The Costanzo Baby Secret (7 page)

And his mouth—had it done the same thing? Or was the sudden damp flood at her core brought on by wishful thinking?

Catching her inspecting him and quite misunderstanding the reason, he grinned and said, “Relax, Maeve, I know what I’m doing. We’re not going to run aground.”

“I wasn’t watching you,” she said, rolling truth and fib together into a seamless whole. “I was admiring the view.”

“Then you’re facing the wrong way.” Shifting the throttle so that the boat idled in Neutral, he lifted his arm and pointed off the starboard bow. “Look over there.”

She turned and let out a gasp of delight. No more than twenty yards away, a pod of dolphins frolicked in the turquoise water. “I would give the world to be like them,” she breathed, entranced. “They’re everything I wish I was. Playful, graceful, beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful, Maeve. I told you so the first night you came home again, and nothing’s changed my mind since then.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m talking about their spirit. They embody a joie de vivre I seem to have lost. I’m in limbo—a stranger inside my own skin.”

“Not to me,” he murmured, for once leaning so close that his breath teased the outer rim of her ear. “You’re the woman I married.”

She leaned against him, loving his closeness, the heat of his body, the scent of his sun-kissed skin. Loving him. “Tell me about that—about our getting married, I mean. Did we have a big wedding?”

He hesitated just long enough for a shiver of apprehension to steal over her. “No. It was a very quiet, intimate affair.”

“Why?”

Again that ominous pause before he said, “Because we were married in Vancouver. I could spare only a few days before returning to Italy, which made planning an elaborate affair out of the question.”

“So it was a spur-of-the-moment thing?”

“More or less. I took you by surprise, and popped the question, to coin the rather odd English way of putting it. You had just enough time to run out and find a dress to wear.”

“What color?”

“Blue,” he said. “The same shade as your eyes.”

“And flowers?”

“You carried a small bouquet of white lilies and roses.”

“My favorites!”

“Yes.”

“Who else was there?”

“Two witnesses. A former colleague of yours whose name I don’t recall, and a business associate of mine.”

“Did we have rings?”

“Yes. White-gold wedding bands, yours studded with diamonds.”

“Where are they now?”

“The clinic administrator gave yours to me for safekeeping.”

“What about a honeymoon?”

“Just four short days on the yacht. I couldn’t spare more time.”

She splayed the fingers of her left hand across her knee. “I think I’d like to wear my ring again. Is it at the house?”

“No. It’s with mine, in the penthouse safe, in Milan. I’ll get them both the next time I’m in the city.” He slid back behind the wheel and put the engine in gear again. “For now, we have more to do and see out here.”

Slowly they continued their tour of the island, and finally, with the worst heat of the day past, he guided the Donzi between upthrust spears of basalt rock and dropped anchor in a quiet, secluded cove.

Donning masks, snorkels and fins, they slipped over the side of the boat and drifted facedown over water teeming with marine life. Schools of black-and-orange-striped fish darted among the coral beds. Red starfish, their color made all the more vivid by contrast, clung to dark volcanic rock. Tiny crustaceans scuttled into the protection of miniature forests of algae the likes of which, as far as she knew, she’d never seen before. Close to the mouth of the cove, she came across the remains of an ancient amphora, relic of a shipwreck that had taken place centuries before.

When, after more than an hour in the water, they at last climbed aboard the runabout again, the sun had slipped low on the western horizon. Tired, content and wrapped in a huge beach towel, she snuggled close to Dario as he weighed anchor and set the Donzi on its homeward course.

As usual, that evening they dined on the terrace, or
ducchena
as Dario had taught her to call it. Maeve dressed with particular care before joining him. Much though she’d enjoyed the afternoon, it hadn’t produced the results she’d hoped for. She had no more recollection of visiting the cove previously than she had of marrying Dario, and she was determined that not
another night would pass without her making some sort of progress. If that meant having to seduce him into revealing all he knew, then that’s what she was prepared to do. It was a case of the ends justifying the means, although why justification should be necessary was a moot point. He was her husband, after all, and had more or less admitted he’d grown as weary of celibacy as she had.

