The Secret the Italian Claims

by Jennie Lucas

  “L-lessons?”

  He stroked his hand along her cheek, rubbing his thumb against her lower lip. “How to truly please me.”

  Hallie’s eyes went wide. “Have I not pleased you?”

  He placed a single finger against her lips.

  “You have, cara,” he said huskily. “But I want more. Not for me. For you.”

  “There’s more?” she whispered.

  He smiled. “Even after two weeks of marriage, you are still so innocent.” His hungry eyes met hers. “I will teach you how to know what you want and how to get it. I will teach you,” he whispered, cupping her cheek, “how to experience a different level of pleasure entirely.”

  He kissed her, leaving her breathless and clinging to him. Reaching back, he pulled out the elastic of her ponytail, and her dark hair tumbled down her bare back. Roughly he yanked down her black sleeveless cocktail dress, dropping it to the floor. She stood shyly before him in only her tiny black lace panties, her naked breasts heavy and full.

  With a low growl, he pushed her back against the window. Behind them was a vision of Rome, the sweep of cathedrals and Roman ruins spread across the hills, illuminating the darkness at their feet.

  “The first rule is,” he said in a low voice, “don’t hold back.”

  He pushed his knee between her bare legs, gripping her wrists against the window as he kissed down her throat. She gasped with pleasure.

  This is wrong, she thought, so wrong. Anyone could look up and see them through the window. She should put a stop to this. Be modest. Be...

  Sensual kisses caused swirls of pleasure to cascade down her body. She wanted more. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to feel him.

  The first rule is don’t hold back.

  Yanking her wrists from his grasp, she folded her arms around his shoulders, drawing him against her. She kissed him back hungrily, matching his fire. But unlike her, Cristiano was still fully clothed. It didn’t seem fair.

  Grabbing the top of his shirt, she ripped it down the front, scattering buttons against the floor. She sighed in pleasure as her hands roamed the warm satin of his skin over the hard muscle of his chest, laced with dark hair. She squeezed his nipples and luxuriated in the sound of his gasp, followed by a low masculine growl.

  He wrapped his hands over the back of her black lace panties, which had cost three hundred euros at a very nice lingerie shop on the Via Condotti. As she felt his hand move forward between her legs, she was wet and aching. Pulling him closer, she kissed him hard.

  With a growl, he ripped off the black panties, leaving them a pile of crumpled lace on the floor.

  “Please,” she whispered. Amazed at her own boldness, she reached down to unzip his black trousers.

  He gave a jagged intake of breath. With a single motion, he pushed down his silk boxer briefs. Using both hands, he lifted her backside, pushing her up against the window, as her legs wrapped around his hips.

  Then he pushed inside her with a single, deep thrust.

  Feeling him so thick and hard inside her, she moaned, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the glass. Her hair tumbled around them as she gripped his shoulders. As he moved, she didn’t care anymore who might be watching. She didn’t even pause to wonder if the window could break. She knew only she couldn’t let him stop.

  Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he pumped inside her, hard and fast. Her full breasts pushed against his hard muscles, the hair of his chest rubbing against her sensitive nipples. She gasped with pleasure as, with each thrust, he filled her more deeply. Her legs tightened around his hips as she built higher and higher until, with a gasp, he exploded into her the moment she screamed his name.

  Screamed quietly, of course, so as not to wake the baby. Even lost and frantic with abandon, though she might have been willing to risk shattering the window to fall to her death on the streets of Rome, she wasn’t going to risk waking their sleeping infant. She was wanton, she was bold. But she wasn’t insane.

  For long moments afterward, sweaty and panting for breath, they held each other, collapsing against the enormous bed, their naked bodies intertwined.

  “All right,” Cristiano said in a low voice.

  “What?” she said sleepily, lifting her head from his shoulder.

  His expression was blank, his handsome features half-hidden in shadow. “I’ll buy you a house.”

  Joy filled her heart. “You will?”

