The idea of the young woman who lay so pale and still in her hospital bed actually defying Nico to go her own way as a single mother seemed so unlikely that Amanda could not take it seriously. There were other points to be determined, however. “If there is a wedding, will it be a large affair or something quiet that can be dissolved by divorce later?”
Nico’s gaze was hard as it turned it toward her. “This is Italy. It might not be impossible to dissolve a marriage, but neither is it as easy as in your country.”
“I’m glad of that, really,” she said.
“In any case, my family doesn’t do things by halves. My grandmother and my aunt may not insist on a huge affair, but there will be something more than a mere civil ceremony.”
“But won’t that take time to arrange?”
“It won’t be allowed to matter. Though it may not be usual for a De Frenza bride to be obviously pregnant on her wedding day, it hasn’t exactly been unknown.”
The hauteur of that statement was relieved by the quirk of his lips in a sardonic smile. Her own curved in slow response. “You shock me.”
“Now why? It was once considered an excellent sign as it proved the fertility of both bride and groom.”
“Supposing, of course, that the child belonged to the husband-to-be.”
“There might have been a murder instead of a wedding if it had not,” he answered, his voice stiff with what sounded very like a warning. “A bloodthirsty crew, my family, in defense of their honor.”
7
The reminder of family honor and the possibilities it held was disturbing, Nico thought, particularly with Amanda Davies so close beside him. He needed no such incentives, was far too familiar with them already. Two generations ago, three at the most, she would be his by now. He would know every inch of her skin, every curve and hollow of her delectable body.
She would have no secrets from him, nor would she be able to retreat into chilly reserve. He would know exactly what it took to make her cry out with pleasure, and how it felt when she came apart in his arms. He would know her as well physically as she seemed to know him mentally.
How had she guessed at the guilt that drove him? How dare she feel compassion for it, much less show it? He was used to women who saw only what he wanted them to see, who cared little for what lay beneath the surface. If they’d discovered his failure of duty by chance, they’d have scorned it or else sought to use it against him.
Jonathan Davies’s sister could do the same if the chance arose, which was something he should remember. She might have the cool serenity of a Madonna, but she could still be tempted.
What would it take to entice her into his arms, to make her come to him? Would that absolve him of the necessity for keeping his hands off her?
He could not stop looking at her for more than a minute or two. Every little thing about her drew his attention: the way the wind swirled her hair around her face or molded her white shirt against the surprisingly lush curves of her breasts. The shape of her cheek, the delectable curves of her mouth, the pearl-like sheen to the skin of her neck and arms, the smooth shape of her knee exposed as her straight skirt rose above it.
The fragrance she wore, a clean floral, made him want to lean closer to breathe it in instead of repelling him like the heavy designer fragrances preferred by most women he knew. His fingers itched with the need to sink them into her hair, to position her head so he might take the freshness of her mouth like drinking purest spring water. He wanted to feel every inch of her skin pressed to him while he was absorbed by her, sinking so far into her that he touched her heart.
Was it some ancient instinct, an eye for an eye, a sister for a sister, a possession for a possession--an obsession for an obsession?
Or was it only because she was forbidden?
He was going insane, he must be. Any excuse would begin to seem acceptable if he was not careful. Any excuse at all.
~ ~ ~
The trattoria overlooking the sea was rustic but inviting with its façade of silver-gray weathered wood. A framework of wooden cross pieces stretched across its front, supporting long strips of blue and white canvas that flapped lazily in the onshore breeze. The tables beneath this makeshift awning were painted a vivid blue, while the cloths that covered them were stunningly white. Pots of red geraniums centered the cloths and more spilled from ancient wine barrels on either side of the entrance.
The scents of seafood, garlic and herbs were a powerful invitation to step into the shade and select one of the tables. They were reinforced by the welcome of a large woman with a mustache and a white apron snapping around her ankles. She enveloped Nico in a powerful embrace and scolded him for not visiting more often.
Nico ordered a carafe of the house wine. Their hostess, still talking while eyeing Amanda with frank curiosity, backed away then disappeared toward the kitchen.
Warm artisan bread and a pottery dish of plump ripe olives appeared with the wine, brought by the woman’s gangling teenage son who served as waiter in this family enterprise. The boy had a head of wild Pan-like brown curls, smooth olive skin and a bright yet knowing smile that marked him as a charmer. He shook out Amanda’s napkin and draped it over her lap with a deft gesture. Pouring a little of the wine for Nico, he waited for his approval. Gaining it, he filled Amanda’s glass first. Nico didn’t object, and neither did Amanda as she was uncertain of making herself understood. The teenager recited the menu items in proud but strongly accented English, however, and received their order. He lingered then, straightening the tablecloth, brushing at imaginary crumbs, until Nico gave him a straight look accompanied by a quick lift of his chin. Still he hesitated.
“There is nothing more I can do? You are — you are perfetto?”
“Perfetto, grazie,” Nico answered for her with dry certainty. “Absolutely perfect, thank you.”
