by Alison Kent
“We weren’t sharing,” he interrupted grimly. “You gave up your oxygen for me. You had nothing.”
“I was fine.”
“Emily!” He tried to roar a protest, but it came out a guttural groan. “You don’t do things like that. You can’t.”
“I do.” She jammed her hands on her hips and attempted to stare him down, but she couldn’t quite keep a straight face. He was back. He was safe. He was fine. He might be madder than hell, but this was her Tristano. Tough. Arrogant. Opinionated. “I can’t help it. I am who I am. I fight for my family and I fight for those I—” She broke off and blood surged to her cheeks.
Tristano’s gaze narrowed. “For those you…?” he demanded softly.
Her face burned. She felt exposed. It was one thing to try and protect Tristano. It was another to declare love. “For those I am loyal to,” she concluded awkwardly.
“Loyal?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you’d die for me? Because of your loyalty?”
She said nothing, her lips compressing, and Tristano took another step closer. “Two days ago,” he said quietly, leaning toward her, his tone conversational, “you hated me.”
She swallowed, picked her words with care. “I didn’t actually hate you.”
“No?” One black eyebrow lifted. He seemed to wait in anticipation of what she’d say next.
“No.”
“But your feeling now has to be pretty strong if you’d be willing to give up your oxygen for me.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” She gestured breezily, attempting bravado. “You’re fine. I’m fine. Can we just move on to other issues?”
Tristano made a hoarse sound before grinding his teeth. “You can’t escape me forever.”
“I’m not trying to escape. I’m trying to put a nearly tragic situation behind us and concentrate on what’s before us.”
“Like…?”
“Dinner.”
“And…?”
“Christmas.”
“Ah.” He studied her face for a long moment, his gaze resting on her eyes and then her lips. “It is Christmas, isn’t it?” He suddenly reached out, stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Doesn’t feel much like Christmas. We’ve no tree, no ornaments, no tinsel—nothing festive.”
Her eyes burned and she swallowed hard, hating the lump filling her throat. “I don’t need ornaments and tinsel. You’re safe. You’re healthy. And now you’re back home. That’s all I wanted this year, all I asked for.”
His jaw pulled, a muscle working. “I think the lack of oxygen down there did something to you.”
He was right. It had scared her witless, made her realize everything she was about to lose—time, life, love. Tristano.
Emily tried to smile but her chest constricted, the muscles tight. Her emotions were hot and painfully chaotic. “It just brought me to my senses. I realized I was everything you said I was—bitter, hard, selfish—”
Tristano abruptly leaned forward, pulling her into his arms, firmly against his body, and silenced her words with a long kiss.
“I never said that,” he said much later, when he finally lifted his head. “I know you’re not hard or bitter. You just miss your father. And I don’t blame you. I never have.”
“You hated him.”
“I didn’t. As you said, we were practically family. Nothing about this situation has been easy.” Gently he smoothed a tendril of hair from her cheek and then lightly caressed the curve of her cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “And losing your father the way you did would tear anyone’s heart to pieces.”
The lump in her throat seemed to swell. She gulped air, dizzy, feeling submerged all over again.
“I know,” Tristano added, tracing the shape of her mouth. “I know how he died. I’ve known for years. I just never knew what to say or do.”
She couldn’t speak. She tried to smile, but she couldn’t do that either.
“Emily, an eye for an eye—”
“No.” She shook her head fiercely.
“A tooth for a tooth.”
“No, Tristano. I don’t want your life. I don’t want this to continue. I can’t anymore. It’s wrong. Wrong of me. I’m ashamed. Ashamed that I wanted to hurt you that way—”
He touched her mouth with the tip of his finger to silence the stream of words. “But you have my life. I give you myself. Completely. Freely.”
“No,” she whispered against his finger, even as her emotions rioted inside her. She wanted to say yes, wanted to throw her arms around him, hold him, feel his warmth and strength all the way through. But she was scared.
