A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Jennifer Hayward

  She shook her head. “You were trying to make her stronger. You were protecting her in your own way. I know that because you’ve done it with me. You’ve pushed me when I needed to be pushed, forced me to face my fears. It’s how you care.”

  His dark lashes swept across his cheeks. “I’m not telling you this to inspire your pity, I’m telling you so you understand me. Us. It was never about me still loving Lucia, Angelina. It was about me being consumed by guilt. Me not being able to forgive myself for what I’d done. Me never wanting to feel that pain again.”

  Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She brushed them away, salt staining her mouth. Finally she understood what drove her husband. Finally she understood him. He’d lost the most important thing in his life to a senseless act that could not be explained so he had blamed it on himself instead because, in his mind, he could have prevented it.

  She cupped his jaw in her hands. “You have to forgive yourself. You have to accept what happened was beyond your control or you—we—will never be whole.”

  He nodded. “I know that. Watching you walk away from me this week was a wake-up call. I thought I could outrun the past—the guilt. But having to face it or lose you, I realized that wishing I’d made different decisions, acknowledging I’ve made mistakes, is something apart from forgiveness. That maybe I need to forgive myself for being human. I think it might help me let go.”

  Her heart stretched with the force of what she felt for him. For the peace she hoped he would find now.

  “And then there was you,” he said quietly. “Admitting how I felt about you. How angry I still was with you. When you walked away from me the first time, I was just learning to trust, to love again. I was in love with you. But I wouldn’t admit it—wouldn’t allow myself to love you—because I didn’t think you were a sure bet. When you left, you proved me right.”

  Her heart squeezed. “I should never have left. I should have worked through things with you.”

  He shook his head. “I think it needed to happen. You needed to grow up—to become who you’ve become. I needed to realize who that woman is—to appreciate her. Our timing was off.”

  Maybe he was right. Maybe it hadn’t been their time. Maybe now was.

  “Forgive me,” he said, pressing his mouth to her temple. “I was a fool to let you walk away a second time...to say those things I didn’t mean. If I don’t have you, mi amore, I am nothing. I am a shell of a man, because you take a part of me with you every time you leave.”

  Her heart climbed into her throat. “Promise me you will always tell me when you’re hurting. Promise me you will always be that open book you talked about and I will.”

  “Sì,” he agreed, lowering his mouth to hers. “No more holding back.”

  He kissed her then. Passionate and never-ending, it was full of such bone-deep need, such truth, it reached inside her and wound its way around her heart, melting the last of the ice. She curled her fingers around the lapels of his jacket and hung on as every bit of the misery of the past week unraveled in the kiss and was swept away.

  A sharp nip of her bottom lip brought her back to reality. “That,” her husband remarked, “was for ignoring my phone calls this week.”

  “You deserved it.”

  “Yes,” he agreed throatily, standing and sweeping her up in his arms, “I did. Allow me to demonstrate how very sorry I am.”

  He carried her through the shadowy penthouse to their bedroom. Dispensing with her dress, he set her on the bed. She watched as he stripped off his clothes, his body showcased to delicious advantage in the close-fitting black hipster briefs he favored.

  His eyes turned a smoky black as he stripped them off and joined her on the bed. “You like what you see? Take it, cara, I’m all yours.”

  She straddled his beautiful, muscular body, emotion clogging her throat. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured, leaning over to kiss him. “Nothing is right when I’m not with you. You are my heart, Lorenzo Ricci.”

  His kiss said the words back. Passionate, perfect, it was everything she knew they were going to be. Because now that they were an open book, now that they had exorcised their last ghost, anything was possible.

  Breaking the kiss, she took him inside her slick heat. Gasped when he tilted his hips and filled her with his thick, hard length in a single thrust that stole her breath.

  “You can’t do it, can you? Let me take control?”

  His dark eyes glittered. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  No...she wouldn’t. Not in this particular arena.

  She let herself drown in his black eyes as he made love to her slowly, languidly, telling her how much he loved her until their breath grew rough and they were both poised on the edge of a release that promised to be spectacular.

  “Say it again,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “That you love me.”

  His mouth curved. “Ti amo, angelo mio.”

  I love you, my angel.

  Her heart wove itself back together. “I love you, too, Lorenzo,” she whispered back before he closed his hands around her hips and took her to heaven.

  Her first love. Her only love. Her forever love.

  EPILOGUE

  Nassau, Bahamas,

  El Paraíso de Mar—the Carmichael Estate

  “PAPA!”

  A squeal of delight from one of her girls was Angie’s first hint that her husband had arrived home in time for the Carmichaels’ annual winter party, just as he’d promised, after a week’s trip to Italy.

  Ready for a shower before the party, she slipped on a robe, tied it around her waist and walked to stand in the doorway of the adjoining bedroom. Her husband stood in jeans and a T-shirt, his bag abandoned, a giggling, excited daughter under each arm as their nanny looked on.

  Abelie Lucia and Liliana Ines, their four-year-old identical twins, were playing their usual game.

  “Lili,” said Abelie, pressing a hand to her chest.

  Lorenzo gave her a kiss and set her down. “E, Abelie,” he said, giving his other daughter a kiss.

