Somewhere in the back of Caitlin’s mind, she was aware that they weren’t dancing. Not that she had really wanted to dance. If she’d had a conscious thought at all, it was that she wanted to learn the feel of his hard lines, strong arms, firm lips.
Him.
“Nico,” she whispered.
Slowly, methodically, he wrapped long silky strands of her hair around his hand until his hand was tight against her scalp and he controlled the position of her head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.” Then his mouth came down on hers, and his tongue thrust hotly into her mouth.
She gave herself up to the kiss and to him as a low moan escaped her throat. She’d imagined this kiss, yearned for It, but she wasn’t prepared for its reality. His tongue made outrageously intimate forays into her mouth that inundated her senses with new sensations. Her knees threathened to buckle, but he held her tightly to him, so tightly, it seemed that he was trying to make her part of him. The idea didn’t frighten her at all.
He parted her satin jacket, then delved beneath the camisole and closed his hand over her breast. She was fuller than he had thought, more perfect. And the rigidity of her nipple thrilled him. He rolled the taut peak between his fingers, thinking he could spend hours lavishing attention on her breasts and nipples and never grow bored. He salivated to have as much of her as possible in his mouth. He could almost taste the honey-sweetness of her now. And she wouldn’t protest. This sure knowledge nearly drove him past the edge of reason. But he held on. He wanted both her and reason, and he wasn’t yet ready to admit that was impossible.
Passion unfolded in her body and spread, taking possession. His hands and mouth had an extraordinary sureness that brought her nerves alive. He was seducing her with ease, but the moment seemed too right for Caitlin to resist. His actions and his obvious arousal left no doubt that he wanted her.
In a comer of her mind, she realized he completely controlled her. The Idea carried excitement with it, yet the steel-hard control he kept over himself bothered her. Still, she skimmed her hand inside his shirt, along the smooth flesh of his back. Muscles rippled beneath her palm, giving her some sense of his strength, making her tremble with passion. A feminine hunger raged within her to touch all of him—every dip and rise of his body, every plane and curve. She wanted to learn him intimately, and she let her hand rove freely, but when she encountered the tape securing one bandage, she hesitated.
And then he was pulling away.
“The record.”
She blinked as if she’d suddenly come from complete darkness into a brilliantly lighted room. “What?”
“The record’s over,” he said gruffly.
Confused, she stared at his dark expression, trying to decipher what was wrong, and it was a moment before she became aware of the insistent scratching of the needle as it tracked against the record. Her limbs quivering with weakness, she walked into the drawing room, turned the Victrola off, then leaned against the tall mahogany cabinet for support.
She’d never in her life experienced anything like what had just happened between her and Nico. A touch of his lips had sent her out of control—an experience he obviously hadn’t shared.
Okay,
she thought, rubbing her forehead,
what now?
She was tom. She was beginning to wish desperately for something more to develop between her and Nico than a brief brush with passion, although she sensed it would be foolish of her to try to pierce the mystery that surrounded him. But in the final analysis, like the tides and the seasons, some things were inevitable, and she felt she had no choice.
When she came back to the veranda, she found Nico leaning against the balustrade, his shirt buttoned, his arms crossed over his chest. He appeared very hard, very closed.
She halted beside him, facing in the opposite direction, and folded her hands on top of the ornamental barrier. “Did I touch a tender spot?”
“No.”
“Were you afraid I would?”
He glanced at her. She was gazing out at the night-shrouded ocean, and the confusion he saw on her face filled him with anger—an anger directed solely at himself. “No.”
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “I was just wondering. . . . When you were kissing me, you seemed so guarded. ”
No woman had ever sensed that he was holding part of himself back during any phase of his love-making. He wasn’t sure he’d been aware of it himself. Not until now. Caitlin was too perceptive for her own good. “You’re mistaken.”
“I don’t think so.”
He ground his teeth together in frustration. Why didn’t she just leave it alone? "Maybe I feel it wouldn’t be a good idea to become involved with you. ”
“Is that because you’re involved with someone else?” Her heart beat very fast as she waited for his answer, and it seemed a long time coming.
