by Kat Walters
Isabella wrapped her arms around her chest and held on tight. She was worried about Anna. Her sister had looked so fragile on the drive over to the apartment, but at least Anna had cried. Isabella wanted to feel something. Something other than this void opening up inside her. Her father was dead. Her mother was dead. Anna was the only family she had in this world.
Isabella stared out the large glass window to the view of London spread out below her. No one had bothered turning on the lights when they came in, and the living room was still in darkness. Light spilled from the open door of Alessandro's study, but Isabella remained in the dark, almost concealed by the shadows. She didn't want bright or loud. She didn't think her fragile nerves could handle that tonight.
Alessandro was on the phone with his brothers. His family.
Isabella hated the mood she was in, she was tired of feeling sad. No, it wasn't sadness, it was self-pity. It was a waste of time. She was back in London. Anna was getting the help she needed, and soon her life would be just the way she'd always dreamed it would be. Without Alessandro. Stop. She huffed an irritable sigh and trailed her fingers across the cool glass. The lights of London sparkled. All those lives going on below her. It was an impressive view. A view that spoke of power and success. A view fit for the Alessandro DeLaurentises of this world. Isabella wanted to smile at that thought, but she couldn't summon the energy.
More than any of his other properties, this one reminded her of the man she had first met. The cold, arrogant man obsessed with revenge. The man determined to destroy her father. Her father was dead. Isabella still couldn't feel anything. She wanted to; she wanted to feel something, even anger would do. She hugged herself tighter, shivered despite the warmth of the apartment. Anna was already in bed. Apart from the soft cadence of Alessandro's voice coming from the study, the apartment was quiet.
He didn't know she was out here. She had guessed that from the personal nature of the conversation he was having with his brothers. As soon as they had arrived back at the apartment, Isabella had gone to take a shower. She had felt an overwhelming need to wash the funeral off her skin. Waiting in the room for him, though, she had grown restless. And now? Should she slip quietly away, pretend she hadn't heard his conversation?
'It's done. Henry Sullivan is dead.' Said in such a flat monotone. If he had been smug, satisfied even, then maybe she could have dredged up some anger, some righteous indignation. She could have screamed at him for daring to talk about his years-old feud with Henry on the day she buried her father.
But no. She couldn't even feel angry. She felt nothing. Isabella stared down at the black snaking shape of the Thames far below her, the city lights and her own reflection in the dark glass. There was silence now in Alessandro's study. If she was going to pretend she hadn't heard him, now was the time to slip away.
She didn't. The reflection in the glass showed her the moment he stepped into the room. Her eyes caught the startled look quickly masked. Alessandro stepped towards her but then stopped, scrubbed a hand over his face, and shoved his hands into his pockets.
"I'm sorry you heard that."
"But not sorry you said it."
Alessandro sighed. He looked tired. As tired as she felt, but she still didn't turn around to face him.
"Isabella?" He took another step closer, but he kept his hands in his pockets. "He was your father. I am sorry for your loss." His eyes were on hers in the glass.
A bitter smile flashed across her face. She saw it in her reflection, knew Alessandro had seen it too. She tried to absorb his words. Her loss. What had she lost? Her feelings for her father were so confused. Henry had never wanted her, never loved her, and yet she had spent years of her childhood trying to please him. She had spent years longing for a bit of his attention. Now he was gone. Dead.
Henry Sullivan was dead. He had been admired by a few, but most people had feared him. Although he'd never been a kind man, he had been larger than life and charming when he wanted to be. But loved? Had anyone loved Henry? Had she loved him? Even a little bit? And if she had, what did that make her? Henry Sullivan's daughter. The sins of the father…
She drew in a shaky breath, turned to face Alessandro. "I don't want to talk about Henry anymore."
"What do you want, Isabella?"
You.
Alessandro didn't step any closer, but the air around them crackled, charged with the sexual heat that was always between them.
"I want to forget about Henry."
Isabella waited.
