by Jill Blake
She couldn’t imagine how that had come up in conversation, but then there was a lot about Luca she still didn’t know. He was partners with Samantha and Jane’s husbands, so conceivably that involved some socializing as well. She wondered at what point that little observation about her clinical skill had been passed along. Certainly not any time recently, since she’d been on medical leave following the shooting, and then on unpaid leave once that had run out.
She had maintained her hospital privileges, though she hadn’t physically been back in hospital or clinic since her last unfortunate meeting with the chief of the ob/gyn department in November, when she’d experienced a full-blown panic attack in the man’s presence. After that, she’d submitted a written request for another six months’ leave, with the provision which Marc and Kate had fortuitously insisted she include. It was that provision which allowed her to do research or non-clinical medicine without violating her non-compete clause. At the time when she’d submitted the request, working had been the farthest thing from her mind, but Kate had managed to convince her to meet with Jake, and the rest was history.
But the question of whether to return to clinical medicine was something she still needed to address. Her six months were coming up soon, and she’d have to either tender her resignation or….
She clenched her left hand, feeling the pull of puckered skin and muscle all the way to her elbow. The prospect of seeing patients when her own physical and mental scars were still so fresh wasn’t something she wanted to discuss right now.
She searched for a safer topic. “So, Luca, what are your plans for today?”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a flight in a few hours to San Francisco. We’re meeting some investors in Silicon Valley this week.”
“Then you should probably get going.”
He circled the island to her side. “So eager to get rid of me, Bella?”
She flushed. “Sorry. I meant to thank you.”
His eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“Last night. For staying. And for not taking me up on my offer.” Though she wasn’t quite sure if she was grateful for that last bit.
“Don’t worry, Bella,” he said, lifting her chin with a finger. “I fully intend to take you up on your offer. Now that you’re feeling better.”
“Right now?” she stammered, pulling back. “I thought you said you had a flight to catch.”
He sighed. “You’re right. I’ll have to take a—what do you call it, rain check? I’ll pick you up Friday night.”
“Why?”
“For dinner, Bella, why else?” He dropped a brief kiss on her lips. “And then you can have your way with me.”
Chapter 11
By the time Friday rolled around, Isabelle could barely sit still.
Luca had called her several times over the course of the week. Given the three-hour difference with the west coast, she was usually already in bed, reading or watching TV, by the time the phone rang. He didn’t hold her long, just enough to find out how her day went, and let her know he was thinking about her.
Like priming the pump for Friday night, she thought, as she finished applying her makeup. She briefly considered taking a propranolol to settle her nerves, but closed the medicine cabinet without doing so. She didn’t need anything artificial deadening her response to him, dampening her reflexes or the pleasure she was looking forward to re-experiencing in his hands.
Oh, yeah. Tonight was definitely the night.
He’d refused to tell her where they were going. “Dress comfortably,” was all he’d said.
She took him at his word. Long-sleeve black turtleneck tucked into skinny jeans, wraparound sweater in deference to the evening chill, and black calfskin riding boots from the days when she was still doing dressage in the Devon Horse Show. Her only concession to vanity was a bit of mascara and lipstick, and a pair of teardrop diamond earrings her parents had given her when she’d finished med school.
The doorbell rang, and she took one last look in the mirror before turning off the bathroom light.
He greeted her with a soul-stealing kiss. By the time she’d finally caught her breath, and accepted the box of chocolates he’d brought—“Amedei, from Tuscany, better than anything you can get from Godiva”—he was already ushering her out the door.
It was a five-minute drive to the Reading Terminal Market.
“They close in half an hour,” Isabelle said.
He led her inside. “Not entirely.”
The noise and neon lighting seemed magnified by the high industrial ceilings. She clung to Luca’s hand as they wove through the crowd, heading toward a wine store in the back. He picked out a Barbera from northern Italy and a moscato from Sardinia.
“Now what?” she asked.
“We’re almost there.”
“There” turned out to be La Cucina, a space fitted out like the set of a cooking show, with a large well-lit central island divided into multiple food prep stations, and a dozen or so cozy tables scattered around the periphery.
A dark haired woman in chef’s whites greeted them, introduced herself as Anna, and showed them to a table tucked into the far corner. “We’ll be starting shortly,” she said. “In the meantime, if you’d like to have some wine…?”
She opened their bottle of red, pointed them to an artfully arranged cheese board where they could help themselves, and whisked away the dessert wine to chill.
Luca smiled and raised a glass. “To us.”
Isabelle touched her glass to his. “Salute.”
Dean Martin crooned in the background as other couples filtered in. Before long, they were all crowded around the prep area, each pair rotating through the various stations. Under the direction of Anna and her assistant chef, they chopped, mixed, rolled, stuffed, sautéed, and laughed their way through the preparation of a six-course meal.
Periodically, Isabelle glanced around at the other couples, wondering at their stories. Some looked like they were just starting out together: young, dressed to the nines, a little awkward and unsure of each other. Others were older, interacting with the familiarity of years, possibly decades, of marriage, finishing each other’s sentences, their intimate smiles hinting at shared histories involving—what? Triumphs, disappointments? Illnesses, recoveries? Children, grandchildren?
