by Caro LaFever
The limo glided into the underground parking lot beneath their apartment. It barely slowed to a crawl before he yanked the door open and in a lithe surge exited the car with suppressed irritation. The driver didn’t have a chance to open her door before her husband’s strong hand was thrust before her. “Vene.”
Come.
Another odious command.
She wanted to be offended, but honestly, the man was too agitated to be held accountable. Slipping her hand into his, she allowed him to pull her from the car and into the lift. The elevator doors slid closed and a dense silence descended.
“I rather liked her,” she mused. “Perhaps we could be friends.”
A pungent Italian curse echoed around them.
“We could compare notes.” She dipped her head, hiding a grin.
The big male body beside her froze. Then one long finger pressed on her chin. When she met his gaze, his black eyes widened. “You are teasing me,” he grumbled. “About a past lover.”
“Is that another one of your rules?” She chuckled. “I can’t tease you about a past lover?”
“You are not jealous?” He frowned as if this insulted him.
The man was seriously cute. And there was no way she was going to admit to the twinge of jealousy. Not even to wipe that frown off his face. There were other ways to do that. “Not a bit.”
His frown deepened.
“Is that yet another rule of yours? I have to be jealous?”
Before he could respond with an actual scowl, she gave him something to smile about instead. Her hand slipped over his silk covered stomach and then down. Down.
He gasped.
She laughed.
“There is a rule about teasing your husband.” All at once, his hard heat pushed her solidly against the elevator wall. A growl rumbled from his throat as he pressed his lips to her skin. “You will pay the price I dictate.”
“Gladly.” Her word was swallowed under his searching mouth.
Chapter 17
“Dante the King… cooking?”
His wife’s voice was laced with her familiar teasing. He glanced across the wooden counter to see Lara poke a piece of fresh artichoke into olive oil and then pop it into her mouth. Her lovely, wide mouth.
“King?” He chuckled. “When did I get that title?”
She swallowed before giving him an ironic smile. “Probably when you were born.”
“I don’t believe so. However, though I might not be a king, I am a man of many talents.” He wiggled his brows and she gave him a reluctant laugh.
“I can testify to that.” Her warm honey gaze caught his.
The familiar buzz ran through his body. Stifling the hot images pumping through his mind, he turned and slid the copper pan onto the flame on the stove. The butter started to melt in golden clumps. “Don’t eat too much of the pinzimonio, bella. I promise you my sogliola alla fiorentina will be worth the wait.”
“Still, I love pinzimonio.” She chewed on a piece of carrot and gazed at the red serving dish filled with a variety of fresh vegetables. “This is more than enough for both of us.”
“But then you would miss my famous Florentine sole.”
She laughed again at his dramatic grimace of dismay. “Okay. I’ll stop snacking.”
He slid the fillets coated with flour into the pan and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of heated butter and the sizzle of cooking fish. His mamma had made sure all of her children knew how to cook, yet for him, it had become more than a family tradition. Cooking was a way to unwind, a way to let his mind rest from the myriad of daily decisions he had to make. This was the first time he’d had a chance to stay at home with his new wife and show off.
He chuckled to himself.
Who was he kidding? He was always trying to show off for her in one form or another.
“What’s so funny?”
“My ego,” he admitted.
“I’m amazed you can laugh about the subject.”
Looking over his shoulder, he smiled. “Why are you amazed?”
His wife gave him an arrested look. “You should do that more often.”
“What?”
“That smile,” she said. “A real one. Not the fake thing you pin on for the peasant class.”
He shook his head at her foolishness before turning his attention back to the fish and flipping the fillets with a skillful move. “Peasant class. Why do you make so many mistaken assumptions about me? I don’t think of people that way.”
“Really?” Her tone turned wry. “Not even when you glare down that long nose of yours?”
“I thought you liked my nose.” He poured a dollop of Vernaccia wine on the fish. “Weren’t you the one kissing it last night?”
“Certainly it wasn’t your friend, Anika.”
The memory of last night’s meeting flashed through him. He still felt guilty for letting the situation intrude on their evening. Anika had always been a bit of a troublemaker. “Again, I apologize.”
His wife sighed. “It’s not as if I didn’t know you had women before me.”
“But they shouldn’t be pushed in your face.”
“I have a feeling we’d have to hole up here and never leave if I’m going to avoid meeting any of your past women.”
“That is not so.” He gazed at her with a pointed look, wanting to make sure she believed him. “There have not been that many.”
Her head tilted to the side, her eyes brimming with instant interest. Could there be a hint of jealousy too? “How many?”
He groaned. “Give me a break, bella.”
“I’ll give you a kiss on your nose if you tell me.” Her eyebrows wiggled just as his had earlier.
He turned back to the fish and started to put a layer of fresh spinach in the pan. Why did he feel embarrassed? He’d never played the field with the ferocity some of his friends had. Aside from his grief at losing Lara, he’d been too damned busy keeping the company afloat and his family in line. When he’d finally lifted his head from his duties, he wanted women who were easy on the eye and easy on his time. Because of his financial position, they were easy to find. And he’d found that once he had a woman in place, he was content to keep the status quo. It was one less thing he had to deal with.
