Boss Meets Baby

by Carol Marinelli

For Emma it was heaven, everything she’d hoped for and nothing like she’d read about—no pain, just bliss, his hand working magic, his mouth back on her nipples now, and she could feel the scratch of hair on his thighs as he moved closer between her legs…

  Suddenly there was a need for more contact and he read her thoughts because he pushed her with his body onto her back and he kissed her, not just with his mouth but with his skin, all of him pinning her to the bed, and for a while just the delicious, solid weight of him had her in ecstasy. Then he moved up on his elbows, her legs parting to accommodate him, and he was there at her entrance. She wasn’t scared any more, just ready.

  She had never been more ready for something in her life.

  He was staring down at her with surprising tenderness in his eyes, a gentleness that she had never seen. And she felt as if they were starting something, as if they were going somewhere together. It wasn’t just her body she had never trusted to another, but her mind too—and in that moment she let him in, she could feel the first slow, shallow thrusts, feel the stretch of her body as it tried to accommodate him, and the barrier of resistance, and she told herself over and over that she had to remember not to love him.

  It hurt, this searing, this moment, and then it was gone—and whatever it was she had just lost, she had found so much more.

  The feel of him inside her, the wonders of her own body, rising to greet him as he entered and then resisting each withdrawal—her hips moving to meet his. There was this pull in her stomach, little licks of heat in her thighs. She couldn’t keep her eyes open, she was lost in the dark with him and she felt as if she’d been found.

  He was moving harder now, and yet she could feel him hold back, only he didn’t need to now. Her fingers ran down the length of his back, holding his buttocks and pressing him into her, and Luca had never been closer to anyone, had never been closer to himself, than he was at this moment. She was crying and he was kissing her, demanding, seeking and taking her all. He licked her tears and felt the coil of her legs tighten around him as she gave her urgent consent. He drove in, feeling her in a way he had never felt a woman, the delicious slippery grip of her, the first flickers of her orgasm beating like the first heavy raindrops of a gathering storm. He could feel her mouth on his chest, muffling the pleasure she felt, and he felt her moans vibrate through his heart. Suddenly she was climaxing and so now could he, spilling inside her as she swelled in rhythmic spasms tighter and tighter, dragging him deeper inside her.

  He wanted them in this place for ever, could feel his body winding down from the giddy rush, hear his own ragged breathing that heralded the end. Then he did something else he never had before—sated, replete and utterly spent, he looked down at where she lay beneath him and he lowered his head and kissed her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  EMMA didn’t know how she felt when she awoke alone in his bed early the next morning.

  The house was already awake, she could hear several voices and the sound of activity as the day before the wedding dawned. In a little while she would join them, would shower and go down and play the part of Luca’s girlfriend and help with the preparations in any way that she could, but not just yet.

  Now she lay, naked under the sheet, her body tender from last night and her mind surprisingly calm—remembering from a calm distance almost, accepting now what she had always known.

  That there could be no going back.

  That having made love with Luca, the countdown to the end had started.

  She had seen it so many times—with her father, with her brothers, and with Luca himself.

  The thrill of the chase, the high on capture, the intense passion of a new relationship—and then, always then, the retreat.

  She knew this, had accepted this, had factored it in coolly when she had delivered her demands, but there was one thing she hadn’t counted on. As he walked into the bedroom, carrying a laden tray and smiling into her eyes, there was an emotion almost like fear in the eyes that smiled back at him, because she had never anticipated the full effect of him—the dazzling beam of Luca when the full power of his smile, his mind, his body was aimed in her direction.

  He’d be hell to miss.

  He was dressed in jeans and nothing else. Barefoot and bare chested, he walked across the bedroom towards her, and it was a Luca she had never seen.

  Usually suited, clean shaven—even the times she had seen him dressed rather more casually, still there had been a formal air to him. But it was a different Luca in front of her now.

  Unshaven, his hair damp from the shower, it flopped forward as he bent over her. Then he took the coffee pot from the tray and put it on the bedside table before placing a tray on her lap. He looked younger somehow, less austere perhaps, and for Emma terribly, dangerously, devastatingly beautiful.