She wondered where she and Luca fit in. They’d been through too much, both together and individually, since their first stab at romance three-and-a-half years ago. Whatever youthful optimism she might have harbored then was gone. She didn’t know about Luca, but she certainly had no expectations about their relationship, no visions of matching china or happy children frolicking with the requisite golden retriever behind a white picket fence. Her life these days was less Norman Rockwell and more Tim Burton.
Annoyed at the direction of her thoughts, Isabelle dipped her pastry brush into a mixture of warmed apricot jam and soy sauce and concentrated on spreading it over a couple wild-caught salmon fillets.
“You sure you haven’t done this before?” Luca joked.
“I’m just glad it’s already cleaned and deboned.” She’d experienced a flash of alarm when their instructor had announced the menu and said they would be making the entire meal from scratch. “I’d hate to spend half the evening performing the Heimlich maneuver.”
In the end, they got to enjoy the fruits of their labor: crostini with goat cheese and fig jam, sweet potato ravioli, prosciutto-wrapped pork tenderloins, orange and fennel salad, apricot-glazed salmon, and ricotta-mascarpone crêpes with warm berry compote.
Luca topped off her glass of dessert wine.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
He raised a brow. “Am I succeeding?”
A giggle bubbled up. “No.”
“Good. I have big plans for us tonight. I’d hate for you to fall asleep before we get to them.”
“Oh?” She blinked. “Oh.”
Heat shot through her, pooling in her belly. The drive home passed in
a blur. The entire evening had been a prelude to this—the decadent food and wine, the lingering touches and flirtatious looks, the teasing banter and implicit promise that the best was yet to come.
By the time they got from the garage into the front hall, she felt so wound up from anticipation that the first touch of his lips was like a match set to gasoline, igniting a firestorm inside her. She welcomed his tongue, his hands, the press of his hard body against hers. His mouth traced a searing path along her jaw and down her neck, nudging aside the fabric in his way. His fingers insinuated themselves beneath her shirt and sweater, trailing up her back, across her ribs, cupping her breast and kneading it through the thin material of her bra.
How they made it to the bedroom she didn’t know. But once there, the pace slowed as layers of clothing were peeled off and discarded. He lingered over each inch of naked flesh that he uncovered, his mouth and fingers stroking her to a fever pitch. Her own fingers were clumsy by comparison—from injury, or lack of practice, or too much wine, she couldn’t say. But in the end it didn’t matter, because they got the job done, and then there was only skin on skin, rubbing, teasing, caressing.
She reacquainted herself with the taste and texture of him, reveling in the strength of the flexing muscles of his arms and shoulders, dragging her palms over the rough hair covering his chest, finding the flat discs of his nipples and flicking her nails against the hardening nubs. Like a starving woman who found herself at a banquet after years of self-denial, she gorged herself on the delights of his body.
He exhaled harshly and rolled so that she was beneath him. Wrapping a hand around each of her wrists, he drew them up above her head. “I won’t last, cara, if you keep touching me like that.”
His lips grazed her ear, her throat, and she arched up to give him better access. He moved slowly down her body, tongue drawing lazy designs across her skin. For a moment, the pressure on her wrists slackened as he transferred his grip to one hand. And then he was moving south again, mouth latching on to a nipple and sucking hard. His free hand found her other breast, thumb alternately circling and pinching the puckered tip. Sensation shot straight to her pelvis and she gasped.
He paused, lifting his head. Cool air hit the wet ring around her nipple. His erection throbbed against her leg, and moist heat pooled at the juncture of her thighs.
“Luca.” She wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a protest, but he seemed to understand the frustration in her voice, and let go of her wrists completely. In the dim light spilling from the hallway, she could barely make out his features, but she could feel him shifting, his breath whispering over her stomach, and then pausing just below.
He nudged her thighs apart, settling between them, spreading her. His mouth descended that final inch, tongue licking at the folds, probing deeper, until he found just the right spot that made her jerk against him, and he focused all his efforts there.
“Please,” she panted.
He slid a finger inside her, and that was all it took to send her flying.
Vaguely, she became aware of him withdrawing, and she clenched her thighs in protest, muscles still quivering.
“Un momento.” He reached over the edge of the bed, fumbling through the pile of discarded clothing before returning with a foil packet.
By this time, she’d recovered enough to help him roll on the condom, turning the gesture into a caress that had him groaning. His fingers tightened on her hip. With a single smooth thrust, he entered her, pausing briefly as she adjusted to the sensation of fullness. And then he rocked against her, surging deeper with each thrust, picking up the pace, until it was too much, and she couldn’t take any more. She convulsed around him, and he shuddered.
“Bella…”
Neither moved for several minutes. Then he slowly raised up on his elbows and stared at her. She couldn’t read his expression in the dark, but she could feel the gentle smile as he brushed his lips over hers. His weight lifted, and for a moment she thought he was leaving. Her stomach plummeted and she rolled on her side, closing her eyes. There was the faint click of a light switch, the sound of running water. Then the mattress dipped and he was back. His arms came around her, pulling her against his body until she was surrounded by his heat, the reassuring beat of his heart and the steady sound of his breathing lulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 12
“What are you doing?”
