Searching for Beautiful

by Jennifer Probst

  She reached up on tiptoe, cupped his cheeks, and forced him to look at her. She memorized every beloved feature: the scruff around his jaw, the proud slanted nose, the strong dark brows, and those lightning-blue eyes that held secrets he'd never share. Gen choked on the words. "Because you give them just as much joy, Wolfe. You're special. They love you more than you can imagine, because you gave them precious gifts. Your trust. Your friendship. Your respect. Your heart. Everything you are."

  "It'll never be enough."

  She smiled at the ridiculous statement, and before she could slam down the barriers, her soul escaped and flew free.

  "Don't you realize who you are? How you make people happy?"

  The world tilted. Held its breath. And waited.

  "Don't you realize how much I love you?"

  He froze. She was reminded of a cartoon character with the balloon of words floating overhead, waiting for a response. Gen wanted to duck her head, laugh it off, and go back to their agreement. But it was too late. She couldn't take back the truth, or her real feelings. He might not like it, but dammit, he was going to have to begin dealing with it.

  Seconds ticked by. A minute. He didn't move, refused to speak, just gazed at her with an all-consuming hunger that told her more than any answer could.

  He pressed his forehead to hers, shaking his head back and forth, trying to deny the moment. "What are you doing to me?" he murmured. "This is going to lead to disaster."

  A half laugh escaped. Her breath rushed over his lips. "Yeah. Probably."

  "We should go back to the way things were. It'll be better."

  "Don't want to."

  "I can't give you what you want."

  She closed her eyes and hung on tight. He could, but he didn't realize it. Didn't want to believe it. "I disagree."

  "You're so stubborn. We shouldn't sleep together anymore. It's gotten too complicated."

  "So deny me."

  His lips hovered an inch from hers. "I can't. I'm wrecked. But I don't want to hurt you."

  His mouth pressed, retreated, slid over her lips. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "So don't," she whispered back. Then kissed him.

  Sweetness. Her knees weakened, and she slumped in his arms as his tongue slid between her lips and drank. He kissed her like she was precious treasure, fragile and worthy of the most exquisite tenderness. A whimper caught in her throat as he worshipped her with his mouth, and tongue, and lips, allowing his body to give her what his mind couldn't.

  Everything.

  "Take me to bed."

  Her demand made a laugh escape his lips. He nibbled on her ear, bit her lobe, and caressed her back in long, sweeping strokes. "One last time."

  "One last time," she repeated. The lie was easy to utter as he swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the house. She didn't care as he made love to her with such care and attention. She fought off her orgasm so she could revel in every touch and kiss he bestowed. When he finally surged inside her, she let herself go, shattering around him, telling herself another lie over and over as he claimed her throughout the night.

  She loved him enough for both of them.

  "I'M NERVOUS."

  Wolfe looked down. She twisted her hands together, paused on the front step. Suddenly, the years whizzed past and the memory hit hard. Standing at Mama Conte's door for the first time, in his nice clothes and stiff shoes, waiting for a family dinner he didn't want or believe in. The resentment and misery of believing she'd mock him, or disapprove. The fear of going inside a real house with a real family and not being part of it.

  He shook off the image. Julietta's mother, Mama Conte, was a legend, and though Gen had been dying to meet her, he understood the sudden anxiety. Besides raising four children and being the founder of the family bakery empire, La Dolce Famiglia, she seemed able to focus in on a person's secrets with a stunning ease. "She's going to love you. Trust me. When Alexa and Nick visited a while ago, Alexa learned how to make homemade pasta under her instruction, and it may be good for you to do the same."

  That earned a grin and a punch in the shoulder. "Smart-ass. You just want to me to cook for you."

  "Damn right."

  He opened the door and they walked in. Gen drank in the scene before them, and Wolfe knew quite well what she was experiencing. He remembered it well, and the sights and sounds and smells always hit him hard every time he came to visit.

