Wife By Force: International Billionaires II: The Italians

by Caro LaFever

  “But...” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hands open, then close. “But why did you stay with him?”

  Now that was a question she could answer easily. Glancing back at him, she forced herself to keep her gaze on his as she delivered the truth, the ugly truth she’d known at the age of eighteen. “I had nowhere else to go.”

  “What?” His eyes widened, the white rim contrasting with the dark iris. “You could have come home to Italy with one phone call.”

  “Really?” The old hardened pain pumped anger into her veins. “After the phone call I received from you coming back from my honeymoon?”

  You have been a fool, Lara. You have made a huge mistake and disgraced your father. How could you have done such a thing without consulting your family and your friends here?

  She remembered every word. As if it were only yesterday, she heard the disapproval in his voice, the disappointment in his tone, the disgust in his words.

  “I was angry that day when I discovered the news of your impetuous marriage. I admit that.” He flung his linen napkin on the table. “But you should have known you could have called your father and he would have come to take you home. At any time in those nine years.”

  “Papa is old-fashioned.” The aching memories, the memories she didn’t want to live through again, came crashing down on her. The countless times her hand had hovered on the phone, wanting to make the call for escape, release from the prison she’d put herself in. Still, she’d never done it. Somewhere in those first few months of marriage, she’d lost the last of herself in the endless barrage of words, Gerry’s words of condescension and condemnation. “He would have been horrified I’d run away from my husband.”

  “No.” Her new husband’s voice was sure and short. “He would not have if you’d told him.”

  Told him she’d been a fool. Told her father she’d been a stupid, silly girl who’d fallen for the first gentle word a man had given her after Dante’s rejection. “This doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.”

  Another silence fell and a gurgle of tears bubbled in her throat. Because it wasn’t over, was it? Now Dante knew how stupid she’d been. Now he knew how inexperienced sexually she was. Her old marriage still scarred her in so many ways and now it had bled into her new marriage.

  Why should she care? She hated this new marriage as much as her old one. Right?

  Right?

  A sigh came from across the table. “I can see this upsets you. So we won’t talk of it anymore.”

  Not talking about it wouldn’t make the scars go away, but she had to admit she wanted to forget about all of her past and even her present. “Thank—”

  “For now.”

  His two words cracked at her control. Her present husband wasn’t going to let this go without a fight. Another one of their fights. “Forever. My past marriage is over and done with.”

  Silence echoed between them, the only sound the soft wash of the sea waves on the sandy shore. She tried to focus on the pie, tried to pull herself back to where she’d been mere minutes ago: excited, thrilled, lusting. However, she couldn’t find her way back to that happy place. She was too mired in the ugly memories and emotions. Too filled with the knowledge her present was even uglier.

  “I need to apologize.” His deep voice was rough and ragged.

  “What?” Lara yanked her gaze up from the pie and stared in stunned confusion at him. He had so much to apologize for, yet she couldn’t for the life of her figure out which of his many sins he was addressing.

  He’d closed his eyes, the dark fringe of his lashes stark against the sudden paleness of his skin. “Apologize.” He grimaced. “The only defense I can bring is the sight of you naked…”

  “Yes?”

  “I had no idea that you were,” he stalled once more, then sucked in a breath. “Inexperienced.”

  “A virgin.”

  “Si.” He sighed. “I know it’s no excuse, but when I kiss you…”

  This was getting interesting. If she wasn’t mistaken, her husband’s skin was now slightly flushed, a streak of red on his high cheekbones. She let his words trail off and focused on his downward countenance with fascination. Dante Casartelli embarrassed? Apologizing?

  “I will do better in the future,” he stated without meeting her eyes.

  “Do better?” He couldn’t mean what popped into her head.

  “I will control myself and my impulses.” His gaze went again to the ocean. “I will ensure the experience is much better than what you’ve experienced thus far.”

  He sounded like he was negotiating a business contract with a disgruntled client. Could the man actually be talking about the mind-blowing experience she’d had in bed with him? She had to make sure. “Dante.”

  He finally glanced across the table at her, yet his eyes gave nothing away.

  “Are you talking about the sex between us?”

  “Si.” His tone was cool and crisp. “I have not shown you the respect you deserve.”

  She didn’t want his respect. She’d had a good healthy dose of it for the past month. The slight smiles, the distant touches, the blank looks. She much preferred the man she’d encountered in the garden weeks ago and especially the man she’d been in bed with not an hour before.

  The man with heated skin and hard muscles. The man who groaned when she touched him and admitted his need for her. The man who lost himself when he came inside her.

  Did he honestly want their sex life to be as dry and distant as their relationship outside of bed?

  She would go insane.

  The man could not possibly deny her the one thing this marriage gave her that she enjoyed. She wouldn’t let him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I would not kid about such an important item in our marriage.”

  Once more, the business talk. Their sex life was an item? “How exactly are you going to be more respectful in the future?”

  “I…” He ran an impatient hand through his black hair, ruffling it into a boyish tangle. “I will maintain more control. I will spend more time making sure you are satisfied.”

