by Kate Walker
“Nice outfit,” he remarked, attempting to lighten the atmosphere, “although I quite liked the towel ensemble, too.”
She flushed. “I’m so sorry about that, Dario.”
“Why? You’re not the one who showed up uninvited. My mother is.”
“Still, I wish I’d made a better impression. As it is, I’m afraid I’ve reinforced her already poor opinion of me. What did I do to make her dislike me so much?”
“You married me,” he said, pouring them each an aperitif from the decanter on the sideboard. “Italian mammas always have a hard time accepting their sons’ wives. She’ll change her attitude when she gets to know you better.”
“Perhaps when we have children of our own?”
He choked on his wine. “Possibly,” he managed, when he was able to draw breath again, “but there’ll be time enough to worry about that when you’re feeling yourself again.”
“I suppose.” She frowned and chewed her lip. “I’ve been thinking a lot since last night.”
In his opinion, she was thinking altogether too much, but saying so wasn’t likely to stop her. “About what?’
“You mentioned you oversee the North American side of your family’s business. Does that include Canada?”
“It does,” he admitted, already uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.
“Have you ever been to Vancouver? Is that where we met?”
“I’ve been to Vancouver, yes,” he said guardedly. “But no, we didn’t meet there.”
“Then where?”
He hesitated. Less than ten minutes in her company and already he was picking his way through that metaphorical minefield again. “You were on holiday in Italy.”
“Alone?”
“No. With a woman friend.”
“Where in Italy?”
“Portofino.”
“Were you on holiday, as well?”
“You could say so. I keep my yacht moored in the harbor and often used to spend summer weekends there.” Carousing the night away with friends, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Before you married me, you mean?”
Definitely before he married her! “That’s right.”
“And we met on your yacht? That’s hard to picture. What was I doing there?”
“You weren’t. You were in the casino.” He grinned as her expression changed from skeptical to outright appalled. “At the roulette table.”
“That’s even harder to believe. I’ve never been a gambler.”
She wasn’t that night, either, which was why he’d been able to lure her away and ply her with enough champagne to loosen her inhibitions. Profligate that he’d been back then, he’d thought it would be amusing to give such a lovely young thing a night to remember. What he hadn’t bargained on was finding himself tied to her for life.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE’D noticed her at once. Needing nothing more than pearls and a straight, strapless gown in basic black to enhance her blond beauty, she carried herself with the grace and dignity of a duchess. But what captured his interest was less her elegance and style than the indifference in her blue eyes when she caught him looking at her. He wasn’t accustomed to being ignored by the opposite sex, especially not on his recreational home turf.
The woman with her, flamboyant in feathers and crimson ruffles, more accurately portrayed the kind of tourist found in the casinos—which was to say, wearing too much jewelry and attracting attention to herself by working too hard at having a good time. “Save my place, Maeve,” she squealed, raking in her pile of chips. “I’m off to powder my nose.”
“Is that really what women do?” he said, moving into the spot she vacated.
The duchess spared him a lofty glance. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do women really still powder their noses?”
“I have no idea,” she replied stiffly. “I don’t make a habit of asking them. And by the way, that seat is taken.”
“By your friend.” He nodded. “Yes, I heard. I’ll hold it for her until she returns.” Then, as a new game began, went on, “Are you not placing any bets?”
“No. I’m here to keep Pamela company, and don’t have any chips.”
He slid a pile of his own in front of her. “You do now.”
She shied away as if he’d thrust a loaded pistol at her, and wrinkled her dainty nose. “I can’t possibly take yours. For heaven’s sake, I don’t even know you. You could be anyone.”
Both amused and piqued by her unsophisticated candor, he said with as much solemnity as he could manage, “I’m Dario Costanzo and perfectly respectable, as anyone here will tell you.”
Not missing his deliberate emphasis on the word, she blushed disarmingly. “I wasn’t trying to be offensive.”
“I’m sure you weren’t.”
“Even so, I can’t accept your money.”
“It isn’t money until you win.”
Very firmly, she returned his chips to him. “Which I’m not likely to do since I haven’t a clue how the game is played.”
“I could teach you.”
“No, thank you.”
He eyed her thoughtfully. “You’re not enjoying yourself much, are you?”
“No,” she admitted. “This isn’t my kind of place. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for my friend.”
“What is your kind of place?”
“Somewhere quieter and less crowded.”
“Come with me. I know the perfect spot.”
She shot down that suggestion with a glance that would have turned a less determined man to stone. “I don’t think so, thank you!”
“Because you’re still worried that I might be the local ax murderer?”
She pressed her lips together, but wasn’t quite able to hide her smile. “The thought has crossed my mind.”
“Then allow me to put your fears to rest.” He signaled the manager, a man in his late fifties who epitomized silver-haired respectability and whom he’d known for years. “Federico, would you be so kind as to vouch for me to this young lady? She’s not sure I’m to be trusted.”
Federico straightened his impeccably clad shoulders. “Signor Costanzo is one of our most valued clients, signora,” he told her, subtly conveying shock than anyone might assume otherwise. “I speak from long and personal experience when I say you find yourself in excellent company.”
