The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (Italian Billionaires #1)(34)
“But won’t that take time to arrange?”
“It won’t be allowed to matter. Though it may not be usual for a De Frenza bride to be obviously pregnant on her wedding day, it hasn’t exactly been unknown.”
The hauteur of that statement was relieved by the quirk of his lips in a sardonic smile. Her own curved in slow response. “You shock me.”
“Now why? It was once considered an excellent sign as it proved the fertility of both bride and groom.”
“Supposing, of course, that the child belonged to the husband-to-be.”
“There might have been a murder instead of a wedding if it had not,” he answered, his voice stiff with what sounded very like a warning. “A bloodthirsty crew, my family, in defense of their honor.”
7
The reminder of family honor and the possibilities it held was disturbing, Nico thought, particularly with Amanda Davies so close beside him. He needed no such incentives, was far too familiar with them already. Two generations ago, three at the most, she would be his by now. He would know every inch of her skin, every curve and hollow of her delectable body.
She would have no secrets from him, nor would she be able to retreat into chilly reserve. He would know exactly what it took to make her cry out with pleasure, and how it felt when she came apart in his arms. He would know her as well physically as she seemed to know him mentally.
How had she guessed at the guilt that drove him? How dare she feel compassion for it, much less show it? He was used to women who saw only what he wanted them to see, who cared little for what lay beneath the surface. If they’d discovered his failure of duty by chance, they’d have scorned it or else sought to use it against him.
Jonathan Davies’s sister could do the same if the chance arose, which was something he should remember. She might have the cool serenity of a Madonna, but she could still be tempted.
What would it take to entice her into his arms, to make her come to him? Would that absolve him of the necessity for keeping his hands off her?
He could not stop looking at her for more than a minute or two. Every little thing about her drew his attention: the way the wind swirled her hair around her face or molded her white shirt against the surprisingly lush curves of her breasts. The shape of her cheek, the delectable curves of her mouth, the pearl-like sheen to the skin of her neck and arms, the smooth shape of her knee exposed as her straight skirt rose above it.
The fragrance she wore, a clean floral, made him want to lean closer to breathe it in instead of repelling him like the heavy designer fragrances preferred by most women he knew. His fingers itched with the need to sink them into her hair, to position her head so he might take the freshness of her mouth like drinking purest spring water. He wanted to feel every inch of her skin pressed to him while he was absorbed by her, sinking so far into her that he touched her heart.
Was it some ancient instinct, an eye for an eye, a sister for a sister, a possession for a possession--an obsession for an obsession?
Or was it only because she was forbidden?
He was going insane, he must be. Any excuse would begin to seem acceptable if he was not careful. Any excuse at all.
~ ~ ~
The trattoria overlooking the sea was rustic but inviting with its fa?ade of silver-gray weathered wood. A framework of wooden cross pieces stretched across its front, supporting long strips of blue and white canvas that flapped lazily in the onshore breeze. The tables beneath this makeshift awning were painted a vivid blue, while the cloths that covered them were stunningly white. Pots of red geraniums centered the cloths and more spilled from ancient wine barrels on either side of the entrance.
The scents of seafood, garlic and herbs were a powerful invitation to step into the shade and select one of the tables. They were reinforced by the welcome of a large woman with a mustache and a white apron snapping around her ankles. She enveloped Nico in a powerful embrace and scolded him for not visiting more often.
Nico ordered a carafe of the house wine. Their hostess, still talking while eyeing Amanda with frank curiosity, backed away then disappeared toward the kitchen.
Warm artisan bread and a pottery dish of plump ripe olives appeared with the wine, brought by the woman’s gangling teenage son who served as waiter in this family enterprise. The boy had a head of wild Pan-like brown curls, smooth olive skin and a bright yet knowing smile that marked him as a charmer. He shook out Amanda’s napkin and draped it over her lap with a deft gesture. Pouring a little of the wine for Nico, he waited for his approval. Gaining it, he filled Amanda’s glass first. Nico didn’t object, and neither did Amanda as she was uncertain of making herself understood. The teenager recited the menu items in proud but strongly accented English, however, and received their order. He lingered then, straightening the tablecloth, brushing at imaginary crumbs, until Nico gave him a straight look accompanied by a quick lift of his chin. Still he hesitated.
“There is nothing more I can do? You are — you are perfetto?”
“Perfetto, grazie,” Nico answered for her with dry certainty. “Absolutely perfect, thank you.”
The young waiter lifted a shoulder with a droll smile. Without haste, he moved away to see to other customers within the trattoria’s dim interior.
Amanda would have liked to think Nico had sent the boy away because he preferred not to share her attention or her company. She suspected, instead, that he merely liked his privacy. And why it should matter one way or the other was more than she could say.