by Billy London
“Oh be quiet,” she snapped in Fanti.
Massimo grinned further. “I know what that means thanks to my new daughter-in-law. Nicholas finds it rather amusing to say it on a regular basis.”
“Ewuradzi Yankopong.” Looking at the lightening horizon she got to her feet. There was no point looking at the time, it had to be nearing five in the morning. She felt the gentle tug of Massimo’s warm hand on her own. “Stay...”
“Am I a dog?”
“…where you are,” he finished. “Finish your drink. Being proud of children is exhausting.”
“I don’t have—”
“Georgina has treated you like her mother from the moment you arrived. And you were as proud of her as if she were your own. You certainly scolded her as a child.”
“She’s just like her mother. Esther. She was my best friend and I miss the woman every day.” Massimo kissed her knuckles, which only made her throat tighten further. Goodness, she was far too emotional today. Belinda sank back into her seat, hoping she could compose herself.
“If she was at all like Georgina, then I deeply sympathise.”
“You should like her, she’s a wonderful girl. Strange, but wonderful.”
“Just like my son.” Massimo got up and glanced over the balcony. Music was still drifting in the air. “The party goes on.”
“They don’t know parties. I used to go to this club when I was nineteen. I’d been in London for a few months and it was disco. I didn’t go home until eight, nine in the morning and I’d still go to work.”
Massimo pressed his other hand to his chest. “Please tell me you wore hot pants. I beg you.”
“Massimo Da Canaveze, makaachreo, you are heading for a slap.”
“That means yes.”
She got to her feet. He was teasing her again and it was very unfair of him. “I think it’s time to go to sleep. We’ve been out here for a long time.”
Scooping her shoes into her hand, she headed to her room. She turned, meaning to say a modest goodnight to him and instead, found all six feet two inches of Massimo Da Canaveze hovering over her, as if he intended to do something she’d be praying about for forgiveness until Judgement Day.
Massimo took the lily from behind her ear that Gina had tucked there hours ago and allowed the petals to brush over her jaw before throwing it onto the table of the balcony. She had such lovely skin, the barest hint of makeup enhancing a sun kissed glow to velvet smooth, skin the colour of a macchiato.
“We’ve both had a lot to drink.”
“I have not,” Massimo disagreed immediately. He was quite content he finally had her where he wanted her about two days ago. Her shoes were dangling from her fingers, her other hand braced against his bicep and her back was pressed against the doorway of her bedroom. The plum colour was a faded memory on her lips, her dark eyes hooded beneath arched brows. He stroked the back of his fingers over her cheek, distracted by how soft she felt. Any perceived hardness was all in her speech and nothing in the woman herself. Soon, he would be utterly lost in her.
“Do not make me ask,” he whispered.
She gave a grin that spoke of a girl who had been giving and sweet and passionate before life played out on her. “Ask.”
He asked by touching his mouth to her eyebrows, to her nose, her jaw, her neck. When he was a few, pained millimetres from her lips, she met him. The taste of her was the smoke wood flavour of the whiskey and a sweetness he’d known he’d find. He felt her retreat instantly, like a shadow over the sun.
“No one will know anything,” he urged.
“But I was so hard on the children and them staying in separate rooms.”
“They were not married. We are former members of that particular club. It does not count,” his hands stroked with persuasion over the curves of her body. Of their own accord, his fingers found the zip that ran from beneath her arm to her hip and tugged. “Simply, let me lie beside you.”
“Really? Is that all?”
He side-stepped that question. “You will sleep well in my arms. I guarantee.”
“It’s early morning,” she murmured, not removing her arm from about his neck. “Someone will see you.”
“And if they say a word, I will kill them slowly and painfully.” He kissed her again and again, losing track of what he was trying to persuade her to do, only drinking at her as if he would die if he stopped. It had been a very long time since anyone had stirred him to this point and he wanted more.
Belinda fumbled with the door behind her and they both half fell inside. She put a good two feet between them, breathing heavily and staring at him as if he’d grown horns. Something was definitely hard... He liked how the curls in her hair, uniform and perfect right until a few minutes ago, were now all over the place, the lipstick stain was completely gone and her dress was sliding off her shoulder.
“You left a shoe outside,” he told her mildly, unclipping his cufflinks and throwing them onto the dresser and unbuttoning his shirt. Belinda gave a hiccup then shook her head firmly.
“We’re just sleeping.”
If she believed so. “I sleep nude.”
“Jesus, Lord, save me!” she muttered. “Look, it’s daylight!”
He carefully laid the shirt on the chaise before her bed then began work on his trousers. “You are doing much talking and not any sleeping.”
“Cheeky so and so,” she laughed, dropping her shoe and throwing the dress over her head. He halted. She was wearing a burlesque show on her body. Maybe she’d been right, he wasn’t sure he would be able to lie next to her and not try to make love to her.
“Turn around!” she demanded as his body started a mutiny against any brain function telling each part to calm down and wait a damn minute.
His eyes flicked to the full length mirror on his left side, and caught a flash of naked buttocks, high and so very round. Visions of what he could be doing to those delicious globes pushed him to the very edges of his self-control. He really should just go to his room.