  They'd taken the funicular up and walked to the large but intimate home situated on the hills in Bergamo. Wrought iron balconies held terra-cotta pots with bright geraniums and other flowers. The elaborate gardens twisted around the house and spilled into the backyard, leading to a patio where the family liked to sip wine and cappuccino, basking in the sun and the hills spread before them. The house itself held the Italian character he loved so much, from bare wood floors covered with braided rugs to photos lining the walls and cluttering the furniture, with all roads leading to the kitchen, the heart and soul of the Conte home.

  Gen gasped. The solid pine table sat in the center. The stove and countertops were filled with fresh ingredients, from mozzarella and sliced tomatoes to bottles of olive oil and baskets of garlic. An herb garden lined the windowsill. Colorful towels were scattered about, and the table was already set with burgundy dishes and bowls in cheerful patterns laid upon a white lace cloth. The thick cutting board held fresh, crusty bread, and pots bubbled over, steam and an array of tantalizing scents fighting for dominance.

  Nirvana.

  There weren't many places he felt completely at peace, but Mama Conte's kitchen was one of them. The woman managing the dozens of pots at the stove turned, a welcoming smile curving her lips as she wiped her hands on her apron and moved forward.

  "Oh, mamma mia, I didn't even hear the door! Darn hearing. Don't get old, my sweet boy. It is not good."

  Wolfe gathered her in his arms and almost laughed at the fierce strength of her embrace. Those weathered hands had kneaded dough for so many years that she was stronger than some of the gym rats he worked out with. Her cane leaned against the counter, which she'd been relying on a bit more because of her arthritis. Her long gray hair was twisted up in her usual bun, and she wore a red housedress, apron, and comfortable shoes. Wolfe knew she'd been a knockout once, obvious from the graceful lines of her face, high cheekbones, and laughing inky eyes that reminded him so much of Julietta and her sister, Carina. She snapped the towel at him with expert ease when he finally pulled away.

  "Where are your manners? You bring a girl with you and don't introduce her first?"

  Heat flooded his cheeks. He cleared his throat and turned. "Genevieve MacKenzie, this is Mama Conte."

  Gen smiled and opened her arms. Mama Conte hugged her just as tight, and studied her figure with a sharp assessment that was part of her charm. "You are just as beautiful as Alexa. I was able to meet your nieces when Alexa and Nick came to visit and stay with me. It still is one of my favorite memories."

  "Grazie. It's also one of my sister's favorite memories. You made her feel welcome, and now she cooks homemade pasta for the family."

  Mama Conte tilted her head back and laughed. "And so shall you. Not like my son Michael's wife. Margherita is always trying to duck out of the kitchen, but she does other stuff well so I shall forgive her."

  Wolfe grinned. Maggie ranked cooking as one of her least favorite things to do. Mama Conte loved sparring with her daughter-in-law, and had fallen in love with her from the very first. She'd even been present for the birth of Maggie and Michael's twin boys.

  "Come in and sit. Where are Julietta and Sawyer?"

  "Right behind us. Gabby was napping so they decided to wait a bit."

  Mama Conte shook her head. "Ah, once the bambinos come, it is a whole new world. It is exhausting, joyous, and the biggest adventure one can have, no?"

  Wolfe grabbed a piece of bread, dipped it in olive oil and pepper, and handed it to Gen. Used to helping in the kitchen when he visited, he poured the Chianti a
nd grabbed a slice for himself.

  "Sit," Mama Conte said when he tried to help. "I want to hear everything from New York. Tell me about Purity and what you are up to."

  He dove into brief chatter, keeping it light, and Gen joined in. He was surprised when she admitted she'd run out on her wedding, and that Wolfe had helped her. Even more startled when she shared her struggle to find her way back into medicine, questioning all of the decisions she used to swear she knew. He let her talk, loving the way she gave of herself so genuinely, not realizing it was a gift. Mama Conte listened, encouraged, and shared nuggets of wisdom that should one day be bound in a book and sold for profit.

  By the time Julietta and Sawyer arrived with baby Gabby, they'd settled into a huge feast, with the sound of Italian music drifting in the background from the speakers. A new gift from Michael, she admitted, and though she preferred a good thinking silence, she said she was starting to get into listening to music more often. The baby was passed around, and Wolfe nuzzled her gently, the sweet baby scent of powder and innocence drifting in his nostrils and soothing him.

