He reached for his discarded trousers, and the next thing she knew, he had sheathed himself, and was poised at her entry, hovering, waiting for her to acknowledge him. His eyes burned with intensity, holding hers. Questioning.
Do I want this? Will I regret it?
The answer that came to her was a resounding yes. No matter what happened. Even if he became bored with her and moved on. This was her rebirth, and she wanted it to be with Guillermo.
She told him with her eyes, and nodded wordlessly, and she felt his thick silky hardness push slowly inside her, stretching her, while he shuddered with self-control, and she drew in a gasping breath and held it. She felt his cock throb twice, and trembling, clenched her inner muscles to welcome him. Ahh. At last.
"Non. Per sempre, Clio, Bella. Per sempre." Always.
Clio wouldn't argue. This moment would last forever in her memory, and that was good enough.
Guillermo advanced slowly, so slowly, until he was buried to the hilt inside her, filling her, and pressed his pelvis hard and hot against hers, holding, trembling with controlled passion, waiting until she twisted, moaned, arched up to meet him, throwing her head back, her eyes rolling up. A helpless groan welled deep in her chest, a plea, begging for completion. "Memmo!"
Then he withdrew until just the head of his cock teased her, stroking her, kissing her, touching her everywhere at once, and so exactly the way she wanted to be touched, driving her insane. He knew her. He was everything she needed, and more, and she arched up to meet him and take him in again, shuddering. He filled her again, and withdrew again, each silken stroke stoking her fire, lifting her higher, her heart pounding madly, and in a very few slow, deep, trembling powerful thrusts, they were both slick with sweat and quaking.
He kissed her, plunging his tongue fully into her mouth, and pulled back.
"Look at me, Bella. Don't take your eyes away. Be with me now." She met his eyes, and in their depths, cerulean blue shadowed by desire, she saw something she had never seen before, certainly not with the innocent Hektor on the dark beach. She rose up outside herself, outside of him and their joined bodies. They were joined together in ways far beyond the corporal, somewhere cosmic and in that moment she believed his heart was hers and they would be one forever and always.
He drove himself once more, deeply into her, and went rigid, a roar tearing from him, rocking her and merging with the physical sound that she became as she turned inside out. And then they burst into a million tiny sparkling fragments, like stars in the dome of the Tuscan sky.
Chapter 23
I'm sorry 'bout this, Mista D. My financial advisors been after me to give dem some numbers to work with. Course the money's there, but they need to jiggle thangs around, make arrangements. Until they is a final design, we can't get those contractors estimates to the bank."
Richie was back in Florence for a few days, having been collaborating in London for the past weeks, and insisted on a progress report. He was anxious to see the latest design drawings, and Guillermo knew he was expecting it to be essentially complete. It was, he knew, less than his usual stellar work.
"Not a problem, Richie. We're nearly there." Guillermo was sweating. The back of his neck tingled, and he rubbed it anxiously. He needed to ask Richie for more time, and somehow make it seem reasonable.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, standing before the projection screen, fingering the remote control for his laptop. At least he'd been able to get a rough digital model thrown together over the weekend. Lay clients were typically pretty impressed with what they could do with computer animated 3-D model fly-arounds. They didn't have a clue how easy the new software applications made this kind of imagery. Thankfully. It might buy him some time. Or at least make it seem like he'd been using his time well.
He darted a glance toward Richie, reclining easily at the meeting room table. Guillermo was embarrassed, and felt the squeeze of guilt in his chest. After this amount of time, he would have been much further along, had he been working on just one scheme. But between Richie's version of the villa, the Instituto's version, the alternative villa design and the rest of his project load, Guillermo had been working flat out, and still not keeping up. If Richie found out how he'd been spending his time, in direct opposition to his needs and repeated urgings for speed, Guillermo would surely be looking at a lawsuit. Not to mention what his family would do if they found out about his treachery.
