Wife By Force: International Billionaires II: The Italians

by Caro LaFever

  Right.

  His own right to take what he wanted when he wanted had been eclipsed by his duty. During these years, he’d focused on what he needed to do, not on what he wanted to do. After he lost Lara, he’d had nothing to live for but his familial duty.

  But now? Now, for once, he would take what he wanted. To hell with anything else.

  “Now,” his mother’s voice strengthened. “We talk about you.”

  He allowed himself a wry smile since his back was to her. His mamma was the only one in all these years who had never lost sight of the boy he’d been. She clucked and worried and suggested until he nearly went mad and told her so. His objections made no difference, however. She was as stubborn as he was.

  “Dante?” The one word was filled with irritation. “Pay attention to me, per favore.”

  If only she knew this conversation was not needed. He wondered for a moment what Giana Casartelli would say if he announced his aim. His aim to take. Take what he wanted. Of all his relatives, his employees, his business associates, she would undoubtedly be overjoyed he was doing something for himself for once.

  But no. This was not the time to share with anyone his desires. He’d learned, painfully, not to share much of anything about himself. It was not time to share anything. With anyone. Not even Lara.

  “Dante.” His mother broke through his thoughts, her tone sharp and shrill. “I demand you listen to me.”

  “Demand?” His quiet word slipped into the air.

  Her tone shifted. “Request, then.”

  He turned to stare at her.

  His mother stared back at him with grim determination. “You are thirty-six.”

  “I don’t know where you are going with this.” Actually, he knew precisely where she was going; he just had no interest in following. Yet he knew enough about his mamma’s ways to know he needed another cognac. Walking to the liquor stand, he picked out another crystal glass. “Would you like a nightcap?”

  “No.” An obstinate look crossed her face. “I want to talk about this with you.”

  “This being what?”

  “You must feel relief that all your sisters are secure and happy.”

  “Certamente.”

  “This responsibility has been a huge burden for you. I know this.”

  “Mamma—”

  “It has been eleven years since your papa died. You have carried these obligations for all these years. The raising of your siblings. Running the family company. You’ve done an admirable job.” Giana’s eyes filled with tears again. “I’m very proud of you.”

  “I merely did what needed to be done.” Irritated, he stifled the need to walk out of the room. He hated this, this endless recitation of his supposed good deeds. As if he’d had any choice when his father lay dying. As if he’d ever once contemplated denying his father’s last request to take care of his siblings, to take care of his mother, to take care of the family business.

  His mother’s gaze turned from tears to a snapping sparkle. “You constantly do this.”

  “What?”

  “Try and dismiss what you’ve sacrificed.”

  He sipped his drink and kept his face blank. “Mamma, let us talk about—”

  “We are talking about exactly what I want to talk about.”

  He paced to the fireplace and planted himself.

  “Dante.”

  “Si.”

  A heavy female sigh came from the chair. “I can see you are not in the mood to listen to me. Not yet.”

  “I listen to you, Mamma.”

  “You listen, but you don’t understand.”

  What could a man say to this meaningless assertion? Nothing.

  “You have that look on your face again. Stubborn boy.”

  He was not a boy. He hadn’t been for many years. This was not something he could give her, the wild emotional boy she’d loved years ago. That boy wasn’t in him any longer. “You are tired, Mamma. It is time for you to go to bed.”

  “Don’t dismiss my concern for you.” Giana’s eyes flashed.

  “Your concern is misplaced. As I have told you many times before.” His tone was harsh, too harsh, he noted with exasperation. At himself. He rarely lost even an edge of his temper, yet it had been a long day. A day filled with lust and want and emotions he’d found hard to push back on. But his mother also irritated him. She had not chosen her timing well.

  “How you talk to me,” she said with annoyance.

  “Mamma.” He restrained his growing exasperation with an effort he found surprising. However, he needed to focus on what was best for the situation at hand. It would not do to have his mother upset at this important time. “Let us focus on Carlotta and her wedding.”

  “You constantly try and divert my attention away from you.”

  “Without much success.” The dryness of his voice barely concealed his frustration.

  “Dante—”

  “No, Mamma.” His temper continued to fray. “I won’t have it anymore. There is nothing to discuss. I will continue to do what I have always done.”

  “Work too hard. Worry too much. Take on too much responsibility.”

  He made a disparaging sound deep in his throat. “I work because I want to. And I do not worry. I fix things that need to be fixed. That is all.”

  “That is not all.” His mother’s gaze fastened on his. “It is time to change, time to think about yourself. You’ve done your duty, now I want you—”

  “Enough.” She would see his goal’s fruition soon. Her needless anxiety about his supposed unhappiness would dissipate once he settled down with Lara. That would have to satisfy her because he was incapable of giving her what she truly wanted: A man who lived life free from duty and obligation, a man who let his emotions rule his actions. Impossible. The role he held was too ingrained to ever break free. He wanted no more of this conversation. “I am serious. Enough.”

  She stiffened at his tone, then lifted her chin. Her nose was a fraction of the size of his, yet she used it to great effect. “I believe I will retire for the evening.”

  He took a deep, frustrated breath. “Buona notte.”

