Even though part of her mind was protesting that they weren’t at all ready for this, another part of her didn’t care. She was so very turned on that it became a battle between logic and passion. And passion appeared to have the winning hand. Five years was a long time to wait for comfort, never mind pleasure.
She was feeling pleasure, too. Her heart, oh, it was warm, and her body was hot, so hot, and getting hotter by the moment as Domenico ran his hands up from her hips over her stomach to cup her breasts.
She shivered against his hands, her nipples tightening, breasts swelling. How could such a light touch make her feel so much in so many different places? Her breasts tingled, nipples excruciatingly sensitive against the friction of his hands, while between her thighs she felt aching, wet.
Reaching out for Domenico, she caught his shirt in her hand, crushing the fabric, and dragged him closer.
His lips brushed her brow, then her nose, and finally across her mouth.
She moaned and arched against him as he pinched one of her tender nipples. She wanted more. Needed more. Where was the relief?
He lightly pinched the other nipple, getting the same response, and she felt positively wanton as she wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing the hard ridge of his erection firmly against the small sensitive spot between her legs.
Domenico reached for the hem of her cashmere sweater and tugged it off over her head, and in the next motion unhooked and disposed of her white cotton bra. He captured her full bare breasts in his hands, kneading, licking and then sucking the taut nipples, one and then the other.
Diane squirmed against him, unable to resist rubbing against his erection through the thin fine wool of his tailored pants.
“Can’t we get rid of the rest of the clothes?” she panted, her hands already at work on his belt buckle.
“I think so,” he answered, unzipping her navy wool pants and pushing them off her hips and down her legs.
She shuddered as her panties were stripped off next, leaving her naked and very vulnerable on the edge of the dining table. Self-conscious about her own scars, she put a hand on her hip, as if she could hide them.
“What about you?” she asked awkwardly, realizing that Domenico was still fully dressed.
“This is perfect.”
“No.” She reached for him, grasping his shirt and trying to unbutton it. “Not like this—”
“But you didn’t want to wait. You wanted sex.”
Diane cringed. Sex. How foolish she was. How desperate. Because of course Domenico was right. She’d deliberately tried to seduce him. She was using sex to reach him. Using sex to make him care for her. How pathetic.
“And you look beautiful,” he added. “Your waist is so small and your breasts so full. You’re exquisite.”
His compliments left her cold. She felt cold. And lonely. Her plan had backfired.
“I’m enjoying myself, enjoying your lack of inhibition.” He dipped his head, kissed her neck and the hollow behind her ear. “You are a different woman, aren’t you?”
His mouth was so warm against her skin, but instead of pleasure she felt only pain. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how their first time should be.
But he was pushing her back, stretching her out on the table, exploring her body with his hands and then his mouth. She closed her eyes as he kissed the underside of her breast and then down to her belly, and then the scar etched deep on her hip, before pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.
He kissed her again, closer to the apex of her thighs, and then again between her inner lips. His mouth was hot, and she was wet, and she felt intense sensation—but it was all centered between her legs. The rest of her was frozen.
“Diane?” He lifted his head, looked at her questioningly.
He still knew her, she thought. He knew she’d shut down. Gone cold.
Chilled, she sat up, covered her breasts with her arms. His hand still rested on the scar on her thigh, and she glanced down at where his fingers covered the long thin line running parallel to her femur. He hated his scar but was so comfortable with hers.
She jerked her head up, met his eyes, but she could see nothing but herself in the dark reflection. He, too, had shut down. He could have been a stranger in that moment.
Wordlessly she slid out from beneath his hand, carefully stood, and then even more carefully stooped to pick up her cane and gather her discarded clothes.
“Do you need help?” Domenico asked, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion.
“No, I’ve got it. Thank you.”
She was grateful when he turned his back as she struggled to step into the panties, her pants, and then hook her bra. Her hands were shaking as she tried to hook the bra clasp, making the task more difficult.
Domenico silently came to her assistance, hooking the bra for her, his fingers briefly brushing against her back. She bit her lip, fighting the most ridiculous urge to cry.
Even almost dressed she still felt naked. Naked and ashamed.
There was a place for desire, and she and Domenico had always enjoyed a very physical relationship, but it didn’t feel right today. It felt empty, carnal. Lust, not love. Maybe with someone else it would be okay, but not with Domenico. He was her husband. Her other half. She needed his heart, not just his body.
HE’D DISAPPOINTED HER AGAIN.
Domenico was careful to keep his expression neutral as they walked the seawall promenade back towards the slip where they’d left his boat, but his gut churned.
He felt sick. Sick to his stomach. Sick with him self.
He’d tried so hard to please her. It had been her idea to make love at Marciano’s, and he’d been surprised by her request but thought perhaps this was the new Diane, a less inhibited Diane, and so he’d tried to show her how beautiful she was and how much he desired her.
But he hadn’t satisfied her.
Instead she’d withdrawn. Shut down. And now, as they walked, her cane softly tapping against the pavement, she looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but here, with him.
