I pulled back to look into his eyes and say, “I love the feel of your hands on my body.”
“Good,” he said and smiled. “Because there’s some magnetic thing going on. When you’re close enough to touch, I can’t stop myself. In fact,” he added, frowning slightly. “It took me forever to boss myself out of your bed to go foraging for food. I just wanted to keep touching you.”
My hands were resting against his chest, and I understood the feeling. There was something about those hard muscles beneath my palms that both reassured me and turned me on. But I was hungry now, so I wanted him on task.
I stepped back out of his arms and said, “The toilet is in the bathroom, so when the door is shut, you don’t come in.”
He grinned. “Got it.”
“And please do me the same courtesy,” I said primly.
His smile widened. “I’m completely housetrained,” he replied, and put up both ‘paws’ while he lolled his tongue out in a clever impersonal of a puppy.
“Good,” I said. “Because I won’t want to have to smack that very cute butt of yours with a newspaper.” I arched a brow, then I stalked off to the bathroom, barefoot and naked, but channeling my inner steel core.
He made no reply, and when I returned he seemed oddly subdued, but I simply joined him on the bed, where he was sitting naked and cross-legged, with a ‘picnic’ of pasta with olive-oil-soaked-bread broken up on the top.
He handed me my bowl and said, “Buon appetitio!”
“Grazie.” It was hot and hearty and I devoured it in record time, mostly relaxed about sitting cross-legged with Nicholas, who kindly averted his gaze from my genitals.
But when I put my bowl down and looked up to find his glance flicking away from them, I had to say, “I need to get used to this.”
He knew straight away what I was talking about and said, “I know, but so do I, and it’s not easy. You’re like…” He waved a fork in my direction, “…smorgasbord over there and I want to do a whole lot more than just stare, but…I want you to be comfortable around me.”
“I’m getting there.”
“You’re in love with me,” he said, as if he was testing me on a quiz.
It made me smile. “Yes, I am.”
“So say it.”
“I’m in love with you Nicholas Aston.”
He nodded to himself several times, then went back to eating. Between mouthfuls he said, “By the way, you’re dessert.”
Chapter Twenty
One day fell into another, with more sex than I’d ever imagined was possible, but he was careful to ensure that the penetrative sex wasn’t overdone. He didn’t want me ‘sore’, so that was restricted to once or twice a day. For the rest there was oral sex and simply hours of foreplay.
Kissing…
I had no idea that kissing could be so arousing, so sensual, all on its own. I could tell he was exploring as much as I was, and both of us spent time cataloguing each other’s bodies, lingering to kiss freckles or lick between toes.
He was right. It was a smorgasbord for both of us, and I never tired of it. In fact, I resisted his obligatory three hours of sunshine a day where we either lounged in the walled garden that adjoined the convent and read each other poetry, or roamed the streets, wrapped in each other’s arms, marveling at antiques in shop windows and stopping occasionally for a traditional Italian caffè—a single shot of thick black espresso—which Nicholas informed me must be drunk in a single gulp at the bar, lest we suffer the ridicule of locals. Only tourists sat at the tables to drink coffee.
These were things I’d never experienced, having seen Florence—or Firenze—only from the perspective of a tourist who wants what they want. The Burrows had always delivered American Coffee, the sort of lattes and cappuccinos I was used to in Australia. Any tours I’d done here had been organized by the concierge, presumably to suit the sensibilities of the patrons.
Nicholas was showing me a side of this ancient city that I’d never seen—hidden away artworks and amazing backstreet artisans. I’d been exhilarated by it all until the afternoon that we’d been returning to the convent on foot down an unfamiliar street. He had the map out and was checking our direction back from the Pitti Palace and its glorious Boboli Gardens where domestic cats roamed and bizarre statues littered the acres of green hills and landscaped terraces.
It was late afternoon and the shadowed side-street was lined with shops that had closed for the day, so we were the only pedestrians before a handful of gypsies turned the corner and started walking toward us. Something about them pulled me to a halt and Nicholas glanced up from the map.
I felt his arm tense under my hand and he said softly. “We’re crossing the road.”
I took his lead and stepped off the narrow sidewalk to cross the cobbled lane which was lined by double-story buildings. He positioned himself between me and the three men approaching us, and I told myself to be calm but I couldn’t help clutching his arm.
There was nothing about us that should attract attention. I was wearing demure clothing—tights and low-heeled boots under a knee-length skirt and matching jacket. My hair was pulled back into a loose roll and I was wearing no jewelry. Nicholas was in jeans and a Tee-shirt, so there was no reason for them to single us out.
Yet the hairs on my arms were rising, because they were walking directly toward us, effectively cutting us off, and the street was empty. There was no way we’d reach the crossroad ahead before they stopped us.
“Got Euros?” one called out, in heavily accented English. “You spare some?”
“No,” Nicholas replied firmly, and then more quietly to me, he said, “Don’t look at them. And if I tell you to run, take the next corner left and keep running until you reach the convent. Don’t look back.”
“I’ll keep running,” I said, because I couldn’t help him in this situation, and the best thing I could do for him was obey him completely.
