Wife By Force: International Billionaires II: The Italians (9 page)

Let me take care of you
.

Not an adult taking care of a child. Or a controlling husband taking care of an incapable wife. No, she’d dreamt of a man taking care of his woman. She’d dreamt of this and now it was a reality.

His lips brushed across her cheeks and he stilled his fingers on the soft curls between her legs. “Lara?”

“Don’t stop.” She moved her hips in an instinctive feminine twist.

He didn’t listen to her, taking a step away. “Why are you crying?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“
Mio Dio
.” His hand left her aching as he reached for her arms slung around his shoulders, apparently intent on stopping what was happening between them. “Certainly it matters.”

A frantic, fierce desire stormed through her. Jerking herself from his grasp, she lifted her hands and fisted them in his hair, bringing his mouth to hers. Using skills she didn’t know she had, she tasted him with her tongue, rubbed her bare breasts on the sleek feel of his shirt. He burned, the silk damp with his need. No longer cold. No longer distant.

“
Bella
,” he objected one more time before he capitulated, his tongue sweeping around hers in an intimate dance.

She reveled in it, forgetting everything between them except this passion, this inferno. “Touch me,” she begged.
Take care of me.

With a choked laugh, he broke their kiss and looked at her. Dark and deep, his stare was filled with a fire not even the night shadows could quench. “Whatever you want,
il mio amore
.”

My love
.

Her heart soared, even though her brain rumbled in disbelief. All thoughts and feelings disappeared as one long male finger swept over her hip and slid into her other heart.

She gasped.

For the first time, for the only time, she experienced someone else’s hand on the most intimate part of her body. No cotton or silk or wool stopping flesh meeting flesh. He held her gaze as he slowly moved his finger through the curls and into her wetness.

No more barriers. No more loneliness.

“So soft,” he whispered. He threw back his head with a groan as if the mere touching of her sex drove him wild. The moonlight highlighted the blunt edge of his long nose, crested on his black brow, painted silver on his high cheekbones. In this moment, he was totally with her, totally hers.

His finger slid down, through her folds, to her entry.

Gasping, she arched into him, her hands tight on his biceps, her eyes closing at the ecstasy he gave her with one small, slight movement.

“You like that.” His husky voice was filled with satisfaction.

His finger moved again and again.

She had never experienced this kind of heat in her lonely bed, with her own hand. The pleasure was indescribable, incalculable. Another finger played, and another, until she could no longer control her own body. The burning built inside her, the fire raging in her blood, threatening to devour her with its fever.

His mouth kissed her neck and then her ear and then her cheek. “
Bella
,” he moaned. “How I adore the sounds you make.”

Sounds? She couldn’t talk, she certainly couldn’t trail two words together in the midst of this pleasure. Yet through the dimness of her mind, she heard her soft pants, and when a finger hit just the right place, the mewling cry escaped from her open lips.

“Come for me.” His command was taut with tension. “Now.”

Electric heat pinged inside her at his words, his desire. His fingers zeroed in on the aching part of her. She couldn’t stop the keening wail, until his mouth stifled the sound.

The pleasure softly subsided, and she sagged on him.

“
Dio
,” he groaned. “What you do to me.”

His panting breath was like a hot caress on her ear. His warm body curved around hers, protectively. One large hand smoothed across her tender skin. A muted thought came to her. She should touch him. Do for him, what he’d done for her. She should give him...

Dante raised his head and stared at her, his voice merciless with intent. “I have successfully caught you now. There can be no more doubt. You are mine.”

I
t had been a long day
.

Sunshine splashed on the skin of Lara’s arm and cheek as she turned north. The car window was open to the smell of dusty earth and salty air. Her grey Fiat made good time through the Tuscan hillside, away from Florence and back to her papa’s house. Most of the time she didn’t mind the trip back and forth, but today, it seemed endless.

The last couple of weeks had seemed endless.

She could try and blame the irritating city officials who were holding up her school’s opening with their endless demands. Or she could pin the blame on the construction crew she’d hired who moved like molasses as they finished the endless details. Plus, there was always the endless, endless pressure to come up with more money and time to get everything done before the kids started coming every day.

However, none of those issues were the reason why her days seemed endless.

The reason was because of the nagging voice inside her. The voice castigating her, scolding her, reminding her of what she’d done. She couldn’t escape it: not at home, not at the school, not in the car. The voice chanted its endless refrain no matter how fiercely she tried to focus on anything else.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid
.

The voice was correct. She’d been stupid. Stupid to fall into Dante's arms. Stupid to get swept away in a passion so powerful she still had a hard time believing it had been real. Stupid to give him ammunition in his plot to have her.

You are mine
.

The words rang in her head every day.

Right alongside the word stupid.

Grimacing at her thoughts, she eased the Fiat off the highway and onto the road leading to her papa’s home. The time was a bit earlier than when she usually got here, but she’d needed some quiet to go through the school’s finances. Better to do it in her father’s charming garden than in the small windowless room at the school. A long tall glass of lemon soda, a seat in the sunshine, and her mind should have no problem focusing on expenses and profits and fundraising. The voice chanting the irritating words would be stilled in a wash of numbers. While reading had always caused her difficulty, especially in English, with numbers she was never stupid.

