made her blush. “I do believe,” he murmured hoarsely, setting both flutes backon the table and reaching for her, “that it’s customary at this point for the groom to kiss his bride.”
Struggling to breathe normally, she nodded. “I do believe you’re right.”
He cupped her face between his palms and lowered his head.
Brushed his lips over hers lightly, fleetingly, then with crushing urgency, as one hand stroked past her shoulders to settle intimately at her waist. “After which,” he said, lifting his head to gaze deep into her eyes, “comes the first dance.”
Slowly he clasped his other hand with hers and guided her across the terrace. They moved together effortlessly, his longer legs accommodating her shorter steps, his lips skimming her temples.
A clock inside the villa rang out the hour, nine musical chimes that briefly drowned out a silken-voiced tenor crooning softly from stