by Caro LaFever
Lara couldn’t ever imagine classifying her husband as nice…but he was…well, compared to Gerry’s curt manner with anyone he deemed beneath him…
Dante was different.
Basically, she couldn’t figure him out. She couldn’t put the pieces together that made the man who was her husband.
Dictator or companion?
Tyrant or protector?
Enemy or lover?
All his disparate traits caused her to be remarkably unsettled and uneasy. Her hate for him had been a talisman, a way to keep the impact of his powerful presence on her at bay. The bitterness she’d held for weeks was securely anchored inside her, protecting her emotions from further hurt.
Those emotions were still there, weren’t they? The hate and bitterness. The hurt.
No, her heart murmured. No.
She frowned down at the brightly colored towel covering her lounge chair. She couldn’t be thinking of forgiving the man. Of actually liking him.
Impossible.
“Lara.” His sleepy rumble stroked across her skin, melting her muscles into mush.
She was in trouble. She hadn’t realized it until now.
She was in real trouble.
“Bella. Look at me.”
Pinning a slight smile on her face, she forced herself to meet his gaze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He sighed and turned over on his side. “My experience with women—”
“A bride doesn’t like to be reminded of the women who came before her.” A ripple of distress reverberated through her. The thought of Dante with another woman was surprisingly painful. She kicked the thoughts aside and widened her smile.
He grimaced. “I didn’t mean—”
“Though I suppose I can’t complain.” She gazed past him to the ocean. “After all, I’m reaping the benefits of your vast experience in the bedroom.”
“Look at me.” His tone was stark.
Her pride demanded she look straight at him.
His obsidian eyes brooded, his mouth slanted down. “I have had other women.”
“I’m sure.”
“However, not as many as you seem to think,” he continued. “I am not a playboy.”
She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and closed her eyes. Leaning back in her chair, she tried for a nonchalant manner. Why should she care how many women he’d been with? It wasn’t as if it mattered to her in the least.
Her husband groaned, male frustration pulsing beneath. Opening one eye, she saw him swing his legs over the side of the lounge to sit facing her. The flex of his muscles took her breath. She immediately closed the one eye to blank out the temptation.
“I have five sisters.” His tone was determined. “A mother. Numerous aunts.”
She kept her eyes closed.
“What I meant with my comment about women,” he trailed off, then tried again. “I meant that I know there’s something wrong when a woman says there’s nothing wrong.”
Lara couldn’t let that slide. “You mean women are silly and stupid and often say what they don’t mean.”
He made a disparaging noise in his throat. “I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
“Dio. You drive me crazy.” His voice changed, deepening. “In more ways than one.”
A slither of heat spun across her skin. The air suddenly turned humid and electric. His physicality hummed and vibrated like a living current beside her. His focus was on her, she felt it as clearly as if he’d slid his hand along the length of her body.
The man was hazardous. Very hazardous to her.
Because the sexual tie was no longer the only tie binding them together.
The realization drove a spike straight through her heart.
She drew off her sunglasses and rose, the tile hot beneath her feet. Her lounge chair stood between them, a flimsy guard against his potent appeal. “I think I’ll take a dip.”
Her legs were shaking, yet she managed to walk to the steps and sink her heated body into the cool water of the pool. Swimming across its length, she tried to quiet and calm the clanging emotions running through her brain and heart. Identifying them, classifying them would help in banishing them, hopefully.
Jealousy. She couldn’t believe it, but she was jealous of all the women he had slept with in the past. Which was crazy. At some point, after their divorce, she would almost certainly see him with another lover.
Awareness blasted through her mind.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered and barely managed to keep a gulp of pool water out of her mouth. Why should she care if he took off for greener pastures eventually? This was what she wanted, to be free of him. It shouldn’t matter to her if he took a thousand lovers after their marriage ended.
The echo of faint laughter deep inside her made her push aside the jealous emotion and the thoughts that came with it.
All right. What was the next sensation she was feeling?
Fear. Yes, fear. Fear she was sliding down a steep slope. His lovemaking was chipping away at the ice around her heart. His humor was melting her anger. His decency was breaking through her assumptions about him.
Her crawl picked up speed.
Next emotion, please.
Confusion. She’d told herself she could enjoy what happened in the bedroom without losing any of her anger or hate. She’d believed she could disassociate herself from her body and merely enjoy his powerful physique, his vigorous sex. Yet the swirl of uncertainty pumping through her told her she was a liar.
Still, what could she do about it? She was stuck in this marriage for the foreseeable future. Stuck with a man who was fire in the bedroom, who turned her on when he breathed. She was stuck with a man who made her laugh and was methodically burrowing into her soul.
How could she possibly have allowed this to happen?
This softening, this yearning.
How could she possibly think of forgiving him?
