The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (23 page)

When she tried to protest, she was kissed into silence. Any
attempt at serious discussion was thwarted as he traced her nipple through the
fine knit of one of the shirts he had bought her or tucked his fingers under
the edge of the her shorts in search of more erogenous areas than he had
located already. She was soon lost in a haze of such drugging desire that she
could not think, must less argue with him.

He didn’t come to her in her room at night. It was, she
supposed, some mental compromise for him, as if leaving her to sleep alone
soothed his overactive conscience.

So she existed in a sensual daze, living from one day to the
next, allowing Nico to plan what they would do and where they would go. To be
so constantly in his company satisfied some need she had not known she had. His
kisses, his touch enthralled her; she could not resist him in an amorous mood,
now, any more than she could in the beginning.

It could not go on. She had to take a stand, must force him
to listen to her. This marriage was all wrong. She would regret it if she went
through with it. She did not want to be like her mother, so desperately in love
with her husband and drawn to his sensual allure that she had no life of her
own. She did not want to be dependent on his presence to the point that she’d
rather die than live without him.

She was in love with Nico. To admit it was painful, but could
no longer be denied. She waited for him to appear at breakfast, ached to be
alone with him, thought constantly of what it would be like to be his wife. She
could not imagine going back to Atlanta and her gray existence there. Yet she
must. It was the only way.

Nico had said he wanted her, and she believed him; he had
shown her that much in a thousand ways. When desire was gone, however, what
would be left? To love a man to distraction who felt the same was frightening
enough, but to love one who cared little for her beyond the desire of the
moment would be painful beyond imagining.

On a morning when Carita and Jonathan had been at the villa
over a week, Amanda sat on the terrace with Carisa and Carita, their aunt and
grandmother. Jonathan was with the physical therapist that came every morning
to put him through a series of mild exercises for his leg and shoulder. Nico
was working in his study.

It was pleasantly warm under the grape arbor where they sat
with a soft breeze rustling the leaves above them. The pages of a notepad that
lay on the table fluttered as well. They were supposed to be making notes about
Carita’s wedding, for a wedding planner would come for an appointment with her
and Jonathan in the afternoon. It was to be a small affair, ostensibly due to
the accident, but would make up in elegance what it lacked in size.

Nico’s wedding would be far grander, or so Amanda had been
given to understand. He was the Conte de Frenza, after all, with connections in
every corner of the globe. The wedding planner would speak to him and Amanda
when she had finished with Carita’s arrangements.

The thought of it appalled her. She felt such a fraud. As
for making decisions about a wedding resembling something for royals, the idea
made her feel more than a little sick.

She sat to one side, her head resting on the back of a
wrought iron chair, the skirt of her peach linen dress lifting lazily in the
fitful breeze. Not far away, Carita lay on a lounge with a raised back.
Carisa’s chair was pulled close on her other side so she could look at the book
of wedding invitation examples which lay on her twin’s lap.

Nico’s grandmother and her aunt were having an aperitif
while they discussed the guest list, debating who should and should not be
invited. The low murmur of their voices had a drowsy sound that almost put
Amanda to sleep. She had slept very little the night before, or for some nights
before that, as she tried to make up her mind about her future.

It would be best if she did that in the next few hours. She
could not allow a wedding to be planned if she didn’t intend to go through with
it. Once everything was in place, she would be trapped, for she could never
leave Nico standing at the altar. Thinking of his anger and damaged pride would
be too much to bear.

“Mandy, I am to be maid of honor!” Carisa called out. “Did
you know?”

She looked up at her name then lifted a brow at Carita for
the translation of what her sister had said. Hearing it, she smiled at Carisa.
“Of course,
cara
, and a beautiful one you will be, too. Your sister
could never have anyone else.”

“She could have you. You will be like a sister. To both of
us!”

“What a lovely thing to say, Carisa,” she answered through
the tightness in her throat.

“It’s true. Nico said it to me. You will be my sister.”

“Then that undoubtedly makes it so,” she said against the
ache in her throat.

“You will never go away, he said. You will live with us
forever.”

Forever was such a long time. Would it really be that way,
Amanda wondered? Could what she felt last all that long time without love in
return?

When she made no reply, Carisa’s face clouded. She crawled
off her lounge chair. “You will, won’t you? I don’t want you to go away.”

“I don’t want to go away, either,” she said as lightly as
possible, while hoping it would be enough to avoid a storm. She sent a pained
smile to Carita who was still carefully translating.

“You will marry Nico,” Carisa insisted. “It will be all
right.”

“I — I suppose so.” Amanda was uncomfortably aware that Aunt
Filomena and Nonna had stopped talking to listen to the exchange.

“You aren’t afraid of Nico, are you?” Carisa demanded, her
eyes clouded by concern. “I was afraid of him when I was little. He was so big
and sounded mad all the time. But not any more.”

“No, no, of course I’m not afraid of him.”

“What is it then?”

Amanda opened her mouth to answer that she feared nothing,
but realized in the last second that it wasn’t true. She was afraid of being
hurt the way her father had hurt her mother, afraid of being an afterthought in
her husband’s life. She feared loving too much and not being loved in return.
She feared becoming so dependent on Nico that she could not function without
him.

Yet what was the alternative? To leave him now would mean
pain beyond bearing, and a future where she would always wonder, always live
with regret.

