by Remy Landon
Carlo refilled Cassandra's wine glass. She cocked an eyebrow at him and frowned. “Trying to get me drunk?”
“Trying to get you to relax. I don't need to get women drunk.”
“I'm thinking that's probably true. How many women have you wined and dined here?”
“I haven't kept track. A few.”
“Just a few?”
“Several. How many men have you been with, Cassandra?” The question slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. He knew he had no right to ask, knew he shouldn't, but had to anyway.
She took a sip of wine and set down her glass, her eyes incredulous. “My God, you like to get right to the point, don't you?”
“I believe in being straightforward.”
“It's really none of your business.”
“I realize that, but I'd like to know.”
“You're assuming I'm not a virgin.” Her eyes were flashing.
He was once again filled with the need to take her—urgently, roughly. If only. To show her how to please a man, to be the first one to enter her...it was almost too much for him to imagine.
He grinned wryly. “While I wish that were the case, I'm convinced that only happens in cheesy romance novels.”
“Why would it matter to you how many men I've slept with? What if I said fifty? Would you not want to be with me then?” She sat up rigidly in her chair. There was a fire in her eyes he hadn't seen before. “Men get to screw around with whomever they want, but if women do it, they're looked upon as sluts. I'm not into double standards, sorry.”
He'd touched a nerve. Clearly, her past was revealing itself, no doubt coaxed along by the wine.
“Cassandra...I didn't mean to upset you. I was just curious. You don't have to answer. It was rude and insensitive of me to ask. Please forgive me.”
She frowned, but he could see her posture relaxing.
“I truly am sorry, Cassandra.”
“It's okay. I overreacted.”
Carlo hadn't meant to evoke negative feelings in her, but if nothing else, it underscored the fact that he had some work to do before she was ready—before she would trust him enough to let him do what he wanted to do to her.
Cassandra looked at him then, her face bathed in the glow of the candlelight. Her eyes were luminous and childlike. Unexpectedly, he felt a pang, thinking of how he would have to let her go afterwards.
He reached across the table to take her hand—a surprise for both of them—and was rewarded for his efforts, because she smiled.
chapter seventeen ~ Cassandra
It could have been the Dom Perignon, or the hormones floating in the air like sea mist, or that she had sat across from him for the past hour and a half imagining what it would be like to kiss him, but for whatever the reason, Cassandra found herself on the way to Carlo's house. He had asked her quite simply if she'd like to see his place on the way back. Not to stay the night, he'd said, before she could even protest. Just a drink, and then he'd take her home. She had sighed and to her complete surprise had answered very simply, okay.
She was pleasantly stuffed and pleasantly buzzed. The meal had been delicious: she'd had the blackened striped bass with baby roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus, while Carlo had chosen the Beef Wellington (with apologies for ordering it). She'd had a bit too much wine, but since she didn't know when she'd ever have Dom Perignon again, it only made sense to enjoy it.
It was a ten minute drive to his house from the country club. As expected, the neighborhood was impressive, with houses of varying architectural styles instead of the unimaginative cookie-cutter type houses she hated. His house was a combination of modern and classic—brick with black shutters, lots of windows and peaked roofs. Three car garage, beautifully-manicured shrubbery and a curved walkway illuminated by small, glowing globes. A bit more extravagant than her apartment.
Prickles of intimidation threatened to deflate her relaxed state of mind. Intimidation wasn't good, because it made her feel weak, and this was very dangerous in the presence of someone like Carlo Leone.
Chill, she told herself firmly. One drink. One drink, and he'll take you home.
Carlo turned off the car and flashed her a dazzling smile. His mouth, his teeth, his car, this house—everything about him, really, was so goddamned perfect. Just a simple look from him was enough to make her heart stop.
“Wow...your house,” she managed. “It's gorgeous.”
“Thanks. I actually prefer the others, though.”
“Others? How many do you have?”
“Two besides this one. A summer home in Maine, and a beach house in Florida.”
