It was the very last painting he had struggled the most to comprehend, the one left on her easel. The oil had still been wet when she vanished. Unlike her other portraits, which were always human, she had painted a black bird in flight, surrounded by a thin mist. He didn’t recognise the breed, guessed she had created it from her own imagination.
For almost a year he had studied that bird, his mind ticking with increased desperation to see what, if anything, it represented. No matter how hard he looked, all he could see was a bird in flight.
Now, for the first time, he could see what he had been missing.
What he had assumed to be a thin mist he could now see was a dome. The bird was trying to fly out of the dome. The bird could see the freedom of the big wide world but was trapped within its cage.
The painting was a portrait. It was a self-portrait.
Grace had represented herself as the bird. Luca was the dome.
He staggered back to his feet, disconcerted to find the room swimming before his eyes.
It felt as if the walls were closing in on him.
Resting a hand against the wall, he took deep breaths to steady himself but found his airway restricted.
Dear God, what had he done?
He’d captured a beautiful, vibrant bird and taken away its freedoms and the very vivacity that had made it so special.
And then he had recaptured it and, instead of learning his lesson and nurturing it, he had tethered it ever closer, giving it no chance to spread its wings.
Was this really what he wanted? For Grace’s wings to become so clipped she forgot what it even felt like to fly?
And was this what he wanted for Lily, his beautiful fledgling? A life of restriction? Of fear?
An image of his father came into his head, an image that had been fighting for space within him for days.
Grace had been right in her assessment. His father would be appalled to see the man his son had become. He had been fooling himself to ever think otherwise. Never minding his treatment of Grace, his father would be saddened that his eldest son seemed to have embraced the very things he had spent the last years of his life rejecting, the very things he had tried to steer his sons away from.
How had he sleepwalked into such a situation? The worst of it all was, deep down, he had known almost from the beginning that he had made a mistake. Instead of holding his hands up and bowing out, he had let his stupid pride take over, allowed the glamour of the establishments to seduce him, and invested in the nightclubs too.
Francesco might have despised Salvatore and abhorred anything to do with drugs or arms trafficking, but he had learned more than a few of his father’s old tricks.
Luca remembered the first person they had caught trying to steal from their casino. Francesco’s men had half killed him, and for what? All that man had tried to steal was a couple of hundred euros.
Why had he not put a stop to the beating?
It was a question he had asked himself hundreds of times.
He was not averse to violence when absolutely necessary—it was the only language many of the men he dealt with knew—but for two hundred euros? A swift kick in the ribs would have sent just as clear a message.
That night, he’d got home in the early hours and downed a long shot of Scotch before seeking Grace out in her studio. He remembered, clearly, finding her fast asleep in the bedroom, clambering under the sheets and pulling her to him.
His mind had still been reeling, his heart still racing from the assault he had witnessed. In his wife’s loving arms he’d found some respite and oblivion.
After that first time, he’d left the security side of things in Francesco’s hands with the assertion that his partner’s men were to keep all physical damage proportionate and never to the point of no return. Ensuring his wishes were respected meant keeping a very close eye on proceedings.
Knowing no person would be killed in his name allowed him to sleep a little easier.
But as time had gone on, his sleep had become worse. It seemed as if every week someone was caught stealing from them or harassing their female staff. Then there were the drug dealers to contend with, always there, wanting to set up shop in their establishments. These scumbags he had no problem with being dealt with physically. They were nasty, malevolent creatures who deserved everything they got and he would happily throw the odd punch in himself.
These people had to be dealt with, to be taught a lesson that everyone else would understand. Even the petty thieves.
He had let it happen. He had let blood be spilled and bones broken, and told himself he was the force for good within the partnership. Usually he would tell himself that with a large glass of Scotch in hand.
If he thought it was so good, then why had he never shared any of it with Grace? It wasn’t simply to do with protecting her or because she wouldn’t understand. It was because he had known damn well she would be horrified, had known deep down that her happiness was becoming muted, the constraints of their life wearing her down.
He hadn’t wanted to see the horror and disapproval that would have been sure to follow in her eyes.
He hadn’t wanted to admit to his wife—even less to himself—that he had taken a wrong turn and was in so deep he could see no way out.
He hadn’t wanted to give her any more of an excuse to leave because, out of everything, that was what he’d feared the most—that if he confided the truth of what was bearing down on his conscience, she would turn around and leave him.
And she had. Grace had learned the truth and left him.
Three years ago he’d had everything: a vivacious, beautiful wife who loved and understood him, a flourishing business, more money than he could ever spend in a lifetime...
The business and the money were still there but he’d thrown the rest away.
Grace was the best thing that had happened to him and he’d ruined it with his pride and selfishness. He had brought a danger and violence into their lives that were far more potent than any threat Salvatore had brought.
