Too Devious to Tame (The Giovanni Clan) (5 page)

By the time Giorgio had finally appeared in her bedroom, she'd been ready to spit fire, but one look at his tired face had made the angry words die on her tongue.

He had looked as though he'd aged at least five years, the bruises on his hands and face clearly visible now that he'd had a shower. His still damp hair had stuck up, as though he had run his hands through it repeatedly.

"Wh ... what happened?"

Eyes the color of steel had bored through her, and his deep sigh had evaporated the last remnants of her anger.

"They came for you; that's what happened. I told you they wouldn't give up."

Fear so undiluted and instant it had swamped her completely, overwhelmed Jemima at the quietly uttered words, and his eyes had been frost itself when they settled back on her.

"It seems we underestimated them. Rest assured I will not be making the same mistake again."

"I … I'm sorry, this is all my fault. You should just let me go. I'm not your problem."

Giorgio's short laugh had made her flinch.

"On the contrary, you are my problem. Now more so than ever. You may not stand by your promises, but I certainly do, and I promised your sister to keep you safe. So, it looks as though you're stuck with me,
tesoro."

The cruelly uttered endearment had hung between them as his gaze raked her body. Jemima had felt herself responding to him on the most basic level. She'd started to remember how it had been between them, before she had fluffed it all up, and her breath had hitched. Her nipples had puckered into tight little buds of sensation as they had rubbed against the fabric of the simple tee she wore to bed. He'd noticed, of course, his expression growing murderous as his gaze dipped to her breasts. She had taken one step toward him and another, until she was close enough to touch, to comfort, to soothe. Those steely eyes of his had never softened as she had run one gentle finger over the ugly bruises forming on his face. When her hand had trailed down his hard chest, he had enclosed it in a fist of iron.

"Save it, Jemima. I wouldn't touch you now if you paid me for it. You can't sleep yourself out of this one."

He'd pushed her away, his face showing such disgust she'd whimpered to herself.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what else to do. We could be good again, you and me, couldn't we? I have to do something to repay you for all that I did."

His fury had been instant, terrifying, and arousing all at the same time. He'd picked her clean up off the floor and pinned her to the nearest wall, his mouth branding her in a bruising kiss. Passion had flared between them. His hands had dug into her tender flesh, and her legs had wrapped around his of their own accord. She'd ground her aching pussy into the erection straining his jeans.
Yes, yes, yes.
This is what she needed to keep the fear at bay, to help her ground herself—this man, his hands all over her.

His teeth had nipped, his lips suckled at the tender skin on her neck, hard enough to leave bruises, and a rush of arousal had coated her underwear. Her stomach had clenched in anticipation, and she'd shivered in his arms, as hot harsh breaths against her heated flesh sent darts of awareness along her sensitized nerve endings. Her needy moans had mingled with his deep groans, when he'd thrust his hips between her legs. His mouth had found hers again, the kiss harsh and unrelenting, designed to hurt, to punish. Every atom of her had been on fire for him, drinking in his scent, his anger, and his desperation. It had matched hers, and frustration had built at the constraints of their clothing. She'd needed to be closer. She'd needed him, all of him inside her now, but at her whispered plea, he had released her instantly. Hands either side of her head, his body still crowded her against the wall had taunted her with what she craved so desperately, yet could not have.  Breathing hard, his eyes cold and calculating, he had shaken his head.

"You'd like that wouldn't you,
cara
." The ice cold words had stung and settled like a poison dart in her heart. It clenched in on itself, as his mouth had hovered over hers, and his hot breath had fanned across her face.

"So tell me, how you are going to repay the widow of the man, who was killed tonight, defending your sorry ass? How are you going to explain to his unborn son why he will never meet his father?" He had stepped away from her, the slump of his big shoulders reiterating the bone weary tiredness once again edged into the lines of his face. "And for what? To defend you? A lying, cheating whore?"

"I'm not a whore…" Her voice had sounded feeble even to her, the conviction lacking, as images assaulted her—images she knew to be true.
Oh God, what have I been involved in?
And how was she ever going to repay the hurt she had caused due to her own idiocy? How was she going to convince him that she had changed, that she was worth saving?

Jemima closed her eyes, recalling the way his cruel, disappointed laugh had chilled her bones.

"Just a liar and cheat then? Take your pick. It really doesn't matter." And with one last look of sheer contempt he had slammed the door shut on his way out.

With a deep sigh Jemima fixed another piece of paper to her easel, trying in vain to seek some refuge in her paintings. Even that wasn't working. All she seemed to produce were images so disturbing she couldn't bear to look at them. One face kept swimming at the edge of her consciousness, and with a frown she settled down to the impossible task of capturing that image in paint.

****

Giorgio watched her paint from his study. He'd always loved to watch her. Jemima was a supremely talented artist. Back then he'd tried to convince her to exhibit. The get-together of local art connoisseurs he'd arranged had proven to be a disaster, however, because one of them had taken a far too personal interest in Giorgio's new wife. The pen he was holding in his hand broke, and Giorgio swore at his renewed loss of control.

It was no use raking up the past, even if the past had a habit of catching up with you. Luc Beauchamp had been a pain in his ass ever since, especially since Marco had entered into a business venture with the French vineyard owner. Giorgio narrowed his eyes and grew thoughtful. Luc had been remarkably quiet, ever since Jemima had been found in that hospital room. The French man was known for his dubious business practices, and rumors were rife about his personal depravities. Whether he would stoop as low as this remained to be seen, but the fine hair on Giorgio's arms rose. This would need further investigation, because if his suspicion proved true, than Marco's family was in danger, too.