“Emily, everything’s changing—and you better get used to it.”
Everything’s changing…
Tristano’s words echoed in her head as Emily dressed for dinner. Everything was changing, and she wasn’t sure where the changes would lead…or what the changes would entail. Setting her hairbrush down, she turned toward the bathroom window, gazed out over the turquoise ocean. The sun had begun to drop in the sky, painting the horizon bronze and orange.
She wanted a different life, was ready for more out of life. And if Tristano proposed again would she accept?
She cared for Tristano—cared deeply, passionately—but in her mind marriage could never be a business relationship. Marriage wasn’t about contracts or deals, terms or power. It was love. Plain and simple.
Finished dressing, Emily checked her reflection in the mirror twice, nervous. She was wearing all black tonight—a black lace halter top by one of Italy’s top designers paired with slim black silk pants and black leather criss-cross wooden mules. At the last moment she’d swept her hair up, pinning it in a loose chignon, and the only jewelry she wore was a wide sterling silver bangle on her wrist.
Now or never, she told herself, leaving her room to meet Tristano.
He stood on the terrace, facing the ocean, waiting for her. The sun’s orange rays cast long golden fingers of light in every direction. He looked amazing. So strong, so male, so important in her world.
His head turned and he looked at her. The reddish-gold light played off his striking cheekbones, bronzing his dark hair. “Bella,” he murmured. “You look beautiful.”
“Grazie.”
Dinner was served in the formal dining room with the expansive windows overlooking the ocean. The table had been covered in a red linen cloth, the flowers were white orchids with dark green, and the red linen napkins had been tied scroll-like, with a pearly sea-shell on a white satin ribbon.
But seated at the table, directly opposite Tristano, Emily could barely get the appetizer down. Food was the last thing on her mind. Her appetite wanted something entirely different from what the chef was preparing in the shiny stainless steel kitchen.
Tristano knew, too. She looked up from her little plate of canapés and her gaze locked with his. He was smiling, but his expression was intense, his dark blue eyes hiding nothing, and she knew something was going to happen soon.
She’d been waiting for that something ever since she’d arrived. She wanted him. Wanted to be seduced. Loved.
“Let’s go somewhere a little more private,” he said, pushing away from the table.
She could only nod. She wanted to go somewhere more private. She wanted him to strip off her clothes—the black lace halter, the silk trousers, the heels. She wanted his mouth where her lace and silk had been. She wanted his hands everywhere.
Wordlessly she followed him from the dining room, through the mahogany great room to Tristano’s bedroom suite. She’d never been there, and when he pushed open the door she knew it was most definitely his room. The walls were painted a rich chocolate, the cream raw silk drapes were drawn for the night, and the large iron lamps had been turned down low. The bed was covered in the same rich silk as the windows and the top cover had been pulled back to reveal paler ivory sheets.
Tristano stood in the middle of the bedroom. “Close the door,” he command
ed quietly, and she did.
“Lock it,” he directed.
She locked it.
“Look at me.”
Heart racing, she forced herself to turn and meet Tristano’s gaze. He looked hard, determined, fire blazing in his dark blue eyes. His navy shirt was open at the throat, exposing the upper planes of his bronze chest where the muscle was dense and smooth.
As she watched he began unbuttoning his shirt, one button at a time. His shirt unbuttoned, he held out a hand. “Come to me.”
She suddenly felt fear.
“I’m afraid,” she confessed, skin heating, blushing.
“Of me?”
“No. Of…this.” She could see he didn’t understand. She wasn’t sure she could explain, but she tried. “I think I’ve forgotten how.”
His brow knit. “Has it been that long since you’ve made love?”
Years, she thought. Her desire had been killed along with her dreams. But the desire was returning, and she wanted Tristano so much she didn’t know if she could handle the fierceness of her emotions. “Yes.”
“Nervous?”
“Very.” That much she could admit.