His thoughts muddled, he tried to pick up the thread. "So here we are, on the East wing upper level…" He advanced the fly-through, as though they were taking a virtual walk through the house. "The new elevator core runs through here." He knew he'd faked it, but Richie wouldn't see that. Only the contractors would notice that it conflicted with existing mechanical and structural systems. "These are the bedrooms on both sides of the hallway, and in between, we've made accommodation for new office… er, I mean bathrooms." He swallowed. His pulse was racing, and his breath accelerated. Stress. This was exactly what he'd spent his adult life avoiding. This kind of all-consuming pressure to perform, to measure up, to tackle insurmountable obstacles. The kind of stress that killed his father, and was still in the slow process of killing his grandfather.
What am I doing? Didn't I vow that I wouldn't go down this road? How did I end up here?
Guillermo wondered if each of his ancestors had been caught in similarly tangled webs of their own design, just as he had, in some desperate attempt to save the villa. And failed. And been too embarrassed to tell anyone about their failed, ridiculous schemes. And had to carry on, on the cusp of financial ruin, only to pass along their burdens to the next generation.
But then there was Clio. A blast of remembered heat rushed through his body, his teeth vibrating with aftershocks. He still couldn't believe it.
"Mista D? You alright, bruvva?"
Guillermo started, remembering where he was. He cleared his throat, laughed, and said. "Yeah, sorry, Richie. My mind wandered. I've got a deadline on another couple of projects coming up, and I'm trying to juggle a few other design problems at the same time." He laughed again, realizing he sounded idiotic, and shook his head. Stronzo. Clients never wanted to hear that you had projects other than theirs. There was nothing for it but to focus his mind on one thing at a time. And do his best.
He completed the virtual tour, and sat down.
"Of course this is still basically conceptual design, Richie. What I really need, before we have something that can be reliably priced, is to spend some time working out the mechanical and electrical requirements. Rooms are just rooms. You can call them what you want. But the degree of modernization you require, without unduly changing the historic character of the spaces, requires some finessing. I had to go back out to the villa again, and I have been…" It was a stretch of the truth, but it would help his case "…Uh, I need to meet again with a couple of engineers, and get more input from them on these issues. I should be able to do that in the next week or so, and run a couple of scenarios past them. They've been unavailable until now."
"We is running' outta time, Mista D. It's almos' the end of the month. How long you–?"
Guillermo's gut clenched. He exhaled. He couldn't do it by the deadline. "Well, that's just it, Richie. I don't think the end of the month is going to do it for us. I was really hoping you'd be able to give us a couple of extra weeks. I'm afraid it means getting Andreas involved and annotating and initialing a few of those sale documents to extend the deadlines. But I'd really hate to send you to the bank with incomplete information."
Richie chewed his lip, scowling, while Guillermo continued to sweat, glancing at his cellular phone for the time, for messages, for any excuse to call the meeting short.
He could use a drink. "Would you like a caffe?"
"Hm? No." Richie shook his head, his neck chains clinking. He sucked his teeth. "I guess I don't got much choice, here, Mista D. I'm not totally feeling the vibe, yet. So I see you need mo' time to find yo' spark. I get dat. We is both artists, a
n' I respect you. I trust you, Mista D. I got no choice but to defer to your judgement."
Guillermo released a breath. He didn't deserve this man's trust.
"But the timing is bad fo' me. I gotta head back over the water for some meetin's in da States, yo? It's actually gonna be mo' like three weeks before I can get back here."
Guillermo's eyes locked on Richie, his body stiff. Three weeks would be even better. More than he could reasonably have hoped for. Per favore.
"We want to get this right, Richie. I want to do my best for you." He felt pain in his chest, as though his lies were bands that cinched around his ribs, like the girth of a saddle, and with each lie, they squeezed his heart and lungs tighter, increasing his burden.
Richie's head bobbed. "Yeah, I got dat. Dat's cool."
"Should I call Andreas?"
Richie stood up. "Nah. I take care of it. You jes' get yo skinny white ass in ova'drive, yeah?"
Guillermo stood up, offered his hand for a knuckle bump. "Certamente."