Her mistaken assumption that he was some playboy was totally untrue. Still, did a man want to admit he wasn’t one? Did he want to admit he was monogamous in nature? Would she like that better, or secretly, did she relish the idea of a playboy?
“Come on.” She kept provoking, his wife. “Open up for once.”
What the hell? The truth was what it was and if he disappointed her, so be it. “I’ve only had two mistresses in the past few years. Anika and a French woman I’d meet when I was in Paris.”
A cool silence answered him.
“That’s all.” He kept his gaze on the sizzling fish. “Only two.”
“That can’t be true.” Her voice was filled with disbelief.
“Nevertheless, it is.” He forced himself to focus on the cooking, trying to banish his frustration with her perverse need to always cast him in the worst light.
“I have a vivid childhood memory of several blondes being paraded around your family villa’s pool. In bikinis.”
Glancing at her, he met her skeptical gaze. “Dio. I was a kid.”
“Not that much of a kid.” Her voice went dry.
He concentrated on her face intently and decided to take a stab in the dark. “You were jealous.”
Her honey eyes snapped with sudden anger, but the blush rising from her neck told the true story. “I was not.”
“You were,” he crowed, trying not to laugh. Trying not to read too much into this.
“I find it amazing I can fit in this room with the size of your ego.”
“Bella, bella.” He shook his head and twisted back to the stove. “I was a teenager and you were a kid. I couldn’t and wouldn’t think of you that way—”
“I don’t care—”
His one word was filled with lust and desire. She grumbled under her breath, yet he felt her anger subside. “What do I care if you fooled around with tons of girls when you were a horny teenager?”
“Not many. And not for long.” He flipped the fillets one more time. “When my father became sick and died that life came to an end.”
His wife sighed. “I suppose it was hard to keep everything together.”
“Si. For a couple of years after his death, I only had time for the business and the family. Once I got circumstances under control, I wanted peace in my private life.” Once Lara was out of reach, he hadn’t much cared about anything other than finding some release. There’d been no thought of falling in love with another woman. “Mistresses fit the bill.”
“Only two?” The words were laced with skepticism.
The steam coming off the pan wafted around his face. That must be why the sense of warmth swept his skin. “You’re disappointed.”
Another silence. “No. Actually, I’m not.”
He gave her a startled look over his shoulder. Her countenance gave little away, yet the slight smile gave him hope she was telling the truth.
“I tend to settle,” he conceded.
“Mmm.” She twirled another artichoke leaf in the peppery oil. “Why mistress? Why not girlfriend?
His jaw tightened. Sharing his life was not a normal activity. He’d learned to keep everything close to his chest. Lara always did this, though, always pushed him to tell her things. Trivial things, major things. Everything. All of it appeared to be important to her. So. He would accommodate her to the best of his ability. “Mistress because I paid for everything.”
“Everything?”
“Si. Clothes, homes, jewelry.”
“Why?”
“It was easier.” He kept his gaze on the bubbling dinner. “When I wanted them, they were there.”
“Like me.”
“No!” He jerked around and stared at her. The gold of her eyes was blurred with distaste and her lovely mouth was grim. “You are nothing like them.”
She glanced away, a slight frown marring her brow. “I can’t see much difference.”
Making a sound of disgust, he eased the pan off the flame and then rounded the counter, bringing his wife’s stiff body into his arms. “Lara. Bella. You are my wife.”
“So?” Her mouth twisted. “You pay for almost everything.”
“But…” He paused, trying to find the words. He couldn’t very well tell her he loved her, had loved her for years. She wouldn’t believe him. What could he tell her to make her understand? “With you, I want more.”
“You want children.”
The memory of her at her school ran through him. She’d scooped a tiny girl into her grasp and tickled her cheek until both of them had laughed. The image of the girl in his wife’s arms was etched into his brain. He tightened his grip. “Si. I admit I want to see you with my baby in your arms. But there’s more.”
She sighed in disbelief.
Nudging her chin up, he confronted her dubious scowl. “You are my wife because I respect you. I trust you to raise my children. I never trusted or respected the two women who were my mistresses.”
Her honey eyes looked into his and he held his impatience, trying to communicate through his touch and through his gaze the other jumbled thoughts he couldn’t form words for. She was more. Much more. Couldn’t she see that?
She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Okay.”
Feeling helpless, he let her go and moved to the stove. Why did she always push him? Push his buttons, push his libido, push his patience. He’d given her marriage, his body, his trust and respect. And secretly, his love. Yet she always questioned it, searched for hidden reasons, doubted him.
Because you forced her.
The ugly knowledge, the knowledge he’d managed to push to the rear of his conscience, roared to life and pulsed through his blood, making him ache.
It would take some time, but he would convince her.
