by Dana Delamar
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was a murder. It had to be. He threw the matches on the ground. “I’m not doing it.”
Flavio raised his right hand, a Glock suddenly in it. For a big man, he moved damn fast. “Five seconds. Capisci?”
Nick went cold inside, his eyes fixed on the gun. This is it, Clarkston. Save yourself, or sacrifice yourself for God knows who. Probably another gangster.
For a moment, all Nick felt was the stuttering of his heart, then a pounding reached his ears. The flood of adrenaline was urging him to run, to move, to do something, anything, but stare at the barrel of that Glock. But his legs remained frozen, locked in place. Run and die. Stay and fight—and die. Or do what he wants—what Dario wants—and live.
Shaking inside, Nick retrieved the box of matches, surprised to see his hand so steady. He struck a match easily this time and tossed it in the doorway. With a soft whoomp, the interior lit up, and Flavio motioned him toward the car, pocketing the gun.
Nick’s feet carried him to the little green Fiat, his arms tossed the cans in the boot, his hands closed the door behind him. Coward, coward, coward… The insult he’d hurled at his father came back to haunt him. Maybe Nick was a Lucchesi, in the worst possible way.
As they drove away from the scene, the driver keeping a controlled yet quick pace, Nick could think of only one thing: his father had been right to abandon him all those years ago.
Even among the Mafiosi, the world they lived in was known as the malavita. The bad life.
Nick’s stomach curdled and he thrust his head out the open window, vomiting down the side of the car.
CHAPTER 15
Nick burst through the door of the guest cottage. He had to get away from Flavio, the Fiat, every reminder of what he’d done. The smell of petrol lingered in his nostrils. Damn, he must have dripped some on his shoes. He kicked them off and set them outside the door, then he tore off his coat and pulled his wool jumper over his head, dropping it on the tiled floor as he headed for the bath.
In the middle of unbuttoning his jeans, he heard a discreet cough. He turned and saw Delfina sitting on the sofa. Oh why hadn’t he listened to her?
His throat clamped shut and he could say nothing. But his feelings must have shown on his face. She jumped up and rushed to him, pressing her slender length against his bare chest as she wrapped her arms about him. “What happened?” she whispered.
He shook his head, afraid to speak, and buried his face in her hair, taking in the scent of jasmine that clung to the strands. He clutched her to him, breathing hard, trying to choke back the tears that wanted to fall. He’d done something horrible, terrible, and he couldn’t take it back. He’d made a selfish choice, and now he had to live with it.
Inhaling deeply of her perfume, he took several breaths, willing himself to settle down. He hated to admit it, but she felt so damn good in his arms. So right. Even though everything else was so wrong.
With a groan, he separated himself from her. He couldn’t continue down that line of thinking. She didn’t care for him the way he did—no, could—for her. He had to own up to that and move on. He’d marry her, and then he’d find a way to put enough distance between them that he wouldn’t be tempted to believe differently.
She stepped back into his personal space, less than an inch separating them. He could feel the heat of her body radiating outward. She pressed her small, delicate hands flat against his chest and looked up at him. “You’re shaking,” she said. “What did he make you do?”
Nick wrapped his fingers around hers. “Someone was in the warehouse. Someone who’s now dead because of me.”
Her eyes widened in distress. “Tell me everything. Exactly what happened.”
He didn’t want to, and his mouth tasted rancid. He let go of her hands and headed into the kitchen, drinking glass after glass of water at the sink. He was leaning against the counter when she came up behind him, pressing herself against his back, her slender arms wrapping around his waist. “Tell me, Nick.”
He sighed and turned in her arms. He opened the tap again, then started to talk, keeping his voice a whisper. When he finished, she laid her head on his chest. “It’s not your fault.”
He snorted. “Weren’t you listening? I lit the match. I threw it.”
“With a gun to your head. What else were you supposed to do?”
“I’m an officer of the law, Delfina. That may not mean much to you, but it’s been everything to me.” His voice sounded raw, choked, and he wished he had more control. Jesus, he was a big girl’s blouse, wasn’t he? He wasn’t cut out for this—not for field work, and certainly not for the malavita. At nineteen, Delfina’s brother, Cris, had more balls for this than he did at twenty-seven. Had his father known, all those years ago, that he was too soft for this life?
“You still work for Interpol,” she whispered, surprise in her voice. “You’re not dirty at all.”
He hadn’t meant to let that slip, but part of him was relieved she knew. “And you’re still a Mafia princess.”
Her mouth twisted. “And you hate me for it.”
He pulled a hand from her grasp and ran it through his hair. “I don’t hate you, Delfina. I feel sorry for you.”
She pulled back from him this time. “You do?”
“This life has corrupted you, warped you. And it’s a damn shame.”
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I happen to think I’m a good person. Not corrupt or warped.”
He might as well say it. “You’re only interested in getting free of your father and pursuing your career. That’s the whole reason you got mixed up with me—I was your ticket out of here. You don’t care about me—not deeply anyway.”
