by Jane Porter
“What do you feel guilty about?”
“What don’t I feel guilty about?” He saw her lift a hand to the gentle sway of her emerald earring. “And then you buy me these beautiful things as if I deserve them, but I don’t. I am not who you think I am, and I am not someone you will be happy with. Please, just let me take Michael home. Please—”
He silenced her anguished words with a kiss, not to stifle her, but to try to comfort her. He kissed her deeply, melting her resistance, kissing her until she was no longer stiff and chilled, but warmly pliant, her body pressed to his.
Aware that they were no longer moving, he lifted his head. Her dark eyes still glittered with a hint of tears, but something else, too. “I don’t know what you’ve done, or why you feel guilty, but I don’t believe it’s as bad as you think,” he said quietly.
She struggled to smile but failed. “Your fiancée...why did you fall in love with her?”
“She was beautiful and glamorous and exciting.”
“I’m none of those things.”
“Thank God you are not shallow or superficial. We wouldn’t be marrying if you were.”
“Not even for Michael’s sake?”
“No. I’d take him from you. I’d sue for custody and be done with you.”
“Without a hint of remorse?”
“With absolutely none.”
His candor surprised her. She blinked at him, her dark eyes wide, expression bemused, and then the confusion lifted and she laughed. “You sound like a dreadful man.”
“I am.” And then he kissed her lightly before releasing her. He rose and stepped from the gondola and extended his hand to her. “But if anyone can manage me, it’s you.”
She’d felt distraught just a few minutes ago and yet he’d somehow turned the moment around, dispelling the shadows, first with his kiss, and then with his words.
She didn’t know how he did it, but she was grateful. Rachel gathered the billowing cape and put her hand into his, and stepped from the gondola onto the pavement. However, as she stepped out, her high heel caught in the hem of her long lace gown and she lurched forward, losing her balance.
Gio was there, though, his hands circling her waist, preventing her from falling.
He used the momentum to draw her against him and hold her there. She exhaled hard. One moment she was tumbling through space, and the next she was in his arms, pressed to his hard frame, feeling every bit of his sinewy strength.
She ought to pull away, and yet for the first time in ages she felt safe. She felt supported. She wasn’t alone.
It crossed her mind that she didn’t want or need the jewels and gowns, but she wanted him. She very much wanted him: heart, mind, body and soul, and she was ready to be seduced, ready to feel more, and have more, and be more. And so she stood there, letting his warmth penetrate her long black cloak, penetrate her tingling skin, piercing all the way to the marrow of her bones.
If he kissed her now, she’d kiss him back. If he kissed her now, she would reach out and clasp his nape, her fingers slipping into his dark crisp hair. She’d stand on tiptoe and savor the feel of his lips on hers. She’d taste him and explore his mouth the way he explored hers. She would take advantage of the opportunity to feel, wanting to feel every nuance possible.
His arm tightened around her waist, and his lips brushed her temple. “I’m afraid to let you go,” he said. “The last thing I need is you falling into the lagoon.”
His lips sent the most delicious shivery sensation through her and she couldn’t quite hide her smile. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “I can swim.”
His lips brushed over her eyebrow. “Yes, but a gentleman wouldn’t just stand there and watch a lady splash about. I’d have to come in after you and be heroic. It would be most annoying.”
She laughed a low husky laugh. It was hard to think straight; her pulse was racing and her head felt light, making her giddy. “Indeed, because then we would both be cold and wet. Far better for me to be the only wet one.”
“But of course once we reached the palazzo, I would have to be sure you were all right. I would have to send you to a hot bath, and then make sure you were towel dried properly, and then wrapped in a robe. I would insist you were seated before a fire with a glass of warm brandy in your hands, and that you stayed there until there was no chill left and you were warm inside and out. I would have to stay close and be sure you were following directions. It would require considerable time and energy on my part, and I am quite sure you would find my ministrations tedious.”
