Satin Lies

by Tricia Jones

  He pursed his lips, considering it. “It is a moot point,” he decided. “Lavini’s tend to make sons.”

  “Not always.”

  His puzzled expression disappeared in an instant. “No,” he agreed. “Not always. You and Matteo are evidence of that.”

  He watched her steadily and she had a moment of panic that somehow he knew. But he didn’t of course, and this was the perfect lead-in she had been waiting for. All she had to do was say it. Melita is your daughter. It would be that simple. And that excruciatingly difficult.

  Should she tell him now, in the restaurant, or wait until they were driving home? No, not when he was driving. Perhaps they could take a walk after dinner.

  In an attempt to get her stomach to stop its wild pitching and tumbling, Faye tried to think of something innocuous to talk about. Before she could formulate her words a small, wiry man with a smile as wide as his shoulders bustled over.

  “Signor Lavini,” The man made a grab for Enrico’s hand and pumped furiously. “An honor for our restaurant.”

  Enrico stood. “Mario, how are you?”

  “Well, I am well.” Having released Enrico’s hand Mario wrung both of his own as his gaze darted around the crowded restaurant as if searching for something. “And you must allow me to seat you somewhere more appropriate.” He made a tutting sound. “It is inexcusable I was not informed of your arrival. Inexcusable.”

  “Please do not trouble yourself, Mario. We are perfectly fine here.”

  A frown creased his pleasant face but he smiled at Faye before whispering conspiratorially to Enrico, “You would not wish for a table more…private?”

  Enrico’s wide shoulders drew back. “Mario,” he said, with the same stiffness that had settled in his shoulders. “Allow me to introduce Signora Faye Lavini. My sister-in-law.”

  Color rose fast and deep on Mario’s cheeks. He shook his head, mumbling “Perdono, Signor.” Then with a deep bow to Faye, “Signora.”

  Faye smiled, touched at the depth of the man’s chagrin as it mingled with the emptiness filling her chest at the way Enrico had stressed the term sister-in-law.

  “Allow me to introduce Signor Mario Donetti,” Enrico said, turning to Faye. “The owner of this rather magnificent restaurant.”

  With another deep bow and an expression of humility, Mario moved toward Faye. When she held out her hand he took it with such tenderness, laying a kiss on the back of it with equal care, that she smiled.

  He kept hold of her hand as his expression turned somber. “Signora Lavini. You will allow me to offer my condolences on the loss of your husband.”

  The unexpected compassion grabbed at the place in her heart that hurt for Teo, and her eyes misted up.

  “Thank you, Signor Donetti.”

  “Mario, please. And Signor Lavini, you must please allow me to send over a bottle of our finest brandy with my compliments, and my deepest thanks. I hope you are enjoying the evening’s entertainment. It is Tuscany’s finest, even though the pianist is my son and perhaps I am biased.”

  He gave Faye another infectious smile, muttered a further few words of thanks to Enrico and bustled off still wringing his hands.

  “What was he thanking you for?” Faye asked, noticing several couples take to the small dance area as the music became louder.

  Enrico shrugged. “Some business we did together.”

  “Does he buy wine from your vineyards?”

  Another shrug, the type that indicated he didn’t necessarily want to discuss the matter. “He does, has done for several years now. But he was referring to another matter, a loan. One he will repay in a quarter of the time we agreed on under the terms of the transaction if I know Mario.”

  Faye fingered the thin gold chain around her neck as she watched a young couple on the dance floor, their arms linked, eyes locked on each other to the exclusion of everyone else in the restaurant. Her heart fluttered with poignant longing.

  Wishing. Hoping.

  “You would like to dance?”

  Enrico’s question cut through the daydream she was enjoying of his arms around her, his gaze locked with hers.

  She smiled, realizing that one out of two wasn’t bad. At least if they danced she’d be in his arms. A glow of pleasure pushed its way to her skin. “Yes, I would.”