The young waiter lifted a shoulder with a droll smile. Without haste, he moved away to see to other customers within the trattoria’s dim interior.
Amanda would have liked to think Nico had sent the boy away because he preferred not to share her attention or her company. She suspected, instead, that he merely liked his privacy. And why it should matter one way or the other was more than she could say.
Leaning back in his chair at a slight angle, Nico stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles and took up his wine glass. His gaze rested on her, accessing, intent, as he sipped the rich red vintage.
Something oddly predatory in his gaze set tension to coiling in her stomach. Imagination, she told herself, yet she could not be entirely natural under that steady regard.
“What?” she asked after a moment, threading her fingers through her hair to bring some order to the wind-tangled strands.
“Nothing.” He pushed the bread and olives toward her, nudged her glass a little closer. “Eat. Drink your wine. Relax.”
“I don’t do relaxation very well.” She reached for an olive and took a small bite. The flavor was so fresh and rich that she gave it closer attention.
“I’ve noticed.” He nudged her glass again. “You do know that a few sips won’t make you drunk?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And that it did not, almost surely, contribute to your mother’s death?”
She made no answer as she discarded the olive pit. The cause of death had actually been stronger spirits mixed unwisely with prescription drugs, but it would only weaken her position, and possibly her resolve, to admit it.
“She was, in that too apt phrase, drowning her sorrows, yes?”
Amanda looked away toward a low stone wall that ran along one side of the trattoria. A large orange tabby cat lay sunning on its concrete cap. “I suppose.”
“You have too much common sense to do the same,” he said with the lift of a shoulder. “That being so, you may as well enjoy one of life’s greatest pleasures.”
Too much common sense. Amanda was not sure she liked that description. It made her feel rather older than she was, and
minus any trace of daring.
The wine was a serious temptation, in all truth. Everyone seemed to relish it so here in Italy, drinking it as naturally as breathing. It had no special significance to them, carried no puritanical taboos, but was simply part of life.
And what a life it was, she thought as the breeze fanned her face and lifted her hair. With its emphasis on family and caring, food and warm, ever-ready emotion, it made her more aware than she wanted to be of the barrenness of her days.
It was so beautiful here, just now, so quiet and peaceful. The only sounds were the distant wash of the sea, the clatter of pots and dishes from the kitchen, the drone of bees and lazy slap of the canvas strips overhead as the sea breeze lifted them and let them fall again.
She eyed the glass in front of her. Sighing a little, she looked away, took another olive.
“Of course you must do as you prefer,” Nico said with a gleam of challenge rising in his eyes. “You will know best if it’s likely to make you do things that are wild and unlike yourself.”
“Not happening.”
“How can you know if you’ve never tried? You might lose all control. You could tear off your clothes and run naked down to the sea.”
She snapped her head around to stare at him while heat flared upward across her cheekbones. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“If that isn’t what you fear, what is?” He swirled the wine in his glass, breathing the bouquet that rose from its rich red vortex before taking a deep, appreciative sip.
It was pure provocation and she knew it. That did not prevent the rise of a strong need to show him she feared nothing, least of all him and his uninformed judgment of her. She gave him a dark look. “It would serve you right if I did drink too much, if I climbed into your lap and begged you to make love to me right here.”
“I believe I could handle it,” he said, his voice layered with dry humor and something more that deepened its tone.
She met his eyes for a long moment, absorbing the speculation and dark promise they held. She’d thought to startle him, even discompose him. It hadn’t worked, yet he didn’t mean what he’d said, surely he didn’t.
The thought that he might turned her mouth dry. The day was suddenly far too warm and the only thing on the table to drink was the wine. Watching him inhale its bouquet, taste and swallow with such evident enjoyment made her mouth water with the sudden need to see what was so pleasurable about it.
“You know very well you would be outraged if any woman with you did such a thing,” she said in strained derision.
“Are you quite sure?”
“And if one of your sisters dared crawl into a man’s lap in a public place, you would lock her up for a year!”
“True,” he said as he surveyed her in languid appreciation, his gaze drifting slowly from her mouth to her breasts under her crisp white blouse and back again, “but you are not my sister.”
Her nipples tightened under his gaze and her stomach muscles clenched. Beneath the peace of the setting lay a sudden and most definite sizzle of tension. She desperately needed something to drink and it mattered little at that moment whether it was alcoholic or not.
“Oh, all right! But if I’m to have wine, I’d like mineral water to go with it.”
His smile was triumphant but approving. It was almost worth the surrender to see the way it changed his face, lighting it with devastating attraction. Also to feel the warmth of his favor before he signaled for the waiter and ordered mineral water for them both.
Their meal arrived in due time. Whether it was the wine, the cook, the place, the beauty of the day or the company, it seemed to Amanda that she had never tasted such wonderful food. Before she knew it, she had finished every drop of the lovely elixir in her glass.
Nico lifted the carafe. She passed her glass to him, and he steadied it, resting his fingers on hers, as he poured. That firm touch sent such a jolt of sensation through her that she jerked a little, causing the wine to splash out onto her hand.