  The man was impossible. Amusement and an odd sort of affection crept through her. The man was serious. He genuinely didn’t know how much he turned her on. And in. And out. She would have to prove to him his concern, his apology, and certainly his goal to respect her were not needed.

  At least as far as their sex life went.

  Closing her eyes, she stood and stretched. Although she couldn’t see him, she still felt his gaze run down the length of her body like a brand. Slowly dropping her arms, she opened her eyes and walked around the table.

  Her husband stiffened as she drew near, but didn’t move.

  Respect.

  She laughed inside. She would teach him how to respect her. The way she wanted.

  Her fingers slipped along his neck, and his heat and scent immediately rose. The smell of his skin, the mix of salt and musk and man whirled around her, binding her to him.

  “Bella,” he choked.

  “I want you to show some of your respect for me right now,” she whispered into his ear.

  His jaw clenched and with one swift movement of his hand, she found herself on his lap, his strong arms holding her with ease.

  “All right.” His hot stare blazed at her. “I will show you.”

  His lips settled on hers with sultry, silky smoothness. He sipped and sucked and slowly mesmerized her with his skill. This was a totally different kind of sex than what she’d experienced with him earlier that evening. This was sweet and soft and leisurely. The man took his time, moving over her lips with silent concentration. At last, his broad tongue stole lightly into her mouth. Again, pleading and asking, never taking.

  This kiss had the exact same effect on her as his passionate pursuit. Her body hummed and heated. Her nipples tightened to the point of pain. She wanted him to touch her there, she wanted him to smooth his wide palm on her and cares
s and pluck.

  “Dante,” she groaned when he raised his head.

  “I have just begun.”

  His gaze moved across her sprawled body. Her head leaned on his shoulder, her legs swung loosely over the teak armrest. The heat from his body was like a living furnace beneath her, his hard length rigid against the small of her back.

  His hand edged along her stomach, moving the soft cotton on her skin, making it itch to be released. She wanted to be naked for him, wanted his hands smoothing over her with no impediment. Trying to make her dream a reality, her hands rose to unbutton the dress, but he stilled her with one broad hand.

  “Let me,” he insisted. “When the time is right.”

  “Now,” she demanded.

  A slight smile curved his mouth into a wicked tease. “No. Let me show you some respect.”

  “I’m beginning to hate that word.”

  A low chuckle rumbled from his body into her core. “Patience.”

  His long fingers shifted across her cotton-covered breasts, pushing and pulling the fabric across her taut nipples until she arched and groaned. He murmured softly in Italian, and then, finally, unbuttoned the first button close to her chest. Yet instead of continuing down the length of her, freeing her, he dallied. His finger moved on her skin, testing the smooth texture, idling around a small mole on one of her breasts.

  “This needs a kiss,” he husked.

  His lips was soft and light, barely touching her. An electric current spun through her entire body. It clattered and zipped from his lips to the mole to the center of her core and down into her smallest toe.

  “Please,” she begged.

  “Si, I will please you.”

  He flicked another button open and explored the tiny patch of skin it exposed to him. Her breasts became heavy and hurting. Wanting his focused attention.

  Another button. Her crazed brain remembered another slow unbuttoning from earlier, but this was torture in comparison. Then it had been merely a feast for her eyes; now it was an entire feast of the senses. His touch was all encompassing, her body totally tuned to his every movement. His heat and smell enveloped her in an unseen yet powerful energy force. His voice rumbled in her ear, a soft lilt of Italian that enflamed her mind and soul.

  “Ah.” Satisfaction laced his tone. “No bra.”

  His fingers slipped inside her open dress and at last, touched her nipple, plucking and playing.

  Panting, she arched into his touch.

  He chuckled. He was enjoying this, the fiend. Yet she was beyond taking back any kind of power. His hands swept across her more firmly, over one breast, then the other. She twisted and turned, moaned and moved as he stroked and touched and handled her with ease.

  Another button.

  Another.

  His hands smoothed across the slight rise of her stomach and fluttered along the lace of her panties. Her legs fell apart, begging for his further exploration.

  “All in good time.”

  Her eyes opened and she knew they shot daggers at him. “Stop the playing.”

  “I am only doing what you asked me to do.” His dark brow rose, an arrogant question mark. Yet the golden gleam in his gaze told her he was as turned on as she was. “I am showing you respect.”

  His teasing drove her into madness. A flame of angered heat surged through her. She tried to jump out of his grasp, but he easily subdued her. “Let me go.”

  “Not a chance.” With a grin, he settled her on his lap and continued his play. He focused on her breasts again and along with his hands this time, he bent down and used his talented tongue. The wet length soothed, then seared her nipples and again, she fell under his spell once more, moving with his every touch.

  As his mouth seduced her breasts, one large hand moved to her stomach and this time cupped her between her thighs, feeling the heat and wetness beneath the silk of her panties.

  “Sei bella,” he sighed on her skin.

  One long finger slipped up and down her crest, wetting the silk, touching the right places with an artist’s finesse. Her legs moved further apart and her mind went completely blank. The only thing she knew was this man’s warm mouth slipping across her breasts and his maddening, loving finger sliding and searching for her every sweet spot.

