“And you have three children now,” he said quietly. “Three beautiful children. I still cannot get over it, Viviana.”
“Did you never think of me as a mother?” she asked. “Was I never anything more to you than just a woman to be bedded?”
He flashed a crooked smile. “I often thought of you as a mother,” he admitted. “You had that look, Vivie. Like some sort of marble madonna come to life, so serene and lovely. Sometimes…sometimes, Vivie, when you would walk across the floor, so naked and beautiful, I would imagine…I would imagine that—” His words broke away. “But we were speaking of your children, were we not? They are lovely. You must be proud of them.”
Somehow, she managed to smile.
“Si,
very much.”
He had begun his pacing again, this time with one hand set against the back of his neck. She wished to God he would stop. There was a grave sense of uncertainty churning in her stomach. A doubt—no, a fear, clinging to her heart like some insidious cobweb. What if she had been wrong about him, all those years ago? And why, now, did she remain here with him? Clearly, Quin would not try to stop her from leaving. And yet, he held her mesmerized, enthralled by his almost cathartic questions.
“I remember now, Viviana, what I meant to ask you last night,” he said out of nowhere. “It was about that trinket Cerelia wears round her neck.”
Viviana stiffened with fear. “I beg your pardon?”
She got her wish. He stopped pacing. “Do you remember that ring I once gave you?” he asked, turning to face her. “The large ruby?”
“I fear I have many ruby rings, Quinten,” she answered. “I cannot remember one from the other.”
His smile faded. “Yes, no doubt you are awash in them now,” he said. “And how could it be the same one? After all, you sold every piece of jewelry I ever gave you.”
She kept her face a mask of implacability. “They were mine do with as I wished, were they not?”
He shrugged. “But that misshapen chunk of gold with the red stone set into it,” he went on. “The one which Cerelia wears about her neck. I just thought it looked a little bit like a ring I once gave you.”
“Did it?” she asked, her voice surprisingly calm. “Which one?”
His mouth curved bitterly. “The one I gave you on our last afternoon together,” he said. “As I said, it was a rather unusual stone—a square-cut ruby. They are mostly rectangular or oval, are they not?”
“I daresay,” she answered. “I never thought about it.”
“So it is not the same ring?” he pressed.
She shook her head. “Paste and pinchbeck, more likely,” she said. “Something Cerelia found. I cannot think where. She has an unnatural attachment to it. Children are like that, you know.”
He shrugged, and seemed to accept her answer. “Did you sell it, then?” he asked. “That last ring I gave you?”
Quin was not cruel enough to remind her that he had made her promise never to sell it. And so Viviana lifted one shoulder and told another white lie. “I cannot recall,” she said. “Do you wish it back? If so, you are welcome to pick through my jewel case and take it if you can find it.”
He shook his head. “No, it is long gone, just like the others, I am sure.”
She had no wish to hurt him. Not really. And yet she wanted—no, needed—him to understand. “No doubt you are right,” she said quietly. “But you saw those gifts, Quinten, as payment to your mistress for services rendered. If I treated them as such, is it fair for you to cry foul over it now?”
“It was not like that,” he said. “I never saw them that way, Vivie. They were gifts from the heart. And I am not crying foul.”
She gentled her tone. “Then what are you doing, pray?”
“Viviana if you had duns or gaming debts, why did you not come to me?” he demanded. “I would have taken care of you. I would have paid them for you.”
She turned her head and gazed out into the depths of the glass greenhouse beyond. “I had no wish, Quinten, to be further beholden to you,” she said. “Besides, I did not have debts. I did not live beyond my means. I could not afford to.”
“What, then?” he prodded. “Why can you not tell me? What difference does it make now?”
But it seemed to make a great deal of difference to him, she realized. Yes, after all these bitter years had passed, perhaps such simple, silly things still mattered.
Viviana exhaled, a slow, steadying breath. She already knew she was going to regret this. “I sent the money to
Papà,”
she finally answered. “Every month, I sent him what little I could spare. And pathetically little it was, too. Especially in the beginning.”
“But Vivie, that makes no sense. What need had he of money? Your father was a renowned composer.”
“Oh,
si,
a famous artist!” she said. “And like most of them, he served at the whim of his patron.”