Inspecting the more formal dinner dresses in her closet, none of which she’d yet worn, she rejected the first two, which, though lovely, weren’t as eye-catching as the third, a silk charmeuse in deepest jade-green, with a high empire waistline. In contrast to the modesty of the softly flared long sleeves, the low-cut neckline could be described as nothing short of daring. A huge pearl buckle centered below the bust brought together the artfully draped fabric of the bodice, and released it in a free fall of dramatic, shimmering color almost to her ankles. Simple but sophisticated, it required only a pair of teardrop pearl earrings and high-heeled black sandals to complement it.

“Lei è una visione, mia bella,”
Dario said reverently, when he saw her.

She cast him a deliberately provocative glance from beneath demurely lowered eyelashes. “Thank you.”

That she’d achieved the effect she’d been hoping for was immediately apparent. He almost missed the flutes he was filling and came close to splashing vintage champagne all over his shoes.

Recovering himself, he gestured to the sun chaises and said solicitously, “You must have found this afternoon very tiring. Why don’t you put your feet up while we wait for dinner to be served?”

The chaises were separated by a low table that allowed for no body contact, but down by the pool was a canopied patio swing built for two. “Why don’t we have our drinks on the lower deck, for a change?” she suggested, running a deliberate fingertip from the top of her plunging neckline to her cleavage. “The pool looks so lovely in the moonlight. It reminds me of a huge cabochon sapphire.”

Eyeing her suspiciously, he shrugged. “
Certo.
Whatever pleases you. But take my arm going down the steps. You might trip in those heels otherwise.”

For a brief, startling second, she forgot her plans to seduce him as another flower-scented night, and a narrow street paved with uneven cobblestones illuminated by streetlamps, flashed before her eyes. And then, as quickly as it appeared, the picture was gone. Imagination? she wondered, her pulse jumping. Or a bone fide memory slipping through the layers clouding her mind?

There was only one way to find out. “I seem to recall your saying that to me before.”

He laughed and tucked her hand beneath his elbow. “Only about a hundred times.”

“Why? I know I made a practice of falling over my own feet when I was a teenager, but I’d hoped I’m not quite as clumsy anymore.”

“You aren’t,” he assured her. “You’re one of the most graceful women I’ve ever met. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t go out of my way to keep you safe.”

They’d reached the pool deck by then. Not waiting for him to suggest they occupy any of the several chaises lined up around its perimeter, she slipped her hand free of his arm and
wandered ever so casually to the swing, leaving him with little choice but to follow and sit down next to her. “Where were you, then, the day of my accident?” she asked.

Even though he wasn’t quite touching her, she felt the sudden tension emanating from his body as acutely as if static electricity had leaped between them. “Obviously not doing my job.”

“I’m not blaming you, Dario,” she amended hurriedly. “No one can be expected to look out for someone else all the time, especially not an adult who should be able to look out for herself.”

“But I do blame myself,” he said, his voice raw.

She opened her mouth to refute such a notion, then closed it again as another thought occurred. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed softly. “Are you telling me you were driving the car, and hold yourself responsible for my injuries? Is that why you won’t talk to me about it?”

He swung around to face her with such leashed anger that she flinched. “No. If I’d been at the wheel, you never would have been hurt and…”

“And what?”

“And we wouldn’t be sitting here like this.”

“Like what?”

“Brother and sister,” he exploded. “Good friends. Polite strangers. Take your pick.”

“You don’t like our status quo?”

“What do you take me for?” he ground out. “Of course I don’t like our status quo! What red-blooded man would?”

She inched closer until her thigh touched his, and put her hand on his knee. “Then why don’t you do something about it, Dario?” she said.