“I’ll come to you, then.” His gaze was possessive as he walked toward her. At her side, he drew her against him, cupped the back of her head and kissed her.
She felt his fingers in her hair, felt the press of his hand against her head, felt her mouth quiver beneath his.
He deepened the kiss, and as he kissed her he slid a hand up her ribcage, beneath her flimsy lace halter top, to cup one breast. She gasped as he brushed the fullness of her breast, his fingers catching, tugging on her hardening nipple.
She couldn’t silence her husky groan of pleasure, couldn’t keep from pressing closer to him. She needed more from him, needed all of him.
Funny how she could go years without contact and yet just one touch from Tristano and she couldn’t survive twenty-four hours without more. Without everything.
She felt his hands at her neck as he unhooked the top, peeling the delicate black lace down over her bare breasts. “Stand still,” he said, stepping back to better appreciate the fullness of her breasts, the taut tips aching to be touched. “I want to look at you.”
But she didn’t want to be looked at. She wanted touch, and she wanted it now. Emily reached for Tristano, clasped his arms, pulled him back to her. “You can look at me later. Now I want you. I want us.”
Her clothes seemed to fall away as he laid her on the bed, his hands caressing her skin, his mouth following the path of his hands, sucking, kissing, tasting her breast, her hip, her inner thigh. Emily shifted impatiently against Tristano’s body. She loved the feel of his hands and mouth on her heated skin, but she wanted more of him—the more that could only be answered with him inside her.
He moved between her knees, poised between her thighs, and she reached out, stroked the hard length of him. His erection strained against her, and her body was very warm and willing.
Gazing up at Tristano’s face, she thought he’d never looked more gorgeous or sensual as he lightly stroked between her thighs, his fingers finding every sensitive nerve. She felt the warm slickness of his finger against her, slick because of her, and it aroused her even more, her readiness for him. He’d been her first lover and no one had ever replaced him in her heart or her affections.
She trembled as he stroked her again, the pad of his finger teasing the delicate hooded nub, and she lifted her hips, trying to find satisfaction. And then he was on his knees, between her thighs, and she felt him press against her. Her body was tight, she was nervous as well as excited, and Tristano leaned over her, kissed her, teasing her with his lips and tongue.
He slid in slowly, deeply filling her. The moment he’d buried himself all the way inside her she dug her fingers into his shoulders, overwhelmed by the incredible sensation of him with her, of him in her. He was warm and hard and her body gripped his, holding fast. For the first time in years Emily felt safe, secure. It was as if she’d stumbled her way home.
And then he moved, a long, slow thrust that made her hold him tighter, closer, as helpless tears burned the back of her eyes. She was here, with Tristano, and she knew even if he’d never said the words that he loved her. He had to love her. No one else had ever touched her like this, held her so.
As he thrust again she rose up to meet him, overwhelmed by an emotion she’d never thought she’d feel again. Tristano was supposed to be the enemy, but he actually was the hero. He’d rescued her, saved her from herself.
His body filled her, pressing more deeply, and she opened her arms, opened her heart, needing him, needing to give herself over to him. There had been so much anger, so much hurt and resentment, and suddenly she needed only that which was good, that which was life-giving.
Together they made love, their bodies moving smoothly, seamlessly, both silent, needing no words at this time. But his thrusts were stronger, deeper, and she felt the muscles deep in her belly begin to tighten. Hot emotion rose, waves of love and waves of need.
Her father had left, but Tristano remained. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. She would have given her life for Tristano’s. She loved him more than she could ever say. Her lips found his, clung, trying to tell him that he was right, she needed him—needed him not just now but always, forever. She needed his love and his strength, his courage, his stability. But most of all she needed him to spend her life with.
Suddenly the pleasure was too hot, too bright, the sensation too intense. She reached for his hands, found his wrists and gripped him tightly as the pleasure surged to a blinding peak.
