Bestselling Authors Collection 2012

by Trish Morey; Day Leclaire; Natalie Anderson; Brenda Jackson; Ann Voss Peterson

  Tears filled her eyes and she stepped into his waiting arms. “It was so close, Constantine.”

  “Not as close as you might think,” he lied, holding her tight against him. She was safe, he reminded himself. And relatively unharmed. “I’d tracked you as far as Calistoga and wasn’t too far behind you. I knew d’Angelo owned a lodge near there, and my father was working to get the exact address.”

  She stilled. “You called Vittorio? He knows what happened?”

  “I would have called His Holiness, himself, if I thought he could have given me d’Angelo’s address. Fortunately my father has excellent connections. One way or the other, I would have reached you in time.”

  Her chin quivered, her jade-green eyes overflowing as emotion set in. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He released her, nudging her in the direction of the bathroom. “Try not to fall asleep in there, okay?”

  She didn’t linger. Ten minutes later she emerged, pink-cheeked and smelling subtly of herbs and flowers. She’d wrapped herself in a thick, velour robe. After checking her feet and finding only minor cuts and bruises, he turned down the bed while she stripped off the robe and climbed between the sheets. He lifted an eyebrow at the thigh-length cotton shift she wore beneath. With the light behind her, it was practically transparent. He kept his eyes off the press of feminine curves thrusting against the thin cotton, all the while fighting to maintain an ironclad hold on his libido.

  “I think I’d like to leave the light on,” she said, pulling the covers up to her chin.

  “That’s fine.” He indicated a heavily cushioned chaise lounge chair covered in antique-rose velvet. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  She frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Constantine. You’ll never get to sleep on that. It’s way too small. Use the guest room.”

  “I’m staying right here.” His voice brooked no opposition. He held up his hand when she would have argued. “You’ll sleep better, piccola, having someone close by. And I’ll sleep better having you where I can keep watch over you.”

  She examined the chair again, then him. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Knowing that all I have to do is open my eyes and see you, safe and sound, will put me right out.”

  Tears filled her eyes again. “Thank you, Constantine,” she said in a husky voice. “You have no idea—” She broke off and shook her head.

  “I think I do.” He approached and, using the utmost restraint, kissed her forehead. “Try to sleep.”

  She did, which came as a huge relief to Constantine. He waited until she was deeply unconscious, then slipped from the room and placed a call. When he finished, he returned to the bedroom. He paused at the foot of the bed, gazing at Gianna, and made a silent vow.

  No matter what it took, he’d keep this woman safe from harm. He knew that part of the drive to protect came from this peculiar Inferno which connected them, the link so strong it didn’t give him any other option. But it went much deeper than that. When she hurt, he hurt. When she hungered, he felt the need to feed her. What gave her joy, he was driven to provide for her. Her wants and his were so tightly bound that they were almost indistinguishable.

  Even as he acknowledged those binds, they chafed, stealing his independence. He hadn’t asked for this connection. And though he wanted Gianna, he didn’t want to be controlled by her. It felt unnatural.

  Well, that would change soon enough.

  What David d’Angelo had set out to accomplish would happen, just with a different man. Instead of d’Angelo being honor-bound to take Gianna as his bride, Constantine would be the one. Oh, his bride-to-be wouldn’t be pleased with his ruthlessness. But she hadn’t given him any other choice. She’d inflicted him with The Inferno, infecting him with its fever and desperation. Then she’d had the unmitigated gall to change her mind and allow d’Angelo to come within inches of harming her.

  Now she’d deal with the consequences. Her family would take care of the problem from this point forward, sweep them up in an unbreakable net of demand and propriety and cart them to the altar—willingly or not.

  And then he would be in charge of The Inferno. He would find a way to douse the fire. At the very least, he’d wield the flames instead of suffering from the constant burn of its touch.

  Gianna woke a few hours later with a panicked gasp, swimming to the surface from a terrifying nightmare landscape filled with monsters and screaming tires and bogs of quicksand that sucked at her legs and prevented her from fleeing from some unseen threat. Before she’d shuddered out a single breath, Constantine joined her on the bed, pulling her into the warm protection of his embrace.

  “Easy now,” came his steadying voice. “You’re safe. He can’t get to you.”

  His mouth drifted across the top of her head in the lightest of caresses. Reassuring. Passionless. Compassionate. Although she appreciated the reassurance and compassion, she didn’t want passionless. She wanted to feel something other than fear. She curled tight against his bare chest. His warmth surrounded her, easing her bone-deep chill, while the calm, steady beat of his heart soothed her.

  “Nightmare,” she explained through chattering teeth. “Bad.”

  “I gathered.” She thought he might have feathered another kiss across the top of her head, though she couldn’t be certain. But it gave her hope. “It’s not real,” he soothed.

  “I know. At least, part of me knows. The other part—”

  She broke off with a shrug. Unable to help herself she pressed closer, sliding her arms around his waist and clinging. To her relief, he didn’t push her away, though she sensed a serious internal debate raging. Not that she cared. She was scared and alone, and tired of being both. It wasn’t a case of “any port in a storm.” She needed Constantine. Only Constantine.