Stupid to let him be the one to give her her first orgasm with a man.

Stupid to still want him.

Stupid to dream of him.

During the last week or so, another chant had joined the chorus in her brain.

Stupid to wonder where he was.

“Shut up,” she muttered to herself. Over two weeks had passed since she last saw him, standing tall and silent in the garden, watching her as she ran away. Again. Still, she’d had no choice. She hadn’t the strength to fight his powerful draw. So, it had been a good decision to run.

Two weeks ago.

He hadn’t followed her. Hadn’t pursued her. Hadn’t called or emailed or stalked her down.

Perhaps her final words had done the trick. The words whispered, yet still powerful. The words straight from her heart after he’d given her a beautiful gift with his body and then taken it away with his claim. Her whisper had echoed all the pain she’d experienced when she suddenly realized his kisses and touches were only about manipulating her. Not about giving to her, not about showing her himself—his passion, his desire, his need.

You are a monster
.

He’d flinched. His mouth had twisted in a harsh grimace. And those black eyes had blazed with fiery intent. She’d ripped herself out of his arms before he could make it worse, infinitely worse, using his body and heat and sexual draw to try and claim her once more.

He’d let her go.

Relief. Utter relief.

Stupid to lie to yourself.

What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was it possible he’d finally gotten her message and given up on his relentless pursuit? Every day she’d waited. Waited with breathless anger and frightened hope for him to make his next move.

Nothing. Every day. Nothing.

She wrenched the car shift down and tried to stop the other bubbling mess of thoughts from escaping.

It was no use.

Maybe she’d disappointed him. Sexually. Maybe her inexperienced kisses and inattention to his needs had turned him off. Maybe after he’d thought about the whole encounter, he’d decided to end the chase.

A sudden wash of something suspiciously like depression ran through her.

She shook the emotion off.

Dante was out of her life. That was a good thing.

The odds of her seeing him anytime soon were slim. From now on, she’d stay clear of any large Casartelli gatherings, and limit herself to shopping sprees and girly gossip sessions with his sisters. She’d force herself to forget the way he made her feel when he sucked on her breasts and touched her between her legs. Eventually, she’d forget the mind-blowing orgasm he’d given her.

Eventually, right?

She sighed.

Right. Right.

That was what the voice inside her head should be chanting.

Pulling into her father’s long driveway, Lara drove down the graveled road and stopped her car next to the antique fountain surrounded by bright yellow pansies. The soft splash of water against stone wafted into her open car window. She took a deep breath of air filled with the taste of sunshine and pine, trying to let the peace of home permeate her troubled thoughts.

The Derrick villa was not a showpiece, but a home. Her home.

Aged golden stones piled together over many years and many families created a feeling of permanence. Large windows overlooked the surrounding landscape. The house exuded warmth and welcome. Hugo Derrick had bought the lovely villa when he’d fallen in love with and married her mother, Mia. His family wealth allowed him to relocate from the UK with ease. Though he dabbled in stocks and bonds, his true love was his garden. So when her mother died of cancer when Laura was ten, there’d been no talk of moving to England. His home would forevermore be in his beloved Mia’s country.

The commute between here and Florence was draining her, and to her irritation, long afternoon searches for any kind of accommodation in the city had been fruitless. Yet she loved this old, cozy house and every day, when she arrived here, she found frustration easing out of her.

Except for today. Except for the last two weeks.

“Stop thinking about him,” she demanded of herself. “There are more important things to think about.”

Stepping out of her car, she grabbed her sandals, which she’d slipped off to drive, and her laptop. Finances were getting tighter and tighter as the school opening approached. Somehow, she had to figure out how to trim the budget without hurting the service to the kids. That was what she needed to focus on.

Not him.

Her gaze traveled past the fountain and landed on a very unlikely sight. Her brother’s pride and joy, his new red Alfa Romeo, stood within steps of their front door.

What was Andy doing here on a work day?

As far as she knew, he hadn’t missed a day of work at his highflying Italian financial firm since he’d started nine months ago. She’d found it amusing to see her twenty-three-year-old brother turn from a low key, low maintenance college kid, into a single-minded high achiever. He’d become extremely focused and determined during the last few months. She’d been proud of him.

Her attention landed on the car next to Andy’s.

A limo. Expensive. Impressive.

Nothing her family would own. Nothing any of their friends would own.

Except one family of friends.

Her heartbeat accelerated and a flush of agonized anticipation slid across her skin. This couldn’t be. Not after weeks of no contact. This must be her brother’s boss or someone her papa knew. Someone with any name besides Casartelli.

A man stepped out of the limo and she jumped. Her reaction made her feel foolish. He was nothing like Dante. Short and compact, dressed in a navy suit, he nodded to her and lit a cigarette. Another man sat in the front seat.

A driver. Security. No one else she knew had this other than...

