by Jade Kerrion
Shannon sighed. “Careers are so…defining. ‘What do you do’ is almost always the first question when strangers meet.”
“And then you get pigeonholed because the asshole she used to date was a lawyer.”
She held up her hands. “Whoa. How did this become about me and my asshole—I mean, Jerry.”
“Not bitter. Just making an observation. Past relationships define us too.” He held out his hand to steady her as she climbed to the top of the Palazzo del Comune. Leaning against a pillar, he relaxed into a smile as her eyes widened with wonder. Shannon’s face was radiant. Did she know how pretty she looked at that moment?
“It’s amazing up here,” she breathed. “The view into the valley, into forever…I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I haven’t either. Not with someone like you, Brandon thought.
A year earlier, Cynthia had looked out upon the vast panorama of the Tuscan valley in a cursory way before turning to him. Her blue eyes were narrowed with an incendiary blend of irritation and anger, and frustration had simmered in her voice. “I need your help,” she had pleaded. “I don’t know anyone else who can do what you can.”
He shook his head. “You know I can’t.”
“You can but you won’t. There’s a difference.”
“All right, fine.” His temper snapped. “I won’t, and if you stop to think about it, maybe you’ll understand why.”
“Stop treating me like an idiot. Why don’t you just admit that I don’t matter to you?”
“You matter to me, damn it.”
“Then why won’t you help me? Why is your goddamned career more important than me?”
“Brandon?” Shannon’s voice recalled him to the present. Her hand pressed gently against his. Only then did he realize his knuckles were white from his tight grip against the balcony. He shook his head sharply and tried to massage the tension from the back of his neck.
“You came here with Cynthia, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.
He looked away.
“When? How long ago?”
“A year ago. I came to visit Maggie, and Cynthia came with me. It was two weeks before our wedding.”
“She stamped herself on your memories of these places. That’s why you didn’t want to do the sightseeing thing at first, but when I tumbled into the path of your car, you jumped at the chance to show me around. You’re trying to rewrite your memories.”
“Not rewrite them, but yeah, I’d like to have something to balance out the ones Cynthia left behind.”
Shannon turned her back on the view to face Brandon. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“You invite a random stranger into your house, offer her free accommodation and meals for a week, and become her personal tour guide, all in an attempt to purge your fiancée’s memories? That’s not nothing. That’s a big freaking deal—a huge hole you’re attempting to fill.” She paused. “Who broke it up?”
“She did. We argued in church. In front of two hundred guests.”
“On your wedding day? What did you argue about?”
“My job, and how it was more important than her.”
“Was it?”
Brandon gazed down at Shannon’s hazel eyes. His jaw tightened, and his heart wrenched. “Yes, it was.”
And there it was—his fatal flaw—except that she could not work up a response beyond a sympathetic sigh. Jerry had thought that her commitment to her career had been her fatal flaw too. “Did Cynthia have a career?” Shannon asked.
Brandon shook his head. “No. Family was the most important thing to her.”
With every word, he damned himself, except that she could hear his bitterness, and feel his regret and pain. “Is it…too late to go back to her?” Shannon asked.
Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not crawling back to her.”
Add pride to his list of flaws. “But family needs to matter. In the end, careers don’t last, but the people we love—”
“Cynthia wasn’t right for me.”
Shannon met Brandon’s eyes. “So why are you still mourning her?”
“I’m not,” he said, but the snap of his tone must have sounded defensive even to him, because he winced. “Sorry.” A muscle in his cheek twitched as his mouth tightened into a grimace. “It’s been a year. I should be over it.”
Unless you were in the wrong, and you know you made a mistake. Shannon said nothing, however. Her acquaintance with Brandon was too new and too fragile to handle the truth, let alone an honest opinion. “Maybe she meant more to you than you knew.”
Brandon shook his head, but the gesture could just as easily have been reluctant agreement or rueful denial. “Cynthia and I are done. I’m ready to move on.”
