Wife By Force: International Billionaires II: The Italians

by Caro LaFever

  The limo eased to a stop on the driveway circling in front of the Casartelli villa.

  “I believe I was going to give you some advice.”

  Another breath. Another.

  “When a woman runs. A man has the compulsion to chase.”

  “I’m not running. From you or anyone.”

  “Quite the opposite, I would say.” His deep voice was cool and precise. “I believe you are running as fast as you can from what you know is inside you.”

  “There is nothing inside me,” she managed through the knot in her heart and her throat. “Nothing for you.”

  “I am a patient man. And also a determined one.” He held his body still, yet she sensed the coiled heat and need. “You cannot escape what is between us. I will chase you for as long as it takes. Until you eventually admit what you truly want.”

  Heart jumping in her chest, she forced herself to meet his black stare. No longer cool and indecipherable, the blackness radiated resolve and ruthless will. Exactly like twelve years ago, he thought he could dictate what was between them. Bitter anger surged inside her and laced her every word with warning. “Don’t chase me.”

  “Ah, Lara.” His dark lashes slowly shielded his eyes. “I am afraid it is far too late for that.”

  Chapter 6

  Thank God.

  The simple words echoed in his head.

  Thank God.

  The expression on her face when she’d said those telling words in the cathedral played inside his mind. Relief, mixed with ironic cynicism. No grief over a lost love. No sadness. No desperate wish for her dead husband to come back from the grave.

  Thank God.

  Dante watched Lara as she raced up the stone steps of his villa. As if she could race away from what she’d revealed to him. As if he would let her run away from what she’d given him. Only a tiny slip really. Any other person might have missed the slight inflection in her voice or the way she tilted her head in relief. Or the tight edge to the two words that said so much.

  To him.

  “Signore Casartelli?” The limo door opened wider and his devoted driver peered in, a look of shocked concern on his face.

  Why wouldn’t he be shocked? No woman had ever rushed from the Casartelli limo in obvious distress. At no time had his driver ever seen The Casartelli sitting silently, staring blankly at the tinted window in front of him.

  “Everything is fine, Aberto.”

  Stepping out of the limo, Dante grimaced. Everything was not fine, of course. Far from it. Lara had now become a riddle. A riddle he needed to solve before he could ever approach achieving his goal. A riddle that increasingly grew more incomprehensible and complicated every time he saw her. The dozens of million euro deals he’d negotiated over the last eleven years paled in comparison to what he faced in trying to figure her out. Obviously, he had to figure her out before he could ever hope to win her. Win not only her body and her mind, but her heart.

  A heart clearly damaged by her past marriage.

  A thick fire of pure rage flashed in his gut. All those pictures, those videos, those reports he’d been sent over the years. How had his family’s security team missed the fact that something was wrong? Wrong with the marriage. Wrong with her.

  How had he missed it?

  The thought made him grit his teeth. He stomped up the villa steps, the solid smack of his handmade leather shoes on the marble stone acting like a slap on his conscience. Twelve years ago, when he’d convinced Hugo Derrick that sending his daughter to England would be a good move, he sealed the deal when he promised his security team would keep an eye on her. He’d given his word. He’d promised on his honor she would be protected.

  The double doors of the villa, with the distinctive Casartelli crest, loomed in front of him.

  Onore soprattutto.

  The gilded scroll swept over the crown, the castle, the cross. Mocking him.

  Honor above all.

  His ancestor, the founder of the family, stared at him from the middle of the crest. The wooden eyes gleamed black with paint, the long nose pointed high in the air, the hardness of the jaw clenched. In disgust. At him.

  He had failed. When all these years, he thought he’d done the right thing.

  Dante closed his eyes for a moment, only a moment, and when he opened them it was his housekeeper staring at him from the doorway, holding the heavy stone door ajar. She looked just as concerned as his loyal driver had.

  “Signore?” She frowned in puzzlement.

  Why shouldn’t she be puzzled? This was not like him to stare at the door of his own home. Or stand here doing nothing. Or not have any words to soothe the worries his staff, his family, his business associates might have.

  The purr of a dozen limos came from behind him.

  “Signore?” she said again, her eyes filling with anxiety as she glanced at the stream of cars circling the driveway and coming to a stop. “È successo qualcosa?”

  Si. Something has happened. He’d found out. Found out he’d failed Lara. Found out he’d broken his promise to her father. All these years, he’d congratulated himself for honoring her marriage vows by staying away. He’d foolishly thought he’d done the right thing when he stepped back. He’d even assured Hugo Derrick he would continue to provide her security in England on the off chance her stable, secure ass of a husband failed in his duty.

  During those years, she had suffered. He didn’t know what, or why, or how. Still, he knew she had by the look in those honey eyes as she’d said those two simple words.

  Thank God.

  “Thank God we’re finally here.” Dani’s voice came from behind him. “The twins were driving me crazy in the limo.”

  “The twins always drive you crazy, il mio amore,” her husband commented.

  “Because you spoil them.” Giana Casartelli marched to Dante’s side and glanced at the housekeeper and then him with a frown. “What is going on?”

