The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding Read online

  “Including your brother, who would be better here as well, I suppose.”

  “He is devoted to Carita, so it might be beneficial,” she answered, her voice not quite steady. “But no, I would not — we would not impose in that way. Naturally, Jonathan and I will return to the States as soon as he’s able to travel.”

  He gave a short laugh. “I don’t know why you think he’ll go when he has been living in Italy.”

  “I thought he was having an extended vacation.”

  “I’m told he had taken an apartment in La Spezia.”

  Her gaze was clouded as she met his. “Something else you learned while having him investigated, I suppose.”

  “As you say.”

  She shook her hair back as she looked away again. “He will need help for some time. If he returns with me, I’ll be able to look after him. You aren’t the only one concerned about family, you know.”

  She had certainly demonstrated that much, he admitted with a wry twist of his lips as he recalled how she had abandoned everything to come with him. Would she show the same concern for an injured lover or a husband?

  He and Amanda were much alike, he had to concede. Beyond their concern for their siblings they had both lost their parents in one way or another, both had assumed responsibility at a young age, both had avoided other entanglements.

  And both had high standards they could not abandon.

  ~ ~ ~

  Amanda could barely concentrate on what Nico was saying as she gripped one end of her towel that he was using to dry his arms. She would not release it entirely because the last thing she wanted was to sit there so close beside him while virtually naked.

  She wished he had a towel of his own instead of sharing hers, for the miniscule black Speedo he wore seemed to emphasize his own near nakedness. The small, wing shape of it almost disappeared as he sat beside her.

  His muscled arms and shoulders were like a statue in bronze; his thighs with their light coating of hair were tautly powerful. When he dried his face and arms and moved to the water droplets that spangled the hair on his chest, she felt her mouth go dry. That kite-shape of hair sprang into whorls and curls that appeared feathery soft. The need to touch them, smooth them, dry them was so strong she clutched the towel to prevent herself from reaching out to him.

  A single drop of water trailed southward, following the line of dark hair that ran over his abdomen and the flat surface of his stomach. Her eyes burned as she followed its tortuous progress until it was absorbed into black fabric.

  “You may be right that Carita would benefit from your brother’s presence. I am told her vital signs were stronger after he was with her this morning. If I should decide to move her, he could come here for a few weeks.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face, unable to accept what she’d heard until she could look into the hot coffee blackness of his eyes. “Are you saying that you no longer object to his visiting her?”

  “I am not so foolish as to argue with success. Carita’s health is more important at the moment than my reservations about his place in her life. Whether it should be permanent is something that will have to wait until later.”

  “In other words, Jonathan can remain as long as he serves a useful purpose. Then he will have to go.” She went so quickly from wanting to stroke him to a strong need to hit him that she felt physically ill.

  “You twist my words into something I didn’t intend. My English is not always—”

  “Your English is perfect. I am quite clear on what you meant to say. You will decide later whether my brother is suitable, in spite of the baby and regardless of how he or your sister feels about it. Yes, or how much he gets hurt.”

  “It may be Carita who will be hurt more than she can bear. Yes, or Carisa, if you and your brother are here long enough for her to become attached to either of you. She doesn’t get over these affections easily. When you go away, she will grieve for you.”

  She saw his point, really she did, but was in no mood to be reasonable. “In that case, I don’t know why you brought me here. And I certainly don’t see why you would suggest my brother and I should stay.”

  “Nor do I,” he said while the darkness of his eyes turned opaque, concealing every thought and emotion. “Nor do I.”

  He didn’t want her at the villa, not really, was sorry he had introduced her to his family. The pain of it was a hard lump that closed off her throat, making it hard to breathe. She abandoned her towel in his hands as she climbed to her feet. Whirling from him, she lifted her sarong from the lounge where she had left it and headed for the villa.

  “Amanda! Wait!”

