He grinned in appreciation. “Maybe it’s not an ‘after’ painting but a ‘before.’ Exhausted from his manly fighting, Mars fell asleep waiting for Venus to show up.”
“Well, she was taking a big risk having an affair with Mars when she was married to Vulcan. No wonder she was late to their tryst. And how could he fall asleep? He should have been wide awake with suppressed desire and anticipation.” She returned his grin, her head tipped upward. “Nope, not an eager lover, Mars. In fact it looks from Venus’s expression that this wasn’t the first time he’d disappointed her.”
“No, you’re right,” he said, his voice serious and deep, “that’s not like me at all.”
Her grin faded. He reached out a hand but she’d turned back to the painting. He dropped his arm and noticed, almost objectively, that his hand shook with need.
Lisa trailed a finger down the painted Mars’s sculpted torso. “His expression is nothing like yours either,” she said. “I can’t imagine you ever relinquishing your control. Even in sleep.”
“Lisa.” His voice was like gravel.
She looked then, and her eyes widened instantly, the pupils dilating. Stark desire assaulted him. Done with waiting, he took her hands and pulled her up to him. Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. The colors of her—peach, honey, and cinnamon—fed his appetite. He watched her tongue come out to stroke her lush bottom lip. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. And then he was out of control.
He plunged his hands into her hair and held her while his mouth shaped hers and his tongue swept in to ravish. She pressed against him, and he wrapped his arms around her slim, strong body. But he couldn’t wait; there was no time. He was lost.
The zipper on her dress jammed on the delicate lace. He wrenched his mouth away to work it free, but Lisa distracted him with her mouth on his jaw, her hands kneading his back. Abandoning the dress, he framed her face with his palms and dragged his lips over her sweet mouth. The scent of her arousal exploded in his head, mingling with spicy perfume and soft skin.
She wriggled her hips and the dress hit the floor. The motion bared the damp skin of her back to his questing hands. He couldn’t think as sensations flooded him. Her hands swept down his shirt, working the buttons. She tried to push the material over his shoulders, but he resisted.
“Cufflinks,” he whispered, not wanting let go of her long enough to undo the tight cuffs. He backed her toward the wall next to the stacked paintings.
Her fingers dug into his biceps as he cupped the firm flesh of her bottom, his palms tingling with the textures of silky skin and delicate lace. She brought her legs up over his hips. The higher position allowed him to kiss the tops of her breasts, pushed high by the peach lace of her strapless bra. She ground against his erection and licked the top of his ear.
An electric jolt ran through his body, and he jammed her hard against the wall. With no warning and little finesse, he reached between them and freed his erection. Dragging her panties to the side, he plunged into her hot, wet depths.
Lisa
. He drove his hips forward once, twice, and then he opened his eyes. Lisa’s dark, knowing gaze stopped his breath.
“Nick. Please.”
Her hands dug into his shoulders, and her hips flexed, pulling him deeper, closer. He felt the pressure build at the base of his spine, and he reached automatically for control. But he found none.
None
. Her hot, wet center clamped down, and he cried out.
“Ah, Dio. Lisa.” He buried his face in her hair and held on. Spasms wracked him, and his climax crested, broke, and died away in a rush, leaving him trembling and weak-kneed.
His chest heaved as he turned them to slide down the wall together. He resettled her more comfortably and held her on his lap. She lay wrapped around him like a piece of seaweed, her head tucked into his shoulder. She sighed and shivered, burrowing close to his chest.
When their breathing slowed, she sat back and brought one finger up to caress his mouth. “You never do what I expect, Niccolo Michelangelo Carnavale. That might be a good thing in a husband.”
One of the spotlights shone down on them, including their entwined bodies in the collection of art and sculpture. Her wet-leaf eyes beckoned, and forbidden words crowded onto his tongue.
But he could express none of them.
He should not have brought her to this place that meant so much and revealed everything, but he had not been able to stop himself. She fit here. Fit him. His body thrummed with the certain knowledge.
In the end, though, he was a coward. He pulled her close in his arms and kissed her luscious mouth. But said nothing at all.