  “Stay with me,” she whispered.

  He swore in Italian, a soft, intently masculine comment that under other circumstances would have made her laugh. “Gianna, this is dangerous.”

  “I’m not asking you to make love to me.”

  “I may not be able to help myself.”

  “You’re not David.”

  He stiffened. “No, I’m definitely not d’Angelo. But I’m still a man. You’re vulnerable right now. It’s late and I’m tired. And you’re not wearing many clothes. For that matter, neither am I.” He adopted a reasonable tone. “Admit it, Gianna. Given our reaction to each other, it’s a volatile combination.”

  True. That didn’t change anything. “I swear I won’t take advantage of you.” To her relief, he released a snort of laughter. “But right now I need someone to hold me.”

  He sighed. “I should have taken you to your parents.”

  “Probably,” she conceded. “Since you didn’t, you’re stuck with me.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. Lie down.”

  She did as he requested. To her surprise, he jerked the covers up to her chin so she was completely cocooned, then slid an arm around her while he remained on top of the sheet and blanket.

  “Seriously?” she asked.

  “Seriously.” The metaphorical—or maybe not so metaphorical—immovable object. “Now go to sleep. It’ll be daylight in another few hours.”

  “Would you do one more thing for me?”

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “No.” She leaned into him, doing her best to be an irresistible force. In her case, definitely not a metaphorical one. “Would you kiss me good-night?”

  “You are determined to test the limits of my self-control.” He spoke in Italian, a dead giveaway.

  “Would you rather David was the last man to have kissed me?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Absolutely. Totally. The. Wrong. Thing.

  The soft light from the bedside table cut across the rigid lines of his face, striking off the hard planes and sinking into the harsh angles. He gazed down at her, his eyes black crystals of barely suppressed emotion, anger in the foreground, hot desire glittering
behind. He said something else in Italian, the words fighting each other. Biting words that came too fast for her to catch. Not that she needed to understand each and every word. The underlying message came through loud and clear.

  Constantine wasn’t a man to taunt.

  He moved so fast she never saw it coming, stripping away the covers and baring her to his gaze. He took his time, looking his fill. The cotton shift she wore provided next to no protection, the fabric so sheer it revealed more than it concealed, hugging her feminine curves and misting his view just enough to make it all the more enticing.

  He took his time, studying the generous curve of her breasts, the nipples tight coral peaks thrusting against the cotton and betraying the extent of her hunger. He noticed. Of course he noticed. How could he not? His gaze wandered lower, across her belly which quivered in reaction. Lower still. To the soft brown shadow at the apex of her thighs.

  He lifted his hand and for a split second she thought he’d touch her. That he’d rip off her nightshift the way he’d ripped off her gown in the gas station parking lot. Her breath caught and held, waiting for that touch. It never came. Instead his hand hovered a scant inch above her, before following the same path as his gaze. He splayed his fingers, heat pouring from his palm and burning through her shift. Not once did he touch her, though her body reacted as though he had.

  She waited for the acrid wash of fear to sweep over her. But it never did. Hunger and want—those existed without question. So did a keen edge of pleasure. Her breasts felt painfully full, lush and acutely sensitive. A heaviness invaded the very core of her, loosening and softening and ripening. A woman preparing for the possession of her mate.

  One emotion was lacking.

  “No fear,” she murmured in relief. “None at all.”

  He froze. “This is a mistake.”

  She smiled. Hell, she beamed. She was just so thankful that Constantine could look at her with such intense desire without it sparking flashes of David. “A lovely mistake.” She caught his hand in hers, guiding it to her body. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Touch me the way a man is meant to touch a woman.”

  And then he did. As though unable to help himself, he trailed a finger from the juncture between neck and shoulder downward over the slope of her breast. Her nipples pressed against the cotton, so tight she almost couldn’t bear it. He hooked a finger in the neckline of her shift and nudged it down just enough to expose them. Gently, sweetly, he took the first into his mouth and caressed it with tongue and teeth. A cry caught in the back of her throat, a keening sound of intense pleasure. Then he turned his attention to the other.

  Her head tipped back and the breath shuddered from her lungs, his name escaping on a moan of delight. She slid her fingers deep into the heavy waves of his hair and held him close. “How can this be a mistake?”

  He lifted away from her, ignoring her attempts to pull him back into her embrace. Then he waited, allowing the tension to build. Stillness settled over them both, their breath harsh in the silence of the night. Then, slowly, oh, so slowly, he cupped her head. Little by little he leaned in until their lips were no more than a breath apart.

  Then he erased even that bit of space. He kissed her, eradicating all memory of everything and everyone who’d gone before. He took his time, the kiss slow and potent and deliciously thorough. She responded, helpless to resist. And why should she? She wanted this as much as he did. Maybe even more. She’d waited for months. Nearly two full years. She refused to wait another minute.

  “Make love to me,” she urged.

  To her distress, he shook his head. “That’s not going to happen, Gianna.”

  “But—”

  He stopped her with another kiss that had every thought seeping from her head except what he was doing to her and how he did it. “D’Angelo drugged you tonight,” he murmured between leisurely, sampling tastes. “It’s likely that you’re still feeling the effects.”