Alessandro took a step towards her, and she closed the distance, closed her eyes when his fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. She felt his breath on her face and then his lips on hers. His kiss was light and so tender that she had to squeeze her eyes tight to hold her tears back. Isabella pushed her body against his, wanting to feel his body molding hers. She needed to feel his strength against her. Inside her. His kiss deepened, and she wound her arms around his neck. His hands were on her bottom, lifting her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and let him carry her to his bedroom.
He placed her gently on her feet beside the bed while he turned and closed the door. He was tall and dark and unbelievably handsome. He stood by the bed and watched her, seeing too much. Isabella sucked in a breath at the desire and tenderness she saw in his eyes.
"I don't want you to be gentle," she whispered desperately. His eyes pierced her to her very core, and then he was holding her. He was kissing her and loving her with his mouth, his lips, his tongue. He whispered fiercely as he kissed her neck.
"You may not want it, Isabella, but you need it."
She shook her head forcefully. "No."
But Alessandro was claiming her mouth again, ignoring her protest. He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her onto the bed, and then lay beside her. Alessandro drew her closer. He kissed her wet cheeks, and slowly, with infinite patience, he kissed her closed eyes, her jaw. He raised her arms over her head and removed her top, cupping her breasts, stroking them, rubbing his thumb across her nipple before taking it into his mouth. First, her left nipple and then her right one. Kissing and sucking but so gently that her desire uncoiled slowly, wound its way up her body until she arched into him, a sigh escaping her lips at last.
Isabella opened her eyes and watched the way Alessandro was looking at her. As if he was trying to memorize the lines and curves of her body. His hands glided over her skin, barely touching her, and she ached, needing more. He ignored her frustrated moan, kissed it from her lips as he continued to explore her body with his mouth.
When his lips reached her inner thigh, and his tongue traced the line between hip and thigh, she arched her hips upwards, and at last, he gave her what she wanted, slipping two fingers inside her heat. She was caught in a whirlwind of sensual pleasure, tension building, carrying her higher.
How did he know this was what she needed? This slow, sensual love of her body. How did he know? How did he know her better than she knew herself?
"Ssh, Isabella." He pressed his lips to her stomach. "Stop thinking." His mouth moved lower, over her mound, banishing all her thoughts. He skilfully directed her body until she broke wide open, crying his name.
Her eyes were still closed when she felt him between her thighs, and before she had even fully recovered, he was inside her, and that coiling tension was building once more.
"Open your eyes."
He moved so slowly. It was agony and torture that she never wanted to end. Alessandro's eyes held hers the entire time, but it was too intense. She couldn't do it. Her eyes slid closed, blocking out the black intensity of his passion. He pressed his mouth to hers, forcing it open, kissing her deeply.
"Open your eyes. Look at me. I want to see your eyes as you come."
Isabella was powerless against that demand. She opened her eyes despite her fear of what he would see in them but the heat and intensity in his eyes trapped her, sucked her in. She was lost. At last, realizing she didn't have anything to hide from this man. He
knew. Every feeling. Every thought. He knew. As she came, he pressed his mouth to hers, absorbing her cries, but he never took his eyes off her. His eyes held her heart as it came down, as it slowed. Just as his arms wrapped around her body, and pulled her tight against his chest.
Alessandro tightened his arm around Isabella, pulling her closer while his other hand stroked lightly up and down her spine. Her head rested on his chest, and all he could think about was how right it felt for her head to be there. How good it felt, how good she felt. He breathed in her intoxicating scent, pressed his lips to her head. He didn't want to let her go. The thought was so sudden, so overwhelming. He didn't want to let her go.
But what did he want? Another week? His body rejected that thought almost violently, every muscle tensing in response.
"Alex?" She trailed her fingers across his chest. "What's wrong?"
He pressed his lips to her temple. "Nothing, Izzy." His fingers tunneled their way through her silky hair, cupping her head and turning it up to him. Her mouth was a breath away from his, but he hesitated, almost too scared to kiss her now. Too afraid to own that what he felt for her wasn't going to change.