  “But you must let me choose where.”

  “I don’t even care where,” she lied, pushing away her longing for her friends in New York. What difference did the location make? As long as their family had their own place with a garden, and they could live in one place long enough to make friends and really settle in, what did she care?

  “You won’t be sorry,” she said tearfully. “We’ll be so happy. You’ll see. You won’t regret it.”

  Cristiano looked at her, his eyes glittering in the shadows. “I regret it already.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CRISTIANO RARELY DID things for others, and he never did anything he did not want to do.

  But perhaps there was something in do-gooding after all. Because the moment he decided to buy a house to please his wife, he’d discovered one for sale on the Amalfi Coast that was spectacularly satisfying for him to acquire. Especially at a cut-rate price.

  Just weeks after he’d made his promise to her, their Rolls-Royce approached the magnificent estate on the rugged cliffs of the Amalfi Coast a short distance from the village of Cavello. A wave of euphoria went through Cristiano.

  It was his.

  He remembered the first time he’d passed through this same tall wrought-iron gate, surrounded by old stone walls. He’d been young then, newly orphaned, utterly penniless. And obsessed with revenge.

  Luigi Bennato had been kind from the beginning. Strange for a man who’d ruthlessly rejected his infant son, in order to focus on building his small luxury hotel chain. But Cristiano had been coldly determined to impress him. And he had. Bennato had seen something in eighteen-year-old Cristiano, something no one else had.

  But he didn’t detect everything. He didn’t see that Cristiano was his long-abandoned son.

  Why would he? Even if he’d remembered Cristiano’s mother, her name then had been Violetta Rossi. Moretti was the name of the man who’d been her husband when Cristiano was born. Her first husband. Her second husband had been an Englishman, her third an American. Both horrible stepfathers, whose only gift to Cristiano had been teaching him English. After a third screaming divorce, his mother had given up on marriage and focused on love affairs that were increasingly short, violent and toxic.

  But Luigi Bennato was the man who’d destroyed her first. According to Violetta, before she’d met him, she’d been an innocent virgin who’d never tasted wine. Bennato had seduced her, then tossed her out of his life when she’d fallen pregnant and refused to have the abortion he demanded.

  His mother had told Cristiano the story repeatedly when he was growing up. She’d always ended it the same way. “And Luigi was right,” she’d say with a swill of bourbon and a raspy cough. “I should have done what he wanted. Then I’d be happy!”

  After his mother’s death, eighteen-year-old Cristiano had stood at her grave and felt nothing. What kind of man would feel nothing at the death of his own mother?

  It was then that he knew himself for a monster.

  But, standing in the rain, he’d had a new thought, one that lit a fire deep inside him. One that made him feel warm for the first time in his life.

  Revenge. He had let the word settle against his lips, caressing it like a lover.

  Vendetta. He’d loved the rhythm in his mouth.

  Rivincita. He’d felt his tongue brush softly against his teeth.

  He would have his revenge on the man who’d fi
rst made his mother a monster, so she in turn could make one of Cristiano.

  And he’d had his revenge. In just three years, Cristiano got his vengeance. He’d claimed the ruined palazzo in Rome for himself, with Luigi’s rival as his investor. He’d left Luigi’s company in tatters.

  Cristiano marked his adulthood from that moment. His revenge had been the act that had defined his life. The first step on a path that had made him richer than his wildest dreams.

  The truth was it had been almost too easy. He still couldn’t believe how quickly and completely Bennato had trusted him. It was almost, he thought sardonically, as if the man had wanted to be destroyed.

  Now Cristiano was more powerful than Luigi Bennato had ever been. He was famous. Better in every way.

  It still wasn’t enough. Some part of him craved more, wanted to crush the ashes of the man’s life smaller still. Which was why he’d chosen Cavello as the site of his newest Campania Hotel.