“It does sound awful,” she murmured unsteadily, leaning against him, her breasts pressed to his chest.
“It would be awful,” he agreed, his head dropping, dipping, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. She shuddered at the warmth of his breath and the way her nerves danced with awareness.
“See? You are shivering with distaste,” he added, sliding a hand over her throat, slipping up to outline her chin and then the delicate bones of her jaw. “Imagine how unhappy you would be, locked in my room, naked before my fire.”
She shivered again, with anticipation and nerves. “I think it’s time to feed you dinner. You sound hungry, and a little bit barbaric.”
“I am hungry, but it’s you, cara, I want.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
RACHEL HAD NEVER enjoyed a meal in a private dining room before, let alone served by their own waiter, with a crackling fire in a massive stone fireplace keeping them warm.
The food had been amazing, course after course, with far too much wine, and now that all the dishes had been cleared for coffee, she couldn’t help sighing with pleasure. What an incredible restaurant, what a special meal. The company, though, was the best part. Giovanni Marcello had to be the ultimate dream date.
“I don’t want you worrying anymore,” Gio said, breaking the comfortable silence. “There is no reason for you to struggle and juggle and feel desperate about anything. I can provide for you, easily.”
Rachel stared into his darkly handsome face. He wasn’t the stranger he’d been when she arrived at the beginning of the week. She didn’t know him well, but there was an undeniable attraction, as well as a connection between them, that hadn’t been there days ago. “I’m afraid if I married you, I’d lose myself.”
“I’m not going to own you, no more than you’d own me.”
“I don’t think anyone could ever own you. You are far too strong, too independent.”
“You’re every bit as strong as me.”
She gave her head a small shake. “I’m not, though. If you really knew me, you wouldn’t be impressed.”
“Maybe it’s time you explained. Why do you feel so guilty?”
She shook her head, not just unwilling to tell him, but unable. She knew the words would horrify him. They horrified her. “I can hardly admit the truth to myself. I can’t imagine what you would think.”
“Tell me.” He reached across the table and stroked her cheek. “Cara, bella, I promise you it isn’t as bad as you think.”
She didn’t agree, but she was tired of all the emotions bottled inside of her, and truthfully, she wanted him to know, especially since he was so determined to marry her. It might change his mind. “I didn’t want to be a single mother. I didn’t want to do it this way. I wanted to wait until I was ready and I could be a good mom, and I’m not... I’m not...and I hate myself for being like Juliet. Selfish and self-absorbed—” She bit ruthlessly into her lower lip to keep the words from spilling out. Because even now, she could feel how black the truth was, and how ugly it made her.
Rachel had deliberately set the bar high for herself. She’d done it because she was different from Juliet. Stronger. Smarter. Better.
“How are you like her?” he demanded. “What have you done that is so selfish and self-absorbed?”
“I’ve resented that I was needed to help manage Juliet’s life...sorting her problems, fixing her mistakes. And then when Juliet fell in love with Antonio, and end
ed up pregnant, I was livid, because it’s one thing to overdraw your checking account, but it’s another to have a baby.” She pushed at the lone spoon still on the tablecloth. Her eyes burned but she could not cry. “Juliet never had to stand on her own feet. She’d always had Mother, and then when Mother was gone, Juliet couldn’t cope anymore, and she died, and I inherited her son.”
Rachel let her lashes fall, and she held her breath, wondering when Gio would speak, wondering what he’d say, but he was silent.
After a moment she forced herself to continue. “I wasn’t happy about how my life changed. I resented a three-month-old baby. I resented my own nephew...” She bit down into her bottom lip. “How could I do that to Michael? How could I hate him when he did nothing wrong?”
“You didn’t hate him.”
“No, but I wasn’t happy. And when Juliet died, I didn’t feel love. I just felt anger. And mostly anger with her because I felt like she took my choices away from me.”