A wash of water slid over her shoulders as his strong body swam close to hers. With one powerful move, he grasped her waist and drew her to his side. They bobbed in the water, her gaze on his collarbone, his gaze sliding across her face.
“Bella,” he murmured. “Whatever is bothering you, it will be all right.”
She stared at the rivulets of pool water streaming down his shoulder and chest.
One long finger moved across her jaw to her chin. Tipping her face to look at him, he finally caught her gaze. “Don’t worry. This marriage will work. I promise you.”
His tone was confident and assured.
But as she stared at him—the keen intent of his gaze, the firm mouth, the strong jaw—she knew he couldn’t cure everything about this marriage. Beyond forcing her to marry him, there were far worse problems. He was too much like Gerry: too demanding and hard, too controlling and cool.
What was worse, he was even more hazardous to her than Gerry was. She knew this instinctively. If she allowed him to get closer, she would eventually lose herself completely. Unlike the situation with Gerry, she would never recover.
Dante noticed her turmoil. His jaw clenched and then he dipped his head, his mouth slanting gently on hers, trying to reassure her without words.
Could a kiss, could mere sex, cure what was between them?
She shivered in the water. They were going back, back to where they’d come from. This time during their honeymoon had been a fantasy and now they had to confront the reality of what this marriage was all about.
This wasn’t about hot sex, it was about heirs for the king.
This wasn’t about liking each other, it was about convenience for him.
This wasn’t about love in any way, shape or form. Not for him.
And she couldn’t let it be for her.
* * *
Dante scrolled through the hundreds of emails waiting in his inbox. The laptop’s blue glow was the only illumination in the airplane cabin. The whirr of the airplane�
�s engine was the only sound breaking the silence.
He glanced across at Lara.
The faint light cast a shadow on her profile. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks, her mouth pouted a moue, a slight frown creased her forehead. He leaned back in his leather chair and studied his sleeping wife with some satisfaction. The honeymoon had gone well, much better than he could have hoped. There’d been that odd moment in the pool yesterday, yet she’d recovered from whatever had bothered her by the evening. She’d made the last night of their honeymoon a time to remember.
He smiled.
His gaze moved across her face, memorizing the dip of her lower lip, the firmness of her chin. Her soft breathing lifted her chest and he couldn’t help tracking the shift of her breasts up and down.
The sex between them did astonish him. He would admit that to himself. The chemistry between them had been there before the marriage. He’d suffered several cold showers because of it. The level of his need, though, when he finally took her to bed unsettled him. Like any man, he enjoyed a passionate woman and Lara was certainly passionate. Initially, her eagerness for him, her touches and embraces, her urgent desire had soothed his battered ego.
She wanted him. Him. Not merely his money.
Yet as the nights blended together, a slight unease came over him. Every time he kissed her, every time he touched her, he promised himself this would be the time he would retain command on his libido. Each time they fell into bed, naked and needing, he tried to rein in his body’s reactions. He told himself he wanted to ensure her satisfaction—although, she always seemed satisfied. No, honestly, it was for his own safety, his own emotional safety, that he tried to cling to his control.
He never could.
Shame wasn’t what he experienced. His wife’s response was more than any man needed to understand he’d made her happy. But his wild side emerged every time and the renewed familiarity with this side of him disturbed and distracted him.
Hell, she was the distraction.
Even now, with a cashmere blanket hiding her curves, she managed to ignite a heated fire in his blood. The primitive male inside him was constantly on alert when she was around. The overwhelming lust surprised him. He couldn’t manage it, either. That, more than anything, the fact he couldn’t manage this part of himself, bothered him.
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. Eventually, this level of passion would have to burn a bit cooler. Wouldn’t it?
This was what he hoped. For his sanity.
He should take her to the bedroom. She would be more comfortable there. When she’d started to nod off, he suggested it, but she’d declined for some obscure womanly reason. Still, it was obvious she was out for the duration and it was best he move her. Standing, he stepped across the aisle and lifted her from the chair with an easy hoist.
“Mmm.” She snuggled into him, her warm body heating his blood. Predictably.
He walked to the back of the plane and nudged the open door wider, before easing his wife’s body on the bed. Using the dim blue light shining from his computer, he pulled the high heels off her feet. Should he undress her fully? It would make her more comfortable. However, the temptation to keep going would be hard to resist.
With a grimace he decided against it and began to tug the covers over her.
“Dante?”
“Go to sleep.”
One slim hand lifted and cupped his jaw. One stroke, one touch was all it took to crash through his good intentions. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
His lips caressed her cheek, then her lush mouth, dipping in to taste her unique combination of sweetness mixed with sensual promise. Her hands slipped into his hair, tugging him closer.
“You need to sleep,” he managed.
Her kiss cut off further protests, her moist lips nipping and sucking on his, tasting him with a silent need that called to his sex.
