“It doesn’t hurt,” he added. “Most of the nerve-endings are gone.”
The wind was catching at her hair, blowing it around her face, and she pushed a handful back. “Then…why?”
His gaze narrowed on the horizon, where the Lido’s buildings and boats were coming into view. “It’s not—” He broke off, frowned, shook his head before trying again. “It isn’t—” Once again he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Tell me,” she pleaded.
He turned his head, glanced at her. His gaze traveled over her face and his expression made her ache. “It’s ugly. It makes me uncomfortable for you to touch…it.”
It. Him.
Her heart squeezed inside her chest. “A little scar does not change who you are.”
“It’s not a little scar. I know what it looks like. It takes up a third of my face.”
“Well, that’s better than half!” she flashed, because there was no way she’d feel sorry for him. He’d burned himself trying to save her. He’d acted bravely, nobly. He’d acted on love.
“You say that now, but I see how you look at me. You can hardly bring yourself to do it, and when you do it’s with a shudder of distaste.”
“Distaste?” Her voice rose even as she grabbed another handful of hair from her face. “You think it’s your scar that makes me uncomfortable? Heavens, no. Your scar is nothing. Just a little bit of skin. It’s you that scares me. You, Domenico. You. You’re harsh and angry and cold. So very cold.”
He looked at her, really looked at her, his eyes searching hers. “I’m sorry I disappoint you.” But he didn’t sound sorry. His tone smacked of arrogance. And pride.
Furious with him, she tipped her head back to stare him in the eye. “You’re not sorry. You like being cold. It gives you power and protection.”
“Protection from who? Protection from what?”
“Protection from me. From love. From loss. From ever getting hurt again.” She held his gaze. “No one can hurt you if you don’t let anyone close to you.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“I’m not, and you know it.” Her voice throbbed with emotion. “What we are discussing right now is the very foundation for our future. Can we survive the accident that nearly killed us? Can we overcome the pain? Can we rise above the fear? It was a terrible, traumatic accident. It devastated both of us. But if we are to give Adriano the life he deserves then we must put it behind us and love, and hope, and trust.”
He looked at her for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer, and then he finally exhaled, a long painful whoosh of air. “Can you do that? Can you love and hope and trust again? After everything?”
She reached out for his hand and lifted it to her lips, where she pressed a kiss to the back. “If you help me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY docked at Alberoni, parking at a boat slip filled in the summer months with luxury sailboats, speedboats and yachts. But the slip was nearly empty now, due to winter.
Domenico lifted her from the boat and onto the dock, and then took her hand as they started walking. Surprised, Diane glanced up into his face.
Domenico caught the look she gave him and wrinkled his brow. “You asked me to try, didn’t you?”
He seemed so pained, she thought, which nearly made her smile. “Yes.”
“Hope you’re a little bit hungry. I thought we’d have lunch here in Alberoni and then head home. Does that sound okay?”
Hand in hand they walked three blocks to a charming but shuttered main street, and then down a quiet side street, and then an even quieter alley, where they ended up at a small restaurant. The restaurant was on the ground floor of a two-story gray stone building. Empty window boxes fronted the picture windows, but lights shone inside. Diane could see a dozen empty tables, with white linen cloths, scattered beneath the rustic iron chandeliers.
“You’re sure they’re open?” Diane asked as Domenico reached for the brass doorknob.
The green front door opened, and as she crossed the threshold she got a tantalizing whiff of sautéing garlic and white wine.
“Mmmm,” she said appreciatively, suddenly very hungry. “Smells so good.”
“My favorite restaurant in all of Venice.”
Diane peeled off her scarf as she glanced around. “It’s just a little place.”
“One of those hole-in-the-wall restaurants that only insiders know about—which means during the Film Festival it’s impossible to get a table.”
She arched her eyebrows as Domenico helped her with her coat. “You can’t get a table here, either?”
His broad shoulders shrugged carelessly. “Well, I can, yes, but it’s not easy for most people.”
Her lips twitched. “Must be nice being Conte Coducci.”
He gave her a look as the restaurant owner emerged from the kitchen to greet them. The owner—who was also the head chef—greeted Domenico effusively before seating them at a corner table. There was just one other couple in the restaurant, and they sat at a table on the opposite side of the room.
“You still like fish, yes?” Domenico asked as she unfolded her embroidered linen napkin and spread it on her lap.
“Very much. And I haven’t really had good seafood since arriving.”
As an antipasto Domenico instructed the owner to bring them the restaurant’s signature mixed seafood platter and a bottle of white wine. The seafood platter was followed by the house’s zuppe di cozze, the classic Venetian dish of mussels cooked in white wine, garlic and parsley. A heavenly saffron and lobster risotto followed, and when Domenico moved to order yet another course—a pasta dish—Diane raised her hands in surrender.
“No, Dom. At least not for me. I couldn’t eat another bite even if I tried,” she protested, groaning. “But, oh, that was good. So very, very good. I can see why the locals want to keep this place secret. It’s phenomenal.”