“No.”
“Then why, Nico?”
He shot out his arm, clasped the side of her throat, and pulled her in front of him. Each word he spoke carried a biting emphasis. “It could be I’m afraid to lose control with you, because if I did, I wouldn’t know where it would end.”
She swallowed hard. “Do you really believe that?” He stared broodingly at her, his thumb stroking up and down the sensitive cord at the side of her neck. “Maybe.”
“You’re a difficult man to get to know, Nico DiFrenza.”
“And you, Caitlin Deverell, are too damn easy to want.” Like a junkie needing a fix, he pressed a hard kiss to her lips. It seemed a long time before he released her. But once he did, it seemed too short a time.
He waited for her to say something and cursed the continued silence. This kind of tension couldn't continue. Something had to give between them, or there would be an explosion. “You didn’t put on another record. ”
She folded her shaking hands on top of the balustrade. “No. That’s the kind of music 1 love, but I wasn’t sure if you liked It or not. ”
“When I listen to music, it’s usually classical or opera, but I liked what you were playing.”
She shifted slightly, so that she could see him better. His answer had been curt, but at least he was talking to her, telling her something about himself. “You don’t seem the type of man who would like opera. ”
The slight upward curve of his mouth surprised her. “Your grandfather raised you with Gershwin and Porter. My great-grandmother raised me with Puccini and Verdi. She’s from Italy, and to her, music is opera.” His smile slowly faded. “My mother died when I was twelve, but even before then, Elena was a strong force in my life. Now she’s ill. Her nurses call me whenever she’s having a particularly bad day. It makes her furious when I show up, because she doesn’t want me to worry about her. She fusses at me, calling me by my full name, Niccolo, and telling me all the reasons why I shouldn’t have come.”
An expression of incredible tenderness came over his face, causing Caitlin's breath to catch in her throat.
“I put on
Madame Butterfly
or
La Boheme,
then I sit with her and hold her hand. It never takes long for her to settle down, and soon she begins to talk to me In her native tongue of the times in Italy during the First World War. It was the hardest time in her life, but also the happiest. When she was seventeen, she met and married a young man who was working in the Italian Underground. A year later, he was killed, and she was left widowed and pregnant.” He paused. “She goes on and on about those times. Sometimes I wonder if she knows what she’s saying. But her mind seems very clear, and somehow talking of those times seems to soothe her.”
"I’m sure a lot of it has to do with your being there.”
Caitlin’s soft voice drew his gaze to her, and he remembered. She was an innocent in all this, a pawn. She had trusted him . . . opened up her home to him. And he was a first-class bastard, a bastard who could easily fall in love with her if he wasn’t careful. “We’ve always been close.”
She misinterpreted his flat tone and raised her hand to his face. “I know how you feel. My grandfather’s illness was very hard for me to watch. He’d always been such a vital man, but he didn’t mind his going as much as I did. He was eager to see Arabella again. ”
He closed his fingers around her wrist, but he didn’t pull her hand away. “His wife?”
She nodded. “I wish I could describe his expression to you—when he drew his last breath.”
"You were there?”
“All my life he’d been there for me. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I hadn’t been there for him. And I was glad I was. He seemed so at peace, so happy. I knew without a doubt that he was with Arabella, so I grieved only for myself then.”
Why, oh why, did she have to be such a special person? Feeling momentarily defeated, he gave in, drew her into his arms, and just held her.
Caitlin pressed her cheek against his chest. No matter what he’d told her about himself, she was certain there was much, much more to learn. He was a difficult, enigmatic man, but she was beginning to feel just as puzzled about herself. What were these sad-happy, confused-clear feelings she’d been having?
She’d had what she supposed could be termed a few “relationships” over the years, and along the way she had lost the normal number of illusions. She’d learned that fairy tales weren’t real and that love could be confusing, sometimes even painful. None of her lessons in love had been traumatic, but now she realized that what she’d experienced in the past was milk toast in comparison to what she was going through with Nico. He shook her to the marrow of her bones.