“Those are normal emotions,” Gio said quietly. “Anyone would feel that way.”
Rachel swallowed with difficulty. “I lived so much of my life in Juliet’s shadow...and then once she was gone, I still lived in her shadow.” Her head lifted and she looked at Gio. “Being a single mom was not my plan. It was really important to me that I could be self-sufficient and financially independent before I married and had children. Instead, look at me. I show up, begging on your doorstep.”
“You weren’t begging. You were fierce and very defiant.”
She wished she could smile but couldn’t. “I can’t forgive myself for being angry with Juliet, and I can’t forgive myself for resenting my orphaned nephew, and I can’t forgive myself for not being a better sister to Juliet when she needed more of me, not less.”
“Which is why you need to forgive yourself. If you can’t forgive yourself for being real and human, you’ll never be happy.”
“I don’t deserve to be happy—”
“Of course you do. And I don’t know why you feel inadequate, or if you were made to feel inferior as a child, but it’s a lie, and a travesty. You are a beautiful, intelligent woman, a passionate loyal woman, and that is rarer and more valuable than the emeralds on your ears.”
* * *
The gondola ride was quiet on the return home. Gio said no more than two words during the trip and despite the warmth of her cape, Rachel felt chilled to the core, regretting what she’d told him, wishing she hadn’t revealed so much.
Gio took her hand, assisted her from the gondola onto the embankment fronting the palazzo, but didn’t let it go, as he walked her inside. As the door shut behind them, he turned her to face him. “Your sister died tragically, and unexpectedly, but you are not to blame for that.”
She pushed the hood back on her cape. “She was suffering from postpartum depression—”
“I understand you are grieving for her, but you were not responsible for her—”
“But I was—”
“No, and that’s the lie. I don’t presume to understand all your family dynamics, but you were not put on earth to be your sister’s caregiver. You’re here to be you, and live your life, and find happiness in your life.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know that I can’t fail Michael.”
For a moment there was just silence, and then Giovanni untied the silk cords on her cape. “You mean, we,” he corrected. “We can’t fail him, and we have to do better.”
He held out his hand to her. “Why don’t we go up and check on him together?”
* * *
Reaching the third floor they discovered Michael was asleep in his crib, and Mrs. Fabbro resting in a chair not far away, her hands folded across her middle, her steel-gray head tipped back, eyes closed.
The elderly woman opened her eyes when they approached. Gio spoke quietly to her, and Mrs. Fabbro answered, then with a brief nod and briefer smile in Rachel’s direction, she left.
“It was a good night,” Gio said to Rachel. “No problems. No fussing. She said he’s settling in well here, but thinks we need to think about giving him a proper room.”
“I feel badly that we were out so late. Mrs. Fabbro is not a young woman.”
“Mrs. Fabbro is delighted to be needed. She would take Michael home and keep him all to herself if she could.”
“But I hated seeing her sleeping in a chair.”
“If she’d wanted to, she could have slept on the bed. She used to do that with us when we were small and had nightmares.”
“Your mother didn’t come to you?” she whispered, leaning over the crib to check on Michael.
The baby was fast asleep, his round cheeks rosy. She smiled down at him, thinking he looked like an angel.
Gio reached into the crib and lightly stroked a wisp of Michael’s black hair. “If my mother was home, yes. But sometimes she’d travel with my father.”
Rachel felt a pang as she saw how gently Giovanni touched their nephew. From the beginning he’d been comfortable holding Michael, and she wondered if he’d had a lot of experience with children, or if he was just a natural. Either way, it was reassuring to see.
Giovanni sighed. “Speaking of Madre, I need to tell you something.”
“Is she on her way back home?” she whispered.
“Not exactly.” He hesitated. “Come, let’s go to my room, and I’ll explain all.”