He got out of the car, and she followed him to the front door. The inside of the house was just as she'd imagined: spacious, white walls, no frills. The ceramic tile of the foyer transitioned into the gleaming hardwood floors of the living room, which was sparsely but tastefully decorated. A black leather sofa and chairs, centered on a gray rug, surrounded a large glass coffee table which held a shallow bowl of smooth, white rocks, a black book and a stack of coasters. There was an impressively huge, floor-to-ceiling stone hearth with bookshelves on either side. The only real color in the room was the background of the hearth shelves, painted jade green.
Cassandra felt Carlo's eyes upon her as she walked over to the shelves for a closer look. There were collections of hardcover and paperback books, displayed both vertically and horizontally, along with a few white pillar candles and polished silver vases of varying heights and widths. Her eyes were drawn to a large, pearly-pink conch shell on one of the middle shelves, and she stepped closer so she could run her fingers along its cool interior.
“Pretty, isn't it?”
Carlo had walked up beside her. The simple nearness of him made her pulse quicken.
“Yes. Where did you get it?”
“The Caribbean.”
“Do you have a house there, too?”
“No. I used to vacation there.”
“Used to?”
“What can I get you to drink? I have Chardonnay, or Merlot.”
Interesting. Had he purposely not answered her question, or was he so focused on getting her drunk that he jumped right to the wine offer?
“I'll just have water, thanks.”
“All right. Be right back. You do realize you can sit down?” He was smiling at her.
He had the maddening ability to make her feel all kinds of awkward and yet not totally mind it. “Yes. I just like looking around.”
“That's certainly allowed. Just don't break anything.” He winked. “I'll be back.”
The air in the living room was comfortably cool—central air, no doubt—but she felt a rush of warmth as the reality of where she was hit her. In. His. House.
She felt her phone vibrating in her purse. A text from Teal consisting of three emojis: a smiley blowing a kiss, a thumbs up sign and a pink heart. She rolled her eyes and put the phone away without responding. Let Teal go a little nuts wondering what was going on.
Her cramped feet had been protesting the high heels for the past half hour, so she unbuckled her sandals and slid them under the coffee table, wiggling her toes in relief. The black book on the table turned out to be a photo album trimmed in silver. She hesitated. It would be kind of stalker-ish to look through it, but then again, it was just sitting here in the open.
Curiosity won out. She sat down on the couch, wincing at the cold leather against her legs, picked up the album and began to turn the pages. The photographs seemed to follow a chronological order—first, a little boy in a cowboy hat, checkered shirt, and chaps over his jeans, holding the lead rope of a stunning black pony. A woman stood behind him, beaming, her hands on his shoulders. She was slender and very attractive, her dark hair pulled back away from her heart-shaped face. Carlo and his mother? The woman was in the next several photos: one, a birthday party where she was setting down a candle-studded cake on a table surrounded by a group of kids. In another picture, she was pinning a boutonniere on a g
rinning, teenage Carlo. He was a total stud, even back then.
On the next page were beach shots—one, a family photo: adolescent Carlo, squinting in the sun, his arms across his bare chest; his mother, looking amazing and tanned in a pink bikini, a tall, kind-looking man who Cassandra assumed was Carlo's stepfather, and a pretty little girl holding a beach ball and looking up at Carlo adoringly—most likely his sister. Cassandra continued to peruse the album, finding fewer pictures the more pages she turned. The other photos had been arranged in a balanced pattern, but here was blank space, which told a story in and of itself.
“See anything interesting?”
She startled at the sound of Carlo's voice and looked up almost guiltily. “I was just—it was sitting here, so...”
“It's fine.” He joined her on the couch, a glass of red wine in one hand and in the other, a glass of water with crushed ice and a wedge of lemon perched on the rim. He had taken off his jacket and tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His face was smooth, expressionless.
