by Caro LaFever
As one, the congregation sat. The rustle of silk dresses as the women seated themselves, the cry of a Casartelli baby as his mother settled him in her arms, the shuffle of leather-clad feet on the stone floor filled the church. The groom and bride moved forward to the priest.
The heat of his body simmered next to her, down the measure of her arm, the length of her leg. His distinctive smell encircled her.
Her heartbeat increased. “Why are you here?”
“I am attending my sister’s wedding.”
His wry tone stirred her annoyance even more. “I mean, beside me.”
“This is where my seat is.”
“You arranged this.”
“Si,” he admitted, his voice calm. “I arrange many things.”
“I don’t want to sit here beside you.”
He glanced at her then, his black eyes veiled by long lashes. “Really?”
“Sssshhh,” Dani hissed. “You lovebirds can talk later.”
Frustration rushed through her. She was stifled, entrapped, not only by him, but by his family and their growing expectations. The curious glances, the slight smiles, the knowing looks between the sisters.
“Where is your father?” he said out of the side of his mouth.
“What do you mean?” she whispered back, sarcasm rolling on her tongue. “I assumed you were the one who arranged for him to be absent.”
He sighed but said nothing.
The traditional mass proceeded, yet she barely heard a word. Much to her disgust, her entire focus was on the man beside her. With unwilling interest, she focused on his hands. Large, broad palms, long, elegant fingers draped over thick, muscled thighs.
Her skin heated.
He shifted slightly, easing his feet out and the scent and heat of him circled her, like a silken web, pulling her body towards him.
She stiffened and moved an inch away from him.
He looked at her. The gaze, the searching black eyes.
The awareness between them.
But he embraced it. She rejected it.
His hand smoothed down his leg and the muscles of his thigh tightened, then eased as he slid further back on the bench. An ache of desire bloomed inside her and she wrestled with the instinct to smooth her own hand down the long length of him.
“Blushing?” A deep voice rumbled beside her. “What could you be thinking of, bella?”
With grim determination, she focused on the ceremony. Her attention was eventually caught by the priest’s calm voice, his slow delivery emphasizing the words of commitment and devotion. The young couple standing before him were so young and hopeful, so in love. The groom stared at the bride as if she were the center of his universe and the bride gave him a smile of pure joy.
Had she ever been that naïve? Had she ever believed in love as much as this couple did?
The sudden tears blurring her vision surprised her. She thought she’d cried every last tear she had over the past few years. Tears of regret and resentment. Tears of fear and frustration. However, this ceremony brought back the memories of what she’d once innocently dreamed of. Dreams dashed long ago by the man sitting beside her.
A white handkerchief floated in front of her, held in a strong male hand.
“Thank you.” Making sure not to touch him, she grabbed the cloth and dabbed at her tears.
“Non c’è problema.”
No problem? She was afraid he was determined to become her very big problem.
The shattering of glass drew her focus to the altar once more. The good luck tradition signaled the end of the ceremony. The bride and groom kissed and turned, faces beaming with accomplishment and pride. She hoped, for both of them, their marriage would be a better journey than hers had been.
Everyone stood as the couple passed, and the swell of congratulations and good wishes followed them as they marched down the aisle and out into the Italian sunshine.
Lara glanced at the man standing beside her. He was so tall. She was not a short woman, but he towered above her. And he was so large, his shoulders wide and muscled beneath the sleek smoothness of his tux. The gangly teenager she’d loved was completely gone, in every way. Bittersweet wistfulness swirled inside her.
The man’s mouth was grim.
Another difference from the teenager who’d often grinned.
“I thought you liked Sandro.”
His gaze snapped to her face. “I do.”
“Then why do you look like you’re attending your sister’s funeral instead of her wedding?”
“I am not thinking of my sister at this moment.”
She frowned. “What could possibly be wrong?”
“The ceremony.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “It upset you.”
He was worried about her? A brilliant joy jumped in her heart, but she immediately beat it down. Once upon a time, she thought he cared and notice where that had landed her. She glanced away from him, grabbing for composure. “No, it didn’t.”
“Si, it did.” His voice turned arctic. “The memory of your husband is still fresh. Still painful.”
Startled, she gaped at him. His olive skin appeared strangely pale. “You have it all—”
“He is dead.” His words were clipped and taut. “He is out of your life.”
A choked laughter escaped her. Before she thought, she spoke. “Thank God.”
He froze beside her and a sudden stillness descended. The crowd around them seemed to drop away and it was only the two of them. His black eyes held hers, penetrating into her deepest secrets.
No, no. She wouldn’t let him in. Wouldn’t give him any more clues to her past. How foolish to give him even one small piece of knowledge. She pinned her gaze on the smiling priest who was congratulating Carlotta’s in-laws. “I don’t know why I cried, but it has nothing to do with my marriage.”
“Ah.” He paused as if mulling her statement over in his mind. “So you are saying it was merely a woman’s customary practice of crying at weddings that caused you to break down.”
“I did not break down.” Exasperation twisted in her words. “And obviously, you would think only women cry at weddings.”
