He owed it to his bambino. He owed it to her.
If he was honest, it hadn’t been that hard, much to his astonishment. The nights escorting her to dinners and parties in their honor had not been a chore. The woman might be an icicle, yet she was an elegant piece of ice.
He’d enjoyed her company.
A shock of monumental proportions when he’d realized it. He enjoyed her take on the people they met. He enjoyed her knowledge of books and theatre. He enjoyed the way she skillfully maneuvered herself out of boring or uncomfortable conversations.
Even though he still hated her. Even though she was still a cheat and a liar.
Even though.
Unwillingly, his brain was now as entranced with her as his body. That wasn’t good. He was sure of it. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
For better or worse the woman was his wife.
Which had led him to another decision and likely another battle.
He had not brought the sleeping arrangements up before this because he was pretty sure what her response would be.
One bedroom.
One bed.
His wife moved to the kitchen. He watched as she inspected the antique teapot on the aga stove, the espresso maker, the steel cutlery. She glanced over the colorful mix of pictures, ads, and notes he’d pinned on the refrigerator. The photo of his niece eating gelato. An ad for a new restaurant right down the street. The note he’d left for the housekeeper the last time he was here.
Vico waited. Knowing what was beyond the kitchen. Knowing what the reaction might be.
Possibly. Probably. The Princesse would not be pleased.
But Dio. Didn’t the woman think? If she gave a moment of thought to their situation, she’d realize they should try and make something out of these endless years together. Didn’t she think about the agony of eternal nights sleeping alone when it could be entirely different?
She had to remember their one night. The one night that was burned permanently into his brain and into his body.
They hated each other.
But they wanted each other.
He was sure of this if he was sure of nothing else about this marriage. The lust was something, along with the bambino, to build a marriage on. He merely had to convince her.
The kiss at the altar came back into his memory.
Finally, the peasant had been allowed to kiss the Princesse.
The softness of her lips, the subtle scent of her skin, a blending of flower and flesh. The way his mouth formed over hers to meld them together, just as the service had joined their lives together. Just as their child had been created from them coming together.
The moment would last forever in his gut. In his soul.
He jingled the change in his pocket.
But there’d been another kiss too, hadn’t there? Another kiss that was as distant to the quiet one at the altar as light was from darkness. The kiss they’d shared at the reception had been hot and needy and spiked with the sexual tension he’d felt between them from the moment they’d met.
His wife might have tried to hide her true desire in the marriage kiss. However, she’d given herself completely away with the reception one.
His kiss awakened her. His kiss enflamed her.
His kiss was the kiss she wanted.
The knowledge had been a balm to his pride and had given him hope.
Despite her turning away from him at the altar, when he asked if she wanted another, he still had two weeks in sunny, peaceful, romantic Paris to change her mind. He’d always been able to change any woman’s mind before. Why not now?
His wife walked out of the kitchen, out of his view, moving into the long narrow hallway.
Vico pushed himself off the wall and sauntered past the Picasso, taking his stand in the middle of the living room, in sight of the hallway and her disappearing figure. He kept his hands in his pockets and forced a smile on his lips. His heart beat like a rollicking drum inside his chest.
It didn’t take long. Her reaction to him never took long, did it?
Her body was tight and taut as she walked back into the hall and glanced at the one other door, which led into the luxurious bathroom. “No way.”
Clearly not now and not yet.
His desperate hope skipped and sunk.
Immediately, temper curled around his throat, making his words harsher than he wanted, his tone uglier than he’d planned. “It’s there between us. You can’t deny it.”
“It?” Her fine brows arched. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The temper simmered and bubbled, barely clamped down by his waning patience with her. “The sex between us was great, don’t deny it. Both of us want more of it.”
“Both of us?” She marched down the hallway to plant herself in front of him. Her eyes iced with pure hate and bitter distaste. “Speak for yourself.”