Wife By Force(38)

The progress he'd made through the honeymoon was gone. That much was clear. Because of his fiery temper and wild emotions.

Why the hell couldn't he control them around her?





Chapter 15





The Florence apartment was spectacular.

And surprising.

Lara stood in the middle of the large great room, turning slowly to take   it all in. The place was spacious and modern. Beams of dark wood  arched  overhead, interspersed with white plastered walls. The hardwood  floor  beneath her gleamed with honeyed warmth and oriental rugs were  scattered  around, bringing color to the room. Three leather sofas  circled the  stone fireplace. Floor to ceiling glass brought the lights  and vitality  of Florence right into the home. The twinkling white and  gold of the  city echoed in the accents in the room: gold-ribbed pillows  tossed on  the sofas, the creamy white of the walls, the sparkle of the  lamps.

Her husband was silent behind her.

He'd been silent since their fight, grim face and rigid jaw.

She hadn't felt like talking either, so she'd been happy to nestle into   the far corner of the limo that had met them at the airport and ignore   him.

She walked to one of a dozen paintings dotting the length of the   apartment wall. Big, bold splashes of color grabbed her attention and   didn't let go. Pacing to the next painting, she eyed a modern Madonna,   head tilted to a sleeping child. Love exploded off the canvas.

A twist inside her heart made her clasp her hands in a tight knot.

The thought struck her-this was the kind of home the Dante she knew as a   young girl would have created. A home of warmth and comfort and color.  A  home made for a family.

The twist tightened.

"These are nice," she offered, braving the silence.

A short bark of laughter greeted her foray. "Nice?"

She turned to face him. "I'm not an art critic."

"Never mind." He turned away and walked toward two large oak doors.   "I'll be in the bedroom." His glance over one shoulder was ripe with   aggravation. "The only bedroom, by the way."

The door closed with a bang. Apparently, she had a husband who slammed   doors to show his displeasure. Pushing away a smidgen of guilt, she   headed toward the kitchen, tucked discreetly into a corner of the   apartment.

She found it delightful. The terra cotta floors gave the room a charming   glow while the glass-paned cupboards showed a vast store of red and   green china. The room appeared to be stocked for the imminent appearance   of some gourmet chef. Gleaming copper pots of every size hung from   hooks circling above the center block. Double steel refrigerator doors   gleamed with care and the stove looked large enough to handle a meal for   a hundred.

This was Dante's place?

The difference between the Casartelli villa and this apartment was vast.   Instead of marble and velvet and old-fashioned high society, her   husband's personal space was alive with color and comfort and … warmth.

She couldn't take it in. She couldn't reconcile the two sides of this man she'd married.

Whom she'd been forced to marry.

Lara pushed the thought away and paced through the kitchen.

A terrace door opened onto a lovely veranda. A round pine table stood to   one side, surrounded by honey wicker chairs with stuffed blue padding.   Baskets of bougainvillea in the corners added their vivid beauty and   light sweet scent. Walking to the edge of the veranda, she knelt on the   padded seating that circled the entire outer ring of the wall. Peering   down, she watched the lights of Florence sparkle off the murky waters  of  the Arno, creating a gleam of white splash on the buildings lining  the  river. Resting her chin on her folded hands, she tried to relax,  tried  to push all the renewed hostility away.

Tried to remember what she'd experienced in Barbados.

But it was no use. This was reality. She was married to a dictator. The   lover she'd found and relished on the island was fantasy. The   recognition hurt and made her angry at herself. How could she have let   herself drift so far away from the reality of her marriage? Drift away   into a state of honeyed bliss and endless kisses, and need and want for   one man.

"Lara."

His deep voice was not what she wanted to hear. She was still   vulnerable. She needed to build her defenses against him once more.

"Come to bed, bella."

She choked back a laugh and was surprised at the knot in her throat   threatening to spill into useless tears. This was not a man who deserved   her tears. She had to remember that and not get fooled by passionate   lovemaking and caring gestures and warm, welcoming kitchens.         

     



 

"It is late."

He moved in silence, yet she physically sensed him draw near. His energy   vibrated in the air, calling her body to him. Hunching her shoulders,   she stared determinedly at the city lights below her.

His sigh was long and drawn out. He hovered behind her as a hush fell   between them. But she couldn't escape the heated power he threw off him   like liquid passion.

"Va bene," he grumbled. "I am sorry."

The three words stunned her. Dante Casartelli admitting he was sorry?   With amazed incredulity, she turned on the padded bench and gaped at   him.

His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders slumped. Yet his black stare pinned her down, determined-and desperate.

"Say it again."

A sharp laugh erupted from his chest. "You want your pound of flesh, tesoro mio?"

"No." She tilted her head, the tension easing in her throat. "I want to   make sure to watch your mouth as you say it. That's the only way I'll   believe I heard correctly."

"I have apologized to you before."

"Exactly once. And for something you didn't have to apologize for at   all." She shook her head. "There's no reason to ever apologize for our   sex life."

"That is good to know."

"So, in reality, this is the first time you've ever genuinely apologized to me. I want to relish the experience."

He chuckled, low and deep. "I live to please you. So I will say once more, I am sorry I did not consult you about the security."

"Mmm."

"Not enough?" His brows lifted. "Marriage is about compromise. I am aware of that and am willing to meet you halfway."

"No security?"

"That's not half way and you know it."

"I'm not interested in having people trailing after me twenty-four/seven. That's an invasion of my privacy."

"I am not willing to argue anymore." His hands fisted in his pockets. "Not tonight."

"Dante-"

"Let's table it until tomorrow." Sighing again, he sat beside her, long legs thrust out, shoulders crowding her space.

"I don't know-"

"Please."

Again, she was stunned. Please and I am sorry in the same conversation?   Would wonders never cease? She glanced at him from beneath her   eyelashes, tracing the hook in his nose, the broad brow, the determined   chin covered with his five o'clock shadow. A wave of exhaustion and  need  for comfort overwhelmed her desire to make a stand on this.

"Okay. We'll argue tomorrow."

After a pause, he laughed once more, a soft gust of air. "That's my Lara. Nevertheless, grazie for the short reprieve."

The high toot of a car horn cut through the silent night, slowly fading as it drew away.

She sank into the blue padding and relaxed. This was her new home, at   least for now, and she liked it. A lot. She could give that as an olive   branch. "I like your home."

His body shifted beside her. "You do?" An echo of surprise vibrated in his voice.

"I'm not lying," she said, with a bit of annoyance. "The place is uncluttered and warm. Very different than the villa."

"That is the point." A wry tinge laced his words. "That is the Casartelli residence. This is my residence."

"You own both homes." She turned to stare at him. "I don't understand."

He glanced at her. "I find it hard to explain."

"Try."

He swallowed. Was he nervous? About sharing only a small piece of   himself? Why did he suppress every human element of him with such brutal   ruthlessness? The only time she ever felt as if he was totally with  her  was when he was inside her. It wasn't enough.

"I am the Casartelli." His hands clasped in front of him as if making a   pledge. "I have responsibilities to my family. The villa is part of  that  role."

"And this place?"

His gaze slid across her face and then away. "This is mine. This is me. I designed the building-"

"Really?"

"Si. I chose the furniture too."

"Seriously?" She tried to wrap her head around the image of Dante   Casartelli picking out sofas and rugs. Much less pots and pans.

"You look at me as a money-making machine." His hands fell between his   legs and he turned to squint at her. "I am more than that."