by Caro LaFever
All the Italians laughed and clapped and whispered to the English guests who appeared a bit puzzled.
Exactly like Lise was.
“Bacio! Bacio!” The cry came again, this time from some of his younger cousins.
Everyone beamed at the two of them, laughing, a few of the women crying. Tears of joy, apparently.
“What does it mean?” She had a sudden premonition. A sudden fright.
“They want us to kiss.” He stood, took her hand, pulling her to stand beside him before she could even make an objection.
She gave him a glare even as she gritted a smile. “I don’t think so.”
His mouth echoed her own. But his eyes glared right back. “Then don’t think.”
Strong, hard arms came around her waist in a firm, determined grip. In a second, she was plastered along his hot, hard body. She opened her mouth to object, yet the man was too fast. Too slick.
This kiss was nothing like the sweet, soft one at the altar.
This was all male and all confidence. All overwhelming.
He used her open lips as an invitation. His tongue slid inside before she could clamp her teeth shut. For a single second, she contemplated biting it off, but then…then…
Too late.
He was in and around and by her. He sucked her mind from her head and swallowed her hostility. The crowd’s crows and laughter and clapping swept out of her awareness. The only thing she saw was his long lashes on his cheeks. The only thing she felt was the heat of his body. The only thing she tasted was the sweet wine on his tongue and the winsome call to her soul.
Then, suddenly, it was over.
Over too quickly. Over before she could grasp that something she so desperately wanted. That something she’d found in his bed in a moment of amazing, astonishing connection. A connection she dreamed about in her lonely nights. Again and again.
That something.
He drew back, opened his eyes. Stared at her with an arrested look. Which changed in a flash to a wicked, teasing glint.
He hummed low in his throat. “Would you like another one?”
Chapter 10
His wife calmly walked into his Paris flat.
The lights of the Eiffel Tower brightened the night sky, the structure perfectly framed in the large bank of windows lining one whole wall of the main room. He’d bought the apartment when he’d fallen in love with the view. This was the simplest of his homes. The place he took refuge in when he needed time for himself. It had taken him two years and endless hours of decisions before the renovation he’d decided on had been completed to his satisfaction.
This was the first time he’d ever brought a woman to this particular home of his.
The walls were painted a warm shade of sand. The modern sofas and chairs circling the fireplace echoed the theme of light and air with cream leather and caramel bolsters. He’d picked the paintings carefully. The Picasso splashed blues and aqua on one wall while the Paul Klee competed with colors of rose and amber on another. The layout was open, free. The kitchen looked out over the living room and he’d chosen gold fixtures and white cabinets to highlight the warm tones of the marble he’d found in Italy for the countertops.
Lise Helton Mattare entered it as she entered every room. As a queen. She held her head high, even though he knew, after today’s wedding events, she must be exhausted. Her expression was serene, despite the fact she’d lost every fight they’d ever had in their short acquaintance. Her body was elegant and classy, shoulders back, long legs fluid as she moved.
Long legs smoothing over his back, wrapping around—
Vico sucked in a breath as a blast of lust shot through his blood. He punched his hands in his pockets and kicked the front door shut behind him.
Not now. Not yet.
She’d changed into a blue linen suit for the flight across the channel. The flight in which they hadn’t exchanged a word. But it wasn’t her usual power outfit, declaring her warrior status. No, it was surprisingly soft and feminine. The fabric clung to her legs as she walked, delicately draping over the curve of her hip and thigh. Only the suit jacket buttoned primly across her chest and stomach kept her pregnancy from being apparent.
Lust, the continual lust he always experienced around her, mingled with the usual irritation he always felt when he was around her, too.
His wife. Hiding her pregnancy. Trying to hide any connection with him.
The insight ate at him. Despite the fact he’d told himself a thousand times during the last month it didn’t matter. Yet, it did. Her secrecy about their baby in the office. Her determination to keep their wedding small to the point of nonexistent. Her continued cold aloofness from the reality of their new life.
The pregnant Princesse pretending she wasn’t marrying the peasant.
But she had. She had.
Vico glared at the back of her blonde head as she looked past him to the simple office he’d put in the alcove. The arched doorway was open; no door to hinder her perusal of the book-lined walls, the wrought iron desk with its glass top, the antique globe he’d found in Istanbul.
If he were generous, he’d admit her secrecy about the baby had been a boon when he’d told his family about the marriage. He didn’t want them worrying about him, worrying that he wasn’t completely in love and completely happy. Not having to deal with the pregnancy as well as the wedding at the same time had lifted his spirits.
The problem was, he didn’t feel very generous towards his new wife.
Not after what had happened during the ceremony.
Amazingly, none of his family had picked up on the fact that the bride had been about to bolt. But he had.
He’d had to grab her hand to get the damn ring on her finger.