Then we stopped walking because they were directly in front of us and I did as I was told. I didn’t look at them. Instead, I focused my attention on the escape route. The footpath ahead was blocked by a stocky man in dark clothing, but there was a gap between him and the shopfront. If Nicholas could distract them, I could run through that gap.
For some reason it came into my head to think that this shouldn’t be happening, as if having money meant you should be forever isolated from violence, but that clearly wasn’t the case. I had a bodyguard beside me yet I was still in danger.
“Our friends are coming,” Nicholas said calmly and pointed ahead. “I’ve just phoned them to meet us on the corner. We don’t want to be late.”
“Euros,” the same man said harshly, clearly not believing the lie.
Nicholas let my arm go and reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. Then he turned away from me, as if he was going to retrace our steps, and the man in front of me edged across with the others, to cut off Nicholas’s escape route.
I tensed my legs, and when he said, “Go!” I ran, skimming the wall to avoid any outstretched arms and then running flat out to the corner and bursting into sunshine as I lurched left, frightening a pair of tourists who jumped out of my way, but I didn’t stop. I’d heard sounds of impact behind me, like a punch and then a crash, as if someone had fallen into one of the parked cars that lined the narrow streets. But I didn’t look back. I just ran to the convent and when I was inside I paced the foyer like a caged animal, catching my breath and wondering what the hell I should do if he didn’t come.
But he did.
Only five minutes later he walked in and I threw myself at him, trembling with reaction.
“Hey,” he said softly, gathering me up and saying something in Italian to the nun who rushed over to ask about me. I heard him mention Roma and the nun reply with Zingari which I knew was a derogatory term for gypsies. When they’d finished their brief conversation he said, “Let’s go upstairs,” and I let myself be led to the lift.
A few minutes later we were
inside my room and I had better control of myself. That’s when I looked at him properly and saw the bruise on his cheek. I touched it gently, feeling sickened by the violence, but I forced myself to say, “What else?”
“Ribs.”
I eased his Tee-shirt over his head and felt my stomach swirl sickly again at the handful of bruises on his upper torso.
“It took me a minute to drop them.” He shrugged. “They got in some lucky hits.”
“You…beat them?”
Three heavy looking thugs?
He raised an eyebrow. “What did you think you were paying for all those weeks? Of course I beat them.”
I shook my head. I’d seen on his resume that he had martial arts training, but in Australia I’d been relying on him having a gun. I assumed he hadn’t been able to bring that, or perhaps hadn’t wanted to, seeing as he was supposedly no longer on duty.
“Anyway,” he said, “This is nothing. Trust me, I’ve had worse.”
I didn’t want to think about that, and I especially didn’t want to think about the future of us returning home and him putting his life in danger again, protecting someone else. But that was his job. Could I accept that?
It was too big of a question to face, so I stayed in the moment and said, “Thank you. It felt cowardly to run away, but I knew you were right. It was the sensible thing to do.”
The bantering smile slid from his face and his clear blue eyes grew serious. “I knew you would do as asked.” His hands slid up my arms to rest on my shoulders. “It’s a hundred times harder to face off on danger while you’re trying to protect someone. If that person was you…” He shook his head. “I don’t ever want to be in that situation again.”
I opened my mouth to agree but he went on with, “So I want us off the street, somewhere with in-house restaurants.”
“We can go home—”
He gripped my shoulders and said, “You promised me seven days. We’re only on day five.”
I looked at him a moment longer, trying to think past my shakiness, and at last I said, “I want those two days.”
The throbbing had started up again and I licked my lips, but he shook his head. “Not yet. I’m making some calls. I know The Burrows is your usual. Fritha told me,” he added before I could ask, “But you’ve been there with Marcus.” He didn’t need to explain why that option didn’t appeal. “What about The Midas?”
I shrugged.
“And I’m paying.” He let me go and pulled his phone out of his pocket. My gaze dropped to his bruises but he said, “Stop worrying. I’m fine. Or at least I will be when we’ve moved.”
I nodded. “I’ll pack.”
So two hours later we were sitting in the Renaissance opulence of The Midas’ lobby with its terracotta pots overflowing with flowers, full-size nude statues and silk wallpaper. It was a busy tourist time and we were fortunate that they’d agreed to accommodate us but we had to wait for the suite to be prepared. I didn’t want to complain about the slight delay, but the full emotional brunt of what had occurred was catching up with me, and I wanted to be behind closed doors.
I had a coffee in front of me but I really wanted something stronger. I wanted to be naked with Nicholas and have him wipe the experience from my mind with the power of our connection. When he made love to me I forgot everything else. There was only him. His taste. His scent. His touch. I wanted it to obliterate the ugliness of those men and their demands. It was too close a shadow to the horrible man who’d terrorized me in the hospital and it reminded me of all that I’d left in Australia and wanted to put behind me for good.
I was growing shakier by the moment, willing the hotel staff to come and get us, but instead I heard a woman say, “Louella Knight. What are you doing in Firenze?”
I looked up to find myself confronted by Sharona Mynte—the last person I wanted to see. She was wearing a gold designer kaftan and far too much gold jewelry on her chubby wrists—her usual ostentatious display of wealth. I’d last seen her six months ago, flirting with Marcus at a charity dinner, quite oblivious to her patient husband standing beside her, or me for that matter.