Clio drew a deep breath and held it, listening to Dr. Bensen ramble on. She scrunched up her face, trying to release some tension, and let go of her breath. "Excuse me, Dr. Bensen. Of course I do understand how important it is that you approve the director of the academic programs. But the fact of the matter is, there are many complicated approvals involved in saving the villa, and setting up the not-for-profit foundation, and these have to be taken care of or there will be no institute. And so–"
He cut her off. "Why don't you submit an application, Ms. Sinclair McBeal?"
"I'm flattered, sir, but I haven't even written my thesis yet, nor defended it or graduated, never mind my lack of administrative experience. Besides…" Clio couldn't even think about the why-nots. "…we need someone right now or we can't complete the other applications." She didn't seem to be able to get him to understand that there wasn't time to follow the standard recruitment procedures. Advertising internationally for an academic with the right qualifications, who then would satisfy Bensen's personal criteria, would take time. Months, possibly. More time than they had.
"What if they were not the same person?"
He stopped talking. Finally she'd managed to get his attention.
"What if we had an academic director? And took our time recruiting the right person? Later." Her voice sounded stained to her ears. "But…but in the meantime, we appoint a managing director for the foundation. I know they can be combined. But since there are so many components to the scheme, perhaps that would be better anyway."
It was a great solution. It put away the problem of convincing the universities to give the job to Guillermo, by no one's measure an academic, even though she knew he was the only one to oversee the whole operation. Despite the fact that she hadn't had the courage to broach the subject with him, and in her heart knew he would refuse, would, in fact find it a ludicrous suggestion.
"And who might fill that position?"
"I have someone in mind, but, it's just an idea at this point." I must talk to him about it. Tonight, when he comes over. I can't put it off any longer.
She rose from her chair and took a step away, pacing. Bensen had to agree or this wasn't going to work. She turned and paced back to her desk, turned again. Please, please.
"It will require more money, Ms. Sinclair McBeal. I'm not convinced the trust and tuition would allow for that kind of extravagance. Normally we try to find someone with combined experience–"
"Who would of course draw a much larger salary, Professor."
"Mmm. Point taken."
Was that tacit agreement? "And of course there will be other, non-academic, sources of income. The institute is only one part, a major part, of course, but only one part of the operation."
"Yes, but still. But still."
She played her last card. It was premature. There was no guarantee this one would even come through. "We've applied for an additional grant, from the Ministry for Enhancement of Cultural Heritage with the Italian government. It's too early to say yet, but if we are successful, that will add another two to three hundred thousand dollards to our trust. That should help, don't you think?"
"It would help, of course. Well, I'll think about it, Ms. Sinclair-McBeal. I think perhaps you may be right."
"Thank you, Professor."
She hung up and turned to take her seat.
She gasped. The hulking shape of Father filled the doorway of her office.
A great fluttering feeling filled her belly, and her hands flapped around, shuffling papers into piles. "Father!" In her mind was only the thought that she must hide any evidence of her work on the estate. Papers slid, and she couldn't see what was what. She tidied everything and shoved it into a file, certain she had shuffled villa papers in with thesis papers. A good metaphor for the state of her brain these days. "You're here. I… I… you didn't call."
"I attempted to call. You are quite difficult to reach, it seems."
She swallowed, hesitated, lurched toward him. She put her arms around his broad middle, and felt his stiff arms enclose her and pat her on the back. It only took a millisecond, and that was enough of that. She stepped back. "You flew in today? Just now?"
He raised his brows and pursed his lips, reminding her how he loathed senseless nattering and erratic behavior, two things she seemed to be doing in spades this afternoon.
"You're staying at the–?"
"The usual." The Hotel Albani, of course, with its tasteful Florentine decor and exquisite, obsequious service. He cleared his throat and stepped into her office, his critical gaze casting around. She wasn't sure if he was judging the general state of chaos and clutter, or just looking for a place to sit down.
"Here. Take Jonathan's chair. He's away today." She pulled it out for him, and he scrutinized it, nostrils flaring, before carefully lowering his bulk down into it.
He stared at her, and she realized he was waiting.
