by Caro LaFever
“No, no.” His hands clenched. “Listen. I understand this is a new lifestyle for you. One that will take some getting used to. However, eventually, you won’t even notice them following you.”
“What?” she gasped. “There are going to be people trailing me? All the time?”
“There already have been.”
“No!”
“Si, bella. Since the moment of our engagement.” Why the hell had he even brought this up? If she hadn’t noticed the security before, perhaps she never would have noticed it. That was ultimately perilous, though. She needed to understand and cooperate with her new circumstances in order to be safe.
The heat of her angry glare burned into him. “Tell them to stop.”
“I will not.”
Her breath grew heavy. “I don’t want them.”
His temper edged toward igniting. “I won’t let you be kidnapped or burglarized. Anything could happen to you. My duty is to keep you safe.”
“I am perfectly capable of keeping myself safe.” She slapped her hand on the bed. “I’ve been doing it quite well for almost thirty years.”
Little did she know she’d been watched and protected for all the years she’d been in England. Not at the level she was now, of course. She hadn’t been married to one of the wealthiest men in Europe at the time—much to that man’s regret. But there was no way he was ever going to let her know any of that.
“Not any longer.” He stood and paced to the door, wanting to end this discussion before he lost the tight rein he held on his temper. “I am responsible for your safety now.”
“You make it sound as if I’m five-years-old.”
“You are behaving that way.” The angry words were out before he could stop them. Dio, here he was again: every button pushed, every wild word expressed.
Silent condemnation emanated from the bed. “Good to know how you feel about me, Dante.”
All of the muscles in his body was as tight and taut as the strings of a violin. “This discussion is closed. The matter is decided.”
“Because you say so.”
“Correct,” he yelled, tired of trying to explain what was obvious and logical. “Because I say so.”
She rolled over, her back to him in rigid rejection. “Please leave.”
Walking out the door, he slammed it behind him.
Idiot. Fool. Moron.
The progress he’d made through the honeymoon was gone. That much was clear. Because of his fiery temper and wild emotions.
Why the hell couldn’t he control them around her?
Chapter 15
The Florence apartment was spectacular.
And surprising.
Lara stood in the middle of the large great room, turning slowly to take it all in. The place was spacious and modern. Beams of dark wood arched overhead, interspersed with white plastered walls. The hardwood floor beneath her gleamed with honeyed warmth and oriental rugs were scattered around, bringing color to the room. Three leather sofas circled the stone fireplace. Floor to ceiling glass brought the lights and vitality of Florence right into the home. The twinkling white and gold of the city echoed in the accents in the room: gold-ribbed pillows tossed on the sofas, the creamy white of the walls, the sparkle of the lamps.
Her husband was silent behind her.
He’d been silent since their fight, grim face and rigid jaw.
She hadn’t felt like talking either, so she’d been happy to nestle into the far corner of the limo that had met them at the airport and ignore him.
She walked to one of a dozen paintings dotting the length of the apartment wall. Big, bold splashes of color grabbed her attention and didn’t let go. Pacing to the next painting, she eyed a modern Madonna, head tilted to a sleeping child. Love exploded off the canvas.
A twist inside her heart made her clasp her hands in a tight knot.
The thought struck her—this was the kind of home the Dante she knew as a young girl would have created. A home of warmth and comfort and color. A home made for a family.
The twist tightened.
“These are nice,” she offered, braving the silence.
A short bark of laughter greeted her foray. “Nice?”
She turned to face him. “I’m not an art critic.”
“Never mind.” He turned away and walked toward two large oak doors. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” His glance over one shoulder was ripe with aggravation. “The only bedroom, by the way.”
The door closed with a bang. Apparently, she had a husband who slammed doors to show his displeasure. Pushing away a smidgen of guilt, she headed toward the kitchen, tucked discreetly into a corner of the apartment.
She found it delightful. The terra cotta floors gave the room a charming glow while the glass-paned cupboards showed a vast store of red and green china. The room appeared to be stocked for the imminent appearance of some gourmet chef. Gleaming copper pots of every size hung from hooks circling above the center block. Double steel refrigerator doors gleamed with care and the stove looked large enough to handle a meal for a hundred.
This was Dante’s place?
The difference between the Casartelli villa and this apartment was vast. Instead of marble and velvet and old-fashioned high society, her husband’s personal space was alive with color and comfort and…warmth.
She couldn’t take it in. She couldn’t reconcile the two sides of this man she’d married.
Whom she’d been forced to marry.
Lara pushed the thought away and paced through the kitchen.
A terrace door opened onto a lovely veranda. A round pine table stood to one side, surrounded by honey wicker chairs with stuffed blue padding. Baskets of bougainvillea in the corners added their vivid beauty and light sweet scent. Walking to the edge of the veranda, she knelt on the padded seating that circled the entire outer ring of the wall. Peering down, she watched the lights of Florence sparkle off the murky waters of the Arno, creating a gleam of white splash on the buildings lining the river. Resting her chin on her folded hands, she tried to relax, tried to push all the renewed hostility away.