  “Le mie scuse.” His housekeeper rushed her words, a flustered flush on her broad-cheeked face. “Non lo so—”

  “There is nothing to apologize for, Ariana.” This was not the time to continue these thoughts. Not the time to contemplate his failures.

  “What is wrong?” His mamma’s emotional radar immediately tuned into the turmoil he was stuffing down, down, down inside.

  “Nothing.” He glanced at her now, sure he’d wiped everything clean from his face. “The wedding was perfect as expected.”

  His mother’s gaze never wavered from his. “Where is Lara? Is she all right?”

  His attempt at diversion had not succeeded and her question scrambled what little was left of his brain. No, she was not all right. And it was his fault.

  “Signorina Derrick is here.” Ariana unknowingly rushed in to save him. “She said she needed to use the lavatory.”

  “So do I,” Dani grumbled from behind him. “Do you mind moving, Dante?”

  His sister’s words managed to cut through his ragged thoughts. Thoughts he had no time to go over and ponder. No time right now to figure out a better course than the one he’d chosen when he decided to place Lara in the limo with him. And place her beside him—

  “Come, come, Dante.” His mother patted his arm and gave him a gentle push. “Time to...”

  Her words faded as his thoughts kept pummeling him. Yet, somehow, he found himself in the foyer, greeting the guests alongside his beaming bride of a sister and his proud peacock of a new brother-in-law. His mother laughed and cried happy tears beside him, still managing to shoot several questioning looks his way.

  He used the minutes well. By the time the wedding party had greeted all the guests and been ushered onto the terrace and lawn, he had himself back in control. Though his goal for today might push Lara a bit too much, if well handled, it could still work. He would merely have to be gentle, go slow, execute everything with delicacy.

  Don’t chase me.

  Now that he knew there were issues behind that statement, issues that did not i
nvolve him directly, he would proceed with more patience. Whatever her damned dead husband had done to her would be dealt with during the next few months. He would find out—she would tell him. Then together they would resolve the problem. At that point, she would be more receptive to his desires. And perhaps, at some point, he would forgive himself for his failure to keep her safe.

  He could wait. He’d become good at waiting.

  Dante strolled onto the terrace. The chattering crowd circled around him, the ladies smiling and batting their eyes at him, something he’d gotten used to over the years as his wealth had grown. The men tried to engage him in conversation which inevitably would evolve into some sort of business proposal, something he’d also gotten used to.

  However, it appeared today he had no reservoir of patience as he usually did.

  He withdrew to the far end of the terrace. Taking a deep breath, he looked for Lara in the sea of people.

  “Mamma’s outdone herself.” Tomas strode to his side, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “All you have to do is pay for it.”

  He flicked a finger in a gesture he’d used with Tomas since they were boys.

  His brother chuckled.

  But Tomas was right. His job was to provide. He never questioned the responsibility anymore. He glanced over the rolling lawn stretching out from the family villa. The hot sunlight brightened the white roofs of the tents set up to accommodate the wedding reception. Hundreds of guests milled around white linen tables, chatting, drinking champagne, nibbling on a variety of olives, peperoncini, mushrooms, and anchovies. The five-course meal would begin in a few minutes and then there would be dancing.

  As host, he was obliged to stay until the very end.

  A sudden impulse to run, to grab Lara and run, tore through him.

  He clamped down on the emotional urge immediately. Exactly as he’d been taught.

  “I noticed the lovely Lara at your side earlier,” his brother said, a hint of teasing in his voice.

  “Si.”

  Tomas slid him a mischievous glance. “I told you she’d turned sexy.”

  “Si.”

  His brother laughed. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”

  “Did you imagine I would?” Turning to stare at his brother, he arched one brow.

  His brother chuckled. Tomas was only nine years younger chronologically, yet sometimes he felt a thousand years older.

  “Dante.” His mother’s voice snapped behind them. “It is time for the meal to begin. Please help me get everyone to their seats. If you seat yourself, the crowd will follow.”

  He gave her a quick nod and stepped off the terrace and into the crowd. Moving slowly but methodically, he greeted guests and urged them toward the dozens of circular tables spread out over the lawn. Within a few minutes, he’d made his way to the large family table in the center of the widest tent. The wooden dance floor was right behind the table, and already the orchestra played a soft medley of classic love songs.

  Spotting his name on the place card sitting before the elaborate mix of polished silver, crystal goblets, and wedding gifts for each guest, he eased himself onto the puffed seat of the chair. The wedding reception might be outdoors, but the Casartelli class and clout were on full display.

  As they should be.

  Glancing over, he read the name on the place card next to him.

  Was this worry suddenly coursing through him? He never worried anymore. So what could this be, this thread of emotion wrapping around his brain so he couldn’t think, sliding down his spine making it straighten, tightening around his lungs so he couldn’t breathe?

  No matter. He’d decided his goal for today and even though subsequent events and revelations had come, the goal was still solid. He’d make it work.

  The next act in this play between them was about to begin.