  “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

  “You were drugged, attacked. Terrorized. Still in shock.” She wished she could deny his catalog of events, but she couldn’t. “And you just woke from a nasty nightmare. That makes you vulnerable, and I don’t take advantage of vulnerable women.”

  “Even if the vulnerable woman in question says it’s okay? Because that’s what I’m saying. Okay. Go right ahead. I’m all yours.” He was killing her. “Please, Constantine.”

  “Would you have me compromise my sense of honor?” he countered.

  She closed her eyes. “Considering how I feel right now? Yes, yes I would.” An inner debate raged, one that filled her with frustration. Damn it, she’d been a Dante for too long, knew all too well the importance of honor. She continued to debate for another full minute while he waited her out. Then she caved. “When you put it like that…”

  “There’s no other way to put it.”

  She couldn’t argue, not about an issue as serious as a man’s honor. It wasn’t something the Dantes took lightly, any more than the Romanos. “Will you still hold me?”

  “That I can do.” He covered her again and settled in beside her. Pulling her into his arms, he just held her. “Better?”

  “Frustrating.”

  He chuckled. “That makes two of us.” He kissed her with unmistakable finality. She could still feel the edge of desire, banked, but white-hot around the edges. “Go back to sleep. And this time, try not to press my buttons.”

  She yawned. “Push your buttons. And I wasn’t.”

  “No? I seem to remember you throwing David in my face. You didn’t just press my button. Or even push it. You kicked it with those spiked heels you love to wear.”

  “Maybe.” Honesty forced her to concede, “Okay, definitely.”

  “Don’t do it again. Not with d’Angelo.”

  She looked at him curiously. “David said the two of you had a history.”

  Tension speared across the muscles in Constantine’s jaw. “Is that what he called it?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Funny. I’d have said you were in a better position to answer that question.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “How would you describe what he attempted to do tonight?”

  She didn’t want to say the word. Couldn’t. It would make it too real. She moistened her lips. “After you rescued me… You said he’d done this before. I’d forgotten until just now.”

  “The drug will do that to you.”

  “Who else did he drug? Who did he do this to before me?”

  “Ariana.”

  Five

  Gianna bolted upright in bed. “Oh, no. Oh, Constantine, no. Not Ariana.”

  “It’s all right. I found her—”

  She burst into tears. “How could it be all right? He…he…” She fought to get the words out. “She would have been terrified when she returned from Italy and saw me with him. I’d never have gone out with him if I’d known. And I’d have made him pay for hurting her. I swear I would have. Somehow. Someway.”

  “Calm down, Gianna.” Constantine lifted onto his elbow and smoothed her hair back from her face. “She wouldn’t have been terrified when she saw the two of you together for one simple reason. Unlike you, she consumed all of the drug d’Angelo gave her. She has no memory of the events of that night. Not being drugged. Not of how close she came to disaster. Not of my arriving in time to save her. I saw no reason to tell her the sordid details then, or mention it since. She was barely seventeen.”

  “Seventeen?” Tears slipped down Gianna’s cheeks. “So, he didn’t…?” She couldn’t say the word.

  “No. I got there in time. She barely even remembers d’Angelo.”

  Something else clicked. David’s opening salvo at the Midsummer Night’s gala when he’d first spoken to Constantine. “That’s what he meant about your timing.”

  Constantine nodded. “I wasn’t in a position to make him pay with Ariana. But I swear to you, he won
’t get away with it again.”

  “What happened? To Ariana, I mean?”

  “Come.” He eased her back into his arms and she surrendered to the embrace, using his warmth to comfort her distress. “I’ll tell you the story if you promise to go to sleep afterward.”

  “I promise.” Honesty forced her to add, “If I can.”

  “You have to understand something that is very uncomfortable for me to speak of.”

  He’d switched to Italian again, his voice stiff with pride and something else. Pain? “Something from your past?” she hazarded a guess.

  “It has to do with the manner in which I was raised.”

  “Old Italian aristocracy?”

  “That’s at the root of it, yes. The Romanos have the name, but not the money to go with it. We own the land and the palazzo, but have no way to maintain it. Because it has been in our family for so many generations, it would be sacrilege to sell. So we struggle over money.”

  “Why not get a job?”

  Constantine laughed without humor. “You and I think alike. Unfortunately my father considered this beneath him. We are only recently poor. My grandfather made some unfortunate investments and my father finished the job with other bad choices. More than anything, I wished to start up my own business. But there was no capital. No seed money. I attended Oxford. My grandmother—she wrote the Mrs. Pennywinkle children’s books before Ariana took over. You are familiar with Mrs. Pennywinkle?”

  “Sure. I loved her stories as a child.” They were beautifully illustrated tales, all about a china doll named Nancy who passed from needy child to needy child. With each subsequent owner came exciting adventures and heartrending problems for whichever youngster came into possession of the doll. By the end of the book, Nancy had helped resolve the child’s problems and magically moved on to the next boy or girl in need. “I even owned a Nancy doll. It was one of my favorite toys growing up.”

  “My grandmother, Penelope, paid for my education with the royalty money she earned from them. But I could not take her money to start up my business. It would have been—”