Her cool, soft, long-fingered hand. Once he’d claimed her by sliding the wedding band on, he’d stared down at the four-carat, blue diamond engagement ring, remembering the endless hours he’d taken choosing it, remembering how the color of this particular ring had reminded him of her eyes.
What a romantic fool.
His new wife slid that long-fingered hand across the cream sofa as she walked by, ignoring him. That diamond twinkled in the overhead lights. The click of her heels echoed on the dark oak floors as she paced away from him. The rumble of Paris traffic was the only sound in the flat.
The silence grew, billowing between them.
She moved to the fireplace and lifted a framed photo off the mantel. Then another. His momma smiling down from her Naples balcony. His sisters giggling in the sunshine by his pool at Lake Como. His younger brother waving from the classic Riva speedboat they’d both restored together.
She made no comment. Only looked.
If he were generous, he’d acknowledge her classy behavior towards his family. She might think they were as crude and coarse as he, but she’d been courteous to all of them. His mother adored her already, his sisters claimed they’d be best friends. His brother, Giorgio, had even unbent enough to tell him he’d finally got something right.
Vico snorted.
His wife…his wife…glanced over her shoulder with an arched brow.
He arched one of his own.
She didn’t bother to give him a response, merely turning and continuing her inspection.
He had every right not to feel generous after experiencing her reaction to all his work on their wedding. The dress. The flowers. The endless details. Details were important to women. He knew that. The woman didn’t take it as the olive branch he’d intended, though.
She took offense instead.
Would he ever understand this woman, his wife?
She put the last framed photograph down and moved across to stare at the mounted statue of Madonna and child he’d found in a tiny store in Milan. The golden edge on the wood had caught his attention. The look in the child’s face as he gazed at his mother had kept it.
Vico jiggled the car keys in his pocket. Why did he feel exposed? Why did he feel as if she were digging into him, l
ooking at his soiled soul, his sullied secrets?
She stared at the piece. Said nothing. Showed nothing.
The silence was beginning to bother him. “I found it in Italy.”
“Really?” Dismissive and distant.
Irritation welled. Did the woman not understand they were in this together? Didn’t she get that neither of them had a choice? Couldn’t she at least, for once, meet him halfway?
The memory of her eyes, the terror in her eyes when he’d said no divorce, swept through him. She had obviously thought his word as a man meant nothing. She’d actually believed he’d pledge himself before God and then walk away from his wife and his child.
Si, his wife did think he was the lowest of low.
The knowledge burned. It bit. The realization blistered his pride and heart.
The Princesse moved to the view—the view he adored. The tower blazing with light, an iron skeleton reaching for the stars in the sky. The dark, slithering Seine moving beneath them, the streetlights glinting off the water. The lovers walking down the lanes, arms around each other, enjoying the late summer night’s breeze.
Her back was straight and rigid. Not giving him an inch to work with.
The wedding details were not the only olive branch he’d given her.
Maledetto il suo.
Didn’t she realize this?
He’d said goodbye to his old lifestyle. Took on the role of gallant suitor. He might be, at heart, a hellion, but he knew what was right, what was wrong. There would never be a whiff of scandal in his behavior any longer.
He owed it to his bambino. He owed it to her.
If he was honest, it hadn’t been that hard, much to his astonishment. The nights escorting her to dinners and parties in their honor had not been a chore. The woman might be an icicle, yet she was an elegant piece of ice.
He’d enjoyed her company.
A shock of monumental proportions when he’d realized it. He enjoyed her take on the people they met. He enjoyed her knowledge of books and theatre. He enjoyed the way she skillfully maneuvered herself out of boring or uncomfortable conversations.
Even though he still hated her. Even though she was still a cheat and a liar.
Even though.
Unwillingly, his brain was now as entranced with her as his body. That wasn’t good. He was sure of it. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
For better or worse the woman was his wife.
Which had led him to another decision and likely another battle.
He had not brought the sleeping arrangements up before this because he was pretty sure what her response would be.
One bedroom.
One bed.
His wife moved to the kitchen. He watched as she inspected the antique teapot on the aga stove, the espresso maker, the steel cutlery. She glanced over the colorful mix of pictures, ads, and notes he’d pinned on the refrigerator. The photo of his niece eating gelato. An ad for a new restaurant right down the street. The note he’d left for the housekeeper the last time he was here.
Vico waited. Knowing what was beyond the kitchen. Knowing what the reaction might be.
Possibly. Probably. The Princesse would not be pleased.
But Dio. Didn’t the woman think? If she gave a moment of thought to their situation, she’d realize they should try and make something out of these endless years together. Didn’t she think about the agony of eternal nights sleeping alone when it could be entirely different?
She had to remember their one night. The one night that was burned permanently into his brain and into his body.
They hated each other.
But they wanted each other.
He was sure of this if he was sure of nothing else about this marriage. The lust was something, along with the bambino, to build a marriage on. He merely had to convince her.
The kiss at the altar came back into his memory.
Finally, the peasant had been allowed to kiss the Princesse.
