The Costanzo Baby Secret

by Catherine Spencer

  “Until you regain your memory, you don’t even know me, Maeve,” he said, forcing the words past the strangling constriction in his throat.

  “I know I want you, and have ever since last week when I walked down the steps from that jet and into your waiting arms.”

  Did she? Or was she merely responding to the same wild hormonal attraction that had lured her to surrender her innocence to him in the first place? He wished he knew.

  As though sensing his uncertainty, she upped the ante by angling her body so that her breast nudged his biceps. “Please, Dario…”

  Cursing inwardly, he closed his eyes against the temptation. Undeterred, she murmured his name again and guided his hand inside her low-cut gown to cradle her fullness. Her nipple surged against his palm, eager and responsive. Unbearably aroused already, he clenched his teeth against the increased onslaught to his stamina.

  Impatient with his resistance, and with an abandon that left him reeling, she made a sound deep in her throat and, pulling her skirt up around her waist, moved swiftly to sit astride his lap.

  Her long bare legs, pale as ivory in the moonlight and his for the taking, leveled his defenses. He couldn’t help himself. He touched her, skimming his palms over the slender curve of her thighs, lured by the siren call of their warm, smooth skin. Wove a path to the damp patch of fabric between them and, slipping his finger under the edge of her panties, found the hidden nub of flesh at her core.

  She trembled and gave an inarticulate cry at the spasm that seized her. He touched her again, knowing well the exact spot that would give her the most pleasure. A subtle increase in pressure, a more urgent rhythm. Then the hiss of delicate silk giving way as he inserted three fingers between her and her underwear, the middle one sliding inside her dark wet confines at the same time that he relented and let his tongue dance with hers.

  The sublime torture of having her tilt her hips backward in fluid compliance, and not take what she so willingly offered, almost killed him. The blood pounded through his veins, his lungs seized up, and how he didn’t grind his teeth to dust was nothing short of miraculous. If she touched him, even fleetingly and even with the barrier of clothing depriving him of the intimacy he was affording her, he would explode. But she did not. His contained agony was eclipsed by her soft scream as she climaxed and collapsed against him, sobbing.

  He held her until she grew calm again, then lifted her clear of his lap and deposited her back on the seat beside him.

  “No,” she begged, clinging to him. “Not until we both…together…please, Dario…!”

  But he’d played a similar game of Russian roulette with her once before, and look where it had landed them. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. “I didn’t come prepared.”

  “What does it matter? You’re my husband.”

  Oh, it mattered. It would continue to matter until they both knew without a shadow of doubt that he was the man she wanted, not just for a night, but forever.

  Removing himself from further temptation, he stood up and stepped away from the swing. “This is hardly the time or the place, Maeve,” he said. “Our absence has already been noticed. Antonia’s serving dinner, and if we don’t show up fast, she’ll be sending someone to come looking for us.”

  She let out a horrified little yelp. “I hope you’re joking.”

  “See for yourself.”

  She peeked around the side of the canopy, which had so effectively camouflaged them from view. The housekeeper, having set out the first course, was casting a searching glance around the empty terrace.

  “Well, do something, for heaven’s sake,” Maeve whimpered, running agitated fingers through her hair. “I’m a mess. I can’t have anyone see me looking like this.”

  No more could he. He might be talking good sense, but his body wasn’t listening. He ached so viciously, he’d have plunged fully dressed into the pool, except it would only draw more attention to a situation he never should have allowed to get so far out of hand to begin with. “I’ll go ahead and distract her,” he said, collecting the champagne flutes and steadfastly willing his rebellious nether regions to behave. “Slip through the library to get back to your room, and join me when you’re ready.”

  Regaining the sanctuary of her suite undetected, Maeve locked herself in the bathroom and, almost as baffled as she was ashamed, regarded herself in the full-length mirror. Her face was flushed, her lip gloss smeared, and her eyes glittered like demented beacons.

  What in the world had come over her? Planning to seduce her husband was one thing, but attempting to do so where they might have been discovered ranked right up there with deciding to swim naked in broad daylight. Both were completely out of character, which gave rise to some disturbing questions.

  Had she undergone a major personality change as a result of her head injury, and was that why Dario had so firmly resisted her? Was she proving to be as much of a stranger to him as he was to her? Or was it simply, as he’d tried to tell her before, that she was pushing too hard and too fast to find her way back to him?

  One thing she did know. Whether or not he admitted it, he wanted her as ardently as she wanted him. He’d implied that their marriage hadn’t been all smooth sailing before the accident, but regardless of what had transpired in the past, the sexual attraction between them had survived intact. Why, then, was he so unwilling to give in to it?

  She had no answers but, as she freshened up and made herself presentable again, she determined she wouldn’t rest until she found some. Since her husband was so unwilling to provide them and she’d rather eat worms than ask anything of her mother-in-law, she’d rely on her own ingenuity to put together the missing pieces that comprised the jigsaw puzzle of her life. That those answers existed, just a breath out of reach, had been made evident by the brief flash of memory that had assailed her earlier in the evening.

  Her opportunity to do some sleuthing came the next day, when Dario left for Milan. Or, more accurately, the next night.