Chapter Eleven
The gravel of the walkway crunched under Lisa’s sandals as she and Nick made their way back to the villa. The sound reminded her of the moment last night when she had ceased to think, only feel. Nick had swept her up, literally and emotionally. He had been different in that room of paintings, the “Please Touch” collection. He’d let his guard down and shown her a new side, a fascinating, unexpected view of the real Nick. The controlled Nick had wrapped her in a sensual spell from day one, but this other Nick—of soft confidences and hot lovemaking—could very well own her heart. She sighed.
“Tired?” asked Nick.
“Yes, I suppose I am.” She glanced back at him. He looked good in the dawn light, this temporary husband of hers. The long shadows of morning accentuated the strong lines of his face and body.
Without warning, he swooped forward. She squealed in surprise, breaking the morning quiet. He caught her up, sweeping her off her feet yet again.
“What are you doing?” she said, breathless.
He grinned. “Well, you’re tired and I’m hungry, so I figured we would both get what we want quicker this way.”
She studied him as his steps crunched over the wide path toward the house. “You shouldn’t let me get used to this kind of service. I can be very demanding, you know.”
“I do know. The granddaughter of the Principessa Severino di Giorgio wouldn’t have it any other way.” His eyes showed unprecedented warmth that teased and caressed.
“Well, this is interesting. Married only one day, and you imagine you know what I want.”
“You were looking at me like the cat with the can opener,” he said. “How could I not know?”
His eyes twinkled into hers as she laughed. “Not can opener, you ridiculous man, it’s a canary.”
“What’s a canary?”
“A canary is a—” She cut herself off as she caught his mischievous look. She rolled her eyes and then smacked him hard on the shoulder, making him laugh.
She pulled herself higher in his arms and kissed his sharp jawline, laughing when he picked up the pace. The vee of his open collar drew her in. God, nobody smelled as good as he did. She wanted him to touch her. To go on touching her. Her teeth nipped lightly at the skin under his earlobe.
His whispered, “Dio, Lisa. You’re killing me. At least let me make it to the room,” made her laugh again.
He strode through the villa, finding their bedroom at last. Pitching her onto the wide bed, he followed her down when she raised her arms. His body was hard, the warmth radiating from him immense. He smiled, and desire coiled through her. She could think only of Nick. His hands, his heart, and his bold, hot kisses.
She needed him. What she didn’t know was if he needed her too. They moved together, sweat slick and deprived, her emotions spiraling up with the heat and intensity of their passion. They rode the tide, both shouting completion. But this time he never—not once—lost control in the way he had last night.
In the quiet aftermath the thought niggled, though she tried to push it away. He didn’t trust her, and if that were true, she could never let him in.
* * *
Much later, Lisa stood at the counter in the villa’s commercial-grade kitchen, watching Nick evaluate the contents of a huge refrigerator. He wore a soft T-shirt and sweatpants that rode low on his hips. And the casual, domestic intimacy of that almost took her breath away.
“Can you cook?” she asked to distract herself from the long, muscular line of his back.
He looked over his shoulder with a half smirk. “I’m Italian. Of course I can cook.”
She snorted. “I’m certain there are plenty of Italians who can’t even boil water.”
Nick began pulling food out of the refrigerator with the kind of ease that indicated a comfortable relationship with food preparation. “Have you ever had spaghetti carbonara?”
“For breakfast?” she asked.
He looked up and grinned. “It’s more like brunch. Or would you prefer the bachelor’s morning after special—omelet?”
She made a face. “Carbonara would be fine. Especially since you’re not a bachelor.”
He laughed. “Thought so.”
She watched him place bacon in a pan and then pick up the cheese grater and a huge chunk of Parmesan cheese. “What can I do?” she asked.
“Umm…set the table? The dishes are in that cabinet there.”
She pulled out the necessary place settings, gathering everything together on a tray. “And the table?”
He gestured toward the hallway with his elbow. “Up the stairs, on your right.”
She stepped through the door, went up a few stairs, turned the corner, and nearly dropped her tray. The dining room was worthy of Versailles. She was going to eat spaghetti in here?
