The Di Medici Bride

by Heather Graham

  “Figlia mia, come here!” she commanded. Chris stepped forward, and Gina rose, giving her a warm hug. “You are my daughter now, yes? With no bitterness of suspicion between us.”

  Chris hugged her and wished her congratulations, but could say nothing else. Gina drew back suspiciously. She gazed from Marcus to Chris. “This marriage between you, it was real, yes?”

  Chris couldn’t see Marcus; she knew only that he was behind her. And he wasn’t answering.

  Neither could Chris.

  Tony stepped in cheerfully to save them both for the moment. “Of course, Mama. Has Marcus ever done anything by half measures?”

  “No, that’s true,” Gina admitted. She began bustling about the table, collecting the glasses. “Then we must have another drink—to a new future!”

  “To the future!” Tony declared. The drinks were passed around. Chris downed hers quickly, wincing at the strong taste of the sambuca.

  Marcus set his glass down with a little click against the table. “If you will excuse me, I am soaked. Mama, I couldn’t be happier. Christina…” He reached out a hand to her. She took it. He glanced at his brother. “In the morning…”

  “Yes,” Tony agreed. “In the morning.”

  His mother was frowning in confusion. “We see the police and really end it all,” Tony told her. He shook off his seriousness and grinned at Marcus and Chris. “Buona notte.”

  Chris found that she was shivering again as Marcus led the way silently, pulling her along with distance-eating footsteps. The night had been a violent one, weakening, shattering.

  But it wasn’t going to end. It was showdown time on a different level. She could feel it in the heat and power of his grasp on her hand.

  He closed and locked the door behind him when they reached his room. Chris stepped ahead of him and stood silently, waiting, staring out the French doors into the star-speckled night.

  She heard him behind her, stripping off his sodden clothing. “You’re a mess,” he told her. “Spiderwebs and all.”

  She didn’t respond; she walked a little closer to the window. “What happened, Marcus?”

  “I don’t care to discuss what happened,” he said, but he wasn’t curt. “Tomorrow there will be time to talk again. Come here, Christina.”

  She started. His wet jacket, shirt, shoes and socks were on the floor in a heap. He was standing in his damp pants only; his bare chest was glistening copper. She had never seen his eyes appear so deeply blue, so penetrating. His hands were on his hips. She knew again that there would be no way out; tonight all things between them would be said.

  She was terribly nervous, but she walked over to face him. He smiled, brushing at her hair. “I’m wet, but you’re filthy.”

  He started undoing the buttons of her blouse. She felt herself tremble beneath his touch.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, ignoring the obvious in her state of agitation.

  “Taking your clothes off, so we can take a shower.”

  “We…” she murmured.

  “Yes, we. You and I. The two of us,” he said with an amused grin.

  He kept at it, sliding the blouse from her shoulders. Chris reached out and touched his cheek, drawing his eyes to hers. “Marcus…?”

  He sighed, catching her hand and holding it between his own. “I had wanted to seduce you again before getting to this…” he whispered. He dropped her hand, and pulled her against him, crushing her into his embrace. His left arm was around her; his right hand coursed over her chin and her throat. “I am in love with you, Christina,” he told her, almost harshly. “I tricked you, seduced you, kidnapped you…because I thought I had to. Chris, I can’t ever tell her, but until today I couldn’t, in my heart, clear my own mother. I am very aware that you are an American. I am aware of your work, and I know that I cannot take that away from you.”

  Chris smiled, incredulous, awed, beautifully delightfully dizzy. “Tell me again, please,” she whispered.

  “I understand about your work, but—”

  “No, no, no. Say I love you. In English and in Italian. And in any other way you know how.”

  He pulled her closer, whispering against her ear. “I love you. Ti voglio bene. Je t’aime. Ti amo. I love you, Te quiero.”

  She caught his face between her palms and pressed her lips to his hungrily, adoringly, savoring the warmth, the heated dampness, the surging strength of his desire.

  He broke away. “You have to listen to me, Christina.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, her topaz eyes huge. She would listen to him, but nothing that he could say could matter much at this moment. The stars had invaded the room; nothing could mar this moment, because he loved her.

  Loved her. Loved…her.

  “I could not tolerate your being gone,” he was saying. “I am trying very hard…. I had thought that if you wished to keep your position we could move to Paris, for the time at least. We need to be away from the palazzo. I cannot give it up, though. It is my heritage. Still, we are opening galleries in the States, and perhaps we will both discover that is where we will wish to live. Christina, it will not always be easy. But I can swear that I respect—and adore—you for all that you do. You will maintain your profession. We will—”

  “Compromise?” she supplied breathlessly.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, oh yes!” she cried, flinging herself against him again, half laughing, half sobbing. “Oh, Marcus! I didn’t come here with the intention of trapping a di Medici husband, truly I didn’t. But I’ve got one now, and Marcus, I’d fight heaven or hell to keep him.”

  “Tell me that you love me,” he commanded her.

  “I love you.”

  “In Italian…and any other way you know.”

  “Ti voglio bene…mio marito,” Chris whispered. “Je t’aime, je t’adore….”