Belinda dived into one of the kaftans she’d been swanning around in but there was nothing beneath the thin chiffon garment. He could see the outline of her dark nipples, imagining he’d be able to taste sea salt on the material before he’d know what they felt like in his mouth. God save him, Belinda Afriyie was not sporting an unruly bush but a neatly trimmed triangle. Before he could visually explore anything else, she had turned off the lights and was snuggled under the duvet.
“Oh hell, I didn’t clean my teeth again.”
“Again?”
“I cleaned them when I got up here. Never mind. Are you going to stand there all day or are you getting in?”
He didn’t need to be told twice. Shedding the rest of his clothing, he watched as Belinda ducked her eyes and most of her head beneath the sheets. What was she embarrassed about? She had been married for eight years. Surely, she would have seen her husband naked? He pulled the sheets back and nearly whistled at the chill. Hurriedly, he snuggled against Belinda’s warmth. She yelped like a cat whose tail had been trodden on.
“You haven’t got any clothes on at all?”
“No,” he answered, coaxing her back to him, his arm a weight over her waist to keep her in place. Her breasts were hot and heavy under the curve of his palm, and he felt her stiffen when he brushed his thumb carelessly over her nipple. His cock was throbbing painfully, braced between the cheeks of Belinda’s bottom. He could have laughed at himself. All these years of keeping emotions beneath the surface, he was beyond skilled at it, and he was ready to spill himself like a teenage boy touching his first pair of tits.
“We’re not sleeping,” Belinda said eventually.
“As I see. What else shall we do?” he asked.
The small grandfather clock in the room sounded for seven am, and with the door to the balcony still open, he heard the raucous laughter of wedding guests still going strong.
Belinda slipped from the bed and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table on
the balcony. Closing the door firmly, she padded toward him and held it out. “One drop and we really should sleep.”
He leaned up on one elbow and examined her for a still minute. She really had no idea that he could see everything of her in that kaftan, the weak sunlight rendered the material practically invisible. He held out his hand for the bottle and drained quite a bit. Belinda snatched it from him. “Don’t drink all of it, what about tomorrow?”
Tomorrow there will be no drink and no clothes involved when I have my way with you. “I have plenty of whiskey in the stores.” He lifted a corner of the sheets. “Are you coming back in?”
“God forgive me,” she mumbled, firmly turning her back on him. He invaded her space once more, dotting kisses from her neck to her shoulder. She smelled and tasted like the sea. It was the essence of his childhood, all of his hopes and plans for his brilliant future. Strange that the scent was all over the delicious treat in his arms.
“Good morning Bella,” he said quietly.
“Why’d you call me that?”
“Because you are bellissima, and I never shorten anyone’s name. But you do not have a nickname. I feel it is my place to give one to you.”
“Thank you,” she said humbly. He gave the back of her neck another kiss, feeling rather satisfied that she shuddered and clasped the hand that was at her waist. Before he knew it, he was lulled into a sleep, coaxed by the idea that in his dreams he and Belinda would be doing much more than just sleeping. It would do for now.
Chapter Seven
In the distance, Belinda heard people singing Dean Martin’s That’s Amore at full volume. How were they all awake at — what the devil was the time anyway? She turned her head to stare at the grandfather clock. It was well past one in the afternoon. She was extremely warm but the room was air conditioned on a timer so it was all to do with the large man snuggled against her, his face hot and scratchy against her neck, his arm a leaden weight on her waist. He had been right. She had slept very well from being held. The way he’d touched her seven hours ago had nothing to do with it, she asserted, ignoring that she still felt damp between the thighs.
Just as she thought about escaping into the bathroom she heard Gina’s voice outside her door. “It’s going two in the afternoon. I just want to see if she wants breakfast. Brunch. I dunno food!”
“Leave her alone,” came Nick’s deep toned command. “We were all up until the arse crack of dawn.”
“But she’ll need something other than tea!”
“All right Da Canaveze, that’s it, I said leave her alone so I’m putting my foot down.”
There was a pause. “Was that you being Dom with me?”
“And back to bed we go.” Belinda heard a shriek from Gina and their voices faded. Massimo stirred behind her.
“You can give them a whipping later.”
She hadn’t realised how much she missed the comfort of a man in her bed and nearly started laughing when his toes gently nudged the soles of her feet. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very,” she admitted before sitting up, the chill of the air conditioning sending a shudder over her body. “How will you get to your room?”
Massimo sat up with her, yawning. “Walk. I told you, if anyone says anything, I will happily kill them.”
“Even Sofia?”
“Especially that one.”
Before she could protest about cleaning teeth, mouth washing and flossing, he gave her a smacking kiss on the lips and leapt from the bed. She wanted to look away, preserve what little modesty they had left, but he really was a work of art. He shucked on his trousers and partly buttoned his shirt.
“I will see you for a late lunch? I hired a boat to take us out for the day or what is left of it.”
“What about—?”
Massimo held up a hand, “They can all find something else to entertain them for a few short hours. You are yet to relax appropriately.”