Tried to remember what she’d experienced in Barbados.
But it was no use. This was reality. She was married to a dictator. The lover she’d found and relished on the island was fantasy. The recognition hurt and made her angry at herself. How could she have let herself drift so far away from the reality of her marriage? Drift away into a state of honeyed bliss and endless kisses, and need and want for one man.
“Lara.”
His deep voice was not what she wanted to hear. She was still vulnerable. She needed to build her defenses against him once more.
“Come to bed, bella.”
She choked back a laugh and was surprised at the knot in her throat threatening to spill into useless tears. This was not a man who deserved her tears. She had to remember that and not get fooled by passionate lovemaking and caring gestures and warm, welcoming kitchens.
“It is late.”
He moved in silence, yet she physically sensed him draw near. His energy vibrated in the air, calling her body to him. Hunching her shoulders, she stared determinedly at the city lights below her.
His sigh was long and drawn out. He hovered behind her as a hush fell between them. But she couldn’t escape the heated power he threw off him like liquid passion.
“Va bene,” he grumbled. “I am sorry.”
The three words stunned her. Dante Casartelli admitting he was sorry? With amazed incredulity, she turned on the padded bench and gaped at him.
His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders slumped. Yet his black stare pinned her down, determined—and desperate.
“Say it again.”
A sharp laugh erupted from his chest. “You want your pound of flesh, tesoro mio?”
“No.” She tilted her head, the tension easing in her throat. “I want to make sure to watch your mouth as you say it. That’s the only way I’ll believe I heard correctly.”
> “I have apologized to you before.”
“Exactly once. And for something you didn’t have to apologize for at all.” She shook her head. “There’s no reason to ever apologize for our sex life.”
“That is good to know.”
“So, in reality, this is the first time you’ve ever genuinely apologized to me. I want to relish the experience.”
He chuckled, low and deep. “I live to please you. So I will say once more, I am sorry I did not consult you about the security.”
“Mmm.”
“Not enough?” His brows lifted. “Marriage is about compromise. I am aware of that and am willing to meet you halfway.”
“No security?”
“That’s not half way and you know it.”
“I’m not interested in having people trailing after me twenty-four/seven. That’s an invasion of my privacy.”
“I am not willing to argue anymore.” His hands fisted in his pockets. “Not tonight.”
“Dante—”
“Let’s table it until tomorrow.” Sighing again, he sat beside her, long legs thrust out, shoulders crowding her space.
“I don’t know—”
“Please.”
Again, she was stunned. Please and I am sorry in the same conversation? Would wonders never cease? She glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes, tracing the hook in his nose, the broad brow, the determined chin covered with his five o’clock shadow. A wave of exhaustion and need for comfort overwhelmed her desire to make a stand on this.
“Okay. We’ll argue tomorrow.”
After a pause, he laughed once more, a soft gust of air. “That’s my Lara. Nevertheless, grazie for the short reprieve.”
The high toot of a car horn cut through the silent night, slowly fading as it drew away.
She sank into the blue padding and relaxed. This was her new home, at least for now, and she liked it. A lot. She could give that as an olive branch. “I like your home.”
His body shifted beside her. “You do?” An echo of surprise vibrated in his voice.
“I’m not lying,” she said, with a bit of annoyance. “The place is uncluttered and warm. Very different than the villa.”
“That is the point.” A wry tinge laced his words. “That is the Casartelli residence. This is my residence.”
“You own both homes.” She turned to stare at him. “I don’t understand.”
He glanced at her. “I find it hard to explain.”
“Try.”
He swallowed. Was he nervous? About sharing only a small piece of himself? Why did he suppress every human element of him with such brutal ruthlessness? The only time she ever felt as if he was totally with her was when he was inside her. It wasn’t enough.
“I am the Casartelli.” His hands clasped in front of him as if making a pledge. “I have responsibilities to my family. The villa is part of that role.”
“And this place?”
His gaze slid across her face and then away. “This is mine. This is me. I designed the building—”
“Really?”
“Si. I chose the furniture too.”
“Seriously?” She tried to wrap her head around the image of Dante Casartelli picking out sofas and rugs. Much less pots and pans.
“You look at me as a money-making machine.” His hands fell between his legs and he turned to squint at her. “I am more than that.”
“The paintings?” She knew he wasn’t a monster now. She knew he was more than all about the money. But she hadn’t made the leap—the leap into warmth.
“I enjoy art. Not traditional.”
“Obviously.” Not obvious up until this point, but now the knowledge slammed inside her. Dante wasn’t only about tradition and heritage and pride. Could it possibly be that behind all this, behind his mask...
“If you don’t like any of the paintings—”
“No, no,” she rushed in, her brain whirling. “I think they’re beautiful.”
He stilled. “You mean that?”
“Yes.” She gave him a tentative smile. “You have good taste.”
“Well,” he coughed. “Grazie. Again.”
It was her turn to chuckle. “Are you surprised I can compliment you?”