  She heard but didn’t answer. Without breaking stride, she swirled the sarong around her and fastened it with swift, hard jerks. She almost ran up the steps of the terrace, plunged into the dim coolness of the villa. She did not stop until she was back in her room with the door closed behind her.

  In the en suite bathroom, she stripped off the bikini and stepped into the shower. Holding her face up to the rain-like flood of water, she let it sluice over her, allowing recognition of the mistakes she’d made wash over her as well.

  She had known better than to stay at the villa, should never have drifted into agreeing. All the rest of it, the fake engagement, the close contact with Nico that had made her so dependent on him, learning the drugging sweetness of his kiss, would never have happened if she had followed her first instinct.

  None of it would have happened…

  No, and nothing good would come of prolonging the experience. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave. The last thing she wanted was to become so needy that she clung until told to go.

  The sooner she was well away, the better off she’d be. Facing the truth of that made her throat ache. Her eyes burned as if they had salt water in them, but she refused to cry.

  Leaving the shower, she struggled into her lightweight traveling robe while still damp, belting it loosely around her. In her sudden urge to get away, she didn’t bother to comb out her wet hair but pushed it back from her face. Taking her carryon bag from the closet, she flung it on the bed and began to throw her underclothing and few cosmetics into it with quick, jerky movements.

  She would speak to Aunt Filomena to see if it was possible for the chauffeur to drive her to a hotel without asking Nico’s permission. If it was not, she would call a taxi or arrange a rental car. If all else failed, she’d walk to the road and hitchhike.

  Yes, it was better that she go before she got too involved, before she fell headlong into an impossible relationship, before Jonathan was allowed to hope too much, before she hurt Carisa instead of helping her.

  She only hoped it wasn’t too late already.

  9

  Nico heard the scream when he was on his fifty-seventh lap in the pool. It was faint, muffled by distance that he thought it might have been a bird cry. His breathing was so labored from the fury of his exertions that he held it as he paused to listen, treading water.

  It came again.

  Carisa.

  He lunged to the pool’s edge, vaulted out and sprinted for the house. He left wet tracks on the terrace, the tiles of the great hall and on the marble staircase. His grandmother stood in the doorway of her bedroom, her eyes wide with alarm. His aunt was on the landing at the head of the stairs.

  “Where?” he demanded. He was painfully aware of their pale faces but had no time to reassure them, couldn’t be certain it was possible. Carisa’s shrill distress had a wild edge as it echoed through the villa, ringing against the high ceilings.

  Aunt Filomena pointed down the hall. “The American’s room, I think.”

  Nico’s heart battered against his ribs as he pounded in that direction. A thousand images of blood and injury flashed through his brain, half of Carisa, half of Amanda, none bearable. He crashed his fist against the bedroom door that was half open, so it slammed against the wall.

  Carisa stood rigid in the center of the room, her arms held st
iff at her sides and her fists clenched. Her small mouth was a round circle of woe as she screamed long and loud then drew breath to scream again. Amanda was holding her in a close hug as she spoke in soothing tones.

  He noticed with some treacherous part of his mind that she wore only a thin robe that clung damply to every luscious curve of her body. Slowing his advance, he approached his sister with as much calm as he could manage while his body pulsed with adrenaline.

  “What is this, Carisa, cara mia? What has happened? Are you hurt?”

  “Nothing happened,” Amanda answered for his sister as she gave another piercing cry. “She saw I was packing to leave. It seemed to set her off.”

  Packing? A quick glance was enough to locate the small carry-on that sat open on the bed. Beside it was the navy skirt and white blouse he had come to both appreciate and despise. She had been getting ready to leave, it seemed, meant to go without a word. Rage unlike anything he’d ever known surged through him,

  “Carisa, enough,” he said, swinging back to his sister.

  The edge in his voice seemed to shock her into silence. She stared at him with her eyes luminous with tears, nose running and small mouth still open wide.

  Immediately contrite, he knelt before her, drawing her against him to smooth her soft back. “It’s all right, carina mia. Don’t be sad. It’s a mistake. Amanda isn’t going.”