Convince her of what, Dante?
Convince her he could make her happy. Convince her he wasn’t a bad man. Convince her he…he…
“We better eat before it gets cold.” Her voice was cool and matter-of-fact.
“Why don’t you go and pour the wine.” Shutting his mind down, he pulled the warmed plates from the oven and began to slide the fillets onto them. He heard the swish of her walk and the click of the terrace door as it opened. Following her out to the patio, he placed one dish in front of her. The wind was soft and soothing, the sky darkening in the west as the bright summer sun drifted slowly to the horizon.
Sitting, he focused on his food, the taste of his favorite meal dust in his mouth. Madonna in cielo. He’d wanted this night to be another step in showing her what they could be. The evening had started so well, too. They’d been teasing, laughing. Now, though, a dark cloud of emotions and words hovered over the table, casting all his desires astray.
“Okay,” she said simply. “I believe you.”
Surprised, he stopped chewing and looked at her.
Her skin turned an interesting shade of pink. “About the mistresses.”
But not about her importance to him, apparently. At least she’d offered him one olive branch and he was happy to accept it. He took a long sip of wine, trying to wash away any lingering disappointment. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.” She stared at him. “Even when the dozens of blondes were running around your pool, you never truly struck me as a playboy. You were too serious for that kind of thing. And you’re way more serious now than you were then.”
He didn’t know if being serious was something she liked; the tone of her voice and the expression on her face gave him little to go on. Still, he’d take the fact she didn’t view him as a playboy and be content with the knowledge. Hell, it was one battle won. The darkness inside him lifted and he attempted a tease. “Seriously serious?”
She grimaced at his joke.
He took another bite of his sole, the buttery sauce now hitting his taste buds with pleasure.
“Aren’t you going to say anything else?” she grumbled.
Taking his time, he swallowed the food, his gaze never leaving her face. “I’m happy?” he finally ventured.
Her eyes widened and for a moment, he wondered if he’d made the wrong move. Then she tilted her head and let out a throaty laugh. She’d let her hair down from the ponytail after she’d gotten home from work, and it slipped across her shoulders and arms, curling over the simple blue T-shirt. He took the opportunity to lovingly look at her rounded shoulders, the prominent curve of her breasts. When he slid his look along her slim throat, following the line to her firm chin, wide mouth, and eventually, her eyes, he found he’d been caught.
Her eyes sparkled and her brows lifted. “Dante.”
“Lara.”
Chuckling, she took her first taste of his creation and moaned her approval.
“A man of many talents,” he murmured.
She gave him a mocking glower, but continued to eat with pure enjoyment.
He was happy. Suddenly. Very happy. Tucking into the remains of his meal, he let the silence float around them, now filled with harmony. This was what he’d dreamed of in the church, standing with her. This peace and awareness and connection. If it could happen once, it could happen a thousand times until every one of their moments together would be like this. A goal worthy of achieving and one he was determined to make happen.
And then. Then he’d confess to her what she really meant to him.
“So, Anika has seen your temper tantrums.”
Immediate irritation welled, cutting through his contentment like a sharp blade. “I do not have temper tantrums.”
His wife chuckled. “Yes, you do. I’ve experienced several of them myself.”
Frowning, he sipped his wine.
“Admit it,” she demanded.
“I have expressed m
y annoyance on occasion,” he responded, trying to tamp down his exasperation. “However, that is not a temper tantrum.”
“Guess it’s all in your point of view.”
“Si.” He hoped the matter was closed.
“Anika saw you express your annoyance on at least one occasion?”
He sighed as he leaned back in his chair. Lara Derrick Casartelli would not let him off the hook. “I once attended a dinner with Anika as my escort.”
“Really.” Her expression was bright with amusement.
“A man was…offensive. To the host and to me.”
“Oh, no.” A look of mocking concern crossed her face. “Did he break one of your rules?”
She was teasing him. “Lara.”
“Go on.”
“I told him of my displeasure and he stopped.”
“I bet he ran from the house in total terror.”
“I believe he decided it would be appropriate to leave at that time.” He looked out over the Florence cityscape and hoped like hell this was the end of this topic.
“Dante. You had a temper tantrum.”
“I think we’ll have to disagree about this subject.”
Another feminine chuckle came from across the table. “We disagree about a lot of things, why not this one?”
Her words hit him in the stomach and it sank like a stone. “Why do you insist on seeing us at odds all the time?”
Silence fell over the terrace. He continued to focus on the lights of the city, not willing to confront his wife’s lingering hostility anymore. She had a right to her anger, he’d acknowledged this and had been willing to overlook it until it faded. Suddenly, however, it seemed to him as if he was fighting a losing battle. She would never forgive him, would never see this marriage as a good one.
The ache inside him turned raw with grief.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was muffled. “I was teasing.”
Glancing at her, he tried to keep a grip on his emotions. “Your words hurt sometimes.”
A tiny gasp answered his bald statement.