“Well?” Dario eyed her questioningly as the man departed. “Did that change your mind at all?”
She flinched at a sudden burst of raucous laughter behind her. “I admit I’d be tempted to take you up on your offer if it weren’t for Pamela. I can’t just abandon her.”
But Pamela, as he pointed out, had found diversion at the next table with a man old enough to be her father. “Sure,” she brayed, flapping her beringed hand as if dismissing an annoying fly when the duchess stopped by to mention she was leaving. “See you whenever, but probably not before tomorrow. I have big plans for tonight.”
And so, Dario thought, had he. Increasingly intrigued by the duchess’s cool reserve, he ushered her out of the casino. “Shall we stroll for a while?”
“I’d love to,” she said, breathing deeply of the balmy night air. “I found it unbearably stuffy inside.”
Although his ultimate goal was to lure her aboard the yacht, he took her first to a tiny supper club tucked away in a quiet corner of la piazetta. A frequent visitor, he was shown immediately to one of the candlelit tables on the covered patio.
“Better?” he inquired.
“Much,” she sighed, slipping out of her evening sandals and wiggling her bare toes.
More charmed by the minute, he undid his black bow tie and the top button of his dress shirt, ordered champagne cocktails, and encouraged her to talk about herself.
The wine loosened her tongue and in short order he learned her name was Maeve Montgomery and she was from Vancouver, Canada. After two years in college, she’d worked as a sales assistant in a bridal sal
on, been promoted to fashion director at the ripe old age of twenty-two, but found her true calling when she became a personal shopper for clients long on money, but short on taste. She was an unapologetic clothes horse, sewed many of her own outfits and lived in a sixth-floor apartment with a west-facing view of Georgia Strait and the Gulf Islands.
She’d been very close to her parents, both of whom had died within the past five years. Her father, never sick a day in his life, had suffered a ruptured abdominal aneurysm as he sat watching television. He was gone in less time than it took to phone for an ambulance. Thirty-four months later her mother, a severe asthmatic, had succumbed to pneumonia at age seventy. “I miss them dreadfully,” she confessed.
That she was in Italy at all had been a last-minute arrangement and a bonus of sorts from Mrs. Samuel Elliott-Rhys, a grateful, longtime client who happened also to be Pamela’s mother. “The friend who was supposed to come with Pamela slipped and broke her leg the week before last,” Maeve explained. “Mrs. Elliott-Rhys persuaded me to take the friend’s place because she wasn’t comfortable having Pamela traveling alone.”
I wouldn’t be, either, if Pamela were my daughter, Dario thought, but declined to say so. After all, he had her to thank for the way the evening was turning out. “How much longer will you be in Portofino?”
“Five days. We fly home next Wednesday.”
Perfect! Enough time for an enjoyable fling, without the entanglement of her expecting a lasting association. “More champagne?” he suggested smoothly.
“I don’t think so, thanks. I don’t like to drink too much.”
She’d had two glasses only. “Can one ever have too much of a good thing?”
“Maybe not, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather walk some more before I have anything else.”
“By all means.” He pulled back her chair and knelt to slip her narrow, elegant feet into her shoes.
They set off again, along the cobbled promenade toward the harbor. She didn’t object when, as they approached the ramp leading down to the docks, he held her hand firmly and said, “Be careful. Those high heels weren’t designed for this kind of walking, and I’d hate to see you trip.”
“I’m more concerned about getting arrested,” she confided, taking in the flotilla of expensive yachts at anchor in the bay. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to be wandering around like this?”
“Perfectly. I keep my own boat here.”
“If it’s anything like these others, I’m way out of my league.”
“Don’t let them intimidate you. Most are charters,” he said, but didn’t bother to add that his was larger than any she’d yet seen and never available for charter. She was antsy enough as it was.
He always anchored as far from the docks as possible, a smart decision in more ways than one. When he felt inclined to go sailing, he was soon clear of the harbor and into open water. When he had seduction in mind, he was assured of privacy. And tonight he definitely had seduction in mind.
As soon as she was seated in the dinghy he kept moored at the end of the last dock, he fired up the outboard engine and sped across the water to the big boat. Once aboard, he wasted no time setting the mood. A little champagne, a little soft music. Just enough lantern glow on the promenade deck to compensate for the absence of moonlight. Precisely the right kind of casual conversation to put her at ease.
No, he didn’t live on the yacht, but did spend days at a time cruising the Mediterranean with friends. Yes, being able to get away from it all helped him unwind. He’d take her out tomorrow, if she liked—let her experience the pleasure for herself. Meanwhile, would she like to dance?
“If I can go barefoot,” she said.
She could go stark naked if she wanted to, but again he refrained from voicing his opinion aloud. The night was still relatively young. Time enough to think about undressing her later. “Of course,” he said, and took her in his arms.
At first, she held herself a little stiffly, but he’d selected the music well. Trendier names might top the charts these days, but as far as he was concerned, if romantic ambience was on the menu, nothing could beat the melodies of the legendary Nat King Cole.