  Facing him on the dance floor Faye hesitated, not knowing quite where to put her hands. Enrico seemed just as uncomfortable, but then took hold of her hand and drew her in. She lifted her other hand, resting it on his arm. Their bodies barely touched, but her heart skipped fast against her ribcage. The dim lighting on the dance square hid the worst of the hot color that had to be scoring her cheeks, and if she pulled back a tad more he wouldn’t be able to feel her heart banging a tune.

  But she felt it. Oh yes, she felt it. Her lungs expanded with painful effort in their demand for oxygen, as her heart continued its resounding thump…thump…thump.

  “Relax, cara.” Enrico issued the instruction as he drew Faye into his arms. Dio. She was stiff and unyielding against him, trying to pull away. What had she to fear from him? Hadn’t he apologized, made it clear that his restraint would now be assured?

  She had never before felt rigid in his arms, never acted as if she was repelled by his touch. Earlier that afternoon she had welcomed his caress, molded against him like she too craved what they’d once shared. But now she acted as if he were a stranger, acted as if she wanted to put distance between them.

  But how could he blame her? How? When earlier he’d pressed her to the wall and demanded her mouth against his, forced himself against her until she could be in very little doubt as to his intentions.

  She deserved better and he owed her that. “I was rough today.”

  Her lavender blue eyes fixed him in their sights. “Rough in action or words?”

  “Both.” Her mouth was rich and full. If he kissed her now she’d have the taste of wine on her lips, made from grapes from his own vineyards. Beneath it would be the taste that was hers alone. The taste he’d never quite been able to purge from his memory.

  May heaven forgive him.

  It was right to keep space between them. She was his brother’s widow. His duty was to protect her, not seduce her. Again.

  But sweet heaven on earth, she felt so good in his arms. So right.

  He wanted to kiss her right there on the dance floor and be damned what anyone thought. If he himself was damned in the process, so be it.

  Dio. May God help him. He was losing his mind.

  He felt Faye stiffen against him and realized his grip on her had intensified along with the fevered thoughts spinning around in his head.

  “I do not want us to argue,” he said in a raw tone. “Perhaps we can declare a truce of some kind.”

  She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she looked downright uneasy. But she nodded. “A truce would be good.”

  Then she turned her head away and shifted to put more distance between them.

  When the music ended he led her back to their table. They needed to talk. There were things to discuss, much to resolve between them.

  Mario’s brandy sat between two crystal glasses. Next to it lay a platter of cheese, crackers and grapes, plus a cafetiere of coffee.

  Enrico was half-conscious of Faye fussing with a flimsy wrap as he poured brandy for himself and coffee for Faye. Covering those soft bare shoulders, he realized. Using the delicate material to try and hide from him the milky curve of quite magnificent breasts, with their delicate buds that had been so receptive to his touch. He shuffled in his chair, discomfited.

  “You’ve gone all quiet on me.”

  He looked up as Faye spoke and caught the questioning look in her eyes. “I have much to think about.”

  “Like what?”

  When she caught the edge of her wrap as it slipped off her shoulder, he wanted to shuffle again. But he fought off the desire to move. He had to wonder if he was heading for disaster with what he was about to propose.

>   He cleared his throat. “It would be best if you and Melita move into the villa on a permanent basis.” Watching her he sipped his brandy, the liquid burning as it traveled down his throat. “You have nothing in London you cannot have here,” he continued, ignoring the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It makes perfect sense all round.”

  She reached for her coffee cup, changing her mind halfway to fuss with the wrap again. She didn’t look at him. “I have responsibilities, a job, a home. A cat. Melita has her friends.”

  “She will make new ones here. As for your cat, I will arrange—”

  “It’s not as simple as that.” She looked up at him now. “There’s my job for a start.”

  “Give notice.”

  “I… It’s not that easy.”

  He watched all the excuses, all the arguments spin around in her eyes. Those expressive blue eyes had always told him more than her words ever could. He loved watching them flash with anger, soften with tenderness, sparkle with laughter, darken with desire.