“Fine. I will see you under the loggia in forty five minutes?”
“Excellent.” He gazed at her for a moment. No air conditioning on earth could have taken the warmth his look caused in her body. “It was a pleasure, Bella.”
Struggling not to smile, she waved him away. “Go, before someone catches you. I don’t want a death on my hands.”
Massimo firmly caught her hand in his and they started walking. There was nothing much to be said as he just wanted them to be alone without any distractions or excuses. Back in London he knew Belinda would find a million reasons to ignore his phone calls or him turning up at her house.
But here, with the sun at its full height, the blue of the sea calling to the swimmer within her, there would be no opportunity for her to refuse. Belinda Afriyie was a woman full of passion but confined by convention. He was concerned she had wished away her years on responsibility, under the strained belief she wasn’t good enough for a selfish husband. In fear that there may be some truth in the bitter words of bitter women.
Each time a car passed, honking their horn in warning of their appearance, Belinda jumped and tried to remove her hand but Massimo wouldn’t let her. When they reached the bottom of the hill on which the villa and the grounds sat, he coaxed her to the steps of a short marina.
“We are simply taking this boat here to that boat over there.”
Belinda looked up at the pristine yacht floating out at sea and her jaw dropped. “You call that a boat?”
“It is a small boat. Only three cabins with full bathrooms and dining area. Very small.”
Taking advantage of her shock, he picked her up and placed her in the rowing boat, and nodded to the man who was waiting to take them aboard. Once on the fly bridge, the captain introduced herself then they slowly pulled off to circle Capri, settling in the Tyrrhenian Sea. “When you came here with the girls I am assuming no one wished to get their hair wet?”
“After all the pampering nonsense? No.”
He grinned. “I will show you the simpler part of the island. Not now, it is too busy.” He indicated the boats that were bobbing near alcoves and endless cliff faces that made the island “Are you hungry?”
“I’m half the woman I was,” she grumbled.
He beckoned to one of the staff and they were carefully seated on the fly bridge amongst cool cotton covered leather. A huge buffet of freshly grilled meats, fish and a variety of salads was laid before them along with water, fruit juices and champagne. Massimo handed the bottle of champagne back, “Save this for later, please.”
He leaned forward and removed the sunglasses from her face, placing them between the plates. “That is much better. I can talk to you now.”
“This is lovely,” Belinda sighed, leaning an arm on the back of the cushion to look at the expanse of water surrounding them. Massimo noted more than a few people who saw the boat, saw Belinda then him and their facial expressions made him laugh. Belinda gave more than a few sarcastic waves, ignoring even the more enthusiastic returns and focused on the meal.
“You are quiet, which is not at all like you.”
“Two days has taught you a lot,” she muttered.
“Three,” he corrected. “Are you not happy to be here?”
“I’ve never had anything like this. It’s so beautiful.”
“But you should. You deserve this and more. What would you like more of? The meats, yes? Prego.” Slowly she began to relax, anything that orientated around discussing the children relaxed her and then he was able to talk with her about first arriving in London, experiences they had both shared.
“My English was not good. Not good at all,” Massimo admitted. “I had to learn very quickly or not survive.”
“It is about survival,” she echoed. “People don’t understand how hard it is to change so no one thinks you’re different. That you don’t belong in the country. When I first came to London, we didn’t eat in public, never, ever. We would wait until we got home and there were plates, knives and forks.”
He recalled the same in his past and
remembered how he missed alfresco dining particularly when there were days of little else but rain and more rain. She told him her first job had been in a bank as an administrator, how she would have a glass of wine at lunch, every lunch and she felt all the better for it. When she asked him what he had employed himself with, he told the truth.
He told her an old family had asked him for il pizzo protection money to protect his father’s farm. The threat had lit something new within him and he had burned the family to the ground, until there wasn’t a member left to cross him or demand il pizzo again. Then with Mary Alice’s encouragement, he left Naples for London, completed accountancy while turning over banks like the ones she worked in without lifting a single weapon.
He needed to be smarter than the men who had come before him. Finance was becoming a consumerism that could be much more lucrative and better exploited than any of the old professions. He had begun to launder money through companies, through houses, buying into stocks and shares, paying people like Rocco Mamione’s father for tips to ensure money was flowing the correct way. How he begun to employ people to wipe out those who caused him trouble, who challenged him when he realised it was becoming too difficult to continue to do so himself without compromising the whole structure of his organization and the reasoning for undertaking accountancy in the first place. His sons had been brought up with the knowledge they would both need to survive in his world and ensure that everything he had worked for did not go to waste.
Belinda didn’t say anything when he finished. “Now you know,” he said above the quiet, the engine of the boat stilled.
“Why tell me?” she asked, slipping her sunglasses back on and worrying at her bottom lip. Her tone made him feel sick to his stomach. In his time, he had only been admired for his activities and never received condemnation, particularly from women. It was what guaranteed him a warm bed for the night with a willing woman beside him — what he could do, what he could give a woman, was what had led Mary Alice to him. Belinda seemed only bitterly disappointed and the hurt it caused him was an unpleasant surprise.