“Coffee, then?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his gaze skimming her flushed face before resting on her lips.
Diane grew warmer beneath his lazy inspection. “I think I’m happy with the wine,” she answered, trying to ignore the frisson of excitement she felt every time he looked at her. When he wanted to be charming he knew how, and all through lunch he’d been the perfect companion—intelligent, interesting, witty, amusing.
Sexy, the thought came, unbidden.
She immediately pushed it away as she didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to remember what it felt like to lie beneath Domenico, his strong, warm body against hers, possessing her. Domenico was an amazing lover. Too amazing. And the last thing she needed was sex clouding her thinking.
But it was hard not to think about sex when Dom sat so close to her. Yes, there was a wooden table between them, but it was a very small table, tucked into an intimate alcove, with velvet drapes framing the picture windows. The drapes made her think of a bedroom, and the candle on their table made her think of romance.
Foolishness. That was all it was.
If only Domenico wasn’t quite so muscular, or quite so imposing. He filled their alcove, his broad shoulders blocking the light, his long legs stretched out close to hers.
She tensed every time he shifted, his thigh nearly brushing hers, and she’d never been more aware of anyone than she was of Dom right now.
She could smell him—man and soap and just a hint of cologne—and feel his warmth. She was conscious of the shape of his jaw, the light glinting in his dark eyes, even the sardonic tilt of his lips. Everything about him right now seemed sexy. She blamed the wine for the fizzy feeling inside her, but that didn’t stop her from responding to him.
Yes, he was sexy.
He was also her husband—but not. Familiar and foreign. Dangerous but desirable.
What would it be like to make love to him after all these years? How would she respond to him? Would it feel comfortable, natural? Or would she be nervous and shy?
Nervous and shy, she thought, gulping a breath as Dom
’s gaze met hers and he smiled ever so faintly, making her feel as if he could read her thoughts. And well he might. He’d always been able to read her before. She wasn’t a game-player, had always been transparent, and Diane wondered if she looked as aroused as she felt.
She prayed she did not.
Because if he kissed her, touched her, wanted her, she didn’t think she could resist him.
She’d missed him so much. Missed his body and his warmth and the way he made her feel…beautiful, so beautiful.
Domenico smiled that lazy smile into her eyes. “I don’t think, my love, you need more wine.”
She felt her warm face grow hotter. So he could still read her. “No?” she answered, trying for a nonchalance she didn’t feel.
He gave his head the smallest of shakes. “You are still a lightweight, aren’t you?”
He thought she was tipsy. Maybe she was. She certainly did feel more relaxed than she had since arriving in Venice. “I don’t drink often, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His lips curved slightly. His dark gaze seemed to caress her face. “Would you mind answering another question?”
His voice sounded deeper, huskier, and she felt that sizzle inside her again. Attraction. Curiosity. Desire.
Desire for Domenico, the lover who had loved her, possessed her, so completely.
He’d known her body.
He’d known her mind.
He’d known her heart.
“And what is that?” she asked, trying to hold his gaze even as her skin felt hot, electric.
“Have you really been with no one else? Has there been no other man in the past five years?”
Suddenly the intimate atmosphere felt charged, even tense, and Diane carried her wine glass to her mouth to wet her lips before answering. “There’s been no one else, no.”
“In five years?”
She lifted a brow. “Is that so surprising?”
“Five years is a long time.”
“I loved you. I didn’t want anyone but you.”
“You weren’t…lonely?”
She sighed impatiently. “Of course I was lonely. I have no family left in America. I had no job. I’d lost contact with my childhood and college friends. And after seven years in Italy I couldn’t exactly call up old school chums and say, Hey, I’m in a wheelchair, at this rehab facility in New York, but I’d love it if you’d stop by and talk to me. Make me feel a little less lonely, a little less crazy.”
Except for the tightening of his jaw, Domenico’s expression didn’t change. “Did you feel crazy?”
“Terribly.” Diane smiled then, slim shoulders lifting. “But I’m here now. I survived. And I learned something, too. Love is the only thing we have. Love is really all we have.”
She could see from the hardening of his features that he didn’t agree.
“How can you say that when we both know love can be taken away at any time?” he asked, bitterness tingeing his voice. “Love is temporary, at best.”
For a moment she felt a rush of anger. They’d had such a wonderful love story, such a good marriage, and they’d become each other’s best friends. How could he become so bitter? So stubborn and blind? She opened her mouth to say that very thing when a little voice whispered in her head—he doesn’t mean it.
He’s hurt.
He’s afraid.
And men never like to be afraid.
Like a balloon deflating, all her anger disappeared, leaving her tender. Protective. This was her man. He’d always been her man. She needed to help him find his way back to her. Back to love.
And he could. They could.
Diane looked down at the table, where she’d been rubbing at the starched linen cloth. “I wouldn’t have made it through the surgeries and rehab if it hadn’t been for you.” Her eyes burned and her lips curved, tremulous. “Even though you were gone I still loved you, and I still felt loved by you. I felt you. And, yes, I was lonely, but love got me through. I wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t believed you’d want me to. I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t heard your voice in my head saying, Don’t give up, Diane. Don’t give up. Be strong.”