“Bergonzi, yes?” said Quin sharply. “Is that whom you mean?”
Viviana nodded tightly.
“But Bergonzi employed him for many years, did he not?”
“After I left Venice, they quarreled,” she admitted.
“Papà
was told that there would be no further commissions for him. Not from the powerful Conte Bergonzi—and his displeasure meant, of course, no one else dared hire him.”
“But they later reconciled,” said Quin.
“Yes, later they reconciled,” she answered.
“Christ Jesus,” said Quin. “This is unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable?” she echoed softly. “What part of it, Quinten, do you disbelieve? Why did you think I was singing my heart out night after night? Why did you think I was fighting and scrabbling for every part I could get? It was for the money,
caro.
To make something of myself.”
Quin could not miss the ache in her words. “I believe you, Vivie,” he answered. “And had you told me this nine years ago, I would have believed it then, too. I—I would have done something.”
“Would you, Quin?” she whispered. “I wonder if that is so. I really do.”
Quin did not answer that remark. She had reason, perhaps, for her doubts. As a young man, his foremost concern had been an almost petulant wish to have his own needs met and his own insecurities assuaged. He had loved Viviana, yes. But he had been unable to see very far past that fact. Perhaps he would have seen or felt no obligation beyond it, either.
“Why did they fall out, Vivie?” he challenged. “Was it something to do with you?”
She shot him a dark, sidelong look, and said nothing.
“Was it over you, Vivie?” he repeated, his voice more demanding.
She pushed a hand into her hair almost wearily, and leaned back against the rough wooden wall of the work shed. “I really do not wish to answer that,” she said quietly. “And frankly,
caro,
it is none of your business.”
He took a step toward her. “I’m not sure if I believe that any longer,” he answered, his tone low and ominous. “I begin to think, Viviana, that there is much you are not telling me, and I mean to have the whole truth from you.”
Viviana felt a stab of panic. “I do not have to answer your questions,” she said, pushing away from the wall and heading for the door. “You are nothing to me. Nothing but a memory.”
He was faster. He turned, refusing to let her push past him. “This is not finished, Viviana.”
“Go to hell,” she snapped.
Somehow, he snatched her crop from her wrist. “You are wearing that expression out, my dear, and in two different languages,” he returned. “Why don’t you just call me a pig again?”
Her eyes widened. “You
are
a pig,” she said. “You are despicable.”
“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me, Viviana!” he said. “I understood a little more than you think I did that day in my study. And I understood something else, my dear. I understood your mouth was not entirely indifferent to my kiss, no matter what your riding crop said.”
She moved to snatch it back, but he jerked it from her reach. “Oh, I waste my time with you!” she said. “There must be another door.” On that, she turned and strode into the musky warmth of the greenhouse.
She strode down the straw-covered aisle between the elevated beds of lilies and asters. Farther along lay the tables of green, potted plants and rooting vegetables, and beyond that, almost hidden by a swath of lush palms, another exit. But she was nowhere near it when Quin caught her, snaring her by the elbow, and spinning her around to face him.
She brought up her hand to slap him, but he caught it and jerked her against him. His mouth came crushing down on hers, already hot and uncontrollable. He bound her to him, one arm about her waist, driving her head back as he tasted her. Viviana’s battle ended as it began, quickly, in a flash of unrestrained emotion. She gave herself up to it, opening her mouth fully beneath his.
Quin surged inside, twining his tongue with hers until her knees literally went weak. She felt her hat go tumbling into the straw. His mouth moved to her cheek, then skimmed hotly along her jaw with a soft groan. Her head swam with the scent of warm, damp earth, flowers, and Quin.
“Let me,” he whispered. “Let me, Vivie.”
She tried to shake her head. “No.”
His hand had slid beneath her riding coat, urgently seeking. Through the layers of linen and silk, he weighed her breast in the warm cup of his hand. Her nipple hardened traitorously to his touch, and a small whimper escaped her mouth.
Quin slid his mouth down the length of her neck, and she shuddered. “Stop, Quin. Please. I—I cannot. Don’t…don’t make me.”
Lightly, he thumbed her nipple through her shirt. “Do you like that, Vivie?” he whispered. “Tell me.”
“You—you know I do,” she answered. “Please. Not here.”