“Lara…”
She tugged once more, and he found himself lying on the bed, half over her, his chest pushing on her soft breasts, heating him further. She murmured, “you’re so warm.”
He rasped a chuckle. “More like hot for you.”
Her quiet laugh echoed his. Searching fingers smoothed along his neck and down his spine, sending shivers of lust shooting through his nerve endings. But the door stood open and he heard the faint clatter of the steward moving in the small kitchen close to the bedroom. The flash of a white light illuminated the bed before the shift of a curtain cut it off.
“Bella.” He pushed himself off her reluctantly and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to gain his breath back. “You could tempt a saint.”
“And you’re assuredly not that.” Her tart tone descended over the atmosphere with an errant clash.
His blood immediately cooled.
Ah.
The honeymoon might have ranked as a success for him, yet his wife apparently still held onto a portion of her anger. He still had work to do. Why was he surprised? He swallowed his disappointment and regret.
“Sorry.” Her voice softened. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Waving her words away, he began to stand.
“Wait.” She grasped his arm. “I am sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” He stared straight ahead, not wanting to look at her face. What would he see there? Condemnation or regret? Disgust or acceptance?
A wisp of a sigh came from the bed. “Dante—”
“I am not a saint. You are correct in that.” He made himself glance at her. Yet the dim light gave him few clues to what she was feeling or thinking.
“I didn’t mean it the way it came out.” Her hand smoothed on his arm, but he’d lost the desire to pursue this.
Not now. He needed to regroup and rethink. “Go to sleep.”
She sighed again. “I can tell by your stubborn look I’m banging my head against a stone wall. All right. I’ll drop it. I do have a couple of questions, though.”
He clasped his hands between his thighs and waited, hoping for easy questions and easy answers.
“First, when do we land?”
Easy. “In about three hours.”
“Are we going directly to the villa?”
Not as easy. He’d hoped to postpone this discussion since he had no idea what his wife thought of the Casartelli villa. Perhaps she already thought of it as her home and wanted to immediately take possession. But his instincts told him this was not the case. So he’d made decisions.
He sighed inwardly.
Without asking her.
Which never made her happy. He’d learned that much during the course of the last few weeks.
Merda.
“Dante?”
Clearing his throat, he started with caution. “No. I thought it best to stay at least one night in Florence.”
“Where?” Curiosity rang in her voice.
“I have an appartamento in Florence.”
“You do?” She laughed lightly. “I don’t know much about you, do I?”
“You know more than most.” The truth of the statement filled him with more vague unease.
Her hand continued to glide over his arm, warming his skin against his will. “So, we’ll be staying there for only one night?”
“Uh.” He paused. “I thought we might make it our home base and use the villa for the weekends.”
“Really?”
He rushed through his decisions to his reasons. “I thought with your school and my work in Florence it might be easier—”
“What a good idea.”
Stopping, he took a breath. “Good. I am glad you agree.”
“And if I hadn’t?” Her tone turned wry.
He peered at her, hoping she could sense his sincerity. “Then we would discuss it and come to some other solution.”
Her hand stopped on his arm. “Wow,” she said. “I’m stunned.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
“There was actually a nod to compromise in your words.”
He
wasn’t used to her teasing even now, yet he’d gotten better at spotting it. A slight grin eased his tension. “Grazie for noticing my effort.”
“Where is the apartment in Florence?”
“On one of the hills of Settignano.” The exclusive building he’d commissioned and built provided amazing views of the city as it lay in splendor in the valley below. There’d been no trouble selling the other deluxe suites, but he’d kept the top floor for himself. The place had become his refuge and retreat. Away from the clamor of his family, the demands of his business, the home he’d created was entirely his own: the paintings, the furniture, the actual layout. The place soothed him. Lara would be the first woman he’d ever brought to the place.
Dio, would she like it?
“I won’t be able to walk to the school from there,” she mused, her soft touch continuing to smooth across his arm. “Though I can take the bus. Then I won’t have to worry about parking for my car.”
A jolt of pure amazement ran through him. His wife? Taking a bus? The thought was complete foolishness. “You will certainly not be taking a bus.”
Her hand stilled once more. “What do you mean? I can easily take the bus.”
“My wife will not be seen on a bus,” he said, his emphatic statement slicing through the sudden tenseness lying between them. “Plus, the security team would never okay the action.”
Her hand dropped from his arm. “The security team?”
Had she been blind to the added protection he’d provided her the moment they became engaged? Had she not noticed the couple of men discreetly walking behind them anytime they left the exclusive gardens of the Barbados hotel and went into town? He gazed down at her shadowed face in disbelief. “Protection. For my entire family.”
“I don’t need protection.”
He couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Si, you do. You are married to one of the wealthiest men in Europe. It is stupid to think I wouldn’t provide protection for you.”
“You think I’m stupid.” Her voice frosted at the edges.
