The Borghese Bride Page 17
Dominic’s face reddened. “What did you say?”
Celia stood tall. “Go ahead. Fire me. What you do with your life isn’t my business.”
“No,” he said coldly, “it is not. Watch yourself, Celia. Some day, you’ll go too far.”
“Your son worships you. Your wife adores you. And still you march around here with a face that terrifies your employees and drives away your clients.”
“That’s nonsense. And I know my son loves me. You don’t have to point it out.”
“Your wife does, too.”
“That’s it. Get your things together. You’re fired.”
“Fire me. It won’t change the facts.”
“Dammit,” Dominic roared, punching his fist against the wall, “how dare you tell me what my wife feels?”
“She lived in that hospital when you were hurt. She never left your side. She thought you were dying, signore, and if that had happened, I think she would have died, too.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Celia smiled sadly. “Buona notte, signore. I’ll pack my things.”
“Don’t pack anything,” Dominic growled. “Who would employ you, except me? Keep your job, keep your tongue and trust me when I tell you that you don’t know everything.”
“Trust has to be earned, Signore Borghese. It isn’t a commodity you can demand of a person.”
“Riddles. Just what I need. What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you don’t know everything, either, especially when it comes to the feelings of women. Good night, signore.” Dominic opened his mouth, then shut it. Could a man ever win an argument like this? How could you discuss feelings? It was as he’d explained to Arianna, that day at the villa. Men knew feelings existed, but facts were what mattered.
Only facts.
Grim-faced, he left the building, climbed into his car and set off for the toy store, Kitty Kat Robot, and another evening of trying to figure out why he should give a damn about his dead marriage when he didn’t love his wife.
When she, heaven knew, didn’t love him.
* * *
Gianni climbed into his bed with his Kitty Kat clutched to his chest.
“Thank you again for my present, Daddy.”
Dominic’s heart still swelled at that word on his son’s lips.
“You’re welcome, Gianni.” He bent down and kissed the boy’s forehead. “Sleep well, son.”
“I will, unless I hear Mommy crying.”
“Unless… What do you mean?”
“Mommy cries sometimes. Late at night. It’s just a tiny little sound, like Kitty Kat made when we turned the switch on and she went ‘meow,’ remember?”
Dominic swallowed hard. “Maybe it isn’t your mommy. It could be a sound from outside.”
“Mommy said the same thing when I asked her about it, but I know it’s her.” Gianni hesitated. “Daddy?’ Member when I asked you why you and Mom didn’t sleep in the same room? An’ you said husbands and wives didn’t always do that?”
Dominic nodded. “I remember.”
“Mommies and daddies do. I asked Bruno. He told me.”
Bruno. A four-year-old boy supplying answers to questions a thirty-four-year-old man couldn’t answer.
“Not always.”
“Maybe if you and Mom were in the same room, she wouldn’t cry.”
Dio, Dominic thought, and pulled the blanket to his son’s chin.
“Go to sleep, Gianni.”
“Buona notte, Papa.”
Dominic smiled. “Good night, mio figlio.”
He shut off the light, closed the door and stood silently in the hall. Now what? His wife wept because he wouldn’t let her leave him, his secretary was convinced that he was a fool, and his son thought the answer to everything was sharing a room.
Maybe it was.
Maybe what he needed, what they both needed, was to go to bed together. That was what he’d warned her would happen. He could still do it. Walk into Arianna’s bedroom tonight, pull down the blankets, strip off her nightgown…
Dominic leaned his forehead against the wall.
Making love to a woman who hated him wasn’t the answer. Perhaps giving her the Butterfly was. Then she’d have the son she adored and the shop she loved.
Maybe that would be enough to make her smile again.
He took a deep breath and walked into the sitting room. It was empty. Of course. Arianna left it as soon as Gianni went to bed. He paused, inhaling the light fragrance of her perfume, remembering how it had scented her skin the night they’d made love. No. He wouldn’t think about that. Love had nothing to do with what they’d shared.