She did not think so, but the gleam of defiance in his eyes warned her it was a sensitive topic. “Okay.” She smiled. “I guess I’m grateful.”
“What for?”
“That I happened to be around during your rebound.”
He frowned. “Is that what you think this is?”
“What is it, then? Is this revenge on Cynthia?”
Brandon snorted. “Cynthia doesn’t know and doesn’t care what I do with the rest of my life.”
“I doubt that.”
“Are you taking her side?”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side. I just wanted to say I’m sorry it ended on your wedding day.”
“It could have been worse. It could have ended the day after my wedding day. The administrative nightmare of a divorce doesn’t even bear thinking about.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Shall we go? Montepulciano has excellent thermal springs and the surrounding hotels have top-notch spas attached to them, or so Maggie says. Perhaps you’d like to check them out. I also want to pick up a bottle of Vino Nobile for Maggie’s wine collection.”
She nodded. “Okay, and Brandon?”
“What?”
“If you ever want to talk, I’m here to listen. Remember, I’m one of those career-first people. I get you.”
“Do you?” He held out his hand to steady her progress down the narrow steps, and said nothing more.
His matter-of-fact tone sparked a quiver of doubt through her. Did she get him? Did she truly understand anything of the situation at all?
Chapter 5
For the remaining week, Shannon and Brandon said nothing more about Brandon’s broken engagement or his previous trip to Tuscany with Cynthia. Instead, he showed her Tuscany’s most beautiful hilltop villages, filling her mind with so many sights that Shannon could not name her favorite. Was it San Gimignano, Italy’s best-preserved medieval town with its distinctive skyline of fifteen towers, or Volterra, isolated upon a steep and rocky promontory? Perhaps it was the fortified citadel at Monteriggioni, or Pitigliano, where medieval buildings rose above a scenic cliff as if suspended in air.
Sometimes, Shannon and Brandon dined at charming cafés beside the piazza. More often than not, he packed a picnic lunch and always included a bottle of sparking grape juice for her. After lunch, she pulled out her art supplies and tried to capture the staggering beauty of the scene in watercolor or oils. Brandon had looked over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow at the smear of paint.
“Oh, hush.” She giggled before he could say anything else. “I’m just starting out.”
“You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Experiment with new things.”
“Life is too short to do the same old thing over and over again.” She dabbed paint on the canvas and then looked up, squinting at the fields of lavender. “I don’t think I got the color quite right.”
“Color is the least of your problems.” He patted her back in a brotherly way. “I’d start with perspective and shape.”
Shannon tried not to shiver at his physical proximity. He probably had no idea what he was doing to her with his confusing blend of biting humor and surprising kindness. It forced her to kee
p her wits about her and a retort ready on her lips, but emotionally, it was disarming.
She steeled herself and kept on painting, sparing an occasional glance over her shoulder at Brandon who lounged on a nearby blanket, reading or napping. Often—too often—she caught him staring back at her. The corner of his mouth would tug up into a mocking half-smile before he returned his attention to his book or relaxed into his nap. They rarely exchanged a word during those quiet afternoons when she was doing her thing and he was doing his, but somehow, it felt good having him nearby.
In the evenings, she sprawled on the rug beside the fireplace separating the living room from the dining room, and listened to Brandon moving about the kitchen, preparing a meal guaranteed to dazzle her senses. The house filled with the aroma of fresh herbs and baked cheese, of grilled onions and toasted garlic. Their easy domesticity startled her, but she dismissed it as the relaxed but illusory rhythm of a vacation.
It couldn’t last. It never did.
Shannon inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and forced herself to focus in spite of the niggling claw of desire—a claw that seemed to grow larger, more hooked, and sharper with every day she spent around Brandon. What was there not to like? He was sexy, smart, easy on the eyes, and apparently low-maintenance; he was obviously as focused on his career as she was on hers. His ego, thank heavens, did not need to be handled with kids’ gloves.
