“But it didn’t. It happened with your brother.”
“And no one regrets it more than Jonathan. I’ve never seen him in such pain. He loves her desperately, would do anything, anything at all, to make it right. He’ll die if she—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
That request was an indication of his silent anguish. Amanda looked away toward the blue line of the sea’s horizon that had appeared alongside the road. “No. I’m sorry. I just hope you will allow Jonathan to be a real husband to her, won’t expect this marriage to be for show only. He will be a good to her, I promise he will, and an excellent father to her child. He will quit the racing circuit, I’m almost sure, as he would never want his son or daughter to be brought up as—” She stopped abruptly, aware she had said too much.
“As he was?”
There was quiet insistence in the question. It was doubtful he could be diverted from what she had been about to say. She sighed, and then told him something of the rootless childhood Jonathan had endured, of how little attention he had been spared from either of their parents, and how much their deaths had affected him.
“Your brother had you,” Nico pointed out, his dark eyes watchful as he studied her.
“We had each other.”
“And now he has Carita.”
Did he think she minded that her brother had found someone else to love? She could settle that point for him, at least. “So he does. I couldn’t be happier, as she will be like the sister I never had.” She paused. “That is, if you think she will have him.”
It was a moment before he lifted a shoulder. “That she was intimate with your brother suggests an unusual degree of commitment, but young women these days? Who knows?”
The idea of the young woman who lay so pale and still in her hospital bed actually defying Nico to go her own way as a single mother seemed so unlikely that Amanda could not take it seriously. There were other points to be determined, however. “If there is a wedding, will it be a large affair or something quiet that can be dissolved by divorce later?”
Nico’s gaze was hard as it turned it toward her. “This is Italy. It might not be impossible to dissolve a marriage, but neither is it as easy as in your country.”
“I’m glad of that, really,” she said.
“In any case, my family doesn’t do things by halves. My grandmother and my aunt may not insist on a huge affair, but there will be something more than a mere civil ceremony.”
“But won’t that take time to arrange?”
“It won’t be allowed to matter. Though it may not be usual for a De Frenza bride to be obviously pregnant on her wedding day, it hasn’t exactly been unknown.”
The hauteur of that statement was relieved by the quirk of his lips in a sardonic smile. Her own curved in slow response. “You shock me.”
“Now why? It was once considered an excellent sign as it proved the fertility of both bride and groom.”
“Supposing, of course, that the child belonged to the husband-to-be.”
“There might have been a murder instead of a wedding if it had not,” he answered, his voice stiff with what sounded very like a warning. “A bloodthirsty crew, my family, in defense of their honor.”
7
The reminder of family honor and the possibilities it held was disturbing, Nico thought, particularly with Amanda Davies so close beside him. He needed no such incentives, was far too familiar with them already. Two generations ago, three at the most, she would be his by now. He would know every inch of her skin, every curve and hollow of her delectable body.
She would have no secrets from him, nor would she be able to retreat into chilly reserve. He would know exactly what it took to make her cry out with pleasure, and how it felt when she came apart in his arms. He would know her as well physically as she seemed to know him mentally.
How had she guessed at the guilt that drove him? How dare she feel compassion for it, much less show it? He was used to women who saw only what he wanted them to see, who cared little for what lay beneath the surface. If they’d discovered his failure of duty by chance, they’d have scorned it or else sought to use it against him.
Jonathan Davies’s sister could do the same if the chance arose, which was something he should remember. She might have the cool serenity of a Madonna, but she could still be tempted.
What would it take to entice her into his arms, to make her come to him? Would that absolve him of the necessity for keeping his hands off her?
He could not stop looking at her for more than a minute or two. Every little thing about her drew his attention: the way the wind swirled her hair around her face or molded her white shirt against the surprisingly lush curves of her breasts. The shape of her cheek, the delectable curves of her mouth, the pearl-like sheen to the skin of her neck and arms, the smooth shape of her knee exposed as her straight skirt rose above it.
The fragrance she wore, a clean floral, made him want to lean closer to breathe it in instead of repelling him like the heavy designer fragrances preferred by most women he knew. His fingers itched with the need to sink them into her hair, to position her head so he might take the freshness of her mouth like drinking purest spring water. He wanted to feel every inch of her skin pressed to him while he was absorbed by her, sinking so far into her that he touched her heart.
Was it some ancient instinct, an eye for an eye, a sister for a sister, a possession for a possession--an obsession for an obsession?
Or was it only because she was forbidden?
He was going insane, he must be. Any excuse would begin to seem acceptable if he was not careful. Any excuse at all.
~ ~ ~
The trattoria overlooking the sea was rustic but inviting with its façade of silver-gray weathered wood. A framework of wooden cross pieces stretched across its front, supporting long strips of blue and white canvas that flapped lazily in the onshore breeze. The tables beneath this makeshift awning were painted a vivid blue, while the cloths that covered them were stunningly white. Pots of red geraniums centered the cloths and more spilled from ancient wine barrels on either side of the entrance.
The scents of seafood, garlic and herbs were a powerful invitation to step into the shade and select one of the tables. They were reinforced by the welcome of a large woman with a mustache and a white apron snapping around her ankles. She enveloped Nico in a powerful embrace and scolded him for not visiting more often.
Nico ordered a carafe of the house wine. Their hostess, still talking while eyeing Amanda with frank curiosity, backed away then disappeared toward the kitchen.
Warm artisan bread and a pottery dish of plump ripe olives appeared with the wine, brought by the woman’s gangling teenage son who served as waiter in this family enterprise. The boy had a head of wild Pan-like brown curls, smooth olive skin and a bright yet knowing smile that marked him as a charmer. He shook out Amanda’s napkin and draped it over her lap with a deft gesture. Pouring a little of the wine for Nico, he waited for his approval. Gaining it, he filled Amanda’s glass first. Nico didn’t object, and neither did Amanda as she was uncertain of making herself understood. The teenager recited the menu items in proud but strongly accented English, however, and received their order. He lingered then, straightening the tablecloth, brushing at imaginary crumbs, until Nico gave him a straight look accompanied by a quick lift of his chin. Still he hesitated.
“There is nothing more I can do? You are — you are perfetto?”
“Perfetto, grazie,” Nico answered for her with dry certainty. “Absolutely perfect, thank you.”
The young waiter lifted a shoulder with a droll smile. Without haste, he moved away to see to other customers within the trattoria’s dim interior.
Amanda would have liked to think Nico had sent the boy away because he preferred not to share her attention or her company. She suspected, instead, that he merely liked his privacy. And why it should matter one way or the other was more than she could say.
Leaning back in his chair at a slight angle, Nico stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles and took up his wine glass. His gaze rested on her, accessing, intent, as he sipped the rich red vintage.
Something oddly predatory in his gaze set tension to coiling in her stomach. Imagination, she told herself, yet she could not be entirely natural under that steady regard.
“What?” she asked after a moment, threading her fingers through her hair to bring some order to the wind-tangled strands.
“Nothing.” He pushed the bread and olives toward her, nudged her glass a little closer. “Eat. Drink your wine. Relax.”
“I don’t do relaxation very well.” She reached for an olive and took a small bite. The flavor was so fresh and rich that she gave it closer attention.
“I’ve noticed.” He nudged her glass again. “You do know that a few sips won’t make you drunk?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And that it did not, almost surely, contribute to your mother’s death?”
She made no answer as she discarded the olive pit. The cause of death had actually been stronger spirits mixed unwisely with prescription drugs, but it would only weaken her position, and possibly her resolve, to admit it.
“She was, in that too apt phrase, drowning her sorrows, yes?”