Her mouth dropped open for a second, then she tore into him. “That’s not true. Didn’t I try to warn you away from the start? And who introduced you to your father? Even you admitted he’d helped you and could’ve got you out of this mess. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be alone in all this, and your grandparents might be dead.” She whirled about and started for the front door, her heels clacking on the tiles.
“Damn it.” He caught her before she reached the door and turned her around to face him. Holding her by the biceps, he stared into her eyes, not sure what he hoped to see. “What about that trick you pulled?”
She looked down. “That was a mistake. But you said you weren’t the type to stick around, that you didn’t have serious relationships, so I figured you wouldn’t mind that much.”
“I wouldn’t mind you putting me and my grandparents in danger?”
She tore one of her arms free and struck him on the shoulder, tears filling her eyes. “Yes, it was selfish, but what else could I do? I had to get away from Leandro. You at least have a father who cares what happens to you. Mine doesn’t.”
The bitterness in her voice struck him hard. He’d always felt the same way about his father. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps he’d been wrong about everything.
He pulled her tightly to him, wrapping his arms around her. Comforting her this time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Is that an actual apology, or do you just pity me?”
“A little of both.”
He felt her cheeks round into a smile. She punched him lightly on the back. “You are impossible.”
“I try.” A laugh bubbled up in his chest. He stepped back a little to see her. “So to be sure I’ve got this through my thick head: you genuinely feel something for me—and it’s not just friendship?”
She held his gaze. “I think I’ve been trying to tell you that for a while.”
He traced a finger along the arch of her brows, then down over a high cheekbone and along the line of her jaw until he reached her full lips. He held her eyes for a moment before leaning down and capturing those lips with his. She melted against him, her hands wrapping around the base of his skull, her fingers playing with the hair at the top of his neck.
A sigh of pleasure left her and slammed straight into his cock,
hardening it instantly. He cupped her buttocks, grinding her against the ache between his legs. So good, so damn good, she felt. Just where he wanted her. When she tilted her pelvis, trying to put them in better contact, he lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Christ. The heat from her pussy radiated through his jeans. He wanted inside her, now.
But maybe she would want to wait?
He broke their kiss and nuzzled her ear. “This time, I want everything, Delfina. If now is not the time, say it. Because I’m not stopping again.”
She shivered in his arms. “I want everything too.”
“Right answer,” he growled and headed for the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them with his foot.
He carried her over to the king bed and laid her upon it, liking how she didn’t take her eyes off his as he finally finished unbuttoning his jeans. He slipped them and his boxers off. Her gaze dropped to his waist and she gave him a wicked smile.
God he wanted that mouth on his cock. Maybe not tonight, but sometime soon. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down, to remember this was all new for her. Her first time.
A curious feeling of pride filled him. She’d chosen him. Him out of all the blokes who’d doubtless approached her. He’d be her first.
Maybe even her only?
His heart beat faster. What had happened to the Nick Clarkston who didn’t give a shit? The guy who always kept it casual?
He stepped toward her and she suddenly held a finger to her lips. The bugs. He’d forgotten in the rush of everything that had happened.
But he wanted to hear her, wanted to talk to her. An idea came to him. He crossed over to the dresser and flipped on the iPod he’d brought with him. It was his inseparable companion, and he’d bought some excellent travel speakers for it. He scrolled through his collection, settling on a mix of Roxy Music and Bryan Ferry he’d put together. Lush, atmospheric, romantic stuff no guy in his right mind would ever admit to liking, but Nick had always had a soft spot for it.
Yeah, he was a big girl’s blouse all right.
He turned the music up and caught her eye. Was it just his imagination, or had she been admiring his arse? “Watching me, were you?” he asked, keeping his voice pitched low.
She blushed, roses staining her cheeks. His chest felt lighter than it had in weeks. “I’m not answering that.”
He strode over to her and leaned in, forcing her to sprawl back on the bed, caged within his arms. He placed his lips near her ear. “Your blush told me everything. Every single naughty thought you were having.”
“Madonna,” she muttered and braced her hands against his chest. “You’re getting a swollen head.”
He darted his tongue out and ran it along the edge of her ear. “Most certainly.” He put a knee up on the bed and rubbed his cock along her thigh.
She laughed and pushed against him, but he didn’t budge. “Time to get undressed,” he whispered. Her hands went to the buttons that ran down the front of the silk blouse tucked into her skirt. She played with the top one.
“Now?” she asked, her voice lilting and playful.
“Now.” He rumbled the word in her ear and she shivered. “Take it off. I want to see you. All of you.”
Delfina held Nick’s eyes as she undid the first button of her blouse. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and her stomach did somersaults. He looked so feral, so intent. So… big, looming above her on the bed. The muscles in his arms and abdomen rippled and bunched as he shifted above her, studying her every move.
Dio, he was gorgeous. Those smoky green eyes, that wavy brown-red hair falling over his brow, those lush lashes that hid his gaze as his eyes flicked downward to watch her open her blouse. And that body. He was paler than the men she was familiar with—not as pale as most Englishmen, but lighter than the olive tones that she saw every day. He probably burned when he went to the beach.
Making quick work of the buttons, she pulled the blouse out of her skirt, then reached for the front clasp of her bra. She’d worn red, his favorite color, even though she’d had no intention, no hope, of having sex with him—at least not before the wedding.