Isabelle dropped her hand self-consciously to her lap, hiding the tennis ball from view. Too late, she realized that the Thera-Bands were still on the counter, in plain sight beside her half-empty cup of coffee.
She glanced at Luca as he entered the kitchen. Even with his hair sticking up in disheveled spikes, his jaw bristling with morning stubble, and wearing yesterday’s wrinkled shirt and jeans, he looked like the embodiment of her every sexual fantasy.
“Good morning,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”
He dropped a kiss on her lips, leaving them tingling. “What’s all this, cara?”
She followed his gaze to the thick strips of red, green, and blue latex she’d discarded earlier. The hell with it, she decided. This was her life now, and if he wanted any part of it, he’d have to get used to this too. She squeezed the tennis ball one last time before depositing it atop the resistance bands.
“Physical therapy,” she said. “I’m still trying to get the strength and range of motion back.”
“And this helps?”
“More so initially. Now…” she shrugged and got up, taking her cup to the sink. “About that coffee…?”
He accepted the change of topic with good humor. “If you’re talking about that awful watery instant stuff, no thanks.”
She smiled. “I’ve got milk this time.”
“Well in that case, I can make us some cappuccinos.” He opened the fridge. “Skim? Bella, you’re killing me.”
His dismayed expression had her giggling. “There’s also non-fat yogurt for breakfast, if you want.”
He sighed and hunted up the package of Lavazza from last time. With practiced ease, he ground the beans, emptied and tamped them down into the porta-filter, and secured the unit back in place. “I don’t suppose you have any sfogliatelle hidden away?”
“Not exactly. But I know where we can get some, if you’re up for a twenty minute walk.” She bit her lip, suddenly realizing what the offer implied. A date on Friday night was one thing. Extending that into Saturday was quite another. Maybe he had plans for the day, plans that didn’t include her.
His prompt response was reassuring. “Give me a few minutes to grab a shower, and then I’m all yours. But first, I need some caffeine. You want a cup?”
“Cappuccino?”
“Sure, but I warn you: I’ve never tried steaming skim milk.” He poured a generous amount into the stainless steel frothing pitcher and opened the espresso maker’s steam valve a couple times to bleed it dry before submerging the tip of the wand. The ensuing hiss and gurgle of the machine nearly drowned out his next words. “Today, Bella, we do some serious shopping. I’m talking real food, not this fake stuff with zero flavor and zero fat.”
She smiled, not the least put off by his assessment of her dietary choices. He wasn’t planning on ditching her after breakfast, and for now, that was all that mattered.
###
The Italian Market was a pastiche of noise, milling crowds, and dozens of stalls featuring everything from locally-grown produce and freshly-butchered meat to mouth-watering baked goods and gourmet cheeses.
“We should have brought a car,” Luca said, adding yet another purchase to an already bulging shopping bag. He wore a borrowed pair of sweats and faded “Penn Med” T-shirt. When Isabelle had offered him the clothing earlier, he’d stiffened and declined, changing his mind only after she’d explained that the items belonged to her brother Marc—left behind, like the espresso machine and container of Lavazza, for use on the rare occasions when he and Kate visited.
“We can always com
e back,” Isabelle said.
“Promise?”
“Sure.” Why not? Agreeing to return to this South Philly landmark was easy, especially considering the concessions she’d already made. His hand brushed against her bare arm, as if underscoring her biggest departure from normal routine, thanks to Luca’s insistence.
Following the tiff over Marc’s clothing, there’d been another stand-off over Isabelle’s attire. She was in the process of pulling on one of her ubiquitous long-sleeve shirts when Luca stopped her.
“It’s eighty degrees out there, Bella. Surely you have something lighter to wear?”
“This shirt is light enough.”
“It might be, if you lopped off the sleeves.” He disappeared into her walk-in closet and emerged seconds later with a spaghetti-strap tank top. “Now this is more like it.”
“I prefer long sleeves,” she said, tugging her original choice on with jerky movements.
“Why?” Luca caught her left hand and dragged the sleeve up to expose her scar. “Because of this?”
She tightened her lips and tried to pull away, but he refused to let her go.
“I’ve seen your scar, Bella.” He ran a gentle finger over the damaged skin, and she shivered. “I’ve felt it, kissed it.” His lips followed suit, and she closed her eyes, helpless against the assault on her senses. “So, siamo d'accordo, yes? You will not hide away any more. I won’t allow it.”
Her eyes flew open and she stared at him in disbelief. He wouldn’t allow it? The sheer arrogance of that statement, and the implicit assumption that his opinion was all that mattered, floored her. In the past, such conceit would have resulted in a prompt eviction of the man from her life—or at the very least from her home.
The only thing that made her hesitate was the fact that he’d made the pronouncement as a way of bolstering her self-confidence, pointing out something that the old Isabelle would have also taken for granted: that she shouldn’t care what other people thought, and that any physical imperfection that made others stare was their problem, not hers.