H
E’D
never thought to see the day or night that he would turn down a beautiful, sexy woman’s advances. But when he’d married Maeve, he’d cast aside his role of quintessential playboy and relied on his moral compass to make a success of a union he’d neither anticipated nor wanted. The same inborn sense of decency kicked in now, reining in his response to her.

“Because I’m not convinced you know what you’re asking for,” he said.

She cupped his jaw and turned his face to hers. “Will this change your mind?” she whispered, her sweetly fragrant breath feathering over his lips to infiltrate his mouth.

At once bold and hungry, her kiss inflamed his soul. This was the Maeve he’d married, he thought, his senses swimming; the girl in a woman’s body whom he’d coaxed into shedding the inhibitions that had dogged her most of her life. He had taught her well. She’d blossomed under his expert tutelage; had reveled in her newfound sexuality. And now she was using it to destroy him.

Still he fought, bolstered by doubts he’d never fully acknowledged before. Who was it she really craved: her husband,
or Yves Gauthier, the French-Canadian summer visitor with whom she’d struck up such a close alliance, and in whose rented car she’d been traveling when the accident occurred?

“Until you regain your memory, you don’t even know me, Maeve,” he said, forcing the words past the strangling constriction in his throat.

“I know I want you, and have ever since last week when I walked down the steps from that jet and into your waiting arms.”

Did she? Or was she merely responding to the same wild hormonal attraction that had lured her to surrender her innocence to him in the first place? He wished he knew.

As though sensing his uncertainty, she upped the ante by angling her body so that her breast nudged his biceps. “Please, Dario…”

Cursing inwardly, he closed his eyes against the temptation. Undeterred, she murmured his name again and guided his hand inside her low-cut gown to cradle her fullness. Her nipple surged against his palm, eager and responsive. Unbearably aroused already, he clenched his teeth against the increased onslaught to his stamina.

Impatient with his resistance, and with an abandon that left him reeling, she made a sound deep in her throat and, pulling her skirt up around her waist, moved swiftly to sit astride his lap.

Her long bare legs, pale as ivory in the moonlight and his for the taking, leveled his defenses. He couldn’t help himself. He touched her, skimming his palms over the slender curve of her thighs, lured by the siren call of their warm, smooth skin. Wove a path to the damp patch of fabric between them and, slipping his finger under the edge of her panties, found the hidden nub of flesh at her core.

She trembled and gave an inarticulate cry at the spasm that seized her. He touched her again, knowing well the exact spot that would give her the most pleasure. A subtle increase in pressure, a more urgent rhythm. Then the hiss of delicate silk giving way as he inserted three fingers between her and her underwear, the middle one sliding inside her dark wet confines at the same time that he relented and let his tongue dance with hers.

The sublime torture of having her tilt her hips backward in fluid compliance, and not take what she so willingly offered, almost killed him. The blood pounded through his veins, his lungs seized up, and how he didn’t grind his teeth to dust was nothing short of miraculous. If she touched him, even fleetingly and even with the barrier of clothing depriving him of the intimacy he was affording her, he would explode. But she did not. His contained agony was eclipsed by her soft scream as she climaxed and collapsed against him, sobbing.

He held her until she grew calm again, then lifted her clear of his lap and deposited her back on the seat beside him.

“No,” she begged, clinging to him. “Not until we both…together…please, Dario…!”

But he’d played a similar game of Russian roulette with her once before, and look where it had landed them. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. “I didn’t come prepared.”

“What does it matter? You’re my husband.”

Oh, it mattered. It would continue to matter until they both knew without a shadow of doubt that he was the man she wanted, not just for a night, but forever.

Removing himself from further temptation, he stood up and stepped away from the swing. “This is hardly the time or the
place, Maeve,” he said. “Our absence has already been noticed. Antonia’s serving dinner, and if we don’t show up fast, she’ll be sending someone to come looking for us.”

She let out a horrified little yelp. “I hope you’re joking.”

“See for yourself.”

She peeked around the side of the canopy, which had so effectively camouflaged them from view. The housekeeper, having set out the first course, was casting a searching glance around the empty terrace.