  The old man’s business had long since gone bankrupt, without enough capital to refurbish the hotels to satisfy the constant demands of perfection that a wealthy clientele required. Bennato’s three small luxury hotels, once the jewels of Capri, Sardinia and Sorrento, had all long been demolished and replaced.

  Several times over the years, Luigi had tried to contact him. Cristiano had never responded. He had no interest in listening to the man’s angry recriminations. Let the man figure out for himself why Cristiano had destroyed him.

  It was now seventeen years after he’d first entered the stately villa once owned by Bennato, and Cristiano had bought it for himself. The bankrupt, lonely old man was living in the former housekeeper’s tiny house outside Cavello.

  Life could be full of unexpected joys, Cristiano thought with satisfaction. As the Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the grand courtyard of the elegant nineteenth-century villa, he smiled to himself, glancing at Hallie, waiting for her reaction.

  Her eyes were huge as she looked from the villa to the terraced, manicured gardens overlooking the sea. She’s in shock, he thought smugly. He was already keenly anticipating the sensual expressions of her gratitude later.

  Their driver, Marco, opened the door and helped Hallie out of the car with the baby. Behind them parked an SUV carrying Agata, Salvatore and all the luggage.

  Hallie’s mouth was open as she looked out over the vastness of the estate, which had once been owned by the King of Naples.

  “Welcome to your new home,” Cristiano said. He waited for her cries of joy, for her to fling her arms around him and kiss him with the intensity of her delight.

  She simply held their baby, looking up blankly at the palatial villa.

  “Our home,” he said encouragingly. “Just like you wanted.”

  Looking at him, Hallie shook her head. “This wasn’t what I had in mind at all.”

  “It’s the grandest house on the Amalfi Coast. What can you possibly dislike?”

  “It’s too big.”

  “Too big?” he said incredulously. How could anything be too big?

  Hallie looked at him. “It’s like a hotel.”

  “We’ll be the only ones living here.”

  “We’ll need a megaphone to find each other.”

  He frowned. “And the gardens—what do you find wrong with those?”

  Slowly she looked around the manicured gardens, from the formal hedge maze to the perfectly arranged flowers and palm trees overlooking the blue Tyrrhenian Sea.

  “It’s...like a park,” she said. Turning back to face him, she shook her head. “How can I possibly take care of it all?”

  “We’ll have staff, of course.”

  “Oh.” She looked oddly dejected. Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.

  “Would you prefer a sad, broken-down apartment?” he said shortly. “Where you can hear neighbors screaming and your windows get smashed by thieves? Where the electricity is often out and even your few, most precious possessions can disappear at any moment to pay for—”

  For your mother’s whiskey, he’d almost said. He caught himself just in time.

  “No. Of course not.” Putting her hand on his arm, Hallie gave him an apologetic smile. “You’re right. I’m being a jerk.”

  He didn’t respond. He was suddenly picturing his mother the last time he’d seen her. Violetta’s face had been bruised and bleeding from her lover’s fists, and she’d been screaming at Cristiano for trying to defend her. That was his last memory of her face. He’d returned hours later to find her house ablaze.

  He could still feel the searing pain of the flames when he’d nearly died trying to get inside to save her. He could hear the crackle of the fire and the furious howl of grief that rose to the dark sky when they brought her body out of the embers and ash.

  “I’m so sorry.” Feeling Hallie’s hand against his cheek, he focused on her again. “I’ve made you upset, haven’t I?”

  “No,” he bit out.

  “I can see I have. I’m sorry for sounding so ungrateful. The house is beautiful. Thank you.”

  Reaching up on her tiptoes, she kissed him. Taking her roughly in his arms, he kissed her back hungrily until their baby, still held on Hallie’s hip, complained about the close quarters, and they both pulled away with rueful laughs.

  Tilting her head back to look at the palatial villa, she said, “I’ll try to get used to it.”

  Cristiano took her hand. “Come see inside.”

  As they walked through the long hallways, over the tiled floors and past the antique furniture and tapestries, Hallie obligingly oohed and aahed over every detail he pointed out. Having gotten over the initial shock, she seemed determined to be pleased.

