“But really, Lisa. You must realize that all marriages come with complications. For example, my brother, Franco. The one you met at the office. Well, you should see his mama-in-law.”
Lisa laughed, as Rafaela had intended. But she quickly sobered when she realized she didn’t even know if Nick’s mother was alive. “Nick has told me very little about himself, and I can’t get rid of the feeling that I am marrying a complete stranger. But at the same time, I feel so connected to him somehow.” She looked up a Rafaela. “Sometimes when I look in his eyes, it’s as if I have known him forever.”
Rafaela smiled. “Well, that’s the trick then. He is very easy to look at, is he not?” She waggled her eyebrows, and Lisa laughed again.
“Lisa, I am your lawyer, but I hope I am your friend too. You know this is your grandmother’s choice. She was determined to have a hand in your marriage, feeling that she had failed so miserably to direct your mother’s selection of a husband. But if this is not
your
choice then you have other options, even though they are not easy ones. Your mother knew that, you must know it too. As for Niccolo, well, Nick’s story is his own to tell. You must ask him if you have doubts.”
“I know that,” replied Lisa. “And I do choose this option, even if it doesn’t last. I just…well, I guess I’m just scared to death.” The last came out a whisper.
“Well, then, that’s all right,” said Rafaela, patting Lisa’s hand. “Because I can assure you that Niccolo is scared out of his mind too. You know I had to send him back upstairs to finish dressing? He had on two completely different shoes.”
Lisa stared. And then, in the face of Rafaela’s devilish glee, she felt an answering grin split her face. The always-in-control Niccolo Carnavale was nervous. Maybe it would be all right. Feeling suddenly lighter, Lisa threw back her head and laughed.
* * *
Rain pounded on the roof of the villa, and the guests’ conversation had a subdued, waiting quality to it. Nick’s mouth lifted in a humorless smile. He admitted to a touch of nervousness, not surprising considering he was getting
married
. As he pulled at the French cuff of his shirt, a picture flashed in his mind of Lisa’s long golden-brown hair streaming over her naked shoulders. His smile turned to an outright grin as he remembered her “seduction.” She had been…unexpected.
No, that word was too tepid. In fact, last night’s experience had been passionate, unforgettable, and unbearably sexy. He felt himself harden at the mere thought of touching her again.
He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Control for him had never before been so hard to find, revenge and Van Alstrand never further from his thoughts. He had a wedding to get through before he could indulge his passion for Lisa, but he seemed to have had nothing else on his mind for the past twenty-four hours.
Lisa, with her smooth, pale skin, deep green eyes, and luscious shape. When she had stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and stood before him in her black lace bra and panties, every shred of discipline he possessed had gone out the window. Every bit of his energy had focused on her. He had not stopped until she collapsed on his chest in glorious abandon, and even then he had barely restrained himself from whispering wild words of love and forever. He was grateful to her for stopping that flood of emotion with her finger on his lips. He didn’t know what she’d thought he’d been about to confess, but he was glad he hadn’t had the opportunity.
Love would surely complicate this unusual marriage.
The guest list for the wedding was very small, just Rafaela and Franco Benedetto, the magistrate, and the magistrate’s assistant. Right now, Franco stood talking to the magistrate with a glass of whisky in his hand. Nick had been trying to make conversation with the magistrate’s assistant but had abandoned even the attempt when Rafaela had disappeared upstairs to see what was keeping the bride.
When had all this gotten away from him so badly? It seemed that one moment he was contemplating the pinnacle of his dream, the realization of his vendetta, and the next moment, all he could think of was Lisa, in his home, in his bed. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a deep drink of the amber liquid. The burning, smoky flavor of the whiskey steadied him.
This marriage was just a rung on a long ladder to reach his goal. It was a temporary arrangement. For the painting.
He gripped the cut glass tumbler tightly. Then why did it seem so real? He should not have made love to Lisa last night. Or at least he should not have relinquished control to her. His mind flashed a picture of her straddling his hips, her shy smile drawing him to her. He cut off that train of thought before he embarrassed himself in front of his guests.