  The crowd swirled around him, laughing and joking, finding their places. His family circled the table, arranging chairs, hugging the bride, kissing the babies.

  “Zio Dante.” A childish tug on his tux caught his attention. He looked down into eyes as black and alert as his own. “I fell and bled all over.”

  “Ah.” The relish in the boy’s voice almost made him smile. He examined the bandaged finger with interest. “Your mamma has fixed it, I see.”

  “Si.” His nephew, Giorgio, clambered onto his lap without hesitation. “She told me I had to be more careful.”

  Curb your impetuous impulses, Dante.

  He heard his father’s voice as plainly as if he stood by his side right now. Some last remnant of his youth rebelled inside of him. “It is also important to have fun.”

  His nephew reared his head to stare at him. Astonishment shone in his gaze for a moment and then a huge grin split his face. “I’ll tell her you said so.”

  “And get me in trouble?”

  The five-year-old laughed.

  All at once, she was there. He sensed her presence by his side as if she’d touched his hair and neck and shoulder. His skin heated and his blood flowed faster in his veins.

  He glanced over and met her intent scrutiny. “Lara.”

  Giorgio might be young, but he was an Italian male. He eyed the female before them. “Pretty,” he blurted.

  Lara Derrick, the woman who claimed she was all grown up, the woman who’d told his sisters she was tough and hard and over men, blushed.

  His heartbeat picked up as his heart melted at the same time. She might claim to be a stranger to him. Yet the charming, loving girl he’d grown up with, the young lady who’d captured his heart, the devoted friend he’d leaned on when the demands of his future role seemed too great to bear...the heart of her was still there, waiting for him to reawaken it and love her as she deserved.

  He would make it happen. He would make up for his failure to protect her. He would find some way to heal her wounds. Now was the time to start.

  “Go to your mamma,” he said to his nephew, easing him off his lap.

  The little boy scuttled off, leaving a well of silence between them. She broke it by turning and frowning at the place card with her name on it. “You did this.”

  “Actually, I hired people to do this.” He waved a negligent hand to indicate the elaborate celebration swirling around them.

  “You know what I mean.” She glanced around, noticed she was one of the few guests left standing, and with a huff, plopped herself onto the seat beside him.

  “How nice to have you here with us,” his sister, Dani, piped up from across the table. “It’s like you’re part of the family, Lara.”

  Dante eased his chair back. With faint amusement and rueful resignation, he noted how his entire family smiled and agreed and slanted encouraging looks at both of them. This had been a factor in his original plot for this day. Now he wished to be with her alone so he could find out her secrets. Boxing her in when she was hurting was not a good strategy. He knew this from thousands of business negotiations.

  However, it was too late. He’d been too thorough in his usual way and he’d boxed them both into a long night with his family making many sorts of hints and suggestions. The thread of worry slithered across his skin and he had to focus to keep the bland expression on his face.

  She stiffened beside him. “I’m glad to be here with all of you.”

  Maybe teasing would work to relax her. His teasing had always made her laugh. Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “All of us but one. Right, bella?”

  “Exactly.” The word was a bullet aimed right between his eyes. No laughing response or teasing as she had done long ago.

  He should give her some space. Give himself some time to come up with a better way. Winging it was not in his repertoire.

  He should retreat.

  Yet he could not. His focus could not be drawn away from the faint smell he’d always known as uniquely hers.

  Roses. Sunlit sweet. Spicy sass.

  Was it because as a child she’d gleefully run through his mother’s rose gard
ens, weaving the flowers through her hair, laughing as she threw them in the air to land on her shoulders and head? Had those hours sitting in his family’s park, watching him climb trees, chatting as she plucked the thorns off the stems, giggling as she tried to put a rose behind his ear—had those endless, blissful hours imprinted the smell into her very being?

  He leaned in, closer. Breathed in. The silky, sexy, subtle scent of her. He breathed her in again and the hectic beat of the pulse on her neck matched the drumming beat of lust in his blood. The urge to take her and run rushed through him once more.

  “Dante,” she choked. “You’re embarrassing me. Move away.”

  Reluctantly, he eased away. The chatter of his family swelled and as the moments passed, he sensed her relaxing in her seat. Regrettably, he could not follow her into relaxation. His erection was painful and if he stood, would be obvious. His host speech would be a spectacle if he did not clamp down on his libido.

  His reaction to her continued to astonish him.

  White-coated waiters quickly appeared everywhere, circling the tables with large china bowls filled with cioppino. He found himself grimly amused as the bowl of steamed mussels, lightly spiced with garlic, was set before him. The last thing he needed was an aphrodisiac.

  “So,” he said, trying to distract himself. “Your father was unable to attend.”

  She puckered her lips, blowing on the hot soup in her spoon.

  His erection pressed against the zipper of his pants.

  Dio. Was she doing it on purpose? But no, her body language screamed her dislike. Some primal male part of him roared to life, much to his amazement. The female challenge to his pride, the demand to make her aware of him, to admit he got to her as much as she got to him, threatened to consume him.