She stood, gripping her elbows, smiling tightly at him. God, I wish he weren't here. What am I going to do now? How can I get anything done?
"Who was that? What trust were you speaking of, just now?" Father asked.
Her stomach clenched. She tapped her lips with the fingers of one hand. "I beg your pardon?"
"As I came in, you were on the telephone. You were talking to someone about a trust."
"Yes?" Oh, shit. "Um." What the hell could she say? "I… uh, have been… assisting a local… charity, with… some minor fundraising." She pursed her lips and shrugged.
Father's bushy faded orange brows dropped lower and Clio felt a familiar wash of shame. Just like that, he had the power to make her feel like an idiot. Irresponsible. Careless. Of questionable virtue. All at once. "Do you think that is a wise use of your time, under the circumstances?"
Her legs wobbled, and she slumped into her chair, drawing breath through her nose. "It's a little thing. A bit of advice. Insignificant." She waved away the distraction. "It's taken no time at all." I knew he was due. Why didn't I prepare?
"Hmmph."
"So-o…"
"Are you quite well, Clio? You seem scatterbrained today. Are you going to make me ask to see your outline? That is why I came."
"Ah." She'd thought for sure Dr. Jovi would have already sent it to him long ago. She thought they kept no secrets. "Yes. Yes, of course." She scanned her messy desk. Lovely. That would impress Father. She had to find it. "I'll just print a clean copy for you, shall I?"
He blinked slowly. So patient. Sometimes that was as close to agreement as he got. She sat and opened the file on her laptop, quickly scanning it to make sure she hadn't made any stupid annotations, and sent it to her printer. They sat, not speaking, as the printer whirred to life, and the sounds of several pages clicked, hummed and shushed through the machine. Clio rose, straightened the pages and handed them to him. He leaned back and began to read.
Clio released the breath she'd been holding. She tugged at her clothing, smoothing her frizzy hair. I'm so disheveled. He must think
I've slept in my clothes. Then she sat again, her back rigid, folding her hands on her desktop. "How long are you staying? This time?" She tried to make her voice conversational. She tried to quell her nerves. She tried to imagine him gone again and everything back on track before long. If only.
"A day or two. We can go to dinner shortly, and discuss it."
"Dinner?" she squeaked. She was to meet Guillermo later, at her place.
Father's eyes lifted, resting on her face.
"I had plans for this evening, Father."
He waited.
"Er, I was to meet a friend later. But– I'll… call and cancel." She forced a smile. "It's so nice to see you."
"Nonsense. Have her join us. I like to know how you live here, on your own. I'd like to meet your friends. I'm buying dinner, after all."
Clio froze. "Um. Father. It's a… he."
The muscles of his face hardly moved, and yet they did, his eyes narrowing slightly, the bristly hairs of his brow, his white mustache, his beard, rotating a tiny bit, like heat-sensing antennae. Just enough to show her what he thought of that. A touch of annoyance. A bit of incredulity. A smidgeon of scorn. A measure of curiosity.
"Is it this fellow…" he gestured with his thumb to the other workstation. "Jon…Jonathan, or whatever he's called. Isn't he a fairy?"
Clio pressed her lips together. "That is neither relevant nor any of our business, Father. And no, I'm not referring to Jonathan."
"Is this a… a boy… friend of yours?"
She sighed. Not now. Why now? She'd just made such a monumental choice, everything since the weekend with Guillermo was new, and raw, and tentative between them. She didn't know what it meant, or how it made her feel. How could they endure Father's scrutiny? "No. Not really. Just an interesting guy I met. An architect."
"Very well. Call him now and tell him to meet us at Restaurant Bernini, at my hotel, at five."
Clio's mind raced. Her stomach twisted in fear. Was there someone else she could call, instead of Guillermo, to make this problem go away? Who would lie for her, and be able to fake their way through this ordeal without causing her undue problems? There was no one else. She almost laughed. Really, if anyone could rise to the occasion and feign credibility, it was actually the charming, smooth-talking Guillermo. And she had to call him, regardless.
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 22