Late morning sun poured through the tall windows and picked out the creamy white molding and the cinnamon-red color of the silk wall covering. An antique mahogany table that could seat at least twenty dominated the center of the room. Above it sparkled a massive chandelier with what seemed like thousands of red, blown glass flowers so detailed they looked real. She had a feeling the chandelier was Venetian and one of a kind. The wood inlay sideboard sported an elaborate silver tea service and several tall candelabra. Silk drapes outlined the window, and the deep sill held a crimson velvet seat scattered with paisley throw pillows that matched the chair coverings.
She placed the tray on the table and went to inspect the paintings. Once again, an eclectic mix of art from different periods covered the walls. The juxtaposition of portraiture with landscapes and modern shape interpretations drew her in. She was caught up in the study of a young girl in early nineteenth century clothing when Nick appeared in the doorway.
He held up the bottle of wine in his hand. “What would you prefer to drink? I have a Brunello or water, flat and fizzy.”
She just stared at him without replying.
“What?” he asked.
“Well, I guess I would have dressed up a bit more if I had known we were going to be dining in the museum.” She gestured to the robe she’d thrown on when they had gotten hungry enough to leave the bedroom to forage.
Nick raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It’s just a dining room.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, and I’m just a waitress.”
He laughed.
“Are these more of your ‘Please Touch’ forgeries?” She reached out a finger to touch the nearest painting.
“No,” he said. She snatched her finger back and turned to stare, her mouth open.
He laughed. “Gotcha.” Then he gestured to the wall. “Some are copies, some aren’t. Just like in the barn.”
“Which ones are real?” she asked.
He pointed out an original Picasso, and a couple others.
She opened her mouth to comment but stopped when Nick made an impatient dismissive gesture. “Can we eat before you grill me about provenance?”
“But—”
“Lisa.” He cut her off. “I promise I will tell you what you want to know. But for right now let’s stick to our meal. It’s simpler. So, wine or water?”
She rolled her eyes mentally. How he could say anything was simpler in this room was a mystery to her. “Water,” she said, finally. “Fizzy.”
He spun on his heel and headed back to the kitchen.
Striving to ignore the paintings, Lisa looked in the sideboard for a tablecloth and napkins. She found what she needed and started distributing the place settings, one at the head of the table and one just to the right of that. She went back to the kitchen.
Nick looked at her over his shoulder as she entered the kitchen, then he turned back to the sink and flipped the pot of spaghetti into the colander. “Did you find everything?”
“Think so.” She leaned against the counter with her arms crossed. He dumped the hot pasta into a big bowl and then tossed it with the eggs, milk, Parmesan cheese, and bacon. Nick’s efficient movements somehow softened her resentment. There was something so sexy about a man preparing a meal. Carbonara, she knew, was a simple dish to make, but she wouldn’t call it easy.
He grabbed the bowl and gestured with his head. “Can you get the water?”
She trailed him into the dining room, holding the bottle in one hand and the glasses in the other.
They took their seats in silence. Through the paned window, the sun cast a pattern of squares over the tablecloth. Nick served the pasta onto two hand-painted plates. She poured the sparkly water. After a moment or two of concentrated consumption, Lisa felt the effects of the delicious food begin to loosen the tension in the air.
Slowly they began to share stories about meals and travel and art. She thought, watching him gesture to make a point, that maybe this was the way their relationship might have gone, before her demanding grandmother and a priceless work of art had intervened. They didn’t talk about Rome. They finished the food, their conversation winding down. An uncomfortable silence took up more and more of the room.
Since their meeting back in the States, Nick had avoided nearly every query she’d made about his background, which made her reluctant now to ask him what she needed to know. But she gathered her courage. She’d married this man to save an art collection, but what if there could be more to their marriage? She had to find out.
“Are your parents still alive?”
She saw his left hand clench into a fist on the arm of his chair. “My mother is.”
God, he was going to make her drag it out of him. She squared her shoulders and forged ahead. “Where were you when that picture was taken?” She nodded to a framed photograph on the sideboard of a small boy holding up a fish and a fishing rod. Two laughing adults stood on either side of him, supporting the fish.