  He’d arranged for new furniture to be put in the master bedroom and the baby’s nursery next door. Finally they walked out onto the villa’s wide terrace and Hallie approached the railing. Beneath the hot August sun, hungrily she drank in the incredible view as soft sea breezes lazily blew tendrils of her hair.

  “Wow. Maybe this place isn’t so bad.” With a laugh, she glanced back at him with sparkling eyes.

  But Cristiano didn’t return her smile. As he looked out at the magnificent view of the sea and the village clinging precipitously to the rugged cliffs on the other side of the bay, he was overwhelmed by the memory of the last time he’d stood on this terrace. He could still see Luigi’s bright eyes, the man’s chubby cheeks smiling as he’d said, “My boy, this palazzo in Rome, this is going to be the thing for us! It will take our company global!”

  Our company, Luigi had said. Our. The memory was like a rough piece of cut glass on Cristiano’s soul because, after three years of working for the man, Cristiano had started to like him, even respect him. Bennato had been generous, kind. He’d treated Cristiano almost like a son.

  He shook the memory away angrily. If Bennato had wanted a son, he shouldn’t have thrown Violetta and Cristiano away like trash. The old man deserved what he’d gotten. Bennato was the one who’d taught Cristiano the lesson: Life meant every man for himself.

  And yet, suddenly, Cristiano didn’t enjoy owning the villa as much as he’d thought he would. Thinking of the times he’d ignored Luigi’s calls over the years, he wondered what the old man would have said.

  “The view is incredible,” Hallie whispered. She wiped her eyes surreptitiously. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me. You don’t know how I’ve longed to have a real home where we can stay forever and ever.”

  He opened his mouth to inform her that after the Cavello hotel opened in two weeks, they would still be traveling to Asia on schedule. He’d bought this house as a temporary amusement, perhaps a long-term investment. But he doubted they’d return to Italy for another six months, or perhaps even a year.

  As he looked down at her, though, the happiness in Hallie’s face made him change his mind. Her caramel-brown ey
es glowed at him.

  He didn’t want her to stop looking at him that way.

  “You’re welcome,” he said softly, taking her hand. Together they looked out at the picturesque rocky coastline plummeting into the blue sea.

  Later that night, as they slept together in the palatial master bedroom, with the windows open to salty sea breezes scented with tropical flowers, Hallie made him very, very glad that he’d made her so happy.

  But he could make her happy anywhere, Cristiano told himself afterward, as she slept so contentedly in his arms. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Yes, he’d bought her a house. He’d never promised they would stay.

  Cristiano looked toward the terrace, toward the moonlit sea. His arms tightened around his wife. He had promised himself long ago never to sacrifice his own needs for another’s. And he never would.

  Life meant every man for himself, he thought. Even in marriage.

  * * *

  After just two weeks of living in her new home on the Amalfi Coast, Hallie felt she had fallen into sunshine and joy.

  She sang all the time. Songs about dreaming of love and falling in love and being in love.

  For no particular reason, of course.

  Hallie was thrilled to have a home at last. A place, as she’d told her husband, where they could stay forever and ever. Even as formal as the villa was, with its endless gardens, the view was breathtaking from every window, looking out with a sharp drop to the sea. And when she went outside the villa’s gate, no one bothered her here. No paparazzi. No fashion bloggers sneaking pictures of Jack. Here, Hallie could just be herself.

  It was true that Cristiano hadn’t been around much. He often worked eighteen-hour days, personally overseeing the final touches of the lavish new hotel in Cavello, on the opposite cliff, while still running his worldwide empire.

  And if he’d broken her dinner rules a few times, disappearing from the house before dawn and not returning until well after midnight when she and Jack were asleep, well, she’d decided to bend the rules. He was busy. Hallie could understand. He’d given her what she wanted most—a home, and she’d tried to be flexible. She hadn’t even complained.