  She caught at his belt buckle, and shuddered at the heated ripple of his muscles in response. “I’ll tell you in ‘mime,’” she promised him, “in the very best language of all. I’m very, very good with my hands….”

  “The best…” he agreed.

  Moments later they had stripped one another, and moments after that they were in the shower. Water, hot and delicious, skimmed over their naked bodies, and they joined again and again, expert lovers, yet tonight given something new, something very precious. Spoken love, given, received, tenderly cherished.

  Shadows receded; brilliance touched their lives.

  Beneath a cascade of tumbling water he took her into his arms. His kiss deepened, heated and wet. Her body slid along his, her kisses savoring his flesh, finding him, taking him, loving him, until he pulled her from the shower, forgetting all about towels, and laid her on the bed, tender and fierce, fevered, demanding and delighting. He ravaged her length with his palms, with the taunting dampness of his tongue. His intimate kisses sent her soaring to the stars, which seemed in easy reach, showering them with ecstasy. When he entered her, she embraced him, adoring his body with her own, shuddering with the force of his passion.

  And she knew that nothing in life would ever be so sweet as loving him, and being loved by him.

  * * *

  It was late when they slept that night, having shared all the details of the past—and their dreams for the future. Very late, almost dawn. And some mechanism in Chris’s mind warned her that she shouldn’t be dreaming; it was all over.

  But she was dreaming. Dreaming about the catacombs. There was something in her hand, and she was running because she had to hide the treasure she carried. Someone meant to take it from her; she would be severely punished if they knew she had it.

  There was an angel near the wall, an elaborate angel that overlooked a carved marble tomb. Behind the angel was a little niche where a treasure could be secreted.

  In her dream Chris saw the child reaching up and slipping her treasure into the little niche…. She could hear a voice, a woman’s voice. Irate. Calling her…

  She awoke with a start, bolting up
in bed.

  Beside her Marcus was instantly alert. “Cara…” His arms came around her, and she was deeply touched, because she knew that he thought she was frightened, that she could not forget the night among the dead.

  Chris turned to him excitedly. “Marcus! The statuette! I know where it is. It’s down in the catacombs behind an angel. Oh, Marcus! I’m certain of it!”

  He frowned, and she knew then that he was worrying about her mind.

  “Christina…”

  “Please, Marcus! Please, I have to see if it’s there!”

  He sighed and threw his legs over the side of the bed. “All right, we’ll go.”

  Chris threw herself joyfully after him, hugging him fiercely in her excitement, giving him a quick wet kiss.

  “Mind putting on a robe?” he suggested dryly.

  “Marcus!” she retorted, but her enthusiasm was too great to be contained. She hurriedly slipped into her gown and robe, and was at the door while he was still tying his belt. She started down the stairs.

  “Wait, I’ll get Tony and a flashlight,” he called.

  Chris impatiently tapped her toes against the floor. Marcus reemerged on the landing with Tony and two huge flashlights.

  Tony was rubbing his eyes. He smiled at Chris. “Are you going to make a habit of such emergencies?” he asked her.

  “No!” She laughed. “Just tonight. Please, come on!”

  She led the way; the catacombs held no more fear for her. They trailed behind, continually warning her to wait. Chris couldn’t. She burst through the gates and wound her way heedlessly through the tombs.

  The angel was right beneath the trapdoor. Chris winced a little as she stuck her hand into the niche; she didn’t know what else might be there. But her fingers met marble, beautiful pink-streaked marble. She lifted out the statuette.

  It was labeled at the base in Italian, but she knew the words. “Daylight—tomb relief for Dante di Medici.”

  Chris handed the statuette to Marcus. He looked at it, then he looked at Tony.

  “They were right,” Tony murmured, fingering the marble.

  “Yes,” Marcus agreed.

  “About what?” Chris demanded.

  Marcus shrugged. “I believe it was very definitely done by Michelangelo. He had a style that could not be copied, not even by his students. We will find out.”

  “What does it mean?” Chris asked anxiously.

  Tony laughed. “It means that if we weren’t all filthy rich already, we’d be filthy rich all over again.” He sobered, touching her hair, smiling. “It means, Chris, that a really marvelous piece of art will be given back to the people.”

  Chris gazed at Marcus. He smiled, too, slipping an arm around her. “It will go on display, Chris. We will probably give it to the government. Which means, of course, that we won’t be ‘filthy rich’ all over again, but then, we don’t really need to be, you know. What do you say?”

  “I say that I’d like to give it to the government,” she told him. “I…couldn’t really remember, not until tonight. But, Marcus, I didn’t steal it. Not at first. I saw it…in Sophia’s room. I went in to touch it, and she came back. I hid with it, and then, of course, when she knew it was missing, I couldn’t put it back. Everyone was so furious…”

  “That you ran,” Marcus finished matter-of-factly. “Chris, the statuette did not cause what happened. Sophia, Alfred—even my father—caused their own problems.”

  “I know,” she told him.

  She looked around them, then pulled her robe closer about her. “I think I’m ready to leave the tombs for a long, long time,” she told them.

  Marcus and Tony exchanged wry glances. They started back down the tunnel.