  “Truly?” she asked on a hiccup, her voice wobbling. “I don’t want her to go.”

  “Nico,” Amanda began.

  “No one wants her to go. It’s just a misunderstanding. Everything will be all right, I promise it. Meanwhile, would you like a nice profiterole? I heard—”

  He came to an abrupt halt as he realized he was doing exactly as Amanda had said they all did with Carisa. When had it become a habit?

  “Profiterole?” she asked with a line of worry between her pale brows.

  Amanda took a step toward him. “Nico?”

  He did not dare look at her, directing his attention only to Carisa as he brushed her cheek in a gentle caress. “We will discuss it, Amanda and I. While we do that, perhaps you and Aunt Filomena would like to take a walk? You could go as far as the sea.”

  “Nico, please. Per piacere,” his aunt said in protest. Her look was imploring as she stood in the doorway.

  “Allora, it will do you both good.” His answer was without pity, particularly as a watery smile of instant pleasure and anticipation bloomed across Carisa’s sweet face.

  His aunt sighed then came to gather Carisa to her in a huge, soft hug. Speaking softly, she turned with her toward the hall, though she sent him a knowing glance over her shoulder before they disappeared into the hall. He could hear the two of them talking in low voices, explaining to his grandmother. A moment later, the voices faded away down the stairs.

  Nico stepped to close the bedroom door. Holding hard to his temper, he turned slowly to face Amanda.

  “That was well done,” she said before he could speak.

  If it was meant to soothe his anger, it did not succeed. “I do have a concern for my sister. But you? You were going,” he said. “You were running away without even a civil goodbye for her. Or for me.”

  “I don’t care to stay where I’m not wanted.”

  “Oh, you’re wanted,” he said, moving toward her with deliberate steps. “What I would prefer is that you were not wanted so much.”

  She retreated while moistening her lips with her tongue. “But you said—”

  “I know what I said, but it’s too late. You’ve already made Carisa love you. My grandmother and my aunt not only enjoy your company but look forward to it. As for me—” He reached for her, catching her forearms to draw her against him. A shiver ran across his shoulders, beading his arms with goose bumps as he felt her warmth against his near-naked, water-chilled flesh. Then he lowered his head and took her mouth like a drowning man seeking the kiss of life.

  She resisted for the briefest of moments, holding him away with her hands against his chest. Then she made a low sound in her throat and slid her palms upward, gliding them over his shoulders before clasping the back of his neck. He eased closer to nestle the solid length of him against her softness.

  He felt bare skin against his thighs, realized the front of her light robe had parted as its tie loosened. Aching need vibrated through him. He released her arm, skimmed downward to slide his hands inside its open edges, spreading them wider. She was nude beneath it, he discovered, so gloriously naked that the exultation of it heightened his sense of touch to a painful edge.

  He spanned the satin skin of her waist, spread his fingers and feathered them over her rib cage and upward until he cupped the tender weight of her breast. It nestled into his hand, so smooth, so soft yet compact and tipped by the endearingly hard berry of her nipple. Blood thundered through his veins and a fever of need spread from inside him, heating his body until he thought steam must surely rise around them.

  ~ ~ ~

  Amanda gasped as she felt the gentle tug on her nipple, the delicate way he rolled it between his fingertips. The fiery sensation caught her by surprise as it spread through her, coalescing in the lower part of her body. She pressed against him, absorbing his heated hardness, the crisp texture of his body hair that rasped her thighs with exquisite friction, his strength that sapped her own until she felt boneless with pleasure.

  Never, never had it been like this, such a maelstrom of sensations, each more fervent than the last: his mouth, the twining of his tongue and its insistent probe; the silky yet ravishing roughness of his chest hair against her breasts, and his hands, oh, his hands.

  She should stop him, should retreat, but her will had vanished. In its place was mindless craving for more and more of him. His scent, a lingering intimation of his maddening cologne, the whiff of pool chemicals and his own warm male essence jarred her heart into a staggering beat.