Why sentimentalize sex?
The paper giving her the Butterfly was in the pocket of his suit jacket. He retrieved it, smoothed out the creases, went down the hall to her room and knocked.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.” Brilliant, Borghese. Who else would it be? “I, uh, I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No,” he said tightly, “it cannot.”
There was silence. He thought he heard the faint rustle of fabric. Then the lock turned. He tried not to focus on the fact that her door was locked against him. It would only spark his anger, and he wasn’t going to lose control like that again.
The door opened a couple of inches. Arianna peered out at him. Her face was shiny, her hair was brushed out so it hung loose to her shoulders, she was wearing a simple white terry cloth robe, and he knew, in that instant, that he wasn’t just a fool, he was a deceitful fool because he’d never stopped loving his wife.
“May I come in?”
She moved back. He stepped inside the room.
“What do you want, Dominic? It’s late, and—”
“It’s eight o’clock. Dio, don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to—”
Never stopped loving her, and never would stop loving her.
“—not going to touch you.”
“Tell me what you want, please.”
He thrust the paper at her. “Here.”
She looked at it, her hair falling forward against her cheeks. How he longed to smooth back the soft curls, slide his fingers into it and raise her face to his.
She looked up, frowning in puzzlement. “What is this?”
“It’s what I promised you. Ownership of the Butterfly.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
She tossed the paper aside. He looked at it, then at her.
“Oh? That’s it?”
“What did you expect me to say? Good night, Dominic.”
She opened the door wider so that he’d get the idea. Well, he got it. But he wasn’t going anywhere until she explained herself.
“Did you actually read that document? Do you know what it is? I said that I’ve turned over the—”
“I heard what you said. Good night.”
“Wait a minute.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “That’s what this was all about, remember? The Butterfly. I said I’d give it to you if you married me.”
“My grandmother will be happy. Thank you again. And good—”
“Dammit, Arianna, what do you want from me? I kept our bargain and all you can say is—”
“What do you want me to say?” Her eyes flashed; he looked at her in surprise as it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen that look, that anger and vitality, on her face in a very long time. “I thanked you. End of story.”
“The hell it is!”
“Keep your voice down. You’ll wake Gianni.”
Dominic kicked the door shut behind him. “You’ll wake him anyway. He says he hears you crying during the night.”
Color flooded her face. “I do not cry! Whatever Gianni hears, it’s not me weeping.”
“Of course not. Why would you weep?”
“Indeed.” She folded her arms, lifted her chin. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know.” Domin
ic moved toward her. She retreated. He was angry already and that made him angrier. What was she afraid of? Had he ever hurt her? Had he ever stormed in here and taken her, as he’d threatened to do? As he’d ached to do, all these weeks—except he didn’t want to take her in anger. He wanted her to come to him willingly, to sigh his name as she had once done, to kiss him and tell him, with each kiss, that she loved him as much as he loved her.
“Do you weep because you think you must tolerate my presence in your life?” He clasped her shoulders. “Because you have to look at my face each morning and know that I am your husband? Is that the reason you cry, Arianna?”
She shook her head. Tears glittered on her lashes, then spilled down her cheeks.
“Answer me, dammit.” He shook her. “Do you weep because you hate me?”
“I weep because I love you!” The words burst from her throat. She knew she was making a mistake, that he’d never believe her, that she was making herself even more vulnerable, but she couldn’t hide what she felt anymore, not from him, not from herself. “I love you, Dominic. I know you don’t want to hear it, but—”
She cried out as his mouth crushed hers in a kiss so filled with passion it made her dizzy.
“Cara mia. Il mio cuore,” he whispered, “you are my heart. My soul.”
“Dominic. Dominic, my love…”
He kissed her again, cupped her face, scattered more kisses on her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks.