That they were going to do so now seemed like nothing less than a minor miracle.
Then again, he probably wasn’t thinking that far ahead. His hard cock grazed her thigh. He probably wasn’t thinking at all.
He stopped her from undoing the bra. “Skirt first.” He watched her slide the zipper down and then helped her wriggle out of it, the crepe fabric feathering over her skin, the sudden coolness reminding her how exposed she was. “Another pair of red knickers. How many do you own?”
Seven, ever since he’d said he liked them. “A few.”
He ran a finger along the top edge of the silky panties, where they rode below her navel. Her breath caught at the touch. “How many is a few?”
She smiled. He’d have to find out later. She reached for the bra’s clasp again, and again he stopped her. “I’ll unwrap the rest of the package,” he said, and a rush of liquid dampened the fabric between her legs. It was ridiculous how he could do that to her so easily. How he could make her feel so wicked.
He fanned a large hand over her left breast, his tapered fingers finding the peak of her nipple beneath the lace and expertly tweaking it. The sensation arced to her sex, making her even wetter. She let out a little moan that made him smile. Then he unhooked the clasp and bared her breasts to his gaze.
She knew he’d seen them before, but somehow this felt different. Maybe because he wasn’t acting as if he did this every day. As if she were just another notch on his bedpost. No, he was making this special. For her.
Her throat went tight. He really did care.
Lowering his head, he took her right nipple in his mouth, his tongue soft as velvet. She cradled his face in her hands, closing her eyes, savoring the exquisite sensations he was evoking in her. He drew hard on the peak, then took it between his teeth, biting down just enough to send an overwhelming mix of pleasure and pain streaking through her. She gasped and arched, digging her fingers into his hair. “Cristo,” she murmured.
He backed off and moved to the other one, repeating the process until she begged him to stop. Her nipples were throbbing, two points of heat and fire that seemed connected to her sex.
He lifted his head and grinned, then accepted the kiss she offered. This time she darted her tongue into his mouth, showing him how excited she was. How she was ready for him. For everything.
When he parted from her, he held her still for a moment, his eyes locked on hers, the look in them full of promise. And something she didn’t dare put a name to.
Bending, he kissed and licked her neck, then worked his way to her navel, nuzzling and tasting every square centimeter on the way. She squirmed beneath him, eager for what came next, remembering the pleasure he’d given her in the olive grove.
He paused at her panties, blowing on the fabric, making her shiver. “You want this, don’t you?” he asked, then planted a kiss on her inner thigh.
She blushed. Why did he insist on making her say it? “Sì.”
He grinned, a flash of strong white teeth. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you want.”
She rolled her eyes. Impossible. He was impossible, this man she—not yet. She couldn’t think that way, not until he said it. Not until she knew he wouldn’t be taking a bullet from her great-uncle’s gun.
When she said nothing, he traced small circles along her inner thighs from her knees to her sex, but went no further. “Come on, Delfi, tell me.”
“Why?” Her voice came out in a croak.
“Because I want to know.”
“Because you want me to beg.”
“That too.”
She swatted at his head and he ducked. “I guess that means you’re not in the mood.” He started to rise, and she grabbed his wrist.
“Tease.” He stared at her, unmoving, waiting for her to acquiesce. “Stay where you are,” she said, her voice gone breathy. “D
on’t you dare leave me like this.”
A self-satisfied smile curved his lips and his eyes half closed. “Not quite begging, but I like demanding too.”
A thrill rolled through her. He was daring her to order him about. “Satisfy me,” she whispered, her voice husky and raw.
Nick’s cock thumped at the throaty undercurrent in her voice. The princess was coming down off her throne, joining him in the gutter.
“You had only to ask,” he said lightly. He settled between her beautiful legs and blew on the scrap of red satin between them. He could smell her arousal, a heady, musky spice that somehow made him harder. His cock could punch through a door.
He peeled her panties down over her black curls, which had been neatly trimmed. Had she done that thinking of him? His pulse accelerated. Had he ever wanted a woman this much?
Hooking his fingers around the edges of the thong, he tore it off her. She shifted and let out a whimper, spiking his pulse even higher. Parting the glistening lips of her pussy, he flicked her clit with the tip of his tongue, just the barest touch, and she thrashed and shuddered beneath him. Cor, she was close. He’d barely touched her.
Backing off, wanting this to last, he circled that tender nub, then slipped first one, then another finger inside her, testing her, as he swept his thumb over her clit. She was so damn tight. He tried to add a third finger, but she flinched and tensed. He wanted her to be ready for him, but this didn’t seem to be helping.
What could he do to get her to relax? He crawled back up her body and found her breasts again. Lightly squeezing them with his hands, he asked, “What do you call these?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Le tette.”
Moving back down her body, he cupped her pussy with his hand. “And this?”
This time she smiled. “La figa.”
“Like the fig, the fruit?” When she nodded, he slipped a finger between the lips of her pussy and stroked her clit, eliciting a shudder from her. “And what’s this?”
She blushed. “Il grilleto.”