  She marched out of the room with a flourish of offended dignity. Undoubtedly, he would have to soothe some ruffled feathers tomorrow if he wanted this wedding week to go smoothly. Still, she’d received his message, loud and clear, and he had no doubt he’d be able to curb her lingering displeasure. After all, he’d been doing it since his father died.

  Pacing to the window, he looked out once more at the shadowed garden. Where he had kissed her. Really kissed her.

  Lara.

  Lara.

  His hand shook and then tightened around the glass. Ah, yes. Lara.

  Even with her anger at him, she’d responded.

  His mother was right in one respect, whether he’d told her or not. Now was the time when, for once, he would think of himself. This one time he would allow himself to satisfy his deepest desire. He wouldn’t be alone in this need, though, would he?

  The bond was still there between them.

  She knew. Deep within herself. Just as he did. Just as he always had.

  She was his.

  Chapter 3

  The hot Italian sun beat on her as Lara leaned into her car and pulled out the woven basket holding her towel and a book. The call from the Casartelli housekeeper had been a perfect antidote to a frustrating day. After fighting a slew of contractors and arguing with the city inspector over the construction at her school, she couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait for a long soothing swim, some hot gossip from the sisters, and hopefully, a nice cold drink.

  Slamming her car door, she strode past the imposing marble staircase and around the side of the villa into the verdant gardens surrounding it. The vibrant purple pansies and crimson roses highlighted the sunlit green of the grass and the greys of the olive leaves. It was only a short hike down one of the many paths to the pool. Walking around the side of the white-washed cabana, she stopped cold.

/>   No gaggle of women cooed a welcome.

  Everything was quite quiet. Except for the rhythmic splash of water.

  From the man in the pool.

  For one stolen moment, she let herself look. Look at the wet, gleaming muscles as they bunched and moved under his skin. Look at the long, strong arms as they arched over his head.

  His powerful body cut through the water, all elegance and masculinity.

  Whatever his faults, Dante Casartelli was a man who demanded attention. She had to admit, if only to herself, he demanded her womanly attention. Her body told the story. Beneath her bikini top, her nipples tingled. Between her legs, lust burned.

  Her anger burned even hotter, however. The anger she’d held onto for these last two days whenever she remembered. Remembered the kiss. Remembered his mouth and his lips and his heat. Remembered how she’d said no and he hadn’t listened.

  Typical of Dante Casartelli not to pay any attention to what she wanted.

  Typical of men in general.

  She’d learned that well with Gerry, too.

  She hated this man. Even more than her dead husband. Because even though she’d said no with her mouth, she’d said yes as well. She hated that somehow this man, this man she hated, awakened a desire deep inside her she’d never felt for any other man.

  But she was a woman with a brain, not only a body.

  After a long sleepless night, she’d forgiven herself. Her slip had only lasted a moment and wouldn’t be repeated. She only needed to stay far away from the man she hated and the attraction she rejected.

  Yet here she was.

  Right back in his vicinity. Right back into lust.

  There must have been some mix-up with the invitation. Maybe she was supposed to be here tomorrow. Come to think of it, what was he doing here in the middle of the day? The man worked constantly, or so his sisters said. He should be at his headquarters in Florence, telling people what to do.

  Not here, swimming. Half-naked.

  Causing a flutter of lust in her abdomen.

  She turned to walk back to her car. Taking a few steps down the path, she didn’t quite run, but...

  “Running away?” A deep silky voice slid around her.

  The accusation stopped her cold. She never ran away now. Never. Turning, she met his gaze. “No.”

  He’d put both of his arms on the edge of the pool and the action highlighted the bulge of his shoulder muscles. A trace of dark hair covered his pectorals.

  Lara forced herself to stare at the surrounding gardens.

  “It looked like you were leaving.”

  “You’re mistaken.” Why couldn’t she have slipped away before he saw her? Now she was stuck. Her pride demanded she not run away.

  “Good.” He lifted his long body out of the water, drawing her gaze once more. Pacing to one of the many lounge chairs lining the tiled patio, he picked up a towel and slid it over his hair, his torso lengthening, his skin glowing in the sun.

  Her nipples tightened. She gave thanks for the extra covering of her pool dress.

  “Vene.” He lowered the towel, gesturing to a chair right next to his. “Join me.”

  “Where is everybody?” She stayed right where she was.

  A black brow arched. “Everybody?”

  “Your sisters.” Her hand waved pathetically in the air. “Their kids.”

  “They were not invited.”

  “But…but…” she sputtered. “Your housekeeper—”

  “Invited you.”

  He eased down on the lounge and closed his eyes. Relief spread through her, knowing his dark gaze was no longer fastened on her. Irritation quickly followed. “You tricked me.”

  One eye opened at her accusation. “How did I do that?”

  “You knew I wouldn’t come—”

  “Yet, here you are.” His eye closed. He took a deep breath in and the play of his muscles rippled under his skin.

  The heat between her legs surged. “I have to leave.”

  “You mean…run away.”

  The challenge zapped steel up her spine. “I don’t run away.”