“You should be glad I did not weep, as you seem to think a man should,” he said. “Or I would not have had the opportunity to offer you my handkerchief.”
She didn’t remember this sardonic humor. As a boy, he’d been more inclined to funny jokes and amusing pranks. The changes in him continued to disconcert her. And distress her in an odd way she couldn’t explain.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. The black eyes still questioned, still searched. He would find nothing. After long years, she’d learned how to hide her emotions. She wouldn’t look away, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, she let herself focus on his harsh face, all angles and cuts, the only touch of softness in the long lashes and the slight dip of his lower lip. She found it hard to imagine this cool, contained man kissing her. Hard to imagine his mouth on hers, the desperate passion, the powerful calling.
How could two such contrasting impulses reside in the same man?
His eyes turned into hot velvet darkness.
Instantly, hopelessly, she could imagine.
A bridesmaid and groomsman laughed as they passed in the aisle, and she welcomed the distraction. Tearing her focus from him, she glanced at the cloth in her hand. “I’ll get this back to you after I’ve washed it.”
“I believe I will survive without it.” His voice was low, slightly rough. “You can have it as a keepsake.”
The arrogant statement caused her eyes to jerk to his. “Why would I want a keepsake from you?”
“I remember you keeping many keepsakes of our time together.” His gaze was alive now with memories. Their memories. “A shell from the sea I found for you. A ribbon I bought for your hair. The special gold leaf from our garden—”
She took in a shaken breath. “I destroyed all of those long ago.”
“Destroyed.” His tone cooled. “Ah
.”
His family rustled around them, collecting purses and bibles and children. He stepped out of the pew and his laser stare landed on his mother, who appeared overcome with emotion. Turning to his brother, he waved him over. She immediately felt as if he’d released her from some bondage. The relief was palpable. She grabbed her purse and stepped into the crowd moving toward the door.
“Ferma.” Dante’s hard hand landed on her elbow. “You will walk with the family.”
Irritation smoldered inside her. “Let me go.”
Ignoring her words, he slipped her hand under his arm and pulled her to his side. “Vene.”
Lara fumed as he led her down the aisle. Stop. Come. He treated her like a pet dog. Next he would be snapping his fingers and giving her treats if she performed for him. As the resentment flooded through her, profound relief followed. As long as she held this hatred inside, she would be safe. Safe from him and the velvet darkness inside of him that called to the depths of her.
“You are a horrible bully,” she grumbled, forcing herself to concentrate on his arrogance, not on her libido.
He nodded at a fawning couple, shook an usher’s hand, and then guided her toward the open doorway. “I am collecting many new titles,” he said, under his breath. “Arrogant ass. Manipulative jerk. Horrible bully.”
The sunshine was bright and warm after the coolness of the church. The crowd of family and friends surrounded them in a buzz of color and conversation. Yet it seemed to her as if a circle of vibrating energy tied both of them in a cocoon of intense awareness. She fought against it, yanking her antagonism around her like a shield, she also yanked her arm from his grasp.
He glanced at her. Unexpectedly, the edge of his mouth quirked. “It is a good thing I have a healthy self-confidence. If not, your words would wound me to the core.”
“I’d say your self-confidence borders on egomania.”
“So many compliments, bella.” His black eyes gleamed as if he delighted in her insults. “You leave me speechless.”
This was crazy. Why did she keep going at him? It only encouraged him.
She turned.
His hand landed on the tender, naked skin of her elbow once more.
“You will drive to the villa with me.”
“I will not.” She tried to pull her arm from his grasp again, but there was no easy way of doing this without calling attention to what was going on between them. His family and neighbors encircled them, and she suddenly noticed how many smiles and glances the two of them were receiving. Apparently, she and Dante were already gaining attention. Bloody hell. She needed to get out of here before the attention turned to speculation and then to certainty.
“The limos are here.” His dark head nodded to the line of cars waiting on the street.
“I drove here.” Dangling her car keys in front of him, she gave him a look of feigned regret.
“Your car will be taken care of.” Swiping them from her hand, he passed them to an usher.
“Now wait just a minute—”
He leaned in, his breath heating her cheek. “Do you actually want to make a scene here?”
She simmered with suppressed rage at his high-handedness. Still, he was right. The only way out of this was making a scene, and she wasn’t quite at that point.
Almost. But not quite.
The black eyes above her glimmered with humor and victory. He took her arm and led her toward one of the first limos.
His family followed, laughing and joking with each other. She tried to slide into the middle of the crowd, but his hand kept a firm grip on her, forcing her to stay beside him until they approached one of the more isolated cars.
“Get in,” he commanded as the limo door was pulled open by a smiling driver.
Brushing past him without touching, she sat down on the supple black leather. She slid into the far corner, hoping for a flurry of family members to come in before he entered. She needed some buffers.
Dante stepped in and the door closed.
“What about the rest of the family?” she protested.
He unbuttoned his coat and eased back along the seat. “They have all been assigned to different cars.”
“Assigned by you.”