At six-two, Dario was taller than most Italians, but Maeve was tall, too, close to five-nine, he’d guess, and that was without the heels. It made for a stimulating fit of male and female anatomy. As the timeless magic of the music wound around them, she relaxed enough to let him mold her body to his. Her hair smelled of bergamot and thyme. Her skin was as soft and warm as a sun-kissed gardenia petal.
He slid his hand to the small of her back and deliberately urged her closer still. Close enough that she couldn’t miss the erection he made no attempt to hide. He felt the accelerated puff of her breath through his shirt front, the wild flutter of her lashes against his cheek.
The music died. Tilting her face up to his, he held her captive in his gaze. Across the water a ship’s bell sounded, haunting and soulful. As it, too, faded, he let the silence spin out just long enough to stoke the sexual tension arcing between them so that, when at last he kissed her, she melted in his arms.
Never one to rush his pleasures—and without question she promised pure, unadulterated pleasure—he backed her under the canvas awning, which offered utter seclusion from prying eyes, and kissed her again. At her temple and her ear. Down her throat to the hollow of her shoulder. Then hearing her murmur his name on a sigh of entreaty, he brought his mouth again to hers. Felt it soften beneath his and knew victory lay within his grasp.
Still he lingered. Why hurry to sample the entire feast when the night lay ahead, inviting him to savor each course at leisure?
Her arms stole around his neck. He kissed her again, more deeply this time, and ran his tongue lightly over the seam of her lips. They parted softly, allowing him access to the secrets of her mouth. She tasted of champagne. Intoxicating, irresistible. And he wanted more of her. Lots more.
Stealthily he unzipped her gown. It slithered the length of her to puddle blackly around her ankles. She wore no bra, and panties so brief and flimsy that even he, who thought he understood all the mysteries women’s lingerie had to offer, wasn’t sure how she held them up. His finger hooked inside the elasticized strip at her hips, and with one slight tug disposed of the scrap of fabric.
Appearing almost dazed, she obediently stepped out of the heap of silk clinging to her ankles and submitted herself to his awed inspection. Fully clothed she had been beautiful. Naked she was breathtaking. Long legged, narrow-waisted, sweetly curved. Pure symmetry of form encased in skin as smooth as cream and lustrous as the pearls at her throat. And suddenly, feasting his eyes on her wasn’t enough. He wanted all of her and he wanted her now with an urgency that should have embarrassed him.
Any attempt at leisurely seduction shot to blazes, he stripped off his own clothes with unpolished haste and tossed them in a heap beside hers on the deck. He’d planned to kiss every inch of her until she begged him to lay full claim to her. Instead, he found himself begging her, his voice hoarse with need as he urged her to touch him as intimately as he was touching her.
She did so tentatively, her fingers skimming shyly down his belly and closing around him with such exquisite care that he almost came, when what he’d planned, what he hoped, was first to bring her to orgasm with his tongue.
It wasn’t going to happen, not this time. He teetered too close to the edge of destruction to postpone the inevitable, and it was either make a complete ass of himself, or take her now and pray he could last long enough to give her some satisfaction.
He chose the latter. Lowering her to the cushioned seat, he straddled her and pushed her legs apart with his knee. In a moment of madness, he teased her flesh with the tip of his penis, nudging himself against her for the pure pleasure of feeling her silken heat against his unprotected skin. Her scent rose, dark and sweet, a drugging combination so erotic that he barely had time to roll on a condom before driving into her.
Unexpectedly, he met
with faint but unmistakable resistance. He heard her tiny whimper and felt the brief, convulsive clutch of her hands at his shoulders. They told him all he needed to know, and if he’d possessed a shred of integrity, he’d have stopped then. But he’d passed the point of no return. Blind hunger obliterated all sense of decency, he thrust harder, and in a matter of seconds was shuddering within her in helpless release.
And she? Dio perdonare lui, she lay trembling beneath him, her eyes wide dark pools in the dim light.
“Mi displace,” he muttered, when he could speak again, and stroked his hand down her cheek. “Maeve, I’m sorry…I had no idea…!”
She turned her face and pressed a kiss into his palm. “Don’t be,” she whispered. “I’m glad you were the one.”
Cursing himself with every foul expletive at his command, he went below deck and returned a minute later, wearing a terry cloth robe and bringing another for her. Wrapping it around her, he scooped her onto his lap. “How are you feeling? Did I hurt you?”
“Not really, no.” She curled up in his arms like a child.
Except she wasn’t a child—or was she? How was a man to tell these days, with girls of fourteen dressing and behaving like adults? Gripped by fresh consternation, he asked the question begging to be answered. “How old are you, Maeve?”
“Twenty-eight.”
He expelled a sigh of relief laced with astonishment. “And until tonight you were a virgin?”
“Yes. I’ve never had the time for a serious relationship.”
A different kind of alarm swept over him then. Did she think making love equaled a serious relationship? Surely not. At twenty-eight she couldn’t be that far out of touch with reality. “A woman’s first time should be special,” he said. “I must have disappointed you.”
“No. I’ll remember this night for as long as I live.”