She lifted her head and brushed a warm soft kiss across his lips. She felt him stiffen, then slowly relax and gather her closer to him. The control was still there, but so was the heat.
And the taste of Nico lingered on her lips long after he’d abruptly and quickly broken off the kiss and gone upstairs to his room. And still she found she couldn’t sleep.
In his room, Nico dialed and waited. When the sleepy sound of Amarillo Smith’s gravel voice came on the line, he said, “Rill, it’s me.”
“ ’Bout damn time you called. Where are you?”
“SwanSea.”
“Good. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to get in.” Nico’s mouth firmed. It might have been better if he hadn’t. “I’m here. Anything new?”
“Not so far. Just lie low and get well. ”
It sounded so easy, he thought grimly. "Right. ” “Are you in pain, Nico?”
“No.”
“I just wondered. Your voice sounded funny there for a minute. ”
“I’m fine. Have you looked in on Elena?”
“She’s doing well.”
“Did you check to make sure she has everything she needs?”
“Of course.” The acerbic tone of Amarillo’s drawl indicated Nico had been stupid even to ask.
Nico’s lips quirked. Amarillo had been raised in the oil fields of West Texas, and his frontier mentality made him a law unto himself. No one understood why he was in Boston, but he was as hard and as tough as they came and always got results. And he was the one man Nico trusted with his life.
“Got a pencil. Rill? Ill give you this number.”
Three
Ramona, a big-boned woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and a no-nonsense manner, filled Caitlin’s cup with steaming black coffee, then stood back and fixed her with a critical stare. “Why do have shadows under your eyes? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I feel fine.”
“What about those shadows?”
“The sun isn’t out today, and the light is probably making every one of us look ghastly.” She smiled. “Except you, of course. You always look wonderful.” “So do you . . . usually. And you can quit trying to butter me up.”
She sighed. “I’m telling you, the rain Is giving the light a gray cast.”
“1 don’t believe a word of it. If you don’t start taking care of yourself, young lady, I’m going to have two patients.”
“Which you’d love. Come on, admit it. The great sorrow of your life is that you don’t have enough people to fuss over.”
Ramona’s lined face took on a pensive expression. “I always thought Julia would marry and give you brothers and sisters. It would have been the best thing for her.”
“I agree.” Caitlin’s words were sincere, but today she wasn’t in the mood to listen to a rehash of what she’d heard time and again. She changed the subject to something she did want to hear. “How’s Nico doing? I haven’t seen him today.”
Since their encounter on the terrace she’d done some serious thinking, and she now realized that Nico was the one who always pulled back when their encounters threatened to become too intimate or, as on the terrace, too passionate. She didn’t know why he was reluctant to become involved with her, but she was coming to understand that with all his mystery and passion, he represented a danger to her well-being. And she was no clearer how she felt about him.
Except,
she was very much afraid that, in spite of her better judgment, she was falling in love with him. The thing was, she’d inherited the Deverell pride. She’d never in her life pursued a man, and there was no reason why Nico DiFrenza should become the first.
Except she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or aching for him.
“Nico is getting better every day,” Ramona said. “By the way, do you know what kind of surgery he had?” “No.” Caitlin smiled ruefully. “In fact, he’s never admitted to surgery, just some vague illness. But I’m surprised you haven’t asked him. ”
“Actually, I did. And he told me about his condition. But you know, I don’t think he ever answered my question.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Like most men, I think he’s just very sensitive about being ill. Anyway, whatever was wrong with him has obviously been taken care of.”
“I suppose.”
Caitlin glanced at her watch. “I better get moving. Conrad Gilbert is due soon, but before he gets here, I want to run up to the attic. If I remember right, there’s a chair up there with upholstery I want duplicated for a suite of rooms in the northwest wing. ”
Nico rested on his heels and rubbed his neck. He’d been in the attic for over two hours, and he’d only managed to search two trunks. He had thought that over the years, a family like the Deverells would have devised a more systematic way of storing their things. Apparently though, they were a family who tended to move forward, rather than spending time reflecting on the past. Admirable, but not at all helpful to him.