“Where, then?” His voice was a tempting whisper.
“Tonight,” she managed, trying to buy herself time—and sanity. “I shall…I shall come to you tonight…somewhere. Anywhere.”
“Will you?” His hand was slipping loose the fastenings of her coat, then pushing it away. “Anywhere?”
“Anywhere,” she whimpered, her resistance fast failing. “Anything.”
“Anything,”
he returned. “I like that, Vivie.”
His mouth settled over her breast, suckling her through the layers of shirt and chemise. He slid his broad palm over her buttocks, and made slow, lazy circles through her skirts, urging her closer. He drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking none too gently, and it was all too much. Viviana felt that old, familiar spiral of lust bottom out in her belly and tug at her very core. Her breathing ratcheted up. Too fast. Too shallow.
His hungry mouth left her breast, only to be replaced by his hand. “Must I, Viviana?” he whispered, his lips hot against her ear. “Must I wait?”
Viviana mumbled something inarticulate. Somehow, he drew her away from the aisle and pulled her down into one the piles of straw which lay in mounds between each bed. She came down on top of him, straddling one of his thighs. Roughly, he pushed her coat from her shoulders. She let it slide off, eager to be free of it in the hot, musky air.
Madness. Oh, this was madness!
But she let him pull her down to him, and kiss her again, slowly and sweetly, his tongue plunging almost lazily into her mouth now, as if he had all the time in the world. She returned his kiss, unable to resist the urge to ride down hard on the wide, solid muscle of his thigh. Oh, she wanted him! Wanted and wanted him. In all the years, the wanting had never seemed to end. She kissed him again, opening her mouth hotly over his, aware that this was foolish beyond words. Knowing she would regret it.
His fingers slid into her hair, stilling her movements so that he might kiss her more intently. Part of her hair fell down, and went slithering over her shoulder. Her hands found his shirt, and tore it from his breeches.
“Good God,” he whispered when her palms slid up his belly, all the way to his chest, and over his strong, broad shoulders, bringing her body almost fully against his. “Good God, Vivie.”
She felt his hand fumble between them, felt the pressure of his hand as he tore at the buttons. She sat back and watched as he struggled with the last. Never had she felt so wanton. So desperate to do something foolish. “Let me,” she said, releasing it. She pushed down the fabric of his breeches and drawers. His throbbing erection sprang free from the crumpled clothing, and she took it in her hand. She drew her fingers down his length, amazed at the heat and hardness.
Quin made a sound in the back of his throat. Viviana closed her eyes and stroked him again. She was in too deep to stop. She was aware that they might be caught at any moment. That they lay in a pile of straw, with nothing but glass between them and the heavens. And still, she did not stop. Instead, she slid back, stroked one hand up Quin’s chest again, and bowed her head to take him into her mouth.
He cried out, another choking, inarticulate sound. Already, sweat had beaded on his brow. The heat of the sun seemed to beat down on them, roiling up the damp from the moist beds of green. She held his throbbing heat in one hand and drew her tongue all the way along its length.
He had taught her this one lazy, rainy afternoon; how to make a man almost mad with her hands and her mouth. Apparently, it was a lesson she had not forgotten. Quin was almost shaking beneath her. “Christ Jesus, Vivie,” he panted. “Stop.
Stop.”
She did as he asked. His hands went to her skirts, dragging them up. He found her drawers, and slipped one finger into the slit. Viviana felt her desire flow forth, and moaned as she rode down on his hand.
“Get on me,” he ordered, tormenting her with the ball of his thumb. “Now, Vivie.”
She opened her eyes and looked down at him, half-mad with lust. “We could be seen,” she whispered. “Quin, we could be caught.”
“Good God, Vivie, I don’t
care,”
he answered. “Let them watch. Let them envy us.”
“I’ve gone mad now, I know it,” she whispered, taking his cock in both hands. “But I burn for this.
Dio,
Quin! We are like animals together. We have no business being near—”
“Later,” he interjected. “We’ll sort it all out later. Come, love. Take me deep.”
Still in her boots and skirt, she pushed away her drawers and mounted him, taking him fully with one smooth stroke. “Oh, wicked, wicked girl,” he said on a groan. “Oh, holy God.”