  With one hand he cupped her bottom before pulling her harder against him, while the other brushed down her abdomen, smoothed the damp curls at the juncture of her thighs and clasped her in firm possession. At the same time, he pressed a line of kisses from the corner of her mouth to the turn of her jaw and hollow of her throat, and lower until he reached the peak of her breast. He wet it, blew upon it, and abraded it with his tongue’s roughness as it knotted ever tighter. At last, at last, he took it into his mouth and suckled with slow and gentle adhesion.

  A small cry left her. Her legs nearly gave way but stiffened again as he parted her soft folds and thrust a finger deep into her moist heat.

  And then she heard the ragged sound of his breath as he inhaled. Slowly, he withdrew, gentled his hold, and began to ease away from her.

  The muscles of her arms flexed to hold him. “No,” she whispered, “Please stay.”

  “I can’t,” he said in soft reply.

  To succumb in the heat of the moment might be easy. Was that not what she had said? She had been wrong.

  To find words that signaled surrender and force them past the tightness in her throat was near impossible. It was difficult because she was not overwhelmed by the hot, passionate need that surged in her veins. Rather, she decided in that instant to seize what she wanted and might never experience again, yielding to it without regret or reservation.

  “Please. Make love to me.”

  He tilted his head to see her face. “You’re sure?”

  “You said you would not refuse if I asked it.”

  The words were only a breath of sound. As they lingered between them there in the afternoon stillness time ceased to exist. There was only the two of them and that vital moment.

  “Nor will I,” he answered, the words soft yet as strong as a vow.

  He slid her robe down over her shoulders, bent to lift her into his arms. A few steps, and she felt the mattress of the bed give beneath her, heard the thud as her travel bag that lay upon it was pushed aside so it hit the floor. His damp Speedo was dispensed with in an instant. Then he was beside her, dentin
g the surface of the bed so she rolled toward him, gathering her close until she was pressed to him from her breasts to her ankles. She felt his hot, rigid flesh and reveled in its promise, pushing closer still. He whispered her name and other phrases against her hair while his arms hardened around her.

  Then his mouth was upon her again, driving her mad with his careful attention to her slightest response. He made red moist peaks of her breasts, caused her stomach muscles to flutter with the heat of his breath. He blew into the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs, delved among them with his tongue, murmured such compliments for the pink tip of flesh he found there that she blushed. He applied incredibly perfect adhesion to it so she writhed, moaning as she came apart in his arms.

  Swiftly, he rose above her, parting her thighs. His heated length sank into her liquid softness. He was still as she gasped, stiffening at the sudden fullness, the heat, the glory.

  “Perfetto, d’accordo, tesoro mio?”

  “Si,” she said on a gasping sigh, though she understood only one of the musical words he spoke against her hair. “Perfect.”

  And it was; it was as he withdrew and filled her again and yet again, in a slow dance that stretched time and strained nerves, muscles, and good intentions. She moved with him, against him, sliding her hands over him, grasping his arms, his waist, his hips while her breathing grew labored and perspiration slicked her body and mingled with his, aiding their endless, endless glide.

  They moved in wonder, in magic union, until the tension building inside her spiraled up suddenly, bursting in silent wonder, spreading such beneficence along her nerves that tears sprang into her eyes. Her body pulsed around Nico with powerful inner contractions. He groaned as he caught her to him in an iron grasp while his own orgasm broke from his control. Locked together, they savored the moment while straining heart to heart, body to body, mind to mind.

  In time, he subsided beside her. He didn’t lie back, but propped above her on one elbow. With hooded eyes, he spread his hand on the surface of her abdomen, slid it upward to cup her breast, bent his head to taste the nipple, drawing on it a little so it beaded instantly under his tongue. When he straightened again, he sighed. “Ah, you are so lovely, cara mia, so responsive, that I forget myself.”