"I tend to settle," he conceded.
"Mmm." She twirled another artichoke leaf in the peppery oil. "Why mistress? Why not girlfriend?
His jaw tightened. Sharing his life was not a normal activity. He'd learned to keep everything close to his chest. Lara always did this, though, always pushed him to tell her things. Trivial things, major things. Everything. All of it appeared to be important to her. So. He would accommodate her to the best of his ability. "Mistress because I paid for everything."
"Everything?"
"Si. Clothes, homes, jewelry."
"Why?"
"It was easier." He kept his gaze on the bubbling dinner. "When I wanted them, they were there."
"Like me."
"No!" He jerked around and stared at her. The gold of her eyes was blurred with distaste and her lovely mouth was grim. "You are nothing like them."
She glanced away, a slight frown marring her brow. "I can't see much difference."
Making a sound of disgust, he eased the pan off the flame and then rounded the counter, bringing his wife's stiff body into his arms. "Lara. Bella. You are my wife."
"So?" Her mouth twisted. "You pay for almost everything."
"But … " He paused, trying to find the words. He couldn't very well tell her he loved her, had loved her for years. She wouldn't believe him. What could he tell her to make her understand? "With you, I want more."
"You want children."
The memory of her at her school ran through him. She'd scooped a tiny girl into her grasp and tickled her cheek until both of them had laughed. The image of the girl in his wife's arms was etched into his brain. He tightened his grip. "Si. I admit I want to see you with my baby in your arms. But there's more."
She sighed in disbelief.
Nudging her chin up, he confronted her dubious scowl. "You are my wife because I respect you. I trust you to raise my children. I never trusted or respected the two women who were my mistresses."
Her honey eyes looked into his and he held his impatience, trying to communicate through his touch and through his gaze the other jumbled thoughts he couldn't form words for. She was more. Much more. Couldn't she see that?
She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Okay."
Feeling helpless, he let her go and moved to the stove. Why did she always push him? Push his buttons, push his libido, push his patience. He'd given her marriage, his body, his trust and respect. And secretly, his love. Yet she always questioned it, searched for hidden reasons, doubted him.
Because you forced her.
The ugly knowledge, the knowledge he'd managed to push to the rear of his conscience, roared to life and pulsed through his blood, making him ache.
It would take some time, but he would convince her.
Convince her of what, Dante?
Convince her he could make her happy. Convince her he wasn't a bad man. Convince her he … he …
"We better eat before it gets cold." Her voice was cool and matter-of-fact.
"Why don't you go and pour the wine." Shutting his mind down, he pulled the warmed plates from the oven and began to slide the fillets onto them. He heard the swish of her walk and the click of the terrace door as it opened. Following her out to the patio, he placed one dish in front of her. The wind was soft and soothing, the sky darkening in the west as the bright summer sun drifted slowly to the horizon.
Sitting, he focused on his food, the taste of his favorite meal dust in his mouth. Madonna in cielo. He'd wanted this night to be another step in showing her what they could be. The evening had started so well, too. They'd been teasing, laughing. Now, though, a dark cloud of emotions and words hovered over the table, casting all his desires astray.
"Okay," she said simply. "I believe you."
Surprised, he stopped chewing and looked at her.
Her skin turned an interesting shade of pink. "About the mistresses."
But not about her importance to him, apparently. At least she'd offered him one olive branch and he was happy to accept it. He took a long sip of wine, trying to wash away any lingering disappointment. "Seriously?"
"Yes. Seriously." She stared at him. "Even when the dozens of blondes were running around your pool, you never truly struck me as a playboy. You were too serious for that kind of thing. And you're way more serious now than you were then."
He didn't know if being serious was something she liked; the tone of her voice and the expression on her face gave him little to go on. Still, he'd take the fact she didn't view him as a playboy and be content with the knowledge. Hell, it was one battle won. The darkness inside him lifted and he attempted a tease. "Seriously serious?"
She grimaced at his joke.
He took another bite of his sole, the buttery sauce now hitting his taste buds with pleasure.
"Aren't you going to say anything else?" she grumbled.
Taking his time, he swallowed the food, his gaze never leaving her face. "I'm happy?" he finally ventured.
Her eyes widened and for a moment, he wondered if he'd made the wrong move. Then she tilted her head and let out a throaty laugh. She'd let her hair down from the ponytail after she'd gotten home from work, and it slipped across her shoulders and arms, curling over the simple blue T-shirt. He took the opportunity to lovingly look at her rounded shoulders, the prominent curve of her breasts. When he slid his look along her slim throat, following the line to her firm chin, wide mouth, and eventually, her eyes, he found he'd been caught.
Her eyes sparkled and her brows lifted. "Dante."
"Lara."
Chuckling, she took her first taste of his creation and moaned her approval.
"A man of many talents," he murmured.
She gave him a mocking glower, but continued to eat with pure enjoyment.
He was happy. Suddenly. Very happy. Tucking into the remains of his meal, he let the silence float around them, now filled with harmony. This was what he'd dreamed of in the church, standing with her. This peace and awareness and connection. If it could happen once, it could happen a thousand times until every one of their moments together would be like this. A goal worthy of achieving and one he was determined to make happen.
And then. Then he'd confess to her what she really meant to him.
"So, Anika has seen your temper tantrums."
Immediate irritation welled, cutting through his contentment like a sharp blade. "I do not have temper tantrums."
His wife chuckled. "Yes, you do. I've experienced several of them myself."
Frowning, he sipped his wine.
"Admit it," she demanded.
"I have expressed my annoyance on occasion," he responded, trying to tamp down his exasperation. "However, that is not a temper tantrum."
"Guess it's all in your point of view."
"Si." He hoped the matter was closed.
"Anika saw you express your annoyance on at least one occasion?"
He sighed as he leaned back in his chair. Lara Derrick Casartelli would not let him off the hook. "I once attended a dinner with Anika as my escort."
"Really." Her expression was bright with amusement.
"A man was … offensive. To the host and to me."
"Oh, no." A look of mocking concern crossed her face. "Did he break one of your rules?"
She was teasing him. "Lara."
"Go on."
"I told him of my displeasure and he stopped."
"I bet he ran from the house in total terror."
"I believe he decided it would be appropriate to leave at that time." He looked out over the Florence cityscape and hoped like hell this was the end of this topic.
"Dante. You had a temper tantrum."
"I think we'll have to disagree about this subject."
Another feminine chuckle came from across the table. "We disagree about a lot of things, why not this one?"
Her words hit him in the stomach and it sank like a stone. "Why do you insist on seeing us at odds all the time?"
Silence fell over the terrace. He continued to focus on the lights of the city, not willing to confront his wife's lingering hostility anymore. She had a right to her anger, he'd acknowledged this and had been willing to overlook it until it faded. Suddenly, however, it seemed to him as if he was fighting a losing battle. She would never forgive him, would never see this marriage as a good one.
The ache inside him turned raw with grief.
"I'm sorry." Her voice was muffled. "I was teasing."
Glancing at her, he tried to keep a grip on his emotions. "Your words hurt sometimes."