  To make sure she didn’t trip over the ever-vigilant Antonia or one of her minions, Maeve waited until after midnight before stealing out of her suite. Her first stop was his study, a room far enough removed from the staff quarters that she was in no danger of alerting anyone to her activities.

  Although his desk was littered with the kind of paperwork one would expect of any corporate executive operating out of his home, there was absolutely nothing personal among it that she could see from her cursory investigation. None of the drawers were locked, which suggested they, too, were devoid of anything that might spark a memory, nor did the bookshelves yield any clues. Which left the computer. But even she, desperate though she was to reclaim her past, drew the line at going quite that far. Coming across something that happened to be lying out more or less in full view was one thing; violating his privacy by snooping through his files or e-mail, quite another.

  Leaving the study exactly as she’d found it, she crept past the library and the media room, the big formal dining room and the elegant day salon. A few yards farther on, a set of tall double doors blocked her progress, but they opened at her touch and, as she’d suspected, marked the entrance to the master suite.

  Like hers, it formed an arm of the villa’s E-shaped floor plan. Unlike hers, it didn’t share the space with two other suites, but occupied the entire wing.

  When she touched the electric switch to her left, four wall sconces shed subdued light on a foyer that was almost as spacious as her living room in Vancouver. Oyster-white walls contrasted sharply with a jewel-toned Turkish area rug covering part of the black marble floor. Equally eye-catching were the vibrant colors of a bird-of-paradise bouquet on a table set against one wall. Two doors took up most of the third wall, with an arched opening leading to a sitting room filling the fourth.

  She chose to explore the sitting area first. Tastefully furnished with sofas upholstered in crisp black-and-white-striped linen, the usual complement of occasional tables, strategically placed lamps, a
sound system and a small ladies’ writing desk, the room’s most striking feature was the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. They offered an unsurpassed view across the moonlit sea and gave access to yet another private pool and terrace furnished with table, chairs and sun lounges.

  What struck her most forcibly, though, was the complete lack of personal touches within the room. No objets d’art or magazines littered the surface of the tables. No framed photographs graced the walls. No evidence at all, in fact, that anyone had ever actually used the place. Even the writing desk, which might reasonably be expected to contain some item of interest, revealed nothing but a couple of silver pens, a stack of embossed stationery and a small English-Italian dictionary.

  Hoping for better luck elsewhere, she returned to the foyer and opened the first door on her left. A short hall led to the master bedroom, which, decorated chiefly in restful shades of misty blue-gray and white, made her ache for all the nights she’d not shared it with her husband.

  Filmy draperies hung at the sliding glass doors that gave access to the pool and terrace. White fur rugs were scattered over the floor. In one corner, a potted tibouchina covered with purple blossoms stood beside a Victorian chaise longue upholstered in a soft gray toile depicting exotic birds. On the other side, a tulip-shaped Art Deco reading lamp fashioned from opaque glass stood on a little carved table, with just enough room next to it for a book and maybe a cup of hot chocolate.

  In the opposite corner, a black iron floor candelabra shaped like a tree made a bold fashion statement, even though it lacked candles. The other source of light came from black-shaded lamps with heavy brass bases on the nightstands.

  And then there was the most dominant feature of the room, the bed itself. Sumptuously proportioned and extravagantly dressed in the finest linens, it brought to mind images so stirring and erotic, Maeve’s stomach turned over in a rolling somersault. Her mind might not remember writhing in ecstasy as she and Dario made love on its thick mattress, but her body certainly did.

  Double en suite bath and dressing rooms opened off this room. Body lotions, bath oils and hand-milled soaps, as well as thick velvet towels monogrammed with her initials were meticulously set out in her bathroom. Those clothes not in her temporary quarters were arranged by color in the closets, along with shoes, wide-brimmed hats and other accessories.

  But as with the bed and sitting rooms, they struck not a single chord of memory. And to add to the mystery of her past, a second door leading from the bedroom and connecting to who knew what, was locked, as was its counterpart in the foyer.

  Disappointed, she retraced her steps throughout the entire suite. Everything was undeniably attractive, but the most important element, the one that made it home, was missing. It was all too eerily immaculate; a residence-in-waiting from which every conceivable flaw had been carefully erased. No trace of human trial and error or interaction remained. Whatever imperfections made up its past had been removed.

  And she knew where they were hidden. Behind those locked doors.

  Well, at least she’d narrowed down her search. Now all she had to do was find the missing key. But where to look? The most obvious places had turned up nothing. Probably Dario had a safe hidden somewhere, but even if she found it, without knowing the code to open it, she’d be no further ahead.

  No, her only recourse lay with her husband. He was the real repository of her history, and one way or another she had to persuade him to share it with her.

  As promised, he returned from Milan just in time to shower and change before dinner the following evening. As always, he looked divine in slim-fitting charcoal-gray trousers and a pearl-colored shirt against which his skin glowed like polished copper.

  “You seem weary, Maeve,” he commented, holding her at arm’s length and inspecting her critically when he joined her. “There are dark smudges under your pretty eyes.”