The softness of her lips, the subtle scent of her skin, a blending of flower and flesh. The way his mouth formed over hers to meld them together, just as the service had joined their lives together. Just as their child had been created from them coming together.
The moment would last forever in his gut. In his soul.
He jingled the change in his pocket.
But there’d been another kiss too, hadn’t there? Another kiss that was as distant to the quiet one at the altar as light was from darkness. The kiss they’d shared at the reception had been hot and needy and spiked with the sexual tension he’d felt between them from the moment they’d met.
His wife might have tried to hide her true desire in the marriage kiss. However, she’d given herself completely away with the reception one.
His kiss awakened her. His kiss enflamed her.
His kiss was the kiss she wanted.
The knowledge had been a balm to his pride and had given him hope.
Despite her turning away from him at the altar, when he asked if she wanted another, he still had two weeks in sunny, peaceful, romantic Paris to change her mind. He’d always been able to change any woman’s mind before. Why not now?
His wife walked out of the kitchen, out of his view, moving into the long narrow hallway.
Vico pushed himself off the wall and sauntered past the Picasso, taking his stand in the middle of the living room, in sight of the hallway and her disappearing figure. He kept his hands in his pockets and forced a smile on his lips. His heart beat like a rollicking drum inside his chest.
It didn’t take long. Her reaction to him never took long, did it?
Her body was tight and taut as she walked back into the hall and glanced at the one other door, which led into the luxurious bathroom. “No way.”
Clearly not now and not yet.
His desperate hope skipped and sunk.
Immediately, temper curled around his throat, making his words harsher than he wanted, his tone uglier than he’d planned. “It’s there between us. You can’t deny it.”
“It?” Her fine brows arched. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The temper simmered and bubbled, barely clamped down by his waning patience with her. “The sex between us was great, don’t deny it. Both of us want more of it.”
“Both of us?” She marched down the hallway to plant herself in front of him. Her eyes iced with pure hate and bitter distaste. “Speak for yourself.”
He sucked in his pride and tried. “We’re married.”
“Much to my regret,” she spat back.
“We’re married and we’re going to stay married.”
“Not if I can help it.”
His patience slipped, his temper flared. “We’ve discussed this before. I thought I was quite clear.”
“Clearly threatening.” She gazed at him with disgust. “Which is something you’re good at.”
“I’m good at other things. As you know.”
All he got for that try at a tease was a snort. So he opted for bare-boned truth again. “As long as your mother is alive and our child is also, then we’re staying married.”
She narrowed her eyes until they were like shiny points of crystal. “I’ll find a way out.”
“There is no way out for either of us,” he argued. “So why not enjoy what’s between us like civilized adults?”
“Because you are not and never have been a civilized adult and the last thing I want to do is have sex with you again.”
His temper steamed, sizzled. “I could take you right now.”
“Ha!”
Vico leaned down, almost touching his forehead to hers, his lips to hers.
Her blue eyes turned a brilliant, startling aqua before she jerked and stepped back.
He laughed. Watched as she glared and blushed.
“One more kiss,” he said. “One more kiss and you’d be mine.”
“Not a chance.” His wife threw him a haughty look, even though her blush deepened.
“You’re dreaming if you ever think I’ll go to bed with you.”
The jab cut. She was right. Only in his dreams had he conquered her, had her over and over. Only in the endless dreams during these past months since he’d tasted her, touched her, and took her had he found a release from his endless need.
The Princesse, in one moment of ecstatic insanity, had ruined him for other women.
The male in him rebelled at the thought, though the past months where he’d had no interest in other women were evidence of this new reality. Frustration twisted around his temper. “Merda.”
“What?” Those eyes of hers were now sleety with icy disgust.
“Have you dreamed of me too?” He tried one last time to reach her because the thought of losing this battle, the only one he’d ever lose with her, was too much to contemplate. “Have you spent your nights remembering how it was between us?”
“No.” Her elegant fingers fisted in her hands. “I don’t think of you at all, much less dream of you.”
“If you say so.”
“Why would I dream of a man who tricked me into his bed?”
The old charge burned into his temper, making it leap into full flame. “Are you still lying to yourself?”
“Why would I dream of a man who has been out with a dozen women and no doubt slept with every one of them since that terrible night?”
The truth was so exactly reverse to her supposition it was laughable. Still, the fact she’d tracked him through the tabloids brought an odd thrill to his gut. “Jealous?”
“Quite the opposite.” Her smile was pure putdown. “Here’s the answer to your dilemma.”
“What?” Vico stared at her.
“Obviously, your libido is out of control. However, it’s nothing to do with me.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I give you permission to go find as many other women as you need to keep yourself satisfied.”
“Permission?” Outrage at her words, her thoughts, her morals pulsed through him, pouring gasoline on the fire of his temper. “We are married.”
“So?” She folded her arms in front of her and shrugged.
“That means we have sex with each other, not with someone else.”