“Well, do something, for heaven’s sake,” Maeve whimpered, running agitated fingers through her hair. “I’m a mess. I can’t have anyone see me looking like this.”

No more could he. He might be talking good sense, but his body wasn’t listening. He ached so viciously, he’d have plunged fully dressed into the pool, except it would only draw more attention to a situation he never should have allowed to get so far out of hand to begin with. “I’ll go ahead and distract her,” he said, collecting the champagne flutes and steadfastly willing his rebellious nether regions to behave. “Slip through the library to get back to your room, and join me when you’re ready.”

Regaining the sanctuary of her suite undetected, Maeve locked herself in the bathroom and, almost as baffled as she was ashamed, regarded herself in the full-length mirror. Her face was flushed, her lip gloss smeared, and her eyes glittered like demented beacons.

What in the world had come over her? Planning to seduce her husband was one thing, but attempting to do so where they might have been discovered ranked right up there with
deciding to swim naked in broad daylight. Both were completely out of character, which gave rise to some disturbing questions.

Had she undergone a major personality change as a result of her head injury, and was that why Dario had so firmly resisted her? Was she proving to be as much of a stranger to him as he was to her? Or was it simply, as he’d tried to tell her before, that she was pushing too hard and too fast to find her way back to him?

One thing she did know. Whether or not he admitted it, he wanted her as ardently as she wanted him. He’d implied that their marriage hadn’t been all smooth sailing before the accident, but regardless of what had transpired in the past, the sexual attraction between them had survived intact. Why, then, was he so unwilling to give in to it?

She had no answers but, as she freshened up and made herself presentable again, she determined she wouldn’t rest until she found some. Since her husband was so unwilling to provide them and she’d rather eat worms than ask anything of her mother-in-law, she’d rely on her own ingenuity to put together the missing pieces that comprised the jigsaw puzzle of her life. That those answers existed, just a breath out of reach, had been made evident by the brief flash of memory that had assailed her earlier in the evening.

Her opportunity to do some sleuthing came the next day, when Dario left for Milan. Or, more accurately, the next night.

To make sure she didn’t trip over the ever-vigilant Antonia or one of her minions, Maeve waited until after midnight before stealing out of her suite. Her first stop was his study,
a room far enough removed from the staff quarters that she was in no danger of alerting anyone to her activities.

Although his desk was littered with the kind of paperwork one would expect of any corporate executive operating out of his home, there was absolutely nothing personal among it that she could see from her cursory investigation. None of the drawers were locked, which suggested they, too, were devoid of anything that might spark a memory, nor did the bookshelves yield any clues. Which left the computer. But even she, desperate though she was to reclaim her past, drew the line at going quite that far. Coming across something that happened to be lying out more or less in full view was one thing; violating his privacy by snooping through his files or e-mail, quite another.

Leaving the study exactly as she’d found it, she crept past the library and the media room, the big formal dining room and the elegant day salon. A few yards farther on, a set of tall double doors blocked her progress, but they opened at her touch and, as she’d suspected, marked the entrance to the master suite.

Like hers, it formed an arm of the villa’s E-shaped floor plan. Unlike hers, it didn’t share the space with two other suites, but occupied the entire wing.

When she touched the electric switch to her left, four wall sconces shed subdued light on a foyer that was almost as spacious as her living room in Vancouver. Oyster-white walls contrasted sharply with a jewel-toned Turkish area rug covering part of the black marble floor. Equally eye-catching were the vibrant colors of a bird-of-paradise bouquet on a table set against one wall. Two doors took up most of the third
wall, with an arched opening leading to a sitting room filling the fourth.

She chose to explore the sitting area first. Tastefully furnished with sofas upholstered in crisp black-and-white-striped linen, the usual complement of occasional tables, strategically placed lamps, a sound system and a small ladies’ writing desk, the room’s most striking feature was the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. They offered an unsurpassed view across the moonlit sea and gave access to yet another private pool and terrace furnished with table, chairs and sun lounges.