It turned out that “Come to my room” didn’t mean Gio’s office suite, but his bedroom. Rachel felt a flutter of nerves as they entered the high-ceilinged room covered in dark beams with gold stencil, the walls a rustic pumpkin-hued plaster, the bed surprisingly modern and austere with a white linen cover. Two white slipcovered chairs flanked the stone fireplace. Books covered a farmhouse table, with more books stacked on the nightstand next to the low bed.
“Would you like a glass of port?” Gio asked, peeling off his coat.
“I’m good, thank you,” she answered, sitting down in one of the chairs by the empty hearth.
“Do you mind if I have one?”
“Of course not.”
He went to the long wooden table that nearly ran the length of the wall and drew the stopper out of the glass decanter and filled a small glass. He turned to face her, his expression shuttered. “Madre doesn’t live here anymore. And she’s not visiting her sister in Sorrento. She’s in a home in Sorrento. I had to make that decision earlier in the year. She has dementia, and it had become too dangerous for her here. I tried my best to keep her here, but there are so many stairs and halls and empty rooms...as well as windows and water.” He looked down into his glass. “I did have to fish her out of the lagoon more than once. It was awful. And then she didn’t know me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t know about Michael. She doesn’t even know that Antonio is gone. She doesn’t know any of us anymore—” He broke off, brow furrowing. “I go see her once a month. I know it’s not enough, but it is incredibly painful to sit at her side and listen to her ask me over and over who I am.” His jaw jutted. “I don’t like feeling helpless. And every time I see her, I do.”
“I understand,” Rachel said softly, and she did.
“I, too, wrestle with guilt. I feel guilty that I am not there with her more, guilty that I wasn’t able to keep her here, in her own home. But it hasn’t been an easy year. Antonio’s death was impossible. It was like a dance step...quick, quick, slow. The diagnosis was quick, and then he was gone to travel and have his last big adventure, and he only returned when he was ready to die, while the actual dying part was brutal and slow.” He began unbuttoning his dark shirt. “Once he began dying, it took forever.”
“Were you there with him?” Rachel asked, watching his hands work, tackling one button after another.
“Yes. He wanted to die at home—his home, the one in Florence. I was there for the last thirty-five days. I haven’t been back in the house since. At some point I need to do something with it, but I have no desire to return anyt
ime soon. Too many memories. Too much suffering.”
She felt his pain and it ached within her. “We’ve both had so much to deal with this year. I feel badly that I judged you—”
“Don’t go there. We were both doing the best we could. It wasn’t perfect but it was our best. One can’t do more than that.”
“Yet I always feel as if I should.”
Shirt unbuttoned, Gio looked at her, his blue gaze intense, the irises bright and hot.
“You set impossible standards for yourself,” he said.
“I do,” she said softly, thinking she’d never met anyone half so handsome. His cheekbones were high, his eyebrows were straight and black, his jaw was now shadowed, his mouth beautiful.
Her heart thumped as he crossed the room, his shirt open, exposing his broad chest and hard torso, to sit down in the chair opposite her. He was so close now that if she leaned forward she could touch his thigh. Her mouth went dry. She felt positively parched.
“Can I have a sip of your port?” she asked.
He handed her his glass, his fingers brushing hers. She felt a frisson of pleasure all the way through her.
She sipped the warm rich sweet liquor, and then again, welcoming the burst of flavor on her tongue and then the heat that followed, down her throat to seep through her limbs.
She handed the glass back, and then immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Come here,” he said, gesturing for her. “You’re so far away.”
“Not that far.” Rachel’s heart did another painful little beat. “And I think it’s safer here.”
“There’s no canal to fall in. Nothing to hurt you should you lose your balance.”
She tried to smile but her throat constricted, her hands balling at her sides, hidden by the gleaming folds of her gorgeous gown. If she let him, he would be her first. And if they married, her first and her last. He would be everything.
“You could hurt me,” she said, the words popping out before she could stop them.
He looked relaxed, sitting on the arm of the chair, and yet there was something watchful in his manner. “Why would I do that?”