Cassandra squeezed the lemon into her water and sipped. She watched Carlo's lips part and close around the rim of his wine glass. Christ. She had an insane, frantic urge to run out of the house, before he could kiss her, before he could touch her, but this was quickly overpowered by an insane, frantic urge to lie back on the couch and pull him on top of her.
“What are you drinking?” she asked. She could do this. Bland, normal conversation.
“Rancho Cucamonga's Triple Cream Sherry. Are you familiar with it?”
“I'm a commoner, remember?”
“Cassandra. There is nothing common about you. And the wine isn't that expensive.”
“I'm guessing your idea of not very expensive is different from mine.”
“That might be true. Can I get you anything to eat? I don't have any Devil Dogs, but I do have some cheese and crackers, or sorbet.”
She made a face at him. “I'm full, thanks—that praline cheesecake about killed me.” He was smiling at her, but doing that staring thing that felt like he was piercing her to her very core. It was incredibly unnerving. She averted her gaze and noticed the lamp with the driftwood base on the end table beside the couch. “This is unusual.”
“It is. I like having some of the ocean in my house.”
“Like the white rocks.” She pointed to the bowl on the coffee table.
“Yes. They came from Cape Cod. But they aren't all white.”
“No?” She leaned forward to look more closely, jostling her water glass and spilling droplets down the front of her. Oh, perfect.
Carlo's eyes followed the trickle of water down into her cleavage. He took a sip of his wine and leaned back against the couch, his dimple appearing. “I can practically hear it sizzle.”
Christ, he was driving her fucking crazy. “I'm not even going to respond to that,” she said coolly.
“I think you just did.”
“Okay...back to the rocks.” She looked into the bowl and saw that there was a small, dark gray stone nestled in the center of the white ones. “Symbolic? Or aesthetic?”
“My mother always loved to collect white rocks on the beaches of Cape Cod, but she would always add one stone that stood out. She said it reminded her to be an individual, to be someone people would remember and appreciate. She liked to collect other things, too, like old marbles, seashells, seaglass, and she'd do the same thing with those—pick a basic color for everything except one.” Carlo paused. “She was one of a kind herself.”
He had said was. “Is she—did she pass away?”
“Yes. The year before my stepfather.”
“My God, I'm so sorry. I do know what that's like, to lose your mom. Mine died a couple of years ago from cancer.”
“And I am very sorry for you. My mother's death was due to an aneurysm. It was very unexpected.” He flashed her a small, rueful smile. “There are days, honestly, when I still can't believe it.”
Cassandra had yet to see this softer side of Carlo. Tender, and sweet. She swallowed. “I'm really sorry. Your mom sounds like she was a very special person.”
“She was. After she died, my sister Gianna—”
The one he had lunch with that I was jealous of, thought Cassandra.
“—and I kept a few of her collections. Not only to remember her by, but to remind ourselves to stand out, to be special.” His gray eyes were warm. “My little sister has definitely followed in my mother's footsteps.”
“And so have you,” Cassandra found herself murmuring.
A slow smile spread across Carlo's face. “Is this a compliment?”
“An observation.” Her heart began to pound as his gaze traveled from hers to linger upon her mouth. He set his wine glass on the coffee table.
She struggled to remain calm, gripping her water glass and inching away from him on the couch, her bare legs sticking to the leather. “Your house is gorgeous.”
“You've already said that. But thank you.” He slid next to her, gently taking the glass from her hand and setting it next to his.
“It's very...” She scanned the room in desperation. “Clean. Immaculate, actually.”
“I have a very good housekeeper.”
“Oh...well, you're very lucky, then. And, um, it's very nice how you have these reminders of the ocean.”
Carlo reached out to brush his fingers against her temple, sliding them whisper-soft down her cheek and under her chin. Oh my fuck.
“I'm also reminded of the ocean every time I look in your eyes.” He leaned closer. Whatever he was wearing for cologne smelled absolutely incredible. She felt her resolve begin to crumble.
His mouth was inches from hers, their breath intertwining. To Cassandra's shock and horror, she began to tremble. She had never reacted like this with any other man. How absolutely humiliating. But she couldn't stop.