Domenico’s chest hurt, and he grimaced at the tightness around his ribs. Involuntarily he flashed to the night he’d gone into cardiac arrest in the hospital’s burn unit. His mother had just given him the news that Diane hadn’t made it.
‘Code Blue!’ he’d heard someone shout. He’d known he was dying. He’d wanted to die. It was the only answer.
Dom’s chest squeezed tighter, and he ground his teeth together as he pictured the pink scars on Diane’s pale hip and thigh. He’d wanted to kiss those scars. He’d wanted to heal them. Comfort her.
He wished he’d been there for her as she went through all those surgeries and the months of rehabilitation. He wished she’d been there for him. It would have been so much easier to endure his burn treatment if he’d had her there at his side.
“Adriano is like you,” he said abruptly, glancing down at her, his voice rough with emotion he couldn’t understand, much less control.
She was looking up at him with those stunning blue-green eyes, and he nearly put a hand to his chest to ease the pain throbbing there.
“He’s smart,” he added. “He can read already, and he’s fluent in English and Italian. I made sure of that.” He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t curve. He didn’t know why. He also didn’t know why his eyes were gritty and his throat felt raw. “His mother, after all, is American. And a scholar.”
Diane took his arm as they walked, held it tight. “Thank you. Thank you for not forgetting me.”
He glanced down at her. The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. She was so small, and yet so strong. “Couldn’t forget you,” he answered gruffly, covering her hand with his. “Ever.”
In the boat Diane lifted her face to the sky, soaking in as much of the weak winter sunlight as she could. They were heading back to the palazzo, but she wasn’t ready to return. Even though her right leg ached she wanted to move. Walk. Be outside.
It was nerves, she knew. Ner
ves and fear and dread all bundled together, giving her this terrible restless energy. Too bad her leg wasn’t stronger. She and Domenico could climb the Campanile of San Marco like they had on their honeymoon.
Wistfully she looked to the famous bell tower in the piazza. It dominated the city skyline, startling red against the regal white Palace of the Doges and the dark sapphire water.
Venice was even more beautiful than she remembered. When she’d come here on her honeymoon she’d known she’d fallen in love forever. With Domenico, yes, but with Venice, too. She might have been born in a Chicago suburb, but home was Italy.
With her Italian husband and her Italian child. Little Adriano Coducci. She smiled. She’d meet him tomorrow night. And in another four days it would be Christmas.
“Dom?” she said, turning toward him. “It’s almost Christmas and there’s no tree at the palazzo. Nothing’s been decorated. We have to get the house ready for Adriano. Children love Christmas.”
“Adriano doesn’t expect decorations. Most of us in Italy don’t do Christmas trees or lights. Our Christmas is very simple. Adriano and I always put up the presepio,” he said, referring to the traditional nativity scene, “and we have a special feast on Christmas Eve. And then of course on January sixth La Befana comes with gifts if he’s been a good boy, but our Christmas is far more simple than yours in America.”
Diane’s forehead furrowed. “But in Rome you and I always had a tree, and we celebrated with stockings on Christmas morning.”
“That was because you were there. We celebrated the holiday your way.”
“You didn’t like all the packages and decorations?”
He shrugged. “It was for you. It was what you knew.”
She waited for him to say something else—perhaps suggest that they get a tree now that she was here, or decorate and make things festive—but he didn’t. Instead he stared straight ahead, his attention on the lagoon. They were approaching the entrance to the Grand Canal, and on their right the beautiful domes of the Basilica of San Marco rose from behind the Palace of the Doges, yellow winter light gilding the white domes silver and gold.
“Do you mind if I get a tree?” she asked after a moment. “I’ll spend my own money—”
He looked at her over his shoulder, his expression bewilderingly hard. “Is that what you want? Is that what will make you happy? A Christmas tree? Gaudy lights? Cheap decorations?”
Diane flinched. “I just wanted to do something for Adriano. Surprise him—”
“Oh, he’ll be surprised when he returns tomorrow night, even without a tree or decorations. He thinks you’re dead, Diane. Finding you here, alive, is going to be shock enough.”
CHAPTER NINE
DIANE bit down hard into her soft bottom lip to keep from saying something she’d regret. Because right now she was full of anger and resentment and regret. She wished she’d never come to Ca’ Coducci for the Christmas fundraiser. She wished she’d never discovered that Domenico lived. But oh, if she hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have known about her son.
Adriano.
Who’d be here tomorrow night. In a little over twenty-four hours.
She’d see the boy she’d made with Dom when they’d been so very much in love.
How could she go? Where could she go? This was her family, Dom was her husband, and yet reuniting with him promised only pain.
Domenico parked the speedboat in front of Ca’ Coducci. It was a struggle for Diane to climb out unassisted, but, using her cane, she managed to do it without Dom’s help. And it was important to do it without his help. She wasn’t weak and she wasn’t helpless and she wasn’t going to let him treat her shabbily either.
Silently they walked into the palazzo together, but once inside the grand entry Domenico headed off in the opposite direction without a word to her.