  Guilt welled up in her. Of course she looked weary! For a start, duplicity didn’t sit well with her. Add to that snooping through the house, then mulling over what might be behind those locked doors, and she’d managed only about four hours of sleep last night. “I missed you,” she said. That much at least was no lie.

  He traced his finger over her mouth. “Did you?”

  “Yes,” she quavered, finding his touch so wildly exciting that it was all she could do to breathe. “The villa isn’t the same when you’re not here. I hope you’re not planning on going away again anytime soon.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Tomorrow, in fact, to spend the weekend in Tunisia.”

  All the lovely warm sensations he so easily aroused vanished as if he’d flung cold water in her face. Not bothering to hide her disappointment, she said, “A man in your lofty position having to work on the weekend? Can’t you send someone else in your place?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, filling their champagne flutes from the bottle of Cristal chilling in the wine bucket. “This trip will be strictly for pleasure.”

  “I see. Well, I hope you have a very lovely time.” She tilted her chin, praying for pride to conceal her hurt, and took an inelegant but fortifying swig of champagne.

  “And I hope,” he continued, amusement silvering his voice at her conspicuously acidic response, “that you’ll come with me.”

  She choked as her next mouthful went down the wrong way. Had she heard him correctly? “Go with you?” she spluttered.

  “Provided you feel up to it, of course. If not, we’ll forget the whole idea.”

  She swallowed an unseemly hiccup. “Surely a more pertinent question is, are you quite sure you’re up to it?”

  “Well, who else would I take? You are my wife, after all.”

  “I know. It’s one of the few things I am aware of.”

  “Then why the hesitation? I thought you’d welcome a change of scene.”

  “I would,” she agreed. “It’s your about-face that’s giving me pause. Or is your memory as faulty as mine and you’ve forgotten that, as recently as two days ago, you insisted I’m not yet well enough to face the outside world?”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing, but you’ve made so little progress since you came home that I’m no longer sure keeping you secluded is helping your recovery. Perhaps, instead of trying to revive old memories, we should concentrate on forging new ones, and where better to begin than in a place you’ve never been before?” He looked at her expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

  She lifted her shoulders, bemused. “I hardly know what to say.”

  “Say yes. Let’s start over and see where it leads us.”

  “A second honeymoon, you mean?”

  “Sì.”

  “As in you and I…um…you know…?”

  “Precisely. Starting tonight. It’s either that, or I enter a monastery, because keeping my distance from you is having a most deleterious effect on my health, not to mention my sanity.”

  “Is it really?” For the life of her, she couldn’t quite contain her delight. “My goodness, I’d never have guessed.”

  Laughing, he reached across the table and grasped her hands. “You certainly would, you little minx. You know exactly the effect you have on me.”

  “But I never thought you’d give in to it.”

  “Don’t underestimate your power, Maeve. I have missed holding you close while you sleep, missed waking up next to you each morning, and deeply missed making love with you. But not furtively or hastily, as almost happened the other night, which is why, before I left for Milan, I instructed Antonia to prepare our private rooms for your return.”

  Resuming her married life was what she’d wanted almost from day one, but now that it lay within her grasp, some of its luster faded. She’d been right in thinking the master wing looked naked under all its chic finery. It had indeed been swept clean. The secrets of the past were not about to be revealed, after all, merely shoved out of sight. And she’d bet her last dollar they were securely under lock and key in that other room.

&n
bsp; That a deafening hush had descended over the terrace became apparent when Dario said, “I hoped for a more enthusiastic response, mio dolce.”

  “This is all so unexpected, I’m still trying to take it in,” she said, to cover up the suspicions racing around in her head. “I suppose, if I’m really honest, I half expect you to change your mind again.”

  Coming to where she sat, he pulled her to her feet, extracted a small leather pouch from his shirt pocket and tipped the contents onto the table. A pair of white-gold wedding bands rolled over the polished surface and came to rest at the base of her wineglass. Taking her left hand, he slipped the smaller of the two on the third finger. “Once again, Maeve Montgomery, I take you for my lawful wife. Is that enough to reassure you?”

  The ring, though a little loose fitting, gleamed in the candlelight and felt so deliciously right that for the moment only one thing mattered. She picked up the other ring, slid it on his finger. “And I once again take you, Dario Costanzo, to be my husband.”

  He handed her her wineglass and raised his in a toast. “Then here’s to us, mia bella.”

  “To us.”

  The intensity of his gaze as they sipped made her blush. “I do believe,” he murmured hoarsely, setting both flutes back on the table and reaching for her, “that it’s customary at this point for the groom to kiss his bride.”

  Struggling to breathe normally, she nodded. “I do believe you’re right.”

  He cupped her face between his palms and lowered his head.

  Brushed his lips over hers lightly, fleetingly, then with crushing urgency, as one hand stroked past her shoulders to settle intimately at her waist. “After which,” he said, lifting his head to gaze deep into her eyes, “comes the first dance.”

  Slowly he clasped his other hand with hers and guided her across the terrace. They moved together effortlessly, his longer legs accommodating her shorter steps, his lips skimming her temples.