What struck her most forcibly, though, was the complete lack of personal touches within the room. No objets d’art or magazines littered the surface of the tables. No framed photographs graced the walls. No evidence at all, in fact, that anyone had ever actually used the place. Even the writing desk, which might reasonably be expected to contain some item of interest, revealed nothing but a couple of silver pens, a stack of embossed stationery and a small English-Italian dictionary.

Hoping for better luck elsewhere, she returned to the foyer and opened the first door on her left. A short hall led to the master bedroom, which, decorated chiefly in restful shades of misty blue-gray and white, made her ache for all the nights she’d not shared it with her husband.

Filmy draperies hung at the sliding glass doors that gave access to the pool and terrace. White fur rugs were scattered over the floor. In one corner, a potted tibouchina covered with purple blossoms stood beside a Victorian chaise longue upholstered in a soft gray toile depicting exotic birds. On the other side, a tulip-shaped Art Deco reading lamp fashioned from
opaque glass stood on a little carved table, with just enough room next to it for a book and maybe a cup of hot chocolate.

In the opposite corner, a black iron floor candelabra shaped like a tree made a bold fashion statement, even though it lacked candles. The other source of light came from black-shaded lamps with heavy brass bases on the nightstands.

And then there was the most dominant feature of the room, the bed itself. Sumptuously proportioned and extravagantly dressed in the finest linens, it brought to mind images so stirring and erotic, Maeve’s stomach turned over in a rolling somersault. Her mind might not remember writhing in ecstasy as she and Dario made love on its thick mattress, but her body certainly did.

Double en suite bath and dressing rooms opened off this room. Body lotions, bath oils and hand-milled soaps, as well as thick velvet towels monogrammed with her initials were meticulously set out in her bathroom. Those clothes not in her temporary quarters were arranged by color in the closets, along with shoes, wide-brimmed hats and other accessories.

But as with the bed and sitting rooms, they struck not a single chord of memory. And to add to the mystery of her past, a second door leading from the bedroom and connecting to who knew what, was locked, as was its counterpart in the foyer.

Disappointed, she retraced her steps throughout the entire suite. Everything was undeniably attractive, but the most important element, the one that made it home, was missing. It was all too eerily immaculate; a residence-in-waiting from which every conceivable flaw had been carefully erased. No trace of human trial and error or interaction remained. Whatever imperfections made up its past had been removed.

And she knew where they were hidden. Behind those locked doors.

Well, at least she’d narrowed down her search. Now all she had to do was find the missing key. But where to look? The most obvious places had turned up nothing. Probably Dario had a safe hidden somewhere, but even if she found it, without knowing the code to open it, she’d be no further ahead.

No, her only recourse lay with her husband. He was the real repository of her history, and one way or another she had to persuade him to share it with her.

As promised, he returned from Milan just in time to shower and change before dinner the following evening. As always, he looked divine in slim-fitting charcoal-gray trousers and a pearl-colored shirt against which his skin glowed like polished copper.

“You seem weary, Maeve,” he commented, holding her at arm’s length and inspecting her critically when he joined her. “There are dark smudges under your pretty eyes.”

Guilt welled up in her. Of course she looked weary! For a start, duplicity didn’t sit well with her. Add to that snooping through the house, then mulling over what might be behind those locked doors, and she’d managed only about four hours of sleep last night. “I missed you,” she said. That much at least was no lie.

He traced his finger over her mouth. “Did you?”

“Yes,” she quavered, finding his touch so wildly exciting that it was all she could do to breathe. “The villa isn’t the same when you’re not here. I hope you’re not planning on going away again anytime soon.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Tomorrow, in fact, to spend the weekend in Tunisia.”

All the lovely warm sensations he so easily aroused vanished as if he’d flung cold water in her face. Not bothering to hide her disappointment, she said, “A man in your lofty position having to work on the weekend? Can’t you send someone else in your place?”