“Correct.” He glanced at her, obsidian gaze once again unreadable.
“You made sure I would be riding with you to the villa.”
“Si.”
“Alone.”
“Si.” His focus never left her face.
“Do you have any idea the gossip this is going to start?”
“I am not in the habit of worrying about what people say about me.” He finally released her from his scrutiny and stared out the window.
“Your sisters are going to suspect the worst.” She couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him. The sunlight played a serenade across his olive skin, the black of his hair, the long blade of his nose.
“The worst?”
“Us. Together. A pair.”
His gaze landed on her once more while his hand clenched on his lap. “Paired with me? The worst?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t make her position any clearer.
His hand shot out and pulled her across his warm, muscled body. “You have managed to make me annoyed with only a few words.”
Stunned at his sudden move, she sagged into his heat, and for a moment, only a moment, she was tempted to stay.
One long finger pushed her chin up. Instead of his blank stare, she saw the embers of velvet warmth. “The impact you have on me,” he muttered. “Remarkable.”
Then his mouth slammed onto hers and she was lost. Waves of heated male energy poured over her and into her. His hard lips told her he was irritated, his tongue told her he wanted no more of her words. He gave no concessions, only demands.
Against her will, she filled every one of them.
“Wait—” she managed to say when he slipped his mouth to her neck.
But his lips caught hers once again and he pulled her under his spell. His arms tugged her into his body, surrounding her with his searing need. It startled her, over and over, the difference between his cold exterior and his hot passion.
Unexpectedly, he let her go. Set her away from him in one abrupt shift.
A haze of desire kept her from finding any words of rejection. Breathing was about the best she could do at the moment. Her mind and body were filled with a mist of pleasure that refused to clear.
“I will give you some advice.”
She started at the cool cut of words. His voice was bland, though she detected the ruthless current underneath. He was still irritated. Sudden inexplicable elation pumped through her. She’d been able to penetrate the ice surrounding him. The impulse to keep pushing him could not be contained. “I don’t need your advice.”
“Nevertheless, you will have it.”
She braved a glance his way. His face was turned from her, his gaze fastened on the flow of red-tiled houses and cypress trees passing by. He was trying to draw back behind his shell, his mask. However, she wouldn’t let him. “Why would I take advice from a man whose priorities are upside down?”
His mouth tightened. “What does that mean?”
“All you care about is money, position, power. I’ve been listening to your sisters for months.”
“Listening to gossip.” He made a disparaging sound.
“Listening to information,” she countered. “They love you for some reason, but it’s clear what kind of man you’ve become.”
His big body relaxed against the leather, all male elegance and casual interest. “Please. Continue. Give me more of your lovely conclusions about my character.”
She was beginning to see beneath his mask. Slight clues, yet they were there if she was very observant. He was taut with tension. She was sure of it. A delicious thrill of daring ran through her. “A man who spends all his time at work.”
“Mmm.”
“A man who directs his family like a tyrant.”
“Ah.”
“A man who only thinks about his next deal, his next billion, his next power play.”
“All this,” he mused. “From some gossip and three brief meetings between us.”
She would not retreat. She would not allow him to withdraw inside himself without letting him know exactly what she thought of him. Someone had to tell him how awful he’d become. “You have become the most cold-blooded man I know.”
He appeared completely unfazed by her comments. However, his long fingers curled into his palm. “More cold-blooded than your husband was, bella?”
The strike was stunning and accurate. It cut into her like a fine blade, right to the bone. He’d taken her one stupid slip in the church and jumped to conclusions. The correct conclusions, but he didn’t know that for sure.
Wrenching her head around, she stared at the passing scenery. She couldn’t look at him now, couldn’t challenge him. The shock of his words might show on her face, and then he would know his guess had been more accurate than he realized.
Yet she could not escape the gaping hole in her heart he’d sliced open. She knew she still carried enormous baggage from her marriage. Rage and bitterness and self-pity mixed in with loss and pain and self-hate. And now, somehow, some way, these emotions had laced around her memories of this man, their past, his actions against her, magnifying them inside her like a horrid brew of destruction.
Lara fisted her hands in her lap and pressed them into her stomach, trying to keep it all in, trying to push it all away. It was still there, though. The reality inside her.
“Your two simple words regarding your dead husband were enlightening,” he continued, relentless. “The anger you have shown towards me is now more understandable. I’ll be interested to find out about your marriage.”
“I am not talking to you about my marriage,” she whispered.
“But it is only fair. Since it appears I am paying the price for your husband’s actions.”
“You have your own actions to pay for,” she blurted.
Her body, her heart sensed his retreat. The air cooled between them. For some awful reason, it hurt her. The deadening silence extended, the link between them leaching away.
Taking in deep breaths, she managed to stop the jumbling emotions running through her. She would endure this reception for a short time and then scuttle home. She would not talk to this man again. Ever. She would concentrate on her school and her friends. She would stay away from men, all men, until she healed completely. Then, only then, would she look for the man of her dreams. A man who listened. Who respected her. Who would never destroy her self-confidence or tear her heart to pieces.