  “It is not that difficult,” he lied, the memory of her sultry gaze making his libido bounce. “I will make all the arrangements.”

  “No, you won’t.” She reached for her coffee. Sipped. Sipped again. “I’ve been independent for a very long time. I don’t want to give that up. Anyway, I enjoy my job.”

  “If you insist on working you can find another job here.” He was almost as shocked as she appeared to be as the words slipped from his mouth. “In fact, my manager informed me only tonight that he has been unable to find a suitable replacement for his assistant who leaves for Rome in two weeks’ time.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Surely you’re not suggesting I apply?”

  “Why not? You have given me a salutary lesson in the need to change my medieval attitudes regarding working mothers, have you not?” He tried not to smile but his mouth quirked. “This is your chance to ensure I remain firmly committed to the principle.”

  His smile only widened as her expression turned wary. “I don’t know anything about vineyards or working for the manager of a winery.”

  “I can teach you. The fundamentals of any business are the same. A manager requires assistance in the smooth day-to-day running of that business, someone to organize his day and generally ensure matters of administration proceed with the utmost efficiency. Of this I am sure you are more than capable.” He waited as she stared down into her coffee, then decided to play his ace. “Unless the rendering of your own abilities have been grossly exaggerated.”

  She looked up. There was no flash of irritation as he’d anticipated, just a narrowing of her eyes. “I know what your game is. You expect me to get affronted and annoyed so I’ll accept the job just to show you I can do it.”

  “Now, cara, would I be that devious?”

  He gave her an expression of butter-wouldn’t-melt but his eyes gleamed in challenge making her stomach spin deliciously.

  Yes, he’d be that devious, Faye thought, watching as he cut off some cheese and slipped it, along with a couple of wafer-thin olive crackers onto a plate. When he wanted something he’d use whatever means to get it. Right now that seemed to be her. Although not in the manner she wanted him to want her. No. He wanted to keep her here so he could do the manly thing and protect her and Melita. Because his sense of duty, of family responsibility, demanded it.

  That was the reason, the only reason, he wanted some kind of truce between them.

  He slid the plate toward her and began fixing one for himself. Faye watched him, unable to stop from thinking how much she wanted things to be different. She didn’t want him to feel duty and responsibility toward her. She wanted him to want her. Her. She wanted him to ask her to stay because he needed her to stay.

  “So.” He tore off a stem of black grapes. “Do I get an answer?”

  She wanted badly to say yes. Wanted more than anything to be near him. Not that she intended for him to know that, because if he did he’d use her feelings to ensure he got his own way on just about anything.

  With enormous effort Faye fostered a bland expression. “My answer might not be the one you’d like.”

  He selected a plump grape and began rolling it between his forefinger and thumb. He studied it, pursing his lips as if formulating something in his mind. “For our wine we use the Sangiovese grape.”

  Faye tilted her head, her smile wry. “How interesting. Is that called changing the subject because it might not be going the way you want?”

  One corner of his mouth hiked up. “On the contrary, the subject remains the same. I am giving you your first lesson in managing a vineyard.”

  “I can’t stay, Enrico. It’s not possible. I have responsibilities.”

  “Which is my point. I can offer you a better job than the one you have in London, more comfortable accommodation, an improved lifestyle for your daughter. Need I go on?”

  She watched as he rolled the grape between his fingers. It was a sensuous movement and she bit down on the inside of her mouth as the urge came to lick her lips.

  His voice, low and commanding, reached her from across the table. “Open your mouth.”

  “What?”

  He held up the grape. “Open your mouth.”

  Reaction shot through her system, her nipples swelling against the delicate lace and satin of her bra before tightening to unbearable proportions. She tried to keep from watching his fingers rolling that grape, tried not to think about it.

  But her lips parted as her gaze slid to his fingertips. He held out the grape until it almost touched her mouth, and waited for her to take it from his fingers. She looked up, saw the glint of devilment in his eyes as he continued to hold the fruit a mere whisper away.