Domenico turned his head away, but she could see how he struggled to keep his emotions under control. She was just beginning to understand him again. He was so determined not to feel. He didn’t want to feel.
But Domenico—her complex, passionate man—couldn’t stay numb, frozen, around her.
“I hurt you,” he said roughly.
“No, you saved me. I knew you’d want me to live. I knew you’d tell me to fight. I knew exactly what you’d say. And having your love in my heart and your voice in my head kept me together.” She blinked back the tears filling her eyes. “And look—here I am. With you.”
She reached up to wipe a tear. “Who would have thought we’d end up at the same party on the same night after all these years? I’ve never been back to Italy since the accident. This is my first visit. And you said you’ve never been back to Venice since our honeymoon. Yet for reasons I don’t fully understand we both attended the costume ball. I don’t know what that is…magic, maybe?”
He stared at her in silence, his intense gaze unblinking. “Not magic,” he said roughly. “Destiny.” Destiny.
Destiny.
The word hung between them, and as it shimmered there in mid-air it crossed her mind that perhaps there was a miracle in the making here.
It was almost Christmas after all.
Destiny. Angels. God.
“Believe, Dom,” she whispered. “Believe in us. Believe in love.”
Suddenly he was leaning across the table and cupping the back of her head. And with his fingers threaded in her hair he kissed her gently, so gently, as though she were made of sugar and spun glass. It was the sweetest of kisses. Holy. Redemptive.
A kiss to heal broken hearts.
A kiss to make angels weep.
She loved him. She did. She couldn’t be Diane without loving him. And now his lips and breath warmed her, making her feel…
Full. Cherished. Beautiful…
Ah, he was doing it again. Transforming her from ordinary into extraordinary. Transforming her into glorious, gorgeous, exquisite.
Only Domenico had this magic, this gift. How could she ever want any other man? How could she ever love any other man? Domenico was hers…
She parted her lips, giving him access to her tongue, her lips, the inside of her mouth. She wanted him. Wanted him to have her, take her, love her the way he once had. The way only Domenico could.
“I want you,” she breathed against his mouth. “Want you to make me yours again—”
“You’ve always been mine.”
“Then show me. Now.”
She felt his mouth curve against hers. “Here? In the middle of Marciano’s?”
Diane pulled back to look into his eyes. His eyes were dark, nearly black, but he was smiling at her. “They have a W.C.”
“My love, it’s the wine talking. You don’t want to make love next to the toilet.”
“We used to sneak off and make love in little closets and corners.”
His dark eyes burned hotter, brighter. “You want our first time to be a quickie?”
“After five years I just want to feel you. In me. Against me.”
She heard his soft hiss and boldly reached beneath the table to cover his zipper with her hand. He was hard. Very hard. And his erection pressed against her hand.
“Diane,” he warned, his black lashes dropping to conceal his eyes as she stroked him with the palm of her hand.
“Don’t you want me?”
“So bad I could rip off my skin.”
He was no longer distant or detached. And if making love would bring them together, help them connect, then that was what she wanted. “Show me.”
“You’re tipsy.”
“I missed you.” She looked into his eyes, holding his gaze. “I missed making love with you.”
He stared deeply into
her eyes a moment, before rising to walk to the kitchen. He disappeared through the swinging door. He was gone maybe two minutes, but then he returned, and as he emerged into the dining room a door could be heard closing in the back. Dom walked to the front door and turned the deadbolt, locking it.
He moved from window to window, drawing the velvet curtains across the chilly glass until the dining room was cocooned in velvet and candlelight.
“If this is what you want—erotic play—then I can take you here. On this table. In this room. I’ll feast on you as if you were my meal.”
Oh, God. She’d forgotten how sexual, how sensual Domenico could be, and her stomach flipped and fell in a flurry of frantic butterflies.
“What about Marciano?” she breathed, referring to the restaurant’s owner and chef as her heart raced. What had she started here?
“He’s gone. Left through the back door, and locked it nice and tight so no one will disturb us.” One of Dom’s black eyebrows lifted mockingly. “Ah, now you’re looking awfully nervous, il mio amore. Second thoughts?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SECOND thoughts? How about third and fourth? But she wanted to reach out to Domenico, to show him how much she cared for him. And so, even though she quaked a little at her boldness, she met his gaze directly.
“No,” she answered, telling herself it was only a little fib, because she had missed him, and for years she’d dreamed of being in his arms again, making love with him again.
But she gasped as he lifted her from her chair and placed her on the edge of the square table.
His eyes on her face, he slowly parted her knees, pushing her legs open wide. “Sure?” he murmured, watching her response as he ran his hands up the inside of her thighs and then across her hipbones.
Sure? No, not at all. Because this didn’t feel like love, it felt like sex. And sex was all very nice, but what she wanted, needed, was Domenico’s heart.
Ironically, her body didn’t seem to agree, as every place he touched burned. And every place he didn’t touch ached for his attention.
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