The kicker, however, was that he was not interested. He said I would know if he were trying to take my clothes off—and he’s not. A damned shame. His loss. And mine.
On her last evening in Italy, he set a plate in front of her with a rueful shake of his head and a smirk on his lips. The lamb flanks and grilled vegetables on her plate were garnished with a stalk of lavender. He brought his own plate to the table. Instead of lavender, he had sprinkled flakes of parsley and cilantro over the thick, rich gravy.
He sat across from her. “The cilantro and parsley complete the flavor. You have no idea what you’re missing.”
“Oh, you mean the taste of soap? I’ll pass.” She reached for her fork. “Thank you for dinner, Brandon, and while we’re at it, thank you for an amazing week.”
“Was it better than a solo bike tour?”
“It was certainly better than the one I’d planned for my first trip to Italy.”
Brandon chuckled. “You amaze me with your willingness to take on new things. All those risks…” He shook his head.
“I’m amazed that you’re amazed by me. I would have thought that lawyers who spend their lives trying to work their way around the…rules…would be the biggest risk takers of all.”
“You’ve been watching too many movies. Lawyers are some of the most risk-adverse people in the corporate world.”
“How do you get anything done? Life is all about risk.”
“Managed risk,” Brandon corrected. “Lawyers are great at managing risk, but you have to point their thought process in the right direction.”
“And which direction is that?”
“Don’t ask lawyers ‘can I do this.’ Chances are, if you have to ask, the answer is no.”
“And that’s why we pay you the big bucks? To tell us the obvious answer?”
Brandon chuckled. “No, we earn the big bucks when the client asks, ‘how do I go about getting this result.’ There are many ways to get results—some legal, others not.”
“So focus on the results, not on the process?”
“I ask my clients what result they want. My job is to get the process right and to keep it legal. And speaking of which, I’ve something I’d like you to try.” He went into the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of wine.
“I don’t drink. I’ve never liked the acrid and bitter taste of wine.”
“Tip for you—use the word ‘tannin.’ It’s technically correct and not nearly as insulting to wine connoisseurs.” He poured the pale golden wine into a glass and brought it to her. “This wouldn’t be my first pick to go with lamb shanks, but give it a try.”
She squinted suspiciously at the glass.
“Come on, Miss I-will-tour-Italy-on-my-own-without-a-word-of-Italian. One sip.”
“All right.” She held her breath and brought the glass up to her lips. The taste widened her eyes. She pulled her lips away from the glass. “What is this?”
“Girlie wine.” His taunting smirk melted into an amused grin. “It’s a Riesling. Fruity, usually sweet. Riesling and Moscato are the wines of choice for those who would pick sparkling grape juice over a Cabernet Sauvignon.”
“It’s wonderful.”
“It’s light enough to enjoy over lunch without dulling one’s brain for the work that still needs to happen after lunch.”
“How have I never known this?”
“It’s crazy to dismiss all wines just because you don’t like full-bodied reds. The varietals are amazing; add to that the nuances from each region, each vineyard. You could spend a lifetime exploring it, and never fully grasp it all.” He poured a glass of red wine for himself and took a sip. “Now, this is a vintage Sagrantino. Fabulous with red meat. It brings out the flavor of the gravy. Would you like to taste it?”
She stared at him. How terrible would it be to act on a whim? The words popped out before her mind had a chance to veto them. “Yes, I would.”
He slid the glass across the table to her but she checked the motion by placing her hand on his. Their eyes met.
Her heart pounding, Shannon whispered, “From your lips.”
His expression did not change, and for a single, terrifying moment, she wondered if she had completely misread all those small and subtle things he did—fully catering to her tastes yet edging her into trying new things, the assessing gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, as if debating with himself and holding back.