  The pull of her orgasm tightened within her, yet with expert skill he retreated, resting his hand on her inner thigh. She moaned and thrashed against him, but he held her tight, his mouth continuing to explore her shoulders, her neck, her collarbone. He delved once more, his fingers moving aside the slim silk and touching her softest skin with tender care.

  “Molto bella,” he breathed into her ear.

  Her hands moved frantically through his hair, telling him without words of her need for completion. This time, he answered, his fingers creating a dance on her flesh, his mouth sipping on her.

  With an explosion, the need became white heat flashing through her entire body and soul. Her body bowed, her legs went rigid, and her hands clutched his hair in a tight grip. Gasping for breath, Lara rode the crash of pleasure until it subsided into a warm, melting well of fulfillment.

  “Now that,” he said, his voice smoldering, “is respect.”

  Chapter 14

  The slap of the pool water on the tile kept her awake.

  Barely.

  The heat of the midday sun had ebbed until the warmth was the perfect temperature on her skin. The rustling of the palm trees above her created a supple, soothing glide of sound in her ear.

  This was their last day.

  Turning her head, Lara gazed at her sleeping husband. The poor man had been kept up half the night with her demands.

  A grin tugged at her mouth.

  Dante lay on his stomach, the edge of his black swimsuit riding up one leg, showing a good length of hairy, muscled thigh. His face was turned toward her, his black eyelashes slanting across his cheeks, his usual austere appearance softened by sleep. Her gaze slipped along his broad shoulder, down his wide back, over his tight rump and across his long legs. The Caribbean sun had darkened his skin during these last couple of weeks until it shone in bronzed and gleaming glory.

  Her husband was a hunk. The king of hunks, frankly.

  The grin on her mouth widened.

  Who would have thought? Dante—the epitome of urbane cool and collected. The Casartelli: smooth operator, ruthless businessman, family patriarch. Dante Casartelli might be all those things, but he was also a hottie.

  She could not seem to get enough of him. Every night, she went to bed shaking with desire, touching and kissing to her heart’s content. In the bedroom, there were no cold gazes or cool words. Everything between them was hot and sweet and passionate.

  She pushed her sunglasses down to get a better look at him.

  His muscles gleamed with a slight sheen of sweat, emphasizing their power and potential. His hair was slightly damp from the last swim in the pool, its deep black contrasting with the diamond glitter of water in their depths. His face still held a certain arrogance, the long nose and firm jaw would never relax into complete softness. Yet the slight crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the tightness around his mouth had been washed away during the last weeks.

  Sliding over on her side, she sighed.

  She couldn’t claim Dante had changed. Outside the bedroom, he still was a cool customer. He commanded immediate service in the busy jewelry store, where he’d bought her a diamond-encrusted Piaget watch, ignoring her protest. With a flick of his finger, he’d obtained the best table in the restaurant, where they dined on couscous and steamed flying fish. He had that aura of power as they strolled the enchanting streets of Bridgetown; people were drawn to him, from flirty female tourists to ancient local fishermen.

  He still made decisions about where they were going without consulting her.

  He still assumed he was always right.

  He still puckered up when she dared to question him.

  But then he would kiss her, and the signature taste
of him—desire and desperation—would roller coaster through her bloodstream. And she would forget. Forget his dominating ways and demanding manner. Forget everything except having him and taking him until they were both panting and sweating and still wanting.

  “Be honest with yourself,” she muttered.

  It wasn’t only the sex, though that area of their marriage was off the charts. She’d also seen smidgens of something else, something more in her husband that drew her.

  He watched out for her. Not in the way Gerry had, all rigid disapproval and painful condescension. No, Dante subtly cared for her. He took her hand when they reached a set of stairs. He made sure her water glass was full at the restaurant so she wouldn’t become dehydrated. He wrapped his arm around her and tugged her out of harm’s way when a rambunctious crowd of teenagers walked past them in the town streets.

  Which was nice.

  Not something she was used to.

  Her father had always been too self-absorbed, her brother too young. Gerry’s version of care had nearly destroyed her.

  There were the subtle hints of his dry humor too she found herself enjoying. He would never be a charmer, but there was no mistaking his wit. His sly comments as they watched the parade of tourists walk by the little café where they’d stopped for coffee had actually made her laugh out loud. In addition, remarkably, he didn’t object to being teased. Unlike Gerry, who had seen it as an affront to his dignity, Dante was adapting.

  Which was also nice.

  She and Andy had teased each other unmercifully as children.

  Teasing was a natural part of her; it had been very hard to keep it under wraps in her first marriage. She found it refreshing to be herself, not be condemned or corrected. She liked to laugh, and tease, and surprisingly, her new husband was willing to oblige her.

  Then there was the patience thing.

  His utter calmness when the waiter had spilled soup on the table. He hadn’t demanded immediate firings or severe punishment as she’d half expected he would. No, her husband had been all graciousness. There’d been his compassion with the elderly woman who worked in the jewelry store. Her dithering and fluttering, when she’d recognized him as the owner of the largest hotel on the island, had been painful to watch. Yet eventually, with Dante’s low, calm tone and unhurried ways, the woman had relaxed, her grateful glance following them as they left the store.