Nico retained it in his grasp while he set the wine aside. Removing her glass from her hold, he lifted her fingers to his mouth, sipping the spilled droplets from her knuckles, following with a quick, warm flick of his tongue.
“Delicious,” he said, amused enjoyment in the depths of his eyes as he met her gaze.
A shiver feathered over her skin, settling with a gentle vibrato in the lower part of her abdomen. It seemed she was melting under his regard, growing increasingly warm and liquid. Her lips parted in a startled breath and she turned her gaze to the carafe.
“Don’t blame the wine,” he said, releasing her hand and sitting back. “It’s something else entirely.”
She absolutely refused to ask what he meant. Reaching for her water glass instead of the wine he had poured, she lowered her lashes to conceal her eyes as she drank.
“It’s the moment and whatever this feeling is that lies between us,” he continued as if it was normal to speak of such things over a lunch table. “It’s been there from the beginning, and is a part of what makes you nervous of me, I think.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I believe you do. But we won’t speak of it if it embarrasses you. Instead, allow me to tell you something of the region.”
She was so relieved that she reached for her wine glass almost without noticing. Holding it, sipping now and then, she listened to his stories about the Liguria region, of the Cinque Terre and its string of small seaports best accessed by ferry, also of Poet’s Bay, a place name dating from when Byron and Shelley had visited and Shelley had drowned nearby during a storm.
As he spoke the sea breeze rifled through his hair and flattened his shirt against the firm musculature of his chest. The brightness of the sun beyond their shaded arbor made him narrow his eyes until the lashes at the corners of his eyes meshed. His voice lulled her, yet stoked some deep inner core of need. She watched with care for his occasional smiles.
The day was growing warmer as the sun crept in between the strips of canvas awning. Almost absently, Amanda reached up and unfastened a button at her neck. The touch of the breeze on her heated skin felt so good that she unfastened another, while holding her face up to the soft onshore breeze.
~ ~ ~
What was it about Amanda Davies?
Nico was baffled by the question. She made no effort whatever to attract him, yet the more time he spent in her company, the more intrigued he grew. The way the awning shadows wavered over her face, the small shafts of sunlight that found golden gleams in her hair, the discreet glimpse of a gently curved breast above a bra of flesh-colored lace where she had opened her blouse — all these things affected him far more than was sensible.
He’d been annoyed that she refused to wear the clothing he’d had delivered for her use, yet had to admit that watching the slow release of the buttons that fastened her staid white blouse had turned his body far harder than any spaghetti-strapped sundress ever designed. That pressurized ache allied to the mystery of her made his voice abrupt as he broke the silence surrounding them.
“You would be much cooler in something more suited to the climate.”
“Without doubt.” Her smile was fleeting.
“There is no reason to refuse what was provided. You can’t continue to make do with the little you brought with you.”
“It won’t be for very long, and I prefer not to be in your debt.”
“So you said before. There is no question of that, just as there is nothing personal about the delivery of a few pieces of clothing. I merely placed a call.”
She gave him a direct look. “Did you indeed?”
Was she disappointed? He could not tell, and that did not suit him at all.
“Perhaps you may find something among the items that will be more comfortable for tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.”
It was neither agreement nor disagreement. She was simply refusing to argue while clinging to her damnable pride. He would have preferred angr
y denial, defiance, anything except this quiet self-possession. It made him long to wring some more passionate reaction from her.
It made him long to have her.
And why should he not?
It had been reason enough for vengeance of a most personal nature when he’d thought Jonathan Davies had merely lured Carita into going out with him and then put her life at risk. That he had impregnated her was twice as bad, and that he had endangered both her and her unborn child was monstrous. Which was the greater dishonor for him as head of his family, to ignore this wrong or to trespass upon the unwritten laws of hospitality by seducing a guest?
The answer was clear.
Equally clear, however, was that it could be no more than a self-serving excuse. Seducing Amanda Davies had not been far from his mind from the moment he met her. The urge grew in strength with every moment spent in her company. At this particular instant, he could hardly remember why he had decided he must not have her.
The campaign should not be rushed. He would proceed in easy stages, for he required that she come to him as freely as Carita had gone with her brother. He wanted her to surrender to him because she could not resist, because she was overcome by desire.
What better time to begin than now, when they were no longer under the roof of Villa de Frenza?
It required a place less in the public eye, however.
Nico glanced at the remains of their meal and the half inch of wine left in her glass. “You are done? Shall we go?”
At her nod, he got to his feet at once and dropped euros on the table. He moved to draw out her chair. Moments later, they were speeding along the highway again.
A road sign announced the turn to a village he knew well. Swerving into it, he thought ahead to a scenic pull over used often by tour buses, one he’d passed many times with scarcely a glance. When it appeared, he swung into it and shut off the car’s engine.
“What is it?” she asked with wariness clouding the gray of her eyes. “Why are we stopping?”
The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding Page 11