  "My turn," Gen demanded, holding out her arms. He completed the transfer, always the scariest part with infants, and watched her stare down at Gabby with complete adoration.

  A wave of raw emotion slammed into him. His breath caught.

  An image of Gen holding his baby--their baby--punched him in the gut. She kissed the top of her head, murmuring inane words that made Gabby coo, and the room spun around him like he was on a crazy bender.

  What was going on? Yes, he'd enjoy watching his Gabby grow up. Loved being around big family gatherings with children running around. But children weren't in his future. Never bothered him before. Hell, he never even thought about it. But looking at Gen, and how she fit so perfectly in Mama Conte's kitchen with a baby in her arms, made his heart stutter a bit.

  Why now? Why did he suddenly want, need, crave the idea of a future?

  He pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. Touched the two leather wristbands that were now a part of his anatomy. And tried not to remember.

  He was quiet for the rest of the meal. By the time the grappa, fruit, cheese, and pastries appeared, Gen groaned. "I don't know if I can," she whined. "I'm so full."

  Mama Conte shook her head in disapproval. "Why don't you get some air and walk a bit? It will help you digest; you cannot miss the apple cake."

  Wolfe laughed as Gen rubbed her belly, trying to help it along. "Come on, I'll show you the terrace." They stood outside, overlooking the sloping hills and the endless blooming of green. The scent of earth and lemons drifted around them. He reached out to hold her, then suddenly realized he had no right. Not anymore. If he wanted to move the relationship back to friendship, he needed to stop touching her like a lover. Right now, it was too dangerous.

  She stepped close, as if to wrap her arms around his waist, and he moved fast, heading toward the edge of the balcony. "Beautiful night." He refused to look back, his heart pounding. Would it always be this hard? Would he ever be able to look at her, tug on those curls, gaze into her face without wanting her with a hunger that was never satisfied?

  "Yes."

  "Are you having a good time so far?"

  "How could I not? I'm in Italy, with you and your family. I've been fed, spoiled, and pampered. I adore Mama Conte and Gabby. I've shopped in some of the most exclusive shops in the world, ridden on a moped with you through the streets, and kissed you in the moonlight."

  "Gen--"

  "I love watching you here. You're different. More open. All this time, I thought I was part of that inner circle."

  "You were. You are. We've been friends for a long time." The word spat from his tongue and sounded like a curse now. "I care about you."

  "Not enough to share your past. Not enough to take me into your bed without lying about what we really are."

  He flinched. She was going to kill him. Tear him into bloody pieces and scatter his ashes. Why did she have to demand so much now? He tried to keep things light. "I told you more than I have anyone else. You know about my druggie mother, the years spent on the streets, how Sawyer found me. What more do you want?"

  "You know."

  He refused to glance back. Kept his gaze trained on the scenery and prayed she wouldn't move close. She didn't. The distance between them yawned like an endless expanse of space growing bigger every moment he remained quiet. Birds screeched. The low hum of chatter and laughter from the kitchen drifted through the window. Finally, he spoke.

  "It wouldn't make any difference."

  Her sigh hurt his ears. Hurt his heart. So sad, yet here she still stood, fighting for something he could never give her. "How about this question: What do you want, Wolfe?"

  Her body, soul, heart. To be enough of a whole man to give her everything. The courage to step forward and try.

  Instead, he lied. "This. Us. Friends forever. We decided to include sex as long as it didn't affect our relationship. But let's admit things are getting complicated. Backing off may be a good idea now."

  She never answered.

  He never turned.

  The doors opened and Mama Conte's voice rang out strong and true. "Come in, children. We're ready for the final course."

  When Wolfe finally had the guts to turn around, Gen had already disappeared inside.

  THE MEN LEFT.

  Vincent Soldano lay on the floor in the fetal position, cradling his broken body. The horror of what they had done to him, made him do, flickered over and over in his mind like a broken record. He dug his nails into his temples and tried to rake out the images, the memory, but he was steeped in filth so deep, he knew he'd never climb out.