He staggered over to the large mirror she kept on a stand close to her easel, which she used for looking at her paintings with a different perspective.
His own perspective had altered too.
That sketch she had drawn of him was as close to real life as it was possible to get.
She had been right all along.
He really was the devil. An evil monster.
The weight of reality pushed down hard on his chest, its tentacles spreading out and pulling at him, making his skin tight and his stomach cramp.
He couldn’t bear to look at his reflection for a second longer.
With a guttural roar, he ripped the mirror off the stand and threw it onto the terracotta floor, where it landed with a deafening crash.
With deep, ragged breaths he gazed at the shards of mirror scattered around him. His distorted image now reflected off thousands of tiny fragments.
The act was not enough to silence the demons screaming in his head or quell the sickness inside.
There were not enough mirrors in the world to purge him.
He didn’t deserve to be purged.
In desperation he spun around, helpless for the first time since his father had died when he’d felt so hollow, as if the heart of him had been ripped out. This felt so much worse.
A sound behind him made him whip around again.
For the blink of an eye he was certain he had conjured her.
‘Luca?’ Grace said, approaching him with soft footsteps. ‘What are you doing in here?’
He tried to move his throat but no words would form.
Her winter boots crunched on the scattered fragments and she froze, her eyes moving from him to the mess surrounding her. She looked back at him, her face creased with concern. ‘
I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Whatever is the matter?’
How could she even stomach looking at him, never mind looking at him as if she were worried about him?
He was not worthy of her compassion.
How could he have ever thought he hated her?
‘Please, Luca,’ she begged, crunching slowly towards him. ‘Talk to me.’
How many times had she said those words?
How many times had he fobbed her off, refusing to admit to either of them that there was a problem?
What could he say now? Mere words could never convey the deluge of emotions raging through him or make up for everything he had put her through.
In a trice he closed the gap between them and cupped her cheeks in his palms. Her hazel eyes glittered and swirled but she made no attempt to break away, simply stared back as if trying to read his innermost thoughts.
He knew right there and then that he would have to let her and Lily go. He could not force the misery of this life and this unwanted marriage on her for a moment longer. But...
Before he set her free, he had the means to at least make partial atonement.
Closing his eyes, he brought his lips down on hers and held them there, breathing in the heady sweetness of her breath. He waited for a heartbeat, half expecting her to resist. Instead, her hands rose up his arms, bunching his sweater in her fists, and she swayed into him.
It was the sign he’d been waiting for.
Pulling her tightly into his arms, he kissed her hard, his heart expanding when she released her hold on his sweater and looped her arms around his neck, her responsive kisses as ardent as his own. Her fingers slipped into the neck of his shirt and scraped his skin, the warmth of her touch sending shivery tingles down his spine and lower into his groin.
‘Upstairs,’ he said, speaking into her mouth and sweeping her into his arms.
They had made love in her studio more times than he could ever hope to count, against the wall, on the worktop, on the sofa; pretty much everywhere.
When they had first married he had tried to carry her up the stairs of the cottage. Halfway up, they had collapsed in a fit of giggles and ended up making love right there, never making it to the bedroom.
This time, he carried her all the way. There was not the faintest trace of humour on her face, instead an almost fervoured seriousness he had rarely seen expressed by her.
The bedroom was cold.
He laid her down on the bed then crossed to the window and closed the curtains before flicking the heater on. Until it kicked into life and provided some warmth he would use his own body to warm her.
Her eyes didn’t leave him. ‘Luca,’ she began, but he placed a finger to her lips to silence her.
‘Not yet,’ he whispered, kicking his shoes off and lying down next to her, replacing his finger with his mouth. She wrapped her arms around him and responded with the passion that was just one of the many things he had always loved about her. Their mouths merged into one, their tongues combining, their clad bodies clinging together, arms and hands stroking wherever they could reach.
Soon he broke away but only with his mouth, tracing his lips over her face, seeking every millimetre of silken skin from the lids of her eyes to the lobes of her ears. The soft moans escaping from her throat were like balm on a wound.
Only when he judged the room had warmed sufficiently that she would not freeze did he move away.
‘Stay there,’ he ordered, sealing his command with another kiss.
Her eyes had a dazed look about them, but she acquiesced with what could almost be called a contented sigh, stretching an arm over her head and staring at him.
In one swift movement he removed his sweater and threw it to the floor. Not taking his eyes off her, he quickly divested himself of his shirt, trousers and underwear until he was standing before her as naked as the day he had been born but with an erection that ached more than any he had ever known.
The powerful heater was already working its magic but he doubted he would have felt the cold.
Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he unlaced her boots and pulled them off along with her thick socks. Her feet were cold and he rubbed them in turn before dropping a gentle kiss on each toe.
Taking his time, he stripped her clothes, refusing all of her attempts to help. Soon, her jeans and bulky jumper were bundled in a pile on the floor like his own.
Aware this would be the last time he would see her naked, he let his eyes rake over her before following with his lips, determined to kiss and taste every last inch of her. Starting with her delectable mouth, his lips trailed down her neck and over her shoulders, his hands roaming free, exploring her smooth flesh.
Last night, when they had made love in Florence, their passion had been too frenzied to do anything more than touch, both too desperate for him to possess her to care much about foreplay.
Tonight, he could see all he had missed. The longer he kissed and explored, the more changes he found in her body, subtle differences from how he remembered her. Her nipples had darkened and her breasts, judging by the way she sucked in a breath and writhed beneath him when he took them in his mouth, had become even more sensitive.
She had always been naturally toned but now he could see and feel a softness around her abdomen, as if a small cushion had been placed under her skin. Tiny red slivers ran under her belly button, more signs that she had recently carried a child—his child—inside her. He kissed every red mark reverently, fighting back an unexpected burn in the backs of his eyelids that threatened to break out when he thought of her going through pregnancy and birth alone.
How could he have ever judged her harshly for that, for protecting their child?
Tiny whimpers were coming from her throat. When he moved lower, down to her pelvis and the soft downy hair surrounding her pubis, she reached out and grabbed his hair, her fingers digging into his scalp.
He gently spread her legs. The moment he pressed his lips to her clitoris she gasped and tried to sit up. Holding her down with one hand on her belly, he buried his face there, his tongue rhythmically pressing against the nub of her pleasure, inhaling the musky scent he adored.
Her whimpers lengthened, deepening into groans. He opened his eyes and watched as her head rolled from side to side. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he increased the pressure, moving the hand that had been holding her down upwards until he reached her breast and covered it.
Her back became rigid, almost lifting off the mattress as she climaxed. He kept his mouth and tongue exactly where they were until he was certain he had coaxed every ounce of pleasure from her. Then and only then did he snake his way back up, covering her belly and breasts with more kisses, his enormous erection rubbing against her thighs until he reached her mouth.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes aglow. Hooking an arm around his neck, she almost wrenched him down to kiss her mouth, her free hand trailing down his back to his buttocks.
And then he was inside her, deep within the hot moistness, the relief so great he almost came on the spot.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and steadied himself. This, their last time together, was a moment to be cherished.
Grace had other ideas, raising her thighs for even deeper penetration, clinging to him, her mouth demanding ever more from his kisses.
It took everything he had to slow her down. He wanted—needed—to savour every minute. He wanted her to savour every minute too, to look back on this, their last time together, and think of him, if not with love, then something kinder than hate.
He withdrew, right to the tip, holding it there for as long as he could bear before pushing back inside. He let the motions increase a little with every thrust, until he established a steady tempo that had her whimpering anew, moaning his name, her hand clasping his buttocks, the fingers of her othe
r hand scraping his scalp.
Only when he felt the muscles within her contract and her body go rigid did he finally allow himself to let go too, his cry of relief sounding like a roar as he made one final thrust, holding on to the moment for as long as he could before collapsing on top of her.
For what seemed an age, he lay there, buried inside her and on her, reluctant to move, desperate to hold on to the moment for as long as he could.
Eventually the chill on his back forced him to move.
It hadn’t been the power of the heater that had warmed him earlier but the heat Grace created within him.
He covered them in the duvet and pulled her to him, his head already thickening with the need to sleep. One more sleep with her and then...
Grace sat bolt upright, jerking him awake.
‘Your mum must be doing her nut!’ she cried.
Before she could escape from the bed he trapped her wrist. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I put Lily to bed and then got your mum to watch over her so I could come and find you—I didn’t think I’d be this long!’
‘My mother will be fine,’ he soothed, pulling her back to him.
‘No, she won’t. She’s shattered.’ She wriggled out from his hold and climbed off the bed. ‘I think Lily must have kept her awake all night. I promised I wouldn’t be long.’
‘Why were you looking for me?’
‘You missed Lily’s bedtime. You haven’t seen her since we got back. I knew you were home but I couldn’t find you anywhere and you weren’t answering your phone.’ She looked up from the pile of clothes she was sorting through and threw him a wry smile. ‘Maybe I should get a tracker put on it so I can keep tabs on you.’
He winced. Knowing he deserved it did not take away the sting.
His heart felt weighted as he watched her dress.
She must have felt him staring, pausing from yanking her jeans up. ‘What’s the matter?’
What a Sicilian Husband Wants Page 15