Diane’s patience snapped. She wasn’t going to be treated like this. Maybe he didn’t love her anymore, but he could still give her respect. “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped at his departing back. “Why is it necessary for you to be so mean?”
Dom froze in place, his broad back rigid. “Mean?” he drawled, his voice dangerously low as he turned around to look at her. “Let me add that to my list of attributes,” he continued, slowly walking back toward her. “You’ve begun to put quite a list together for me. How does it go? I’m cold, hard, scary and mean.”
She held her place, chin lifting. “You’re being mean right now.”
“And you’re impossible to please.”
“I just want you—”
“The way I used to be?”
Diane notched up her chin another fraction of an inch even as she told herself she could not cry. “Yes.”
“Why can’t you be happy with me as I am now? I’m not a bad person. I love my son—”
“But I know you, Domenico. I know who you were. I knew how you were—”
“You’re the one who said we can’t live in the past. You said we have to move forward. So why can’t you start again now, with me as I am?”
Because she knew the old Dom, and she knew how much he’d loved her. She needed that love, too. She needed to be loved. “I want to accept you,” she whispered. “I do.”
“Then give me—the man standing here—a chance.”
“I’m trying to, but the man standing in front of me is short-tempered and rough and hurtful—”
“God help me, Diane, I’m a man. I’m human.”
Fire surged through her, licking her heart, reminding her of what they’d had, what she’d lost. Him. Them. Their baby. Everything.
“I know you are.”
“Then why can’t you see I’m trying my best? I’m trying so hard to give you what you want. What you need.”
“All I’m asking for is tenderness. Patience. Love.”
“And I’m not giving you that?”
She hesitated, wondering how to answer him. Because maybe he did think he was. Maybe it had been so long since he’d been warm or gentle with anyone.
“What about at Marciano’s?” he demanded. “That was all for you. You wanted to make love—”
“It was sex.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t making love. It was just sex.”
Domenico stared at her for a long moment, and then he gave his head a shake. “I have to go. I can’t do this.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, panic rushing through her as he turned away and headed back for the door they’d just come through.
“Out. Away.”
Terror clawed at her heart, making it impossible to breathe. She lunged forward, grabbing his sleeve. “Why?”
He pulled away. “Because being around you makes me hate myself. I know I caused the accident. I know it’s my fault—”
“It’s not your fault! It’s never been your fault. We’re just people, Domenico. Things happen—”
“Yes, they happen. Because I was careless and I let them happen. But I can’t change the past. I can only try to fix things now, and I’m trying my best. I am. Only nothing I do is right. Nothing is enough—”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. Even at Marciano’s I couldn’t please you, couldn’t give you whatever it is you want—”
“I just want you to love me.”
“That was what I was trying to do!”
“You weren’t. You were going to service me. Your heart wasn’t in it.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“How?” he thundered.
“Because I know you!” she practically screamed back.
“Then explain this,” he answered, ripping his shirt open with a violent tear, sending buttons popping, flying through the air. He closed the distance between them, his shirt held open by his hands, exposing his wide muscular chest. His wide, muscular chest with its ugly scar at the breastbone. “What do you know of my heart, Diane, hmmm?”
Breath bottled in her lungs, sh
e stared at the scar for a moment before looking up into his eyes. “What happened?”
“I died when they told me you were gone.” His dark eyes burned. “My heart stopped. They couldn’t get it going again. They brought in the defibrillator. Put the paddles on me. Shocked me again and again. But I wasn’t coming back. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to go where you were. But the doctors wouldn’t give up. They cracked my ribs, opened me up and massaged my heart.” His voice dropped, deepened. “So don’t tell me about my heart. Don’t tell me I don’t feel. Because when it comes to you I feel everything.”
And then he did leave.
DOM’S SISTER JULIANA AND HER family returned with Adriano a day early. They arrived at the palazzo two hours after Domenico left, with Domenico still gone.
Diane was in the sitting room, slowly pacing back and forth before the fire, when the doors opened and Juliana entered the salon with Leo, her tall, blond husband, and three laughing children.
The two older children were blond, a boy and a girl aged close to eight and eleven. The other child was young, with a mop of black hair and a handsome olive face made even more arresting by startling blue-green eyes.
Diane stared at him, stunned. Adriano. And he had her eyes. She hadn’t expected that.
She couldn’t look away, even as her heart beat harder, faster. He was all Coducci—thick jet-black hair, impossibly long black eyelashes, pure olive skin—except for those eyes. How funny genetics were. How bittersweet. Her brother Adrian had had the same eyes, and now here they were in her son.
Her and Dom’s son. She felt a pang. Domenico should be there. Domenico needed to be there.
But Dom hadn’t been exaggerating. Adriano was beautiful. Gorgeous.
A lump filled her throat and she had to blink hard, her eyes hot and gritty.
“Santo Cielo! Diane?” Juliana exclaimed, clapping a hand over her mouth, her brown eyes wide with shock
“Yes.”
Juliana moved towards Diane, hands outstretched. “What… How…?”
“A long story,” Domenico answered gruffly from the doorway, glancing from his sister, who was hugging Diane fiercely, to Diane.
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