"Liar," she whispered, startling him, and he smiled, relaxing once more. What was he so afraid of? They had tonight, and of course, he felt regret that his time with Isabella was ending. What sort of man would he be if he didn't? That didn't mean…
"How did your father die?" Isabella pushed up on one elbow, and she was looking down at him, those big green eyes so serious. He was silent a long time.
"He killed himself."
Her eyes slid shut but not before he had seen the startling pain in their depths. She put her head down on his chest, not looking at him, not saying anything, and maybe that was why he told her. Why he told her the one thing, he had never been able to tell anyone else.
"I went to see her… my mother. After she left us. My father heard she was in Rome for a few days, she was with your fa… she was with Henry. Living with him. Traveling with him. By all accounts, she never left his side." Alessandro tried to keep his voice steady, but even he heard the bitterness that crept in. "Even knowing this, my father still wanted her back. He could have survived anything life threw at him, anything but losing her."
Isabella was still in his arms, her hand resting lightly on his chest. Absently, his hand resumed stroking her back. It was fitting that she knew the whole story, that she understood.
"My father asked me to go see her. She wouldn't see him, wouldn't take his calls, returned his letters unopened, but he knew that she wouldn't refuse to see me."
"How old were you?"
"Sixteen." Alessandro felt himself tensing, and he knew Isabella felt it too. Her arm wrapped around his waist.
"I begged her to come home, to come back to us. I begged," his voice sounded ragged, broken, but he couldn't hide this from her. He wasn't sure he even wanted to. "She said no… she said," Alessandro paused, his mind back in that room with his mother. "She said, 'He has to let me go.' That was it. Then she turned and walked away. I haven't spoken to her since that day." He felt Isabella's lips on his chest, and he exhaled a shaky breath, unaware of how his arm tightened around her. "That night, my father shot himself. I think he finally knew she wasn't coming back."
"You found him." It wasn't a question. "Your brothers?"
"They weren't there. I have a recurring nightmare that I'm on my hands and knees trying to wash his blood out of the carpet, but it never comes clean. I'm scrubbing and scrubbing, but instead of coming clean, the stain is spreading, and then I look down, and my hands are covered in blood."
He didn't say anything for a long time, and neither did she.
"He loved her so much." Isabella sounded sad, thoughtful.
"Too much."
Isabella looked up at him then, really looked at him. She opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it. Before he could ask her what she was going to say, she pressed her mouth to his, silencing him with a kiss. Instead, she loved him with her hands and her lips.
Alessandro woke before dawn. Isabella was wrapped up in his arms, their legs tangled together beneath the covers. He couldn't say precisely what had woken him. His chest felt tight as though a weight was pressing down on him. It was fear, he realized sharply. Fear like he hadn't felt in years.
He pulled gently out of her arms and climbed from the bed. Alessandro couldn't drag enough air into his lungs. What was happening to him? The nightmare. He hadn't had it in years. That was what had woken him. That was the reason for his panic.
His eyes strayed back to the bed. To Isabella. She slept on, the dark shadows under her eyes hinting at the stress of the last few days. Her hair fell across her face, and he almost leaned across and brushed it back, but he clenched his hands to his side. He couldn't let himself touch her. Isabella deserved better than him. She deserved love, and that was something he could never give her. That was something he would never give any woman. Love had killed his father. His mother might not have pulled the trigger, but she might as well have. The result was the same.
By the time Isabella woke, Alessandro was halfway to Rome. He left no message for her but she was not surprised to find herself alone when she woke. In fact, she didn't so much as stretch out her hand to feel for him. She lay still, with her eyes closed, her lips pressed firmly together. For a minute, then she exhaled a shaky breath, pushed the hurt deep down inside her, and resolutely turned her thoughts to the future.
Chapter 9
Two Years Later
Isabella stared back at him. Sultry, beautiful, sexy as hell. A strand of hair fell loosely across one cheek. Her lips were parted, curving into a devilish come-hither smile.