She took a cautious step forward while throwing a prayer to heaven. Let it be anyone else. “
Signore
.”

“
Si
?” He puffed and eyed her.

“This limo—”

“
Si
?”

“Who owns—”

“
Signore
Casartelli,” he smiled, his front tooth gleaming with gold.

“Okay.” What was he doing here in the middle of the day? Was he waiting for her?

Her heart beat in her chest in double time. Which was dumb. Taking herself in hand, she paced to her home’s door and opened it.

No Dante lurking, waiting. Yet he was still here. Somewhere. She sensed his presence.

Her heart pitter-pattered. Pitter-pattered! How stupid could she get?

She cursed herself before striding into the family home.

The foyer was empty and silent. Putting her shoes and laptop on the antique wooden side table, she walked quietly down the hall, listening. At last, she heard them. A rumble of male voices coming from the library.

He was here. But apparently not to see her because he was closeted with her father and brother behind a closed library door. A door her father rarely closed.

Her heartbeat changed, going from a pitter-patter to a hard bonk-bonk.

Something was odd. Something was wrong.

Her bare feet made no noise as she tiptoed to the door. Pressing her ear against the cool wood, she unashamedly eavesdropped.

“Not something I’m comfortable…”

Her father’s voice came first. He sounded tired and strained. Nothing like the contented, happy papa she knew and loved.

Lara’s heart began to chug in her chest.

“…This is the only hope you have, Hugo, and I am willing…”

Dante’s cool tone sent a shiver up her spine. He sounded like the icicle again. All arrogant control. And there was a threat weaving through his words. A warning. An ultimatum.

Papa’s only hope? Dante?

Her heart tumbled into her churning stomach.

“I’m sorry, Pop.”

Her brother’s voice held a wealth of shame and pain. Andy had done something. Something awful. She knew her baby brother well, even though they’d been separated when he’d been only eleven. She remembered him as a boy. He sounded like that boy now. Lost and sullen, caught doing something horrible.

What was going on? Something was very, very wrong.

Lara stood still, yet inside her heart pumped madly, her brain twirled, her stomach squeezed.

She had a right to know.

This was her family. If Dante was her family’s only hope—

The thought caused a shudder of fright to run through her. He couldn’t be their only hope. They’d figure out some way to overcome whatever her brother had done. Without Dante Casartelli’s help.

Thrusting her shoulders back, she opened the library door.

D
ante heard
the creak of the door opening and stifled a groan of annoyance.

This was not part of his strategy.

He’d been assured she wouldn’t be around. He’d been very clear with her father and brother that he wanted to keep this deal’s details between themselves.
Si
, he wanted Lara to find out the general gist of what had occurred. After the fact. He wanted to give her the gift of knowing the situation was resolved satisfactorily. He didn’t want her to worry about her father or her home or her brother or her school for even one minute. The knowledge he’d been the one to help, to save, would go a long way towards bridging the gap he’d created between them.

The gap he’d widened two weeks ago when he lost control over his libido.

A libido he had firmly in control now.

Except the fine hair on the back of his neck prickling on his skin and the quickening of the blood rushing through his veins told him who stood in the doorway. He knew, before even glancing toward the door, that it was she. Invading his well-calculated, almost-complete negotiation with her father and brother. Teasing his well-leashed passion with her presence.

He made himself glance toward the door.

Si
. It was she.

She wore a simple white T-shirt and tan capris. Nothing like the pretty peach dress he’d torn off her two weeks ago. Her mahogany hair fell on her shoulders in a wind-swept, messy manner. Much like he’d left it in their last encounter after his rough hands had ruined and rampaged. Her face was pale, her eyes dark. Exactly as they’d been when she yanked herself from his grasping hands in the shadowy garden.

At least she wasn’t crying.

Yet.

At least she wasn’t throwing accusations at him.

For now.

The last time he’d seen her, she was striding away, sliding the straps of her dress up over her moonlit shoulders. He’d stood there in the garden for a long time. Still tasting the cream of her skin on his tongue, still smelling her arousal on his fingers, still hearing the sounds of her passion ringing in his ears.

Still remembering her tears.

Still remembering her last words to him.

When his lust eventually ebbed and his erection finally softened, it was the memory of her tears and final words that remained to torment him. Torture him with what he’d done.

You are a monster
.

No wonder she thought he was a monster. What man of any kind of refinement would roughly pull an unwilling woman into his arms time and time again? What man with any style would purposefully fluster a lady, probe into secrets she didn’t want to reveal, and bait her until she was red with anger? What man with even a scintilla of sophistication would savagely push a soft, lovely female against a tree and pump at her like a rampaging marauder?

No wonder she despised him.

He had
acted
like a monster.

He looked away from her and down at the laptop he’d brought into this meeting. The contract he’d had drawn up for this conversation danced before his eyes. He’d been minutes away from getting Hugo and Andrew Derrick’s signatures and agreement. Minutes away from saving the Derrick fortune, home, and son’s neck.

He was not a monster. He wasn’t.