And apparently, her shaking was a turn-on for Carlo. He began to breathe harder, his eyes widening, as if he was seeing her in a different light. He gathered her into his arms—oh, God, the way it felt to have those arms around her—and she panicked, pressing her hands against his hard chest and pushing away from him. The slight presence of male perspiration combined with his unbelievable cologne was lethally erotic, and even as she tried to protest, she knew she was doomed. Absolutely fucking doomed.
Carlo knew it, too, the way he always seemed to know what she was thinking and feeling, no matter how hard she tried to conceal it. He laughed softly, his dark eyebrows arching in amusement. “Oh, sweetheart...I think you realize it's no use pushing me away. I always get what I want. And right now...” He pulled her closer and put his mouth at her ear. “I want to kiss you.”
She felt the hint of stubble on his jawline, caught the scent of wine on his breath as he brushed his lips along her cheek in search of her mouth. “Please...” she found herself whispering, as she leaned back.
“Please what?” he asked huskily. “Please kiss me?” His mouth hovered over hers. “Please touch me?”
Cassandra had stopped trembling. She was completely, utterly immobilized as Carlo covered her mouth with his. He kissed her softly at first, breaking the contact for split seconds and then becoming more and more insistent. Despite her reservations, her lips parted. It had been so long since she'd been kissed, and to be kissed by such an insanely beautiful man tugged at the blanket of restraint she'd so carefully wrapped around her, until she felt it slip away.
His tongue slid inside her mouth, gently probing her own, and she felt her entire lower half yield and soften. He tasted incredible. She pulled herself into a kneeling position, her dress creeping higher but her legs tucked safely beneath her. Her hands crept hesitantly from his chest to his upper arms, feeling the taut, well-defined muscles beneath his shirt. Carlo was kissing her more deeply now, pausing every few seconds to nibble on her lips and allow her to catch her breath. He kept one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly, while his other hand slid up her bare back in a skin-tingling trail. When he cam
e to the nape of her neck, he pulled back to stare at her, his breathing ragged. “Take down your hair.”
This was surprising. And it sounded like an order. A tiny seed of doubt sprouted within her. She hesitated, her chest heaving.
“Take it down now, Cassandra.” His eyes were smoldering, the lamplight illuminating the clench of his jaw.
She reached up to remove the hair pins and elastic, spirals of hair cascading down. He was watching her almost hungrily, and this both unnerved and excited her.
“Beautiful,” he said softly, clearly satisfied. “Good girl.”
Hearing this, Cassandra felt her arousal intensify. Good girl...no one had ever spoken to her like this. She might have been insulted if she wasn't so turned on. Sweet Jesus, this man.
Now his hands were up in her hair, tugging gently and combing it out with his fingers so it fanned across her bare shoulders in long curls. A long, shuddering sigh escaped her as he put his mouth to her neck, nibbling at her skin and making a path of cool, shiver-inducing kisses. He was gripping the underside of her hair, winding a section of it around his hand and causing her head to tip back—he wasn't pulling so much as just holding, but with the way she felt right now, she wasn't going anywhere, anyway.
His lips left her neck. He began kissing her again in the agonizingly slow, deliberate way he had, giving her time to think about how good his kisses felt in the space between them. His mouth, she had discovered, was as functional as it was beautiful. She had never been kissed so perfectly, although she was trying her damndest not to fully participate. She didn't want to let him know just what kind of major effect he was having on her, although given that she wasn't resisting and couldn't seem to prevent the little sounds she was making, she was pretty sure he had an idea.
“Lie down,” he said hoarsely. “I want to feel you underneath me.”
Before she could respond, he was guiding her down onto the couch and preparing to climb on top of her. “Carlo—”
He put a finger to her lips to silence her, easing himself on top of her. He shifted so their pelvises were aligned, and she involuntarily sucked in her breath when she felt his erection pressing against her.