“Nothing that matters,” she said finally.

“Nico will make it right. He always makes everything right.”

“Yes,” she said with a watery smile for Carisa’s absolute
trust. It had been earned, she knew, by a brother’s love and devotion, by
steadfast dependability and attention to responsibility.

Would Nico be any less responsible toward a wife? Any less
devoted?

No, she could trust him not to let her down. Unlike her
father, he wasn’t reckless, would never risk his life when it must mean risking
the happiness of everyone around him. The two of them would never reenact the
drama of tears, betrayals and insecurities that had been married life for her
mother and father.

“He will make it right, I promise.”

Carisa’s sweet face was so earnest, her faith so unshakable.
How could her own be any different, Amanda thought. “I know he will,” she
whispered.

“So you will stay for always? You must, you must stay.
Carita loves you. Grandmother and Aunt Filomena love you. Nico loves you. But
most of all, I love you.”

“
Ti amo…
”

“
I love you.
”

Listening to the echoes of Carita’s voice as she translated
for her sister, Amanda felt the hair lift on the back of her neck.

She had heard another voice saying the same words,
whispering them softly in her ear, against her breasts and the flat surface of
her abdomen while his lips brushed her skin.

Nico had said he loved her, telling her over and over in his
deep, throbbing voice. He had told her in the Italian that sprang to his lips
when he was most affected by emotion. He had told her, and she had not known.

“Oh, Carisa,” she said, rising to her feet and holding out
her arms, closing them around the girl as she ran to her. Tears crowded her
throat so she could barely speak as she rocked Nico’s sister from side to side.
“
Ti amo, cara mia
. I love you, too
.
And I don’t want to leave
here, not ever.”

Carita cried and had to be hugged, too. Aunt Filomena talked
volubly and grandmother smiled in benign pleasure while tears shimmered in a
delicate rim beneath her fine old eyes as she looked upon Carisa who hugged
both Amanda and Carita at the same time.

It was Jonathan who returned them to normal. Following
Erminia onto the terrace on his crutches as she carried out a mid-morning
coffee tray, he looked perplexed at the tears and demanded to know what was
happening.

Amanda left Carita to explain, since her brother had pulled
up a chair beside her at once. With the vague excuse of seeing if Nico cared to
join them, she stepped into the villa and went swiftly toward the study.

He looked up as she entered, his brows raised in surprise.
She had not been in the room since the afternoon he asked her to marry him, had
never interrupted him at his work. She did so now without compunction. Closing
the door behind her, she walked toward him.

“Is something wrong,
cara mia
?”

“Everything is fine,” she said with a wry smile for the
truth of the words.

“I left you planning a wedding. Is there a problem? Carita
is well, and Carisa?”

“They are fine.”

“And you,
carissima
? Was there something you
required?”

She rounded the desk, reached to take the pen he held from
his hand and toss it aside. Lifting his arm, she put it around her waist. “
Si
,”
she said, “You once said I should learn Italian. I believe I require a lesson
now.”

A wary light appeared in his eyes. “
Davvero
?”

“
Davvero
,” she said firmly. “Though I believe it
would be better to have it after I have climbed into your lap.”

“Ah,” he said. “I seem to remember that you threatened that
once.”

“I did, and now the time has come.”

“
Dio
, I thought never to see it,” he breathed, his
eyes turning dark. Rolling back in his office chair, he drew her across his
knees, within the steady circle of his arms. “Now,” he said, his voice gruff.
“This lesson?”

She settled herself, something not easily done when the
place where she was sitting seemed to have a growing, too firm ridge at its
center. Sliding one arm around his neck she toyed with the buttons of his
shirt. “Translate a few words for me, if you please.”

“With pleasure.”

“First,
carissima
.”

“Dearest one.”

“And
tesoro mio?
”

“My treasure.”

“Nice,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I’m happy you approve.”

“Yes. Then — then
ti amo
.”

“I love you,” he repeated in English, his voice as soft and
uneven as crushed velvet. “And next,
innamorato
?”

“Innamorato?”
she asked
.
He had said that one
to her many times as well.

“You’re the one with whom I am in love,
mi sono innamorato
di te
. There is no single word in English.”

“Is that really what they mean, all these things?”

“Do you doubt me?”

Her smile was shaky at the edges and moisture blurred her
vision. “No, never.”

“
Bene
. So?”

“So,” she said, drawing a deep sustaining breath, I can now
say
ti amo, innamorato
.”

His face turned grave, though the light in his eyes was incredibly
tender. “
Innamorata
,” he corrected, emphasizing the final vowel. “A
small change as you are a woman but I am a man.”

“Definitely.”

“And — and you will marry me,
Tesoro mio
?”

“
Si, si, certo
.
Ti amo,
Nico
, sono
innamorata
.
Bene
?”

“
Molto, molto bene
,” he whispered against her lips. “
Perfetto
.”

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Since publishing her first book at age
twenty-seven,
New York Times
bestselling and award-winning author
Jennifer Blake has gone on to write over sixty-five historical and contemporary
novels in multiple genres. She brings the story-telling power and seductive
passion of the South to her stories, reflecting her eighth-generation Louisiana
heritage. Jennifer lives with her husband in northern Louisiana.