On the Wilde Side

by Sandra Marton

  You could style her hair, put her in a Chanel gown and she’d still look like what she was, a woman who adored sex.

  Sex with him.

  Besides, the bottom line was that the relationship was temporary.

  She understood that.

  How could she not?

  Except in bed, they were like two people from different planets.

  On day three, Angelica showed up at the door with a string bag that held some clothes.

  “I am going to stay with you, Gianni,” she said happily.

  It worried him that she’d done it without him asking.

  It delighted him that she wanted to be with him.

  “Won’t your grandmother ask questions?” he said, and she assured him that nonna believed she was spending the week in Palermo with a girlfriend.

  It worried him a little, but what the hell, why not enjoy their time together without interruption?

  The days sped by and then, one morning, it was time for him to leave.

  He had told Angelica about it. Still, she wept as he packed his small suitcase and when he came to the bed to kiss her goodbye, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to drag him onto the mattress beside her.

  “Baby,” he said, “ I can’t. I have a plane to catch…”

  She kissed him. Sank her teeth lightly into his bottom lip. Unzipped his fly, put her hand inside and clasped his penis.

  “Angelica,” he said, and then he groaned, pushed away her hand, parted her thighs and buried himself inside her.

  “When will you return to me?” she said when they were done.

  He rose, wiped himself off and zipped up.

  “When I can.”

  “When, Gianni? When?” Her tone of voice was half demand, half plea, and he felt the first nagging suspicion that he might have made a mistake in getting himself so involved.

  On the plane heading for Paris, which was where his general was now located, he thought of two other things.

  One was that he hadn’t used a condom that first time on the beach.

  The second was that he hadn’t used one this morning, either.

  * * * *

  Work consumed him.

  The general was posted from Paris to Geneva. John, of course, went with him.

  Angelica slipped to the back of his thoughts and slipped further when the general called him to his office one morning and held out a telegram.

  “I’m so sorry, John,” he said.

  Amos Wilde was dead.

  John didn’t feel much of anything, but he nodded and said all the necessary things, and flew home to Wilde’s Crossing.

  Most of the town turned out for the funeral.

  John shook hands, accepted words of comfort, returned to the big house at El Sueño, where the housekeeper had had the presence of mind to prepare and lay out a funeral feast. He thanked her; he sure as hell hadn’t thought of planning anything.

  He shook more hands, accepted more condolences and, after a while, had to fight against telling the lawyers, the doctors, the shopkeepers and the endless stream of politicos that there was no need to tell him how sorry they were that his old man was gone when the truth was that Amos had pretty much always been gone from his life.

  The gathering took on the kind of party atmosphere such things generally did.

  Johnny poured his third or maybe his fourth Jack Daniel’s and wandered away from the crowd. He walked through the rooms and looked at them through the eyes of a stranger. There were few good memories, and little of his childhood. His old bedroom had become a guest room. As if this enormous house needed yet another guest room, he thought as he let the warmth of the whiskey slip down his throat.

  The old football posters were gone. So were his helmet, his awards and trophies.

  Johnny Wilde might never have lived here.

  It was different when he went across the hall and opened the door to what had been Alden’s room.

  The hair rose on the nape of his neck.

  Here, time had stopped.

  Alden’s clothes hung in the closet. His framed academic awards were on display. There was a neat stack of textbooks on his desk. A framed photo of the parade grounds at West Point hung over it; there was a smaller photo next to it, taken when Amos and Alden had made a visit to the Point during Alden’s freshman year in high school.

  The picture was of Alden standing next to the famed Sedgwick Monument.

  Legend had it that if a cadet was in danger of failing a final exam and went to the monument at midnight in full dress uniform, he’d pass the exam if he spun the moveable spurs on Sedgwick’s horse.

  John smiled.

  He had a picture of himself beside the same statue, moldering in a box somewhere…

  Christ.

  His smile faded.

  Had he ever had a life of his own? Had he been destined to take Alden’s place not only from the day of the accident but from the day of his birth?

  It was a stupid thought. A chilling thought. And, shit, what was he doing here? His father was dead. Who gave a damn? They had never loved each other. And he hated this place, hated the memories, hated who he was or who he might have been, because when he let himself think about it, his life was like—it was like those nested Russian dolls. Halvorson had bought one for his niece when they’d been in Moscow a year or so ago. They’d chuckled at how one doll had stacked within the other so that you never actually knew if you’d reached the final one…

  “John?”

  Johnny swung around and saw Connie Grimes standing in the open doorway.

  “Connie. What are you doing here?”

  She cleared her throat. “I was at the funeral and I came here to, you know, pay my respects… I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “No,” he said quickly, “you aren’t intruding at all. I’m just—I’m surprised to see you, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry about—”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He paused. “So, how’ve you been?”

  “Good. Fine. I’m an OR nurse at Madison General.”

  “Hey. That’s great.”