“About as surprised as you were that I could say I am sorry.” Once more, his dry humor surfaced, reminding her of how she’d laughed on their honeymoon.
A surprisingly contented silence wafted between them. His warm, broad hand slipped around hers and grasped it in strong fingers. “Come to bed, Lara.”
There were problems and feelings right below the surface needing to be aired and argued and addressed. The only thing she wanted to do right now, though, was be with him, remember the fantasy and enjoy it.
At least for one more night.
* * *
Bright sunlight dappled the terra cotta tiles and splashed across the white linen tablecloth. A light wind brushed over the blooming flowers, making them bob back and forth as if saying hello to the day. The sharp tang of coffee and rich, warm pastry stirred Lara’s taste buds.
Her husband sat like a king in all his glory. The sun played with his hair, shining bright glints of white against the deep blackness. The golden rays burnished his profile, lovingly highlighting the arc of his nose, playing with finesse on his mouth. His brow furrowed a bit as he stared at his mobile phone.
Her movement caught his eye and he raised his head. “Ah,” he murmured. “You are finally awake.”
“It’s still morning.” Barely. With a grimace, she walked to the outdoor table and slipped into a wicker chair.
His lips curled with humor. “I am not complaining. A wild man kept you busy until late last night. Sleeping in is to be expected.”
Hot, passionate memories flooded her brain and threatened to initiate a blush if she didn’t stuff them down. She ducked her head from his keen inspection and turned her attention to the table. Italian breakfasts were simple, if eaten at all. But there was enough food covering the pine table to feed an army. Her focus zeroed in on her favorite. “Yum. Absolutely what I need. A cornetto.”
Dante reached for a plate and slid one of the golden brown horns onto it. “Apricot filling,” he said. “I went to the bakery earlier this morning.”
She hummed as she bit into it and closed her eyes. The sweet slurp of the fruit combined perfectly with the buttery taste of the pastry.
He’d gone out early. For her. There was that caring attitude again. A tiny thrill ran through her.
“Would you enjoy an espresso? Or a cappuccino?”
Within minutes, a hot frothy cup of coffee sat before her. Made by her husband.
“No servants?”
He glanced at her. “Not here.”
Not like the Casartelli villa. The words were left unsaid, yet they floated in the air. The stark contrast between the two sides of him hit her once more, but her brain was too foggy with leftover sleep to focus on the disparity. So instead, she indulged herself with another cornetto, this one filled with cream, while she sipped the cappuccino and enjoyed the warmth of the sunlight on her skin.
Time enough to understand Dante.
She was married to him after all.
Her husband resumed his seat and took up his phone. The silence was comfortable, exactly like the times they’d sat on the veranda in Barbados. Perhaps being in Italy would not be so different from their time in the Caribbean. Last night still held the passion and vibrancy that had existed when they enjoyed each other on the island. She hadn’t forgotten their aborted fight about security, yet it seemed the wrong time to bring the whole thing up and spoil this lovely moment.
Lara sank onto the soft padding of her chair and tried to imagine a life like this forever. A warm Florence sun. The richness of food and tartness of coffee. A husband, sitting companionably across from her, reading his email.
Was this what she wanted? With Dante?
This was a fantasy, she told herself stoutly. Just as the honeymoon had been.
>
For a moment, though, she let herself dream. A warm glow of contentment filled her.
Putting down his phone, he glanced across the table. “What are your plans for the day, bella?”
“The day’s half gone,” she ruminated. “But I need to check in with the school. There’s going to be a pile of work for me to get through and the sooner I start, the easier it will be.”
The wind lifted the edge of the cream linen shirt he wore, exposing his strong neck and the cut of his collarbone. The beginning of the dark curls that covered his chest showed at the V of his shirt. The sight made the muscles in her lower stomach tighten. She still found it incredible the effect he had on her. Even after a night of prolonged and ardent sex, he merely had to sit there, and she was turned on.
“Then we will go to your school.”
“We?” Her attention jerked away from his body and back to his words.
“Si.” He took a sip from his espresso, his gaze mild. “I want to see your school. If that is acceptable.”
The protective instinct she had for the school reared its head. Barriers rose inside her and she bristled. “Inspect it, you mean? Check out whether your investment was wise?”
A black brow lifted and his eyes grew cool. “No. The school is important to you. So it is important to me. I want to see what my wife will be doing with much of her time.”
A flush of guilt ran up her neck and she sipped her coffee to give herself some time before responding. She’d overreacted, which wasn’t unusual when it came to her school. The children deserved her loyalty and she would never expose them to ridicule. Now she’d had a moment more to think, however, she must acknowledge the fact she couldn’t imagine her husband ridiculing children. He might be cool and calculating, but not cruel. She’d learned enough about him during the past two weeks to know this.
Still, it stunned her.
He cared about her school? Cared about what she was going to do while he worked his million euro deals?
She’d supposed he would want her to be like so many other Italian wives married to wealthy men. Shopping and lunching and shopping some more. She’d anticipated a fight on this issue as well. Another situation where she’d have to put her foot down and state her intention to do worthwhile things with her time.