“Tristano,” she whispered urgently, her nails biting into his skin, his body both familiar and tantalizingly new. It was like being hit by a tidal wave, a rush of brilliant green and blue. The sun seemed to glint whitely in her eyes and she was gone, sucked under, pulled in, her body rippling beneath his.
He sucked her breath from her as his orgasm hit hard, strong.
“Bella,” he murmured against her mouth as his body emptied into her. “I want children,” he said, kissing her. “Many, many children—with you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LATE the next morning Tristano stood in his silk boxers on the balcony overlooking the water, knowing things were about to get exciting.
He wasn’t sure how Emily would react to what he had to tell her, and, lifting the small porcelain cup, he took another sip of strong black coffee. It had been an incredible night, a night stretching into morning, the morning stretching into midday.
Just remembering the hours of lovemaking, the erotic pleasure he’d found in Emily’s smooth, satin skin, in her softness, in her willingness to meet him where he was made him hard all over again.
It had been years since he’d felt desire like that—years since ardor hadn’t been just an idea but a tangible thing. And desire…hunger…made him feel young, alive, strong.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a small self-mocking smile. Rather ironic that the two best lovers he’d ever known had been Emily the Innocent and Emily the Woman. There was just something about the way she felt…about the way she fit his body, fit his life.
She belonged in his life. Maybe it was fairness, justice, or maybe it was the fact that he loved her, understood her. He knew she belonged with him.
Now if he could only convince her of the fact before the wedding began…
He returned to the bedroom where Emily still slept the deep sleep of one who has earned her rest. Her long brown hair was a silky gloss against the pale ivory cotton pillowcases. Beautiful Emily.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek, near her ear, smelling the hint of perfumed bodywash from their shower some hours before, when they’d wandered from bed to shower and back to bed again. They’d been like teenagers…insatiable…the night had been unforgettable.
“Wake up, carissima,” he whispered, brushing his lips across her cheek a second time. “Time to get up.”
Em
ily’s lashes fluttered. She stretched and rolled over onto her back to get a look at Tristano. Her blue-green eyes were still cloudy with the unfocused gaze of lingering sleep. “What time is it?”
He lifted a long tendril of hair from her cheek, smoothing it back. “Time to wake up and dress.”
“Why?”
“Your mother will be here in an hour.”
She struggled into a sitting position, sheet haphazardly clutched to her breasts. “My mother?”
“The very one.”
Emily blinked up at Tristano and dragged a hand through her tangled hair, trying to clear her head. “Why is Mum coming here?”
“It’s Christmas.”
Recognition dawned. “It is! Oh, Tristano, lovely. Really—that’s lovely of you. I’ll be with Mum for Christmas.”
“Annelise, too.”
She was blinking again, her brow wrinkled anew. “Annelise?”
“Yes. They’re arriving quite soon.”
“But why Annelise?”
Tristano kept his expression carefully neutral. “She didn’t want to miss the wedding, and I thought you’d want her as a witness—”
“Wedding?” Emily interrupted, the sheet creasing in her fists. “Is that what you just said?”
“Yes.”
Emily’s mouth dried. Frowning, she touched her tongue to her upper lip. Her mouth was like cotton, her lips chapped from a night of kissing.
Tristano glanced down at her, his expression kind, considerate. “Should I send for coffee, cara? Might help clear the head a little.”
“Yes.” Her head definitely needed clearing, because she could have sworn that Tristano had said Mum was on her way to St. Matt’s for their wedding and Annelise would be a witness. “I don’t remember any plans for a wedding,” she said, leaving the bed, accepting the white silk robe Tristano was holding out to her.
“We’ve discussed it many times these past few days.”
Emily cinched the silky sash tightly around her waist. “And I always said no.”
“But you didn’t mean no.”
She couldn’t believe it. She’d only spent one night in his bed and he was already making decisions for her, acting as if she didn’t have a mind of her own.