  Her skin burned, her senses spun and an innate self-protection urged her to pull back. He was playing games. And she wasn’t entirely sure what they were. Was he trying to get his own way, making her agree to remain in Tuscany on a permanent basis? Or was he trying to provoke her? Playing sexual games so uncharacteristic for him that she thought herself insane just considering the possibility?

  When she opened her mouth to challenge him he popped in the grape.

  Her mouth clamped closed, catching his fingers. He didn’t pull them away, even when she opened her mouth. Instead he slid a fingertip, light and sensual, over her lower lip before dropping his hand.

  Faye shot back as if she’d taken a bullet. Her whole body hummed from his touch. She wanted to spit out the grape, to warn him to stop playing whatever games he was playing. Instead she chewed, swallowed, then glared at him. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “I believe you do.” His fingers, those perilous fingers, circled the rim of his brandy glass. “And I am still waiting for an answer.”

  “About the job offer, about staying in Tuscany?”

  “Of course.” He eased his chair back. “But I have more to say, and it is inappropriate to discuss it here. We should leave.” Before Faye could respond he stood, holding out his hand to usher her from the table. On the way out he muttered something to Mario and received another deep bow.

  Lucca’s streets were filled with late-spring tourists enjoying the warm evening. Enrico slipped his hand on the small of Faye’s back and led her away from the busiest area of the city, through a narrow, cobbled lane filled with colorful tubs of flowers and specialist shops selling decorative pottery and trinkets.

  The lane opened to a large grassy area and they walked toward where a fountain trickled into a central pond.

  “My brother has left you penniless, your daughter fatherless,” Enrico said, without preamble. “I realize my offer to help on a more permanent basis is a futile exercise. Your need for independence will not allow it. But equally, my need to protect my family will not allow me to stand back and watch you struggle. So there it seems we have an impasse.”

  Because he was attempting to be reasonable Faye thought she ought to reciprocate. “I’m not trying to be difficult, and I do understand you
want to help us. But I’ve been doing things my way for a long time now.”

  He turned and offered her a wry smile. “As have I.”

  Faye smiled back. “Then we’re a couple of hopeless cases, aren’t we?” And how on earth will we agree what is best for our daughter? Faye thought. If we’re both so used to doing things our own way, how will we ever agree? She’d moved on a few steps, trying to formulate the right words to start the conversation she’d been dreading all evening, when she realized Enrico had stopped. She turned back.

  He stood there, looking all the world like a man in turmoil. “I believe I have a solution that will appease us both.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”

  Faye stayed where she was. “Why?”

  He beckoned with his fingers. “Come here.”

  She moved forward, her legs heavy. With some reluctance she slipped her hand into his. Her heart tripped as his fingers closed around hers, then filled with disappointment when he continued to keep her at arm’s length.

  There was a weird look in his eyes. No fire, no heat. Just a sort of resignation. Her stomach dropped to her knees.

  “We need to put what has happened behind us and focus on the future.” He looked down at their joined hands, then back at her. “What I propose will provide the perfect solution to solve both our problems. You may remain independent and I will have the peace of mind knowing you and Melita are well provided for.”

  Faye tried to shake her hand free. “I won’t accept any money from you. Don’t you dare insult me.”

  With a humorless laugh, he tightened his grip on her fingers. “I would not dream of insulting you in such a manner. What I propose is marriage. That way you are legally entitled to a share of the Lavini wealth. As my wife you will benefit from what my father wrongfully denied you as Matteo’s.”

  “What?” Faye’s heart shot back up into her throat, pounding with such ferocity she thought it might jump right out of her mouth. “Marriage? To each other?”

  Enrico huffed with impatience. “Do not insult us both by feigning shock or offence, Faye. No doubt the possibility has occurred to you.” Abruptly, he let go of her hand. “Matteo left debts. How are you planning to cover those? You are hardly able to keep yourself and Melita as it is, how do you intend to honor your late husband’s creditors?”