to see against his darker skin slipping beneath to graze the tip of his erection. He hissed in a breath and went still, praying for control.
“I am too full with wa
nt for you,” he said.
“It’s okay,” she said, dragging his jeans down and kneeling before him. “I feel the same.”
“Maledetto!” he hissed as her lips skimmed his hot hard length, her small fingers urgent on his skin.
He locked his knees and tipped his head back, giving her free rein, knowing by the blood roaring in his ears and pounding through his veins that it would be brief. The first part of his release jolted through him, his fingers threading through her hair as a shout exploded from him.
Somehow he remained standing until the last tremor rocked through him. He pulled her up into his arms, crushing her against his chest.
“You are a vixen.”
“And you are a sorcerer, catching me up in your spell.”
If only I could, he thought.
If he had that power, this would be the beginning instead of an interlude. She would be his forever.
He pushed the nagging thought from his mind. A flick of his fingers released the snap of jeans that hugged her rounded bottom as he’d longed to do on the long walk back to the house. But they were too snug to drop on their own. Like skin. Hot. More arousing than any model he’d seen, than any woman he’d ever crossed paths with.
He should forbid Delanie to ever wear them in public, he thought as he hooked his thumbs over the band and peeled them down, his skin riding her hipbones, catching the tiny band of her thong as well.
Sweat beaded his forehead, his chest warming quickly as well. Had sex ever been this erotic before? This much sensual torture?
He didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. But his sex jolted again, aching with the need to be in her.
“I love this,” she said.
His ego swelled, his thoughts blurring in a haze of lust. He hoisted her onto the counter and spread her long sexy legs by riding his palms up her thighs, nostrils flaring as he caught her scent, insides tightening as she opened to him like a rose kissed by the morning sun.
Innocent of His Claim Page 15