“I’ve been so cruel, cara. But when I thought you’d deceived me…”
“I know it was wrong. I should have told you about Gianni as soon as we were married, but I was afraid. I didn’t know you, didn’t know what you’d do—”
“Si. I understand. You were cautious, and you were right to be. You had a child you were determined to protect at all costs.” Dominic took a deep breath and lifted her face to his. “I let the ghosts of my past rule my heart, Arianna. I wanted you to love me and when I thought you didn’t… I was wrong to lash out at you, cara. Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I hurt you. I didn’t meant to, but I did.” Arianna framed his face with her hands, brought his lips to hers and kissed him. “I’ll never hurt you again, il mio amore. I swear it.”
Dominic gathered her tightly in his arms. “Ti amo, mia moglie.”
Such glorious words. Arianna’s lips curved in a smile. “And I love you, my husband. I always will.”
Dominic lifted his wife in his arms. She linked her hands behind his neck.
“Where are we going?” she said softly.
“To our bedroom. I’m going to make love to my wife.” He grinned. “And tomorrow—”
“Just like a man, already planning ahead.” She kissed his mouth tenderly. “What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we’ll take Gianni and drive to the villa. It’s time our son had a real cat. And a dog. And a pony. And—”
“And a mother and father who love each other,” Arianna whispered.
“And who always will,” Dominic whispered back, as he carried the woman he loved into his room, and into his life.
* * *
Gianni took all the credit for his parents’ wedding in the spring.
He and Bruno—“the font of knowledge,” Dominic said, laughing—had been discussing things. Bruno said brides always wore white gowns and grooms always wore funny black suits.
Gianni said it wasn’t true. He’d been at his parents’ wedding and they hadn’t dressed that way.
“Well,” said Bruno, “they should have.”
Gianni mentioned it to his mother. His mother smiled and mentioned it to his father who laughed, hoisted him into the air and said he thought that was a great idea.
Next thing he knew, there was a thing called a bower set up in the garden behind the big house they all lived in now, and it was covered with pink and white roses.
There was a guy playing a violin. A couple of guys, actually. There were guests smiling at each other, and there was good stuff to eat and bubbly stuff to drink and, just like that first time, he even got to taste some.
But this wedding was lots better.
His mom looked like a princess in a long white dress with a big skirt and a neckline that showed her shoulders. She said the dress was made of lace. She had flowers in her hair, like the ones on the bower.
His dad wore a funny black suit, just like Bruno had said, but it didn’t look funny on his dad. It looked sort of cool.
He stood next to his dad, under the bower, in a suit that was kind of the same, holding his dad’s hand tight as his great-grandma came down the aisle with his mom.
“Mia bambina,” he heard his nonna whisper, which was silly ’cause his mom wasn’t a little girl anymore.
His mom took a step toward his dad, who was looking at her, and—wow! Were those tears in his dad’s eyes? There were definitely tears in his mom’s.
“Mia principessa,” his dad said to his mom, “come sei bella.” That was okay because it was true. She really did look like a beautiful princess.
All of a sudden, his nonna tapped that black stick of hers against the ground. Everybody seemed surprised. Not him. His great-grandma was always doing stuff nobody expected. It was one of the bestest things about her.
“You will excuse me, per favore,” she said, “but I have something of importance to say. Today, the del Vecchios and the Borgheses become one.” Then she smiled, in the way that meant she was feeling pretty pleased with herself. “And I am delighted to tell you all that it is good to know an old woman like me can still devise a clever plan that works well, from start to finish.”
His mom blinked. So did his dad. Then they began to laugh. Things got quiet after that and the ceremony began, and his great-grandma took his hand and the two of them got a little teary-eyed together.
And when the ceremony was over, and he squeezed between his parents and they lifted him in their arms and they all kissed and hugged each other, Gianni Cabot del Vecchio Borghese figured he was absolutely the luckiest, happiest kid in Italy, in America, in the whole, wide world.