Brandon leaned forward. His breath warmed her cheek for an instant before his fingers tangled through her hair, steadying her as he tilted his head and claimed her mouth in a kiss. His careful emotional distance over the past few days was not an indication of sexual inexperience. Their first kiss was not tentative, as she had expected. Neither was it sweet and slow, as she had hoped. Instead, he took her with decisiveness, urgency, and focus that made her senses reel as much from the disorientation as from the sudden jolt of intimacy.
Perhaps she clung on to him, threading her fingers through his hair, to keep the world from spinning around him. Or perhaps she clung to him to pull him closer, craving the feel of his hard body against her curves. Tears stung her eyes, as the spark of desire in her stomach twisted into flame. She had forgotten what it was like to be wanted, to be desired.
Shannon moaned, low and deep in her throat. She leaned into him, wanting more of him, but he pulled back just far enough to break the kiss but not the contact. “Do you taste the wine?” he whispered.
Her mind struggled to form the words. “What wine?”
Brandon chuckled. The low and sexy sound knotted in her stomach as he rose and tugged her to her feet. “I’m not going to let you get in the way of enjoying my wine.” With his wineglass in one hand, he drew her over to the soft rug in front of the fireplace. He set his glass on the mantle before gliding the back of his hand against her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. “Let me,” he murmured.
“Yes.” Her heartbeat raced as his hands caressed her back as he tugged down the zipper and eased the straps off her shoulders. The black silk dress slid off her body to pool at her feet. He drew his breath in sharply. “You were dressed to seduce.”
Yes, she supposed she had—not necessarily consciously or deliberately, but she had soaked in the bath before dinner and smoothed fragrant ylang ylang lotion over her skin. She had selected a lacy black bra and thong, and worn her best dress.
She told herself she had been dressing for dinner. Now she realized she had been dressing for him, with every intention of stripping everything off.
“Take it off.” His voice rasped.
The tension and tautness
in his stance shot a rush of power straight into her head. She unhooked her bra and let it fall. He gritted his teeth and shifted his stance, obviously in physical discomfort. She laughed softly, a throaty sound as she slid her thong down the length of her legs before stepping out of her discarded clothing.
She was about to kick off her high heels when he stopped her, his hand outstretched. “Don’t,” he said. “Leave them on.”
Shannon raised her chin and stared at him. Naked, except for her stilettos, she should have felt vulnerable, fully exposed to the hungry gaze of a fully dressed man, but she felt powerful. She was powerful, and when he stepped up to her, she welcomed him with open arms. The smooth spun cotton fabric of his shirt teased her nipples into hardness. The rough sensation of his denim jeans slid between her legs to ignite the heat between her thighs.
She closed her eyes, a gasp tearing from her lips, as she ground herself against his thigh. His breathing quickened, his desire a hard bulge in his jeans. “Not so fast.” He caught her wrists in his hands. “I intend to enjoy my wine first. Lie down on the rug.”
“You…” The coil of sexual heat speared through her. A smile spread across her face. “You’re a bastard.”
“Oh, yes.” He grabbed a pillow off the couch and slid it under her head. “Now, hold still.” He tilted his glass of wine, spilling a few drops onto her left breast. Shannon arched up into the sensation of liquid trickling down the curve of her breast, and gasped as the moist heat of Brandon’s mouth closed around her nipple.
Oh, God. She did not know which was more unbearable. The maddened swirl of sensation around her breast or the untended heat between her thighs. She reached down to touch herself, but Brandon’s grip closed around her fingers. “I’ll take care of you. Keep your hands by your sides or I’ll have to tie you down.”
She whimpered with hope, her cheeks flushed.
Brandon stared down at her and a slow, amused smile crept over his face. “You want me to do that, don’t you?” He used her discarded bra to tie her hands loosely above her head. The knot was slack to the point of being useless—she could have yanked her hands apart in a second—but the symbolism of it fanned the shy flame of eroticism—the flame she would never have dared share with anyone more than an intended one-night stand.