  ‘It is chaos out there.’ His thumb gestured to the bedroom door. ‘So we will hide in here for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be out there, helping?’ Emma asked, reaching for the pot of coffee, but Luca got there first.

  ‘I’ll pour,’ Luca said, then answered her question. ‘No, as I just said to my mother, we would only get in the way.’

  Only she wasn’t really listening—instead, she stared at the cup he filled. It had been a seemingly innocuous gesture, yet for Emma it was huge.

  He’d brought her breakfast in bed.

  Oh, she’d had staff knock on the door of her hotel room at six a.m. when she was travelling with Luca and bring her in her order, but never, not once in her life, had someone who wasn’t being paid prepared breakfast for her, brought it to her and expected her to just sit as they poured. Always she got up, always it was her…

  And this morning it was him.

  It was scary how nice it felt to be looked after, even in this small way.

  ‘These are pizelles. Like waffles…’ He smeared one with honey and handed it to her—and then lay on his side, propped up on one arm, his coffee in the other hand, watching her intently, scanning her features for remorse.

  ‘How are you?’ he finally asked outright.

  ‘Good,’ Emma said through a mouthful of pizelle.

  ‘Any regrets?’ he asked.

  ‘None,’ she shook her head. ‘You?’

  ‘None—so long as you’re okay?’ he pressed.

  ‘The first time’s supposed to be awful,’ she murmured a little wickedly.

  ‘Says who?’ he asked, outraged.

  ‘I read it in a magazine.’

  Luca rolled his eyes.

  ‘If that was awful…’ Emma giggled ‘…I can’t wait for bad!’

  ‘Throw away the magazines, baby…’ He took her coffee cup and her pizelle away and straddled her on the bed. ‘I’ll teach you everything I know.’

  It was such a different Luca, as if she’d been looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope. His energy was lighter, funnier, sexier even, if that were possible. They shared breakfast and then each other, and then they left the chaotic household and had a picnic on the beach.

  This time she didn’t slip away when it was time to ring her father, she just sat on the blanket and laughed and listened to him reminiscing, and it was so much easier with Luca lying there beside her.

  ‘I’ll sort out the back fees for the home,’ Luca said as she clicked off the phone. She turned to him, appalled.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I read the letter the nursing home gave you,’ he admitted shamelessly.

  ‘That’s reprehensible!’ She was furious, embarrassed… And then he kissed her.

  ‘Sorted,’ Luca said, and he caught her eyes, ‘You’ve helped me—now I can help you. I absolutely insist on it.’

  And it was probably no big deal to him, except for Emma it was.

  She felt the lightness as six months of worry slipped away, felt the elation as they ran down to the beach and enjoyed the late afternoon, felt the joy of being a couple, having someone to lean on, helping each other out.

>   And then Emma did a stupid thing.

  As he kissed her in the salty sea, as she felt the waves rush round them and the chase of his tongue in her mouth, she started to wonder.

  Started to hope.

  Their day at the beach had brought a glow to her skin and on the morning of the wedding Emma massaged in body oil, glad of the peace in their bedroom and the chance, for once, to take her time getting ready, without Luca snapping his fingers and telling her she looked fine as she was.

  Most of the house had been commandeered by the bride and her entourage. The whir of the hairdryer had been continual from eight a.m. and there was a constant stream of flowers, including the traditional arrival of flowers for the bride from the groom, which Emma was summoned down in her dressing gown to witness. As Rico was conserving his depleted energy for the wedding, Luca had stepped into father-of-the-bride duty and Emma had a little giggle to herself to see the usually unruffled Luca, who could handle the most difficult client or tense boardroom meeting with ease, just a touch frazzled as he dealt not just with his sister’s theatrics but vases and flowers and the hairdresser, who was trying to locate a free power point for heated rollers.

  Yes, their bedroom was a nice place to be!