  “Marcus?” Chris asked.

  “Yes?”

  “If I’m really going to be the Contessa di Medici, do you think I might do a few things with this place?”

  “Oh, no! She’s going to start changing furniture!” Tony moaned good-naturedly.

  “Such as?” Marcus asked.

  “Tony, take a pill,” Chris remonstrated before replying to Marcus. “I’d really like to give those relatives of yours in the other section a decent burial. Like seal them all in, you know?”

  Marcus and Tony both started laughing.

  “I think we could manage that,” Marcus promised her. They reached the stairway leading to the ground floor. He turned around to kiss her.

  Tony turned to say something, then paused, closing his mouth with a shrug. He continued up the stairs.

  They were man and wife, he thought. Had been for a while now. He hoped they had sense enough to go to their room before getting too carried away.

  But this was Venice.

  And that was love.

  Amore.

  EPILOGUE

  Ummm…she knew exactly where she was.

  At the Palazzo di Medici in Venice. Her home. Marcus’s home.

  Marcus…

  She opened her eyes slowly.

  The first thing she saw was her own hand, lying beside her face on the silk-covered pillow. Her long fingers appeared very delicate there. Her nails, with their polish of soft bronze, seemed fragile against the deep indigo of the sheets.

  Indigo…

  Christina opened her eyes wider. Without twisting her head, she further surveyed the room. Soft Oriental rugs lay pleasingly against a polished cream Venetian tile floor. The walls were papered in a subdued gold that lightened the effect of the deep indigo draperies and mahogany furniture. Across a breezy distance, highlighted by the morning dazzle of the sun streaming through French doors, was a large Queen Anne dresser, its only ornament a French Provincial clock.

  A year had passed since she had first awakened in this room. A year of learning, of laughter, of love. There had been any number of fights. Marcus was a temperamental man, passionate, intense. She hadn’t expected every minute to be congenial bliss.

  But never once in that time, through laughter, anger or tears, had she doubted his love. Nor his honesty, nor his never ending belief in her. They’d spent the year in Paris so that she could teach; he’d accompanied the troupe on their summer tour. In a few days’ time they would leave for New York. Marcus would be opening the new gallery; she would be taking a position at a college for the performing arts.

  And next summer they would come back to the palazzo. When, she wasn’t sure. Chris felt rather strongly that their child should be born on American soil; Marcus was quick to remind her that she herself had been born in Venice.

  She smiled. She would convince him. And if not, well she had been born in Venice….

  A shiver suddenly ran along the length of her spine. He was in the room. She knew it. She always knew when he was near. When she opened her eyes once more and turned, she would find him leisurely leaning against the frame of the French doors. But there would be nothing truly leisurely about him. He would be watching, waiting, a little impatient, perhaps. He tended to be the earlier riser.

  She knew that he tried to be patient, but he was fond of waking her. Chris smiled. She didn’t mind. He had a nice way of doing it. Fingers caressing her back, slowly, sensually. A whisper against her ear. A kiss…

  But today…today she had known he would be at the doors. It was an anniversary. Their first. And there was a touch of the romantic about Marcus. He was, after all, a Venetian. And a di Medici.

  There was a slight movement in the room. A whisper of sound in the air. He was watching her, Christina knew. Watching her, and waiting.

  She smiled. She could suddenly bear the waiting no longer. He was there, and the force of his presence caused her to open her eyes and turn…and meet his smoldering indigo stare.

  He was leaning against the doors, as she had suspected, dressed in a caramel velour robe. The V neck of the haphazardly belted garment bared the breadth of his chest with its profusion of crisp dark hair. A gold St. Christopher’s medallion seemed to emphasize the masculinity of copper flesh and muscle.

  His l
egs, too, were bare beneath the knee-length hem of the robe. Long sinewy calves, covered seductively with short black hair, gave way to bare feet.

  “Buongiorno. Buongiorno, amore mio.”

  Chris stretched luxuriously and smiled, reaching out her arms to him. “Buongiorno, mio marito, amore mio.”

  He stalked slowly toward the bed. She met the striking sizzle of his eyes and embraced him with a sudden fever.

  Over his shoulder she could see the brilliance of the Venetian sun flooding in. She closed her eyes, smiling with contentment. She still wasn’t sure if she had married a great lion of justice, or a panther, as dark and intriguing as the night.

  But she knew him very well now; she knew he would always be there for her, and that he had always been there for her. Willing to do anything for her, face anything for her. Fierce or tender, lion or panther…

  It didn’t really matter; he was, perhaps, a bit of both.

  And she loved him for that.

  “Happy anniversary, Chris,” he told her softly. “I love you.”

  She laughed delightedly, slipping her arms around his shoulders. “Salute, Marcus. Ti voglio molto bene.”

  He caught her hands, laughing in turn. “I like your silent language best. Tell me all about it in mime.”

  “Ummmm…” she murmured, and gladly complied.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story by New York Times bestselling author

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  Be sure to check out the first title in her chilling new series sure to keep you up all night…

  THE FINNEGAN CONNECTION!

  LAW AND DISORDER

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Other ways to keep in touch:

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  HarlequinBlog.com