  “I hear that you’re a major now. Is that right?” She smiled; her smile was as unchanged as the rest of her, pure Connie, a little shy, a little hesitant, but honest and warm. “I’m not very good at reading those stripes or bars or whatever you call them.”

  “A major, yes. That’s me. Crazy, right?” He lifted the glass, swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “It’s nice to see you again, too.”

  “Yeah. About that.” John licked his lips. “I should have been in touch. I meant to, but—”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  “But I do. That—that last time we saw each other—”

  Her face reddened.

  “I didn’t expect anything more than that night, John.” She gulped in a breath of air. “I loved being with you. It was—it was—it was very nice.”

  “Very nice,” he said solemnly.

  The color in her face deepened.

  “What I meant is—”

  He grinned. “What I hope you meant is that it was fantastic.”

  Could she blush any harder?

  “It was. You know that it was. For me, anyway.”

  John put down the empty whiskey glass. Teasing her was fun—he got a kick out of all that sweet innocence—but she deserved better.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Oh, I’m not hungry. I mean, everything in the dining room looks wonderful, but—”

  “Not here.” He strolled toward her and reached for her hand. “I noticed a new restaurant in town. Bailey’s Something.”

  “Bailey’s Barbecue.”

  “Right. Just what Texas needs. Another barbecue joint.”

  Connie looked up at him and laughed. It was the same old laugh he remembered, as honest and open and warm as everything else about her.

  “There’s another
new place a couple of miles outside of town, but I don’t know if you’d like it.”

  “Just tell me it isn’t all about quiche.”

  She laughed again. Something seemed to melt around his heart and he laced their fingers together.

  “Well, I can’t do that. They do serve quiche. And salads. And—”

  “And there are ferns sprouting from the walls. What the hell. I’ve always liked barbecue.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  Half an hour later, they were eating ribs and coleslaw. And sharing memories of the town and of their high school years.

  An hour after that, she was in the car, waiting for him while he made a quick stop at the drugstore, and then they were in her bed, having the kind of plain-vanilla sex that he had not had with Angelica, and why in hell was he thinking about Angelica now?

  These were two very different women and he was a very different man with each of them.

  This time, when he left town for Geneva, where he and Halvorson were now posted, he kissed Connie goodbye and said he’d keep in touch. She said that would be lovely, but she said it in a way that told him she wasn’t counting on it.

  * * * *

  He meant to phone or at least write, but when he got to Geneva, half a dozen things were happening at once. The primary one was that Halvorson’s staff was relocating to the Netherlands for a few months. Half a dozen junior officers and another half dozen civilian clerks reported directly to John; there was no time to do anything except to start organizing his people and files.

  He thought of Connie often.

  He thought of Angelica, too.

  He cared about both women; each, in her own way, meant something to him, but he knew he’d made a mistake with Angelica, letting her all but move into his place in Sicily, and a mistake with Connie, making love to her again after so much time had passed.

  Women could be strange creatures. What if one or the other or, God help him, both of them overestimated their places in his life?

  Jesus.

  Was this the definition of a cad? Was a guy who slept with two different women within a couple of weeks a self-serving SOB?

  No. No, of course not.

  He was a bachelor.

  He had not made any promises to either one.

  The very definition of bachelorhood was that a man wasn’t committed to one single female. He could date as many women as he liked. Sleep with as many as he liked. No promises asked, none given.

  A logical conclusion except occasionally, in the middle of the night, when he found himself wondering if it would seem quite that logical or convenient if the women didn’t live on separate continents.

  Finally, after almost two months of more sleepless nights than could possibly be good for a man, he faced reality.

  He could sleep with both women or with neither woman.

  They didn’t know about each other, but he did. It was—it was an uncomfortable feeling, kind of the old sailor-with-a-girl-in-every-port thing, except he wasn’t a sailor, he was a major on the staff of a general, and if he kept his nose clean, he’d sooner or later have an eagle on his shoulder.

  Halvorson made it clear that he was moving up and moving fast.

  He’d write to Connie. Phone Angelica. Or phone Angelica and write to Connie. It’s been fun, he’d say, but—

  But what?

  Nothing he could say would make either woman happy.

  A mess.

  This was a mess, and he’d have to deal with it soon—but first, there was the move to the Netherlands, where they all had to settle into their new offices. He had more and more responsibility, too; Halvorson relied on him for virtually everything.

  He put off writing the notes. Making the phone calls.

  Another couple of months went by.

  “Take a week off, my boy,” Halvorson said, and winked. “I might just have a surprise for you when you get back.”

  A promotion.

  John knew it.

  He was excited as he considered where to spend that week. The Canaries? Morocco? And then he thought, dammit, he had a handsome place in Sicily; there was no reason to stay away.

  He could make his position clear to Angelica in person. Or maybe he’d be lucky. Maybe she hadn’t put anything more into their wild week together than it deserved.