  Because she could, Emma spent time on her hair, attempting what a hairdresser had once, when she’d been to her brother Rory’s wedding—taking several curls at a time and wrapping them around her wand till it fell in one thick heavy ringlet. Over and over she did this and for once her hair behaved, for once Emma was pleased with the results.

  The hot September weather meant foundation wouldn’t see the service out, so she put just a slip of silver eye shadow on her lids, relying mainly on lashings of mascara, a quick sweep of pink on her cheeks and a shimmer of tinted lip gloss. In her dash to shop and get ready for the trip, Emma had relied heavily on the stylist’s suggestion of a suitable dress, although Emma hadn’t been at all sure that it was right for a wedding when she’d tried it on in the boutique.

  The silver-grey dress had looked very plain, if a touch short, in the shop, but the assistant had assured her it would look marvellous with the right shoes and makeup.

  It did.

  It slipped over her head, the material shimmering more in the natural light and the superb cut of the delicate fabric turned her most loathed bits into voluptuous curves.

  Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Emma was slightly taken aback by what she saw. It was as if she’d grown up in these few days—gone from young lady to woman, and Emma knew it had little to do with her birthday and a lot more to do with the man who was now walking into the bedroom.

  ‘I must get changed…’ His voice trailed off as she turned to face him—and he suddenly felt that walking into his room to find her there was like coming across a haven of tranquility in a madhouse.

  He’d appreciated her all morning—so many of his girlfriends would have been demanding their hour with the hairdresser while simultaneously demanding yet more of his time, yet Emma had left him to deal with his family—no sulking, or pouting, just that lovely smile when she’d briefly come down, and now he’d walked into the bedroom to this. Oh, he’d seen her dressed formally on many occasions, only this was different—a wedding, a family affair, his Luca plus one.

  His diamonds on her ears were as sparkling as her eyes and there was that glimpse again, that small glimpse of how life could be for him if he hadn’t made the choices that he had.

  Of a life he could have with her.

  ‘We leave in ten minutes,’ he said, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion. He’d already showered and shaved, so he quickly pulled off his casual shirt and trousers and dressed in the dark wedding suit and gunmetal grey tie that had been chosen for the men of the wedding party, or rather that Emma had chosen for them. He had refused, point blank, to consider the burgundy monstrosities his sister had insisted would match the bridesmaids, and Emma had found the perfect one.

  Not the one, but the perfect one.

  Making a rare effort, he combed some sculpting gel through his thick hair then splashed on cologne. He filled his pockets with various envelopes for the priest and the band and then, when his head was around it, when more rational thought had descended, he spoke.

  ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave a brief smile at his clipped tone, insecure enough to worry that he privately thought she looked awful.

  ‘I will be busy today, back and forth with relatives. With my father ill, that duty…’

  ‘It’s no problem.’ Emma smiled, putting some tissues in her bag and then squirting her perfume—just as she always did last thing before they went out. It was these little things he was noticing, Luca realised, these small details that added up to Emma. Her perfume was reaching him and her entire being was too.

  Today was a day he had been dreading for months, since— the wedding date had been announced and the preparations had begun. It had hung over him like a black cloud—being with his family, all his family, smiling and joking and keeping up the pretence, the charade, that there was no rotten core to the D’Amatos—yet here in this room he could breathe.

  He couldn’t not kiss her.

  He lowered his head and his lips gently found hers, just pressing a little into the luscious flesh of her mouth, and he felt a flutter of something sweet and good and right settle.

  Only their lips met, gently touching, barely moving, just tiny pulse-like kisses as they breathed each other’s air, and it was a kiss like no other, this rare, weary tenderness from Luca that made her feel beautiful and wanted and somehow sad too.

  ‘This is so much better with you here.’

  There was a sting at the back of her throat and she couldn’t understand why something so nice should make her feel like crying.

  ‘It could always be.’ She’d crossed the line, she knew she had. She’d taken the present and hinted at a future—there was suddenly no breath on her cheek as Luca stilled, no acknowledgment as to what she had said, but it circled in the air between them.