  The girls collapsed into gales of laughter. “Mia Abelie,” her oldest reproved, wrinkling her nose at her father.

  “Ah, sì,” Lorenzo said, keeping a straight face. “Silly me.”

  Her heart swelled, too big, it seemed, for her chest. The arrival of their daughters, the love the four of them shared, had changed her husband. The darkness was gone, replaced by a man who embraced the moment. There were still times when she could tell he was remembering, a sadness would come over him that would perhaps never leave him completely, but those times were few and far between.

  “Festa?” Liliana said hopefully, turning her big blue eyes on her father.

  “No. This party is for big people. But perhaps you can take your gift to bed with you.”

  Liliana spotted the brightly colored packages Lorenzo had left on the table. “Regali,” she crowed.

  Lorenzo handed a package to each of them. Her chubby hands moving as fast as she could maneuver them, Liliana ripped open her gift to find a beautiful, dark-haired doll inside that looked exactly like her. Abelie did the same in a more sedate fashion, as was her personality, discovering an identical doll. A deliberate choice, Angie knew, to avoid the inevitable meltdown if one choice was more popular than another.

  The girls oohed and aahed over their dolls. Angie observed her eldest’s quieter admiration. It had been Angie’s suggestion to name Abelie after Lucia. She’d wanted to honor her memory, to honor her husband’s memories, to make it clear Lucia would never be forgotten. Lorenzo, in a very emotional acceptance, had agreed.

  Abelie, sharp as a tack, noticed a third present on the table, wrapped in a different paper. “Mamma?” she asked.

  “Sì.”

  “Can I open
it now?”

  Her husband turned to face her, a warm glint filling his dark eyes, the one he reserved exclusively for her. He picked up the gift, prowled toward her and bent and kissed her soundly. The girls devolved into another fit of giggles.

  Lorenzo’s mouth curved as he set her away from him. “Off to the bath,” he commanded the girls. “I will come in and give you a kiss good-night when you’re done.”

  “E bambole?” Abelie said.

  “And your dolls,” he agreed. “You,” he said, handing the package to Angie, “put this on and meet me downstairs when you’re ready. I need to find your brother before the guests arrive.”

  He was still giving orders, she noted. But tonight she didn’t mind. She was too excited to have him home.

  She showered while the girls had their bath, applied a light dusting of makeup in her dressing room and slipped on some naughty lingerie as a “welcome home” present for her husband. Opening his gift, she found a sparkly, beaded dress lying in the tissue, an Italian designer label attached.

  Her heart contracted. She slid the dress over her head. The material settled over her curves in a whisper of silk, falling to just above her knee, its fit perfect. Exquisitely crafted, it hugged her body like a second skin, a plunging neckline offering a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. A very sexy dress.

  She left her hair loose as it had been that magical night she’d met her husband, slipped on high-heeled sandals and spritzed herself with perfume. After kissing the girls good-night, she made her way down the circular stairway to the main floor, the house ablaze with light and the chatter of hundreds of guests.

  The Carmichael winter party, never an occasion to be missed, attracted friends and acquaintances from every corner of the globe. Tonight was no exception. Even the Bavaros were here, the two families having formed a close friendship.

  Where before there would have been dread in her veins as she stepped out onto the terrace, a rejection of everything this represented, tonight there was only an all-encompassing glow. Her mother was stable and happy. Four years sober, Angie was cautiously optimistic this time her mother would stay healthy. But she’d accepted it was beyond her control. She had her own family now and they were her priority.

  She sought out her husband in the thick crowd. It didn’t take long because he was exactly where she’d figured he would be—leaning against the bar at the far end of the pool where the band was playing.

  Just that little bit aloof, more than a bit untouchable, he looked dazzling in a black tux, his hair slicked back from his face. Her breath caught in her chest. Would she always react to him this way? As if her world had turned on its axis?

  She took the last few steps toward him, his dark gaze tracking her. Coming to a stop in front of him, she rested a hand on the bar and looked up into his arresting face. “That’s an awfully serious look for a party.”

  The forbidding line of his mouth softened. “Maybe I’m a serious man.”

  “Maybe you should stop brooding,” she suggested huskily, “and ask me to dance. Unless, of course, you intend on holding up that bar all night.”

  A sensual glitter entered his gaze. “I think that’s an offer I can’t refuse, Mrs. Ricci.”

  Reaching behind him, he produced two glasses of champagne. Glasses in their hands, they took to the dance floor, soaking up a perfect Bahamian night, the scent of a dozen tropical blooms in the air.

  Eventually they drifted off into the gardens, majestic palm trees swaying overhead. “I do believe you have dishonorable intentions,” she teased when her husband drew back and set her empty glass on the stone wall beside his.

  “Certo,” he agreed, a heated promise in his eyes. “But first I have something for you.”

  He slid his hand in his pocket and pulled out a ring. A platinum eternity band set with blazing canary yellow diamonds, it was jaw-droppingly beautiful.