When had Lisa become so important to him? When had her happiness become the thing he thought of first in the morning and last at night? He walked to the sideboard to put down his empty glass. He rubbed the scar on his hand, staring blindly at the tapestry on the wall.
Movement from the staircase caught his eye, and he turned. Rafaela descended quickly and walked straight to him. She reached for his hands, and he gave them to her. At her severe look, his stomach muscles tightened, and he felt the blood rush from his head.
Dio, don’t let me faint
. He would never live it down. Then she pulled him down to kiss his cheeks.
“
Tanti auguri
, Niccolo,” she whispered in his ear, “I can’t imagine why, but she seems to want to go through with it. Treat her well, or you will answer to me.”
He grinned at her, almost stupid with relief. “Thank you, little cousin.”
Then he looked up and his mouth went dry. Lisa’s dress outlined her slender curves, and her bare arms and shoulders gleamed under the chandelier. Her honey hair was a mass of curls waiting to spill into his hands. Before her, she carried the bouquet he had sent. The large, peach roses echoed the subtle color in her cheeks and made the picture she presented clear and undeniable. She was a bride.
His
bride.
When she reached the last step, she smiled at him, and her eyes shone into his. His stomach muscles finally relaxed. This was going to be all right. He would make sure of it.
* * *
Nick strolled silently with Lisa across the villa’s manicured lawn and through the high pine trees that lined the walkways in the sculpture garden. The rain had scoured the evening sky and left a fresh, cool scent in its wake. A giant, white moon limned the clipped hedges with silver and cast long shadows on the winding path. The restored barn came into view on the edge of the property and, unaccountably, Nick’s heart began to pound.
Lisa stumbled, her hand tightening in his. He stopped and turned to her. Her eyes were wide, her expression serious. The moonlight stroked over her burnished hair and smooth skin and made her pale dress shimmer.
Dio. She was his wife.
He cleared his throat. “All right?”
She nodded. “Where are we going, Nick?” She crossed her free arm over her body and rubbed her bare shoulder.
“Are you cold, carissima?”
Her mouth lifted in a half smile. “If I had known we were going to hike, I would have put on better shoes and my jacket, at least.” She pointed down to the high-heeled sandals that wrapped her slim feet and ankles with slender straps of silver-colored leather.
His lips tightened. Why had he not thought of her comfort? He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her shoulders. When he leaned close, her enticing scent brought to mind tropical flowers and sex. He breathed in sharply. Then he dealt with the shoe issue simply by picking her up.
She squeaked in surprise, and he grinned. “Nick, what—”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s traditional, isn’t it?”
Her hand came up to touch his cheek, her fingertips cool and soft. She smiled. “I think a threshold needs to be involved somehow.”
He clenched his jaw at the jolt to his stomach. He couldn’t get his bearings tonight—he could think only of her passion, her smooth skin, her heat. He started walking with her in his arms. “One threshold coming up.”
He reached the barn and set Lisa on her feet. A key code opened the latch, and he pulled on the wide, sliding door. A soft glow from the interior lights bathed them in gold. He turned, swept Lisa back into his arms, and stepped over the threshold. She laughed, and his heart squeezed in his chest.
He set her down with a theatrical flourish just inside the door, and then pulled the slider closed, locking them inside. The barn’s interior had been completely redone to accommodate his collection. The walls were painted a creamy white; the lighting was subtle and focused on the art. In fact, the interior bore no resemblance whatsoever to a barn, but now had all the characteristics of a professional atelier.
While Lisa turned in a slow circle in the middle of the room, Nick stood back and slid his hands deep into his pockets. He’d struggled with his strong urge to bring Lisa here, but he had to show her what was at stake for him. He trusted that her affinity for art would lead her to the correct conclusions. But now the walls squeezed in on him. Had he made a mistake? Retaining control was difficult enough when he was with Lisa. Here it would be impossible. Here he displayed his emotions for anyone to see.
He looked up and met her clear, green gaze. His stomach muscles clenched involuntarily, anticipating her reaction.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “Is it all yours?”