Giorgio swiveled his chair round and smiled grimly at the scene he could see through his window. After several attempts, which had resulted in tantrums, swearing, and paint flying any which way, Jemima finally seemed to be getting somewhere. Eyes drawn together in a frown, one streak of paint on her cheek, tongue peeking out from her lips, she was a picture in concentration. The dungarees she always wore to paint in hung off her slight frame, and Giorgio swore under his breath. She was too thin, yet no matter how many of her favorite meals Clara prepared, Jemima had the appetite of a sparrow, and picked at everything.

He turned his back on her with a disgusted click of his tongue.  He had no business obsessing over the way she looked, or worse still, remembering how she had felt pressed up against him. With her long legs wrapped around him, her scent had set him on fire, recalling the passions they had once shared. Even now images of her lush lips wrapped around his cock while she knelt at his feet had him harden in record time.

Clearly he had been too long without a woman's touch. Picking up his phone, he scrolled through the many beauties, who would only be too willing to accommodate him for a while, no strings attached, just the way he liked it. Too bad he didn't want any of them. Giorgio threw the phone across the room in disgust and shook his head at his maudlin thoughts.

He was not going to be ruled by his dick, no matter how easy it would be to claim the frail woman in his garden, and make her suffer, like he once had. He had a code of honor, damn it, and taking advantage of her, while she still was not fully aware of all the facts—he just couldn't do it— no matter how much she might deserve it. That wouldn't make him any better than the bastards who were after her.

He had tripled security since the night they had almost gotten to her. How dare they invade on his property? This had become personal on more levels then one. Don Luigi had been spitting fire down the phone when he'd found out and had sent some of his own soldiers to boost Giorgio's numbers.

"After all, I must protect my favorite wine maker. How is she, holding it together?"

"Sort of, don't worry about her. I've got it covered."

The Don's voice had been grave, the threat undeniable in his next words.

"Women are dispensable, Giorgio, remember that. Especially the likes of her. If she remembers anything, anything at all, I want to be informed immediately. You know what you need to do to protect the family."

"
Va bene, capisco, Don."

Giorgio had hung up the phone with a heavy heart. What was that English expression?
Caught between a rock and a hard place
. Never a truer word spoken.

Choose between his Don, and his cousin's express wishes, not to mention his aunt's? How the hell was he supposed to do that, and did he have any choice at all? It was his duty to protect that woman out there, no matter what the cost. She was his wife after all.  He grimaced anew, recalling the quiet ceremony in the hill side chapel. He'd told no one, especially not the Giovanni clan. That would have meant answering questions he had not been prepared to answer. There had been too many inconsistencies in Jemima, even back then. He'd found them charming at the time. They'd been less so when she'd betrayed him as easily, as though he'd meant nothing to her.

At least he'd spared his family, both his real and his adopted one, that particular agony.

His feet moved of their own accord, out of his study, out through the French doors, and into the garden. Jemima had stopped painting. Silent tears streamed down her face, and her trembling hands stretched out to the face she had just finished projecting onto the canvas.

Giorgio murmured to her bodyguard to make himself scarce, and Alfonso nodded and disappeared silently. One of the Don's best men, Luigi had assigned him personally to protect Jemima. Giorgio looked after him with a frown, uneasy all over again, that he didn't know the full story here. 

The face looking back at him from the canvas gave him pause for thought. Brown eyes the same color as Jemima's were looking back at him. The brown hair she had drawn, he knew to be streaked with grey now, the grooves round the full mouth deeper. The man she had drawn was a good twenty years younger than the man he knew now.

She jumped at his carefully controlled question.  "Who is that,
cara?"

Tear-stained eyes fastened on his, and she shook her head. "I don't know. He just seems important to me, somehow. Oh God, this is so frustrating. Why can I not remember?" Her voice rose; her slender arms hugged herself, and color rose in her cheeks.

"I can't remember the things that I need to, and I'm trying, Giorgio, really, I am. I know I need to remember, to help you, to help me, but, God, I just can't. Now, this, this useless face from my past."

In her anger she kicked her art supplies box. It went flying, and Giorgio's next words died on his tongue at the little glint of gold caught in the midday sun, rolling between them.

Jemima's anguished gasp cut through the frost around his heart, when he bent to pick up his mother's engagement ring. His fist closed around it in a white-knuckled grip, and he swore when her trembling one settled over his.

"I thought you'd sold this." He cleared his throat, and her grasp on his hand tightened.

"I couldn't do that to you as well. I know how important that ring was to you. I remember I hid it in here, because you were so angry, and, and I thought you'd find it in here."

The halting words carried with them a wealth of despair, and she put up no resistance when he grabbed her hair and pulled her head up, so that he could study her face. She flinched slightly at the harsh move, and tears rose in her eyes. He gentled his grip on her when he couldn't read an ounce of malice in her face. Like an open book, it showed every one of her emotions, and he let her go and stepped away from her. He didn't trust himself to not simply crush her to him. As it was, his cock throbbed its willingness, and he wanted nothing more than throw caution to the wind and make her his, again. She felt it, too, this primal connection between them. It was there in the way her eyes darkened, her breath hitched, and her heartbeat galloped, clearly visible at the pulse point in her neck. Whatever was and had been wrong between them, they'd always had this, but sexual attraction didn't make for a lasting marriage, no matter how explosive the sex was. Trust and mutual respect did that, and he didn't trust Jemima, not one little bit.

"Good. That means less expense of buying you a new one. I want you looking the part when we meet the Don."

He turned away from her and forced himself to keep walking, even though the sound of her crying almost brought him to his knees.

"He's the one that wants me dead, right, so why not just kill me now and get it over with?" Her eyes widened in dismay when he spun round. He was on top of her in seconds, crushing her mouth under his, his hands in her hair, the ring once again rolling along the ground. She trembled against him, and he deepened the kiss, putting all the emotions he couldn't name into the kiss, until his lungs were bursting and he came up for air.