* * * * *
Now, read on for a tantalizing excerpt of Caitlin Crews’s new release,
BOUND TO THE SICILIAN’S BED
The next part of the Conveniently Wed! miniseries!
When Rocco’s runaway wife asks for a divorce, the Sicilian billionaire seizes his chance! They’ve never discussed their painful past, but this is the perfect opportunity to get Nicole out of his system for good. He offers her a deal: if Nicole wants to move on with her life she will be his one last time!
Keep reading to get a glimpse of
BOUND TO THE SICILIAN’S BED
CHAPTER ONE
ROCCO BARBERI FELT anger pumping through his veins and it was enough to stop him in his tracks. Because he didn’t do anger. He was known as a man of cool calculation. His implacable Sicilian features were notorious for never betraying a flicker of emotion and his business rivals often said he would have made a world-class poker player. So why was rage flooding through him like hot lava as he stood outside a tiny art shop in some God-forsaken Cornish town?
He knew why. Because of her. His wife. His mouth twisted. His estranged wife. The woman who was standing inside the shop studying some sort of vase, her thick dark curls cascading down her back, leading the eye naturally to her narrow waist and the luscious curve of her bottom. The woman who had walked away from him without a qualm, uncaring of his reputation and everything he had done for her.
He pushed open the door and the doorbell jangled loudly as he walked in. He saw her look up, her face freezing with shock—and Rocco enjoyed a brief moment of pleasure as he read disbelief in those green eyes, which had once so bewitched him. He heard her suck in an unsteady breath and as she put the vase down he noticed her fingers were trembling. Good, he thought grimly. Good.
‘Rocco,’ she said breathlessly and he could see her throat constricting as she swallowed. That long, pale neck he had once
covered in urgent kisses before moving on to the infinitely softer territory of her breasts. ‘What�what are you doing here?’
The deliberate pause he allowed was just long enough to increase the sudden tension, which had gathered like a storm cloud in the small shop. ‘You’ve just served me with divorce papers, Nicole,’ he drawled. ‘What did you think would happen? That I would just sign over half my fortune and let you walk off into the sunset with a toss of your pretty curls? Is that what you were hoping?’
She was brushing a dark spiral of hair away from a face flushed pink—acting with the self-consciousness of a woman who was uncertain about her appearance and Rocco was unprepared for the sudden wave of lust which washed over him. Would she have taken a little more care with her clothes if she’d known he was coming—worn something a little more flattering than those faded jeans and a filmy white shirt, which concealed far too much of those luscious breasts?
‘Of course I wasn’t,’ she answered, still in that faintly breathless voice. ‘I just thought�’
‘Yes?’ His voice rang out flatly and he saw her flinch.
‘That you might have given me some kind of warning.’
‘You mean, like you did when you walked away from our marriage?’
‘Rocco—’
‘Or when your lawyer sent me those papers last week?’ he continued relentlessly. ‘You didn’t even do me the courtesy of a phone call to let me know you were about to file for divorce, did you, Nicole? Which naturally led me to the conclusion that you were the kind of woman who favoured surprises. So here I am,’ he finished softly. ‘Your big surprise.’
Nicole felt dizzy. Faint. And not just because of the steely accusations which were slicing through the air towards her. She met the blaze of his eyes and wondered how, after just a few seconds in his company, she was already feeling mixed up and at a disadvantage. She hadn’t seen Rocco Barberi for two whole years yet his impact was as devastating as it had ever been. Maybe even more so. She’d forgotten the way he could dominate the space around him and make any room seem to shrink whenever he walked in. She’d forgotten because she’d forced herself to forget the man she had loved even though duty had been the only thing on his mind when he’d slipped that wedding band on her finger. She licked her lips. Maybe she’d been foolish to expect anything deeper when their relationship had been doomed from the start—because those kinds of relationships always were. Rich man/poor girl was all very well in theory, but in practice