  ‘We must go.’ He waited at the bedroom door as with shaking hands she reapplied her lip gloss, catching her eyes in the mirror and giving herself a stern reminder of the terms that she had agreed to.

  It was the most gorgeous, moving wedding.

  Even if she couldn’t understand much of what was said, even if she was here under false pretences and was supposed to be playing a part, the tears that filled her eyes weren’t manufactured as the proud, frail father of the bride walked his glowing daughter down the aisle.

  There were only two dry eyes in the church and they both belonged to Luca.

  He stood, taller than the rest, his back ramrod straight, and though he did all the right things, there was a remoteness to him—an irritable edge that Emma couldn’t quite define, an impatience perhaps for the service to be over. For the second it was, the first moment that he could, she felt his hand tighten around hers as he led her swiftly outside.

  ‘These two will be next!’ Mia teased, holding her husband’s hand, laughing and chatting with her relatives.

  ‘When?’ Rico’s eyes met his son’s.

  ‘Leave it, Pa,’ Luca said, but Rico could not.

  ‘What about the D’Amato name?’ he pressed.

  ‘Soon, Rico!’ Mia soothed. ‘I’m sure it will happen soon.’

  There was an exquisitely uncomfortable moment, because it was clear soon was far too long for Rico, but his brother Rinaldo lightened things. ‘They leave things much longer now.’ He squeezed his young wife’s waist. ‘Not like me…’ He kissed her heavily made-up cheek then murmured, ‘I wasn’t going to let you slip away.’

  As Rico greeted other guests and Rinaldo and his wife drifted off, Mia chided Luca for his stern expression, talking in Italian then giving a brief translation for Emma.

  ‘Luca was close to Zia Maria, Rinaldo’s first wife,’ she explained to Emma, then looked over at Luca. ‘You cannot expect him to be on his own.’
r />   ‘He didn’t even wait a year,’ Luca retorted, his voice ice-cold on this warm day.

  ‘Luca—not here,’ Mia pleaded, then turned to Emma. ‘Come, let me introduce you to my sister.’

  Emma lost Luca along the way, chatting to aunts, congratulating Daniela—really, she was doing well. Through her work she knew enough about Luca to answer the most difficult questions, though it would have been far easier if he was by her side.

  They were starting to call relatives for more photos now and she found him behind the church, walking between the tombstones, standing and pausing, his shoulders rigid, almost as if he were at a funeral rather than a wedding.

  ‘You’re wanted for the photos,’ she said softly, her eyes following his gaze to the tombstone he was reading.

  ‘My grandmother,’ Luca explained.

  ‘She was so young,’ Emma said, reading the inscription. His grandmother had been little older than her mother when she’d died.

  ‘I don’t remember her really—a little perhaps.’ He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but clearly from his grim expression it did. ‘And this is Zia Maria. I do remember her…’

  Emma licked dry lips as she saw the young age of his aunt too. ‘Rinaldo’s first wife…’

  ‘She was a lovely woman.’ His voice was tender in memory, and pensive too.

  ‘I know what you meant about Rinaldo…’ He closed his eyes on her as if she couldn’t possibly know, but Emma did. ‘About not even waiting a year to remarry. I hated how many girlfriends my dad had. I know now that Mum had left him and everything, but he started dating so soon after…’

  Now that she knew, it was as if her brain was finally allowing her to remember—patchy, hazy memories that she couldn’t really see but could feel—a woman who wasn’t her mother kissing her father, women’s things in the bathroom, the sound of female laughter drifting across the landing to her bedroom as she lay weeping into the pillow and wanting her mother.

  ‘They make me sick!’ He shook his head, then raked his hair back in a gesture of tense frustration. ‘Just leave it.’

  And she had no choice but to do that, because now really wasn’t the time. ‘We should get back anyway.’ She turned to go, but he was still staring at his aunt’s grave and Emma guessed he must be painfully aware that in a matter of days or weeks he would be back here in the graveyard to bury his father. Only she didn’t understand what he was doing here today, when everyone was trying to be happy, reminding himself when he should be forgetting.