  It was over.

  If only he had run. If only he hadn't waited. Yesterday, he would've had a life to live. Today, there was nothing but shame and dirt and a nightmare so vivid he'd never sleep again.

  He couldn't live like this. Wouldn't.

  The low murmur of voices outside drifted through the thin walls. He turned his head, looking, his blurred gaze barely registering the items and familiarity of the room he'd grown up in. Vomit threatened when he caught the picture of his mother and him from years ago on the chipped mirror.

  He didn't have a mother anymore.

  He craved silence. Emptiness. Every muscle ached and burned, but he managed to crawl across the floor, looking for something, anything, looking for a sign.

  The light glittered on the blade of the knife.

  Slow, painful inches until he reached for it. His hand shook as he grasped it between his fingers. His head roared with agony, rage, pain so raw and encompassing that Vincent knew already his sanity had snapped, oozed out of him with the men and their rough hands and fingers and filthy bodies.

  He would never be clean again.

  He lifted the knife and turned his wrists over.

  Began to cut. Over and over.

  When the blood ran rich and red, peace finally came.

  Vincent Soldano lay back on the floor and waited to die.

  He was fourteen years old.

  twenty-seven

  WOLFE LEAPED OUT of bed, the scream trapped in his lungs. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body, and he quickly grasped his wrists, feeling the leather bands protecting, blocking out the memory. He dragged in a breath, used to the routine, and tried to calm his pounding heart.

  Leaning over, he placed his hands on his knees and fought back the nausea. It had been a while since the scene had replayed so vividly in his head. Sure, the nightmares came regularly, but like a longtime enemy, they'd learned to live with each other. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes not. The deal and pact with the devil had been made years ago. When the devil came to visit, he went to the gym and pounded out the rest of the memories.

  His head exploded with the images of years past. The knife. The men. The horror. The cowardice.

  Out. He had to get out.

  Shutting down to survival mode, Wolfe pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed his sneaker
s, and left.

  Down the stairs.

  Through the hall.

  More stairs.

  Click on the light. The room lit up, a haven from the night, a place Sawyer had built for both of them when the demons visited.

  The workout room had soundproof walls, a kick-ass speaker system, and every piece of equipment imaginable. He donned his gloves and went straight to the punching bag. Free weights were scattered across the concrete floors, and mats hung haphazardly. A chin-up bar, rowing machine, and endless instruments of torture and healing lay before him, offering a glimpse back into the regular world.

  He hit the button on the speaker and KISS came pounding out in waves of hard-ass metal.

  Yep. Sawyer had been in here recently.

  Wolfe got to work.

  WHERE WAS HE GOING?

  Gen lay awake in the dark and listened as someone walked down the stairs. Came from Wolfe's end of the hallway. She should lie here and try to go back to sleep. He'd been quite vocal in his determination to put her back in the friendship box, even after their incredible night of sex and orgasms and tenderness. He refused to even look at her now, choosing to engage in ridiculous conversation, duck his head, and keep far away from her in case she jumped him.

  Which she had wanted to do. Plus beat him. But she kept her dignity and tried to remember Arilyn's advice. Live in the moment. Don't analyze or question. Let the day guide the relationship. Don't pressure.

  Arilyn's advice really sucked.

  Screw it. She'd follow him. Gen already knew he suffered from regular nightmares. Sometimes she'd wake to use the bathroom and find a tangle of empty sheets on the couch where he slept. She knew he liked to hit the gym or go running, but when she tried questioning him more about the nightmares, he shut back down again.

  She padded on bare feet and tried to follow the trail. It took a few times and checking various rooms in the mansion before she finally found another door that led down a staircase. The knob turned easily in her fingers.

  She stepped in.

  The bold sounds of heavy-metal music, rough and angry, screamed through the speakers. The room was full of gym equipment, but there was only one focal point as she shut the door behind her.

  Wolfe.

  He stood in the center of the room. A large punching bag swung from a chain. He wore boxing gloves and the leather wristbands. Sneakers on his feet. Bare chested.