  An air force jet took him to Palermo, where he’d garaged his Ducati.

  It was a glorious day; he rode fast, the wind in his face, his thoughts already miles ahead, imagining what it would be like to see Angelica again.

  Would she be pissed off at his months of silence? Would she rant and rave? Would she be involved with someone else? Or would she tumble into his bed again?

  She’d tumble, he decided.

  She definitely would. And what could be wrong with one last tumble?

  He was feeling pretty good by the time he reached his place. He parked the bike and then, whistling happily, he went up the old stone steps to the front door, key in hand…

  Except, he didn’t need the key.

  The front door flew open.

  “Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo,” Angelica snarled, and launched herself at him, arms out, hands fisted.

  He had no time to react.

  She punched him in the jaw. Punched him twice, bam-bam, left hand-right hand.

  Johnny staggered back, but not from the blows.

  He staggered because even a fool like him could see that his Sicilian spitfire was hugely pregnant.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JOHNNY WILDE STOOD on the rocky cliff overlooking the sea behind his Sicilian vacation home.

  Vacation home?

  He almost laughed.

  Prison was more like it.

  The woman he’d taken to his bed for one exciting, sex-filled week a handful of months ago was carrying his child.

  His child.

  Maybe.

  Johnny frowned and made his way slowly down the cliff to the narrow strip of sand below.

  Was it his? A lot of time had gone by. Angelica liked sex, and there were lots of young men in this village, lots of older ones, too.

  And she was hardly a nun…

  “Shit.”

  She’d been a virgin when he met her. If she’d wanted to screw around, she’d have done it by the time she came to him on that beach.

  “Face it,” he mumbled as he kicked a small sea-polished stone into the water. “The kid is yours.”

  His.

  A child.

  A responsibility.

  And what could he do about it?

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Was he in such bad shape that he was talking to himself?

  He knew Angelica would never consider ending the pregnancy. He wasn’t even sure he’d want her to end it. He had no particular religious leanings, but snuffing out a small life just because it was inconvenient…

  Inconvenient?

  It was a death knell.

  Once word got out, his career would be over. No question about that. If he was very, very lucky Halvorson might let him resign. If he wasn’t lucky…

  Johnny shuddered.

  Disgraced. His reputation. His name.

  Alden’s name.

  Which was nuts.

  This wasn’t about his brother, it was about him, but if things had gone the way they should have, if Alden had become an officer…

  There had to be a way out of this situation. There had to be!

  Right. There was. Marriage. A wedding band on his Sicilian mistress’s finger. Then he could take her with him to the Netherlands. To Halvorson.

  General, I’d like you to meet my bride.

  My bride-from-the-back-of-nowhere. My bride who speaks Sicilian, not Italian. My bride who mops up pasta sauce with chunks of bread she’s torn from the loaf with her hands and yes, that might be sexy and cute in a rustic setting, but it sure as hell wouldn’t go over big in an embassy ballroom.

  Johnny sat down in the sand and buried his face in his hands.
>
  Angelica didn’t even know he was in the army. She knew nothing about him. She’d asked, just once, what he was doing in Italy and he’d told her he worked for his government. When she’d tried to ask more, he’d kissed her and said he really couldn’t talk about his job.

  “Ah,” she’d said in a sexy purr, “you are my James Bond.”

  He’d laughed and said no, not very likely, and she’d put her mouth to his ear and whispered how exciting it was to sleep with a spy…

  Johnny sat up straight. A spy. A secret life. A story woven from a cobweb of deceit.

  “Gianni?”

  He looked up. Angelica had come down the rocky cliff to the beach. They’d made up a couple of days ago; she’d apologized for calling him names and he’d apologized for not having been in touch—he’d invented some stupid story about being away on hush-hush government business—and they’d avoided the topic of her pregnancy altogether.

  It couldn’t be avoided any longer.

  Not with that great big belly hanging out in front of her.

  She looked—she looked beautiful.

  Her hair was a ribbon of dark silk in the hot glow of the sun; her eyes were wide and filled with despair.

  An emotion he could not identify twisted inside him.

  Jesus.

  It was desire.

  A month ago, a couple of days ago, if anyone had asked him if he could be turned on by a pregnant woman he’d have roared with laughter.

  But he was turned on. She was incredibly lovely and the life in her belly was his.

  “Gianni. Il mio cuore. What are we going to do?”

  He reached for her hand, tugged her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her.

  “What does your nonna say about this??”

  He had not thought to ask her until now; he watched as her mouth trembled.

  “She is gone,” she whispered. “She became ill and—and she is gone.” She crossed herself. “It is for the best. If she had known… The disgrace…”

  Later, he would chastise himself for having made the decision without thinking it through—just as he would also remind himself that it was the only decision possible.

  “How would she have felt if she knew you were going to be my wife?”

  She turned her face to his. “What?”

  “I want you to marry me, Angelica. I want you to be my wife.”