  “You never did as a child,” he said, a soft slur to his words as if he were falling asleep. “I wouldn’t expect you to do it at present.”

  She suddenly had the feeling she stood before two paths. Two roads leading to two very different conclusions. Which was absurd. This was nothing except an afternoon swim, with someone she despised instead of with a group of women she adored. He’d tricked her, and the resulting annoyance churning inside her would help her get through this miserable interlude without letting her libido go wild.

  She walked to a chair one removed from his, laid out her towel, and eased her body down. Heat lapped up from the white tiles, warming the tension from her limbs. The breeze whispered along her face and legs, providing a bit of coolness.

  His eyes remained closed.

  Slowly, she relaxed on the soft give of the cushion.

  Minutes ticked by without a movement across from her. The hot sun beat on her skin and the pool dress became sticky with sweat. Why was she huddling in this thing because of him? This was nonsense. She would take no notice of him and enjoy the swim she’d looked forward to as she drove here.

  Lifting herself to a sitting position, she untied the dress and slipped it off her shoulders.

  “At last,” he murmured. “I was beginning to think you were ashamed of your body.”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. Was he staring at her as she had stared at him? She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see what was in his eyes as he inspected her body. She didn’t care. Turning her head from him, she closed her own eyes and willed her body to relax.

  “Perhaps then, you are suffering from a cold?”

  “No.”

  “That is a relief.” A taunt laced his words.

  A recollection swirled in her brain. Of the boy teasing her, tugging her hair, making her giggle. She didn’t feel like giggling now, though. She felt like snarling at him.

  Ignore him. She opened her basket and pulled out a book. The subject had certainly held her interest when she’d started it days ago. A long dissertation on children’s learning disabilities was exactly what she needed to distract herself.

  The words blurred before her eyes.

  The vision of him was seared into her memory. No use trying to wipe her brain cells clean. She obsessively went over it again. He’d filled out as a man. No more lanky limbs. Only heavy, muscled shoulders, taut thighs. Her mind coiled around his image, dreading that it would end up in her dreams.

  His sudden movement jerked her attention back to reality.

  He’d eased himself on his side and a zing of awareness flashed through her, knowing his focus was on her once more. Instead of meeting his gaze, she stuck her nose deeper into her book.

  “So, you are happy to be here in Italy.” His voice was filled with confident satisfaction. “This is where you are meant to be.”

  “Really?” She swung her head around to frown at him. “Because you say so?”

  He sighed. “Here we go again.”

  “We? There is no we going anywhere.”

  His black stare bored into her. “I was starting a perfectly civil conversation and you immediately jump to conclusions about what I meant. Why are you determined to start an argument with me?”

  Good question. Where had the distance and dismissal and disdain she’d planned on gone? She tried to find some flippant response, except before she found the words, she made a mistake and glanced away from his face.

  All conscious thought disappeared.

  The swirl of dark chest hair covered hard pectoral muscles. His abdomen sported a sleek six-pack. His olive skin gleamed in the sun, water droplets still sparkling like a string of diamonds on his shoulders. His words drifted out of her mind. She tried to concentrate on why it was important to explain how much she hated him, but then his nipples snagged her entire attention. They were dark and tight from the linge
ring cold of the pool. Her mouth watered, unwillingly.

  “Lara?”

  His voice seemed muffled, muted. Ignoring the low burr of his voice, she let herself look some more, look at the bulging arms, the smooth tan skin, the rock-solid muscles. Her gaze traced up the line of his strong neck and jaw.

  “Bella.” His tone turned raspy. “Look at me.”

  I am, she wanted to say, but in the dim recesses of her brain, she knew it would be stupid. Yet even more stupidly, she kept her focus on his body. She couldn’t tear her focus away from his beauty. It didn’t seem to matter he was ugly on the inside. He was all beautiful male on the outside. She feasted on him. For years, she’d shut this passion down inside her, and now, at the worst possible time, with the worst possible man, her lust roared to life and she had no control over it.

  “You are driving me crazy.”

  His husky words drew her attention to his mouth. The thin upper lip, the hint of lushness in the lower. They opened and she wanted to taste, taste his tongue and lips and wetness. Shivering at the thought, she forced her gaze to slide along his jaw and the shadow of hair on his skin abruptly jerked her out of the sexual haze engulfing her.

  He hadn’t shaved today.

  His sisters claimed he never appeared as anything other than formal now. Never appeared as anything other than The Casartelli.

  Polished. Poised.

  Pompous, she’d muttered to herself as his sisters went on and on.

  “What are you thinking?” His tone lowered, magnetic and inviting. Desperate.

  She managed to yank her focus away from him and pin it on the book. Where it should have stayed all along. “What are you doing here?”

  “Swimming? Relaxing?”

  His voice was still husky with invitation, but she refused to be pulled under his spell again. She forced herself to stare at the wavering lines of text in front of her. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I chose to take a day off?”

  “You never take off work.”

  “Is that true?” Sighing, he eased down on his cushion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his muscles bunching in the sun. “And you know this, how?”

  “Your sisters.” She closed her eyes and willed her memory to blank out the sight of him. “According to them, you’re a workaholic.”