He looked around at his eclectic collection. Toulouse-Lautrec posters ranged alongside Tuscan landscapes by local artists. A tall, twisted glass sculpture circled up from a white pedestal next to an unusual relief in terra-cotta clay. Not all the pieces were extremely valuable, but some were worth more than the building itself.
“Here you can touch,” he said, blurting the words out.
“Touch what?” she asked, frowning.
“Touch any of it, all of it.” Impatient, he walked to the nearest painting and ran his finger down the raised paint.
Lisa gasped.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to touch the art?” he asked. “Just climb inside a painting and imagine you were part of it?”
She cocked her head to the side, like a curious bird. “Yes. All the time.”
He walked to the far wall where a stack of unframed canvases leaned against the plaster. He selected a large one from the middle of the pile, and slid it out into the center of the room where he let it fall flat onto the floor. Under the spotlights, the extreme angle of view obscured the painting’s subject, but Lisa came toward it as if magnetized.
She stared at it for a moment. “But this can’t be real,” she said, turning to him with a skeptical expression. “This is Botticelli’s
Venus and Mars
. I think the original is in the Louvre.”
“The National Gallery in London,” he said.
She spun around again to look at the collection. “You mean they’re all copies?”
“No, not all. And I own some of the originals, which I display elsewhere. But I need to touch them.” He shrugged. “And here I can. Do you see?” He knew the explanation was inadequate, but somehow it had become vital that she understood this, understood him.
“But how? And why?”
He looked at Lisa where she stood in the spotlight, her slender curves outlined by the elegant wedding dress.
Mia sposa
. His bride.
His mouth lifted in a half smile. “For the how, well, I know a good forger.”
He squatted down next to the painting and ran his hand gently over the smooth surface, thinking of the brush strokes and paint combinations needed to create such an effect. It was a good copy, and would compare favorably with the original with reference to technique.
“And for the why,” he went on. “Why does anyone collect art? Why do they want to possess it? Why do you? Because you’re in love with a piece, because it speaks to you, because it may be the only real and tangible thing in your life. Because you can’t resist owning something so beautiful. But in order to appreciate art fully, you must be able to touch it. And when you do, you find what you most love is an element within the artwork that doesn’t actually belong to you.”
Lisa walked over then and knelt next to him on the floor by the painting. She reached out with one slender finger and then hesitated.
He looked down at the painted scene laid out in front of them. On the left side an aloof Venus reclined on a scarlet blanket and pillow in a forest glade. A modest but sumptuous white gown draped her body, except for her long, elegant hands and one slim foot and ankle. Opposite Venus sprawled the warrior Mars, nude and asleep, head thrown back in abandon. Mischievous, childlike satyrs played with the sleeping Mars’s armor and weapons and prepared to wake him with a blast from a conch shell.
“She reminds me of you,” said Nick.
“She does? How?”
Nick knelt near her, behind her. He wrapped an arm around her slim body and took her hand, pressing forward until they leaned over the painting together. The soft skin of her nape tempted him, and the tension in her made the blood rush through his veins and pound in his ears. He calmed himself with a breath, leading her fingertips to the classic line of Venus’s cheek. “You have this line,” he said. Their hands stroked down the painted woman’s long throat. “And this.”
He released Lisa’s hand and watched over her shoulder. She traced Venus’s ringlets of honey-brown hair, the gold braid and pearly white fabric that outlined the goddess’s breasts and shoulders. Lisa’s scent enticed him, her nearness stoked his need, but it was this connection between them that resonated.
Nick took a deep breath and shut his eyes as desire overwhelmed him. He wanted to grab her and make love to her now. Right on top of the damned painting. Instead he forced himself to relax. He stood up and went over to the wall to lean against it, one leg crossed over the other, hands shoved deep in his pockets. When Lisa actually knelt on the painting itself to take a closer look, he smiled.
She glanced up at him then, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I may have the look of Venus. Sort of.” Her lips twisted wryly. “But I don’t think Mars here resembles you at all. Venus looks to be a very disappointed lover.”