Isabella?
Alessandro stared at the photo on his screen. His chest grew tight; he couldn't breathe. Isabella Ferrante. Director and principal dancer of the Elena Ferrante Dance Company. Isabella. Now? Two years almost to the day that she had walked into his London office. Alessandro forced himself to breathe, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. Isabella.
Alessandro had looked for her, but like the coward he was, he had left it too late. For four months, he had convinced himself that all he had to do was work hard and he would forget her. He had worked every hour he could, barely sleeping, barely eating. No matter what he did, he couldn't banish the emptiness he felt without her. Eventually, his brothers had intervened. They had taken him to a bar, bought him drink after drink until all his legendary self-control shattered.
Alessandro told them everything, everything he had told Isabella. He described begging their mother to come home. How later that night he had found their father's body. He even told them about the money their mother had sent them after the funeral. Blood money, he had called it at the time, but now he wasn't so sure. His mother had loved them in her own way.
Finally, he told them about Isabella. Alessandro smirked now as he remembered his brothers' faces after hearing the true story of how he and Isabella had met. He told them everything. From their first meeting in London to the night he walked out on her.
Everything. The way Isabella had blushed nervously as she propositioned him the first time. He loved that memory. The bright shade of red that infused her cheeks when she'd suggested playing the part of his mistress if he would help her with Anna. Then he told them about her dancing and how it tore him apart in a way that he didn't even understand. Her courage and dignity… the pain and loss she had experienced, yet she still found the courage to be vulnerable and open.
Alessandro found he couldn't stop talking about her. He didn't even want to try. In that instant, it had been clear to him. He was in love with Isabella.
All these years, Alessandro had been scared of what love would do to him. He was so scared that he had walked away from the only woman he had ever loved, yet… it made no difference. He was in a hell of his own making, without her.
He knew then that it wasn't love he was afraid of. He was scared that if he let himself l
ove Isabella, she would eventually leave him, and he would never survive the loss. His mother had said she loved him, but she had walked away. His father had said he loved him, but he had chosen death. By refusing to love, he thought he'd been saving himself from that kind of abandonment all over again.
Alessandro exhaled slowly, still staring at the photo of Isabella. He was still without her. All the realizations in the world hadn't changed that. After talking with his brothers, he had flown straight to London. Disheveled, hung-over but feeling better than he had any day of the previous four months without Isabella.
He was too late. Henry's house was sold, and the new owners couldn't tell him anything. Isabella had changed her phone number and returned the cheque he sent her for Anna's school. He tried tracing her through Childsworth, but they would not help him. There was no listing in London for either an Anna or an Isabella Sullivan. They had simply vanished. Short of hiring a private investigator, there was nothing he could do, and his pride wouldn't let him do it. She couldn't have made herself clearer if she'd flown a banner across the sky. Isabella wanted nothing to do with him.
Alessandro read again the short email from his brother Gio. Thought this might interest you. I had the pleasure of photographing this beautiful, talented dancer. She's performing in Rome this week. And then the photo of Isabella. His beautiful, talented Isabella. His. The feeling of possessiveness was so strong it shocked him. He rubbed his chest, trying to ease the pain he felt there.
Isabella was in Rome. All the time he had spent looking for her in London and now… here she was. In a few hours, he could be looking at her, touching her.
The theatre lights dimmed, and an expectant hush fell over the audience. Isabella loved this moment before going on stage. The surge of adrenaline, the tension in her belly, her heart bursting wide open with the first strains of the music. There was only one other place she had ever felt like this.
In Alessandro's arms.
With a quick shake of her head, she banished all thoughts of him. She had gotten good at that in the last two years. Murmurs and rustling from the audience indicated the last few stragglers were making their way to their seats. Isabella glanced over her shoulder at the group of dancers behind her and gave a reassuring smile. They were nervous. This was their first time performing outside of Britain.