When I’d separated from Marcus I’d expected her to swoop on him, and I’d looked forward to her embarrassment when he explained to her that he wasn’t interested. Only, Marcus hadn’t been keen to announce our separation so it was possible that she didn’t even know of it.
“Sharona,” I said evenly, as Nicholas stood beside me. “This is—”
“Nicholas Aston,” he cut in and held out a hand. “Bodyguard.”
“Oh!” She shook his hand limply, then said, “Of course. You’re travelling alone. I’m so sorry about Marcus. You must be completely devastated. He was such an amazing man. So handsome, so caring. I apologize for missing the funeral. I was in Stockholm visiting my son.”
I swallowed tightly, hyper-aware of how stiffly Nicholas was standing beside me. My stomach was churning with emotions I was too overwhelmed to identify, and I just wanted to go, but our suite wasn’t ready.
“Are you alright?” She leant closer to peer at my face. “You look very pale.”
Nicholas stepped forward. “Mrs. Knight had a run in with some gypsies this afternoon.”
“Oh, Louella!” Sharona flopped onto the seat beside me and grabbed my limp hand in her chubby palms. Nicholas wasn’t to know, but he’d just played into her hands. I’d never get rid of her now.
Unless I was firm. So I cleared my throat and took my hand out of hers and said, “I’m just booking in, Sharona and I want a few days to myself. Perhaps we could catch up for coffee later in the week.”
I’d be gone by then.
“Of course,” she said and patted my hand as if I was an invalid. “You poor thing. What a terrible time you’re having.” She heaved herself up off the lounge and stepped back a few paces.
I gave her a wan smile and said, “So lovely to see you,” as Nicholas settled himself back onto the lounge, a respectful distance away this time.
She gave me a silly little wave, and was turning to leave when the baggage attendant arrived with our cases on a trolley and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Aston. Your suite is ready for you now, if you’ll follow me.”
Sharona gasped in surprise, and although I could see her out of the corner of my eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to look at her as I stood. Neither, thankfully did Nicholas. He followed me out of the lobby silently and neither of us said anything until we were inside our beautiful suite with its plush drapes, marble pillars and frescoed walls.
The baggage attendant left and Nicholas closed the door behind him, then turned to face me. “That was awkward.”
The tired and overwrought part of me wanted to snap Talk about understatement. I buried my husband a fortnight ago and I’d just been caught with a lover on the other side of the world. Awkward didn’t begin to describe what I’d be returning home to.
But I held that in because none of it was Nicholas’s fault. “Thank you for trying to smooth that over.”
“I should have consulted you about pretending to be a married couple.”
I shook my head. “You were obviously trying to protect my reputation.” Not that anyone would be looking for me in Florence, but if they were, it was thoughtful of him to have tried to disguise our co-habitation by not using my name. “It’s done now.”
I could hear the resignation in my voice, and by the serious expression on his face, I could tell that Nicholas realized the significance of what had just happened. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I might have a bath.” It would be lovely to relax with some fragrant oils.
He nodded. “I’ll order room service.”
I unpacked my toiletries and a silk nightgown and headed for the bathroom.
Nicholas was watching me and I didn’t miss his glance at the nightgown. He was clearly putting two and two together and realizing I wanted some distance, and I could see from his frown that it didn’t make him happy. But I was too tired to ca
re.
So I languished in the rose scented water and emerged to find he’d eaten and cleared away the dirty dishes.
He pointed at a covered platter on the table. “I got you some sandwiches and a fruit and cheese platter, in case you’re hungry later.”
I nodded.
“You’re not naked. Is this about regrets?”
I thought about that for a moment and shook my head. “It’s suddenly harder to pretend that the future doesn’t exist.”
He stepped over and took my cold hands in his much warmer palms. “The future always existed,” he said softly. “It’s just that the one I’m imagining is shinier than yours. I want us to be together, weathering visits by the crazy redhead, babysitting Angela and Jack’s child…” I felt myself stiffening because I was so not ready to handle babies. “…and maybe, someday have children of our own.”
That was like stepping under a cold shower. I pulled my hands out of his. “When did we move from having a holiday affair into domesticity?”
He said nothing for the longest time, but I could see emotions building behind his eyes, and his jaw looked tight. “A holiday affair?”
“Seven days,” I clarified, knowing I was being hurtful, but wanting to rip the plaster off fast, rather than linger over wounding him, because the future he was talking about wasn’t real. I couldn’t imagine it. “I’ve made no other commitments, and in fact,” I added sharply, “I clarified at the start that it was purely physical.”
“You told me that you loved me,” he said quietly.
I faltered then, because he was absolutely right. Despite my determination to focus on the physical, I’d been falling deeper and deeper in love with him as each day passed, and I’d shown him that, through every touch and word and gesture. He’d grown in confidence, teasing me more readily, knowing he’d captured my heart.
So it was beyond cruel to snatch that away, and all I could think was that he’d hurt me with the comment about children, and I was hurting him back.
Husband Heel (Husband #3) Page 25