  She lifted her gaze to his, heart thumping in her chest. “A circle of fire,” her husband murmured, eyes trained on hers. “What we are, Angelina. What you’ve always been to me. The woman who gave me my life back...the woman who has given me two beautiful daughters who remind me every day what love is.”

  Her stomach plunged. Their anniversary! She opened her mouth to apologize for forgetting, to tell him how crazy it had been with him away, but her husband shook his head, pressed his fingers to her lips.

  “I know how you feel. I’ve always known how you feel. I want you to know what you are to me so there can be no doubt as to how I feel.” He pressed her palm to his chest. “This is where you are, mi amore. Always here.”

  A lump in her throat grew until it was too big to get any words around it. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him instead. Passionate, reverential, it spoke of a million forevers.

  They danced under the stars then, the party forgotten, a brilliant blanket of light their only witness.

  Sometimes you caught the elusive corporate raider.

  Sometimes you even captured his heart.

  * * * * *

  EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT

  Pursued by the Desert Prince

  by Dani Collins

  CHAPTER ONE

  ANGELIQUE SAUVETERRE PICKED up a call from her exterior guards informing her that Kasim ibn Nour, Crown Prince of Zhamair, had arrived to see her.

  She slumped back in her chair with a sigh, really not up to meeting someone new. Not after today.

  “Of course. Please show him up to my office,” she said. Because she had to.

  Hasna had said her brother would drop by while he was in Paris.

  Angelique didn’t know why the brother of the bride wanted to meet the designer of the bride’s wedding gown, but she assumed he wanted to arrange a surprise gift. So she didn’t expect this meeting to be long or awful. Her day with Princess Hasna and the bridal party hadn’t been awful. It had actually been quite pleasant.

  It was just a lot of people and noise and Angelique was an introvert. When she told people that, they always said, But you’re not shy! She had been horribly shy as a child, though, and brutally forced to get over it. Now she could work a room with the best of them, but it fried her down to a crisp.

  She yearned for the day when her sister, Trella, would be ready to be the face of Maison des Jumeaux. An ironic thought, since her twin wore the same face. As she freshened “their” lipstick, Angelique acknowledged that she really longed for Trella to be the one to talk to new clients and meet with brothers of the bride and put on fetes like the one she’d hosted today.

  She wanted Trella to be all better.

  But she wouldn’t press. Trella had made such progress getting over her phobias, especially in the past year. She was determined to attend Hasna and Sadiq’s wedding and was showing promise in getting there.

  It will happen, Angelique reassured herself.

  In the meantime... She rolled her neck, trying to massage away the tension that had gathered over hours of soothing every last wedding nerve.

  At least she didn’t look too much worse for wear. This silk blend she and Trella had been working on hadn’t creased much at all.

  Angelique stood to give a quick turn this way and that in the freestanding mirror in the corner of her office. Her black pants fell flawlessly and the light jacket with its embroidered edges fluttered with her movement while her silver cami reflected light into her face. Her makeup was holding up and only her chignon was coming apart.

  She quickly pulled the pins out of her hair and gave it a quick finger-comb so her brunette tresses fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Too casual?

  Her door guard knocked and she didn’t have time to redo her hair. She moved to open the door herself.

  And felt the impact like she’d stepped under a midnight sky, but one lit by stars and northern lights and the glow of a moon bigger and hotter than the su
n could ever hope to be.

  Angelique was dazzled and had to work not to show it, but honestly, the prince was utterly spectacular. Dark, liquid eyes that seemed almost black they were such a deep brown. Flawless bone structure with his straight nose and perfectly balanced jawline. His mouth—That bottom lip was positively erotic.

  The rest of him was cool and diamond sharp. His country was renowned for being ultraconservative, but his head was uncovered, his black hair shorn into a neat business cut. He wore a perfectly tailored Western suit over what her practiced eye gauged to be an athletically balanced physique.

  She swallowed. Find a brain, Angelique.

  “Your Highness. Angelique Sauveterre. Welcome. Please come in.”

  She didn’t offer to shake, which would have been a faux pas for a woman in Zhamair.

  He did hold out his hand, which was a slight overstep for a man to demand of a woman here in Paris.

  She acquiesced and felt a tiny jolt run through her as he closed his strong hand over her narrow one. Heat bloomed under her cheekbones, something his quick gaze seemed to note—which only increased her warmth. She hated being obvious.

  “Hello.” Not Thank you for seeing me, or Call me Kasim.

  “Thank you, Maurice,” she murmured to dismiss her guard, and had to clear her throat. “We’ll be fine.”

  She was exceedingly cautious about being alone with men, or women for that matter, whom she didn’t know, but the connection through Hasna and Sadiq made the prince a fairly safe bet. If a man in the prince’s position was planning something nefarious, then the whole world was on its ear and she didn’t stand a chance anyway.

  Plus, she always had the panic button on her pendant.

  She almost felt like she was panicking now. Her heart rate had elevated and her stomach was in knots. Her entire body was on all-stations alert. She’d been feeling drained a few seconds ago, but one profound handshake later she was feeling energized yet oddly defenseless.

  She was nervous as a schoolgirl, really, which wasn’t like her at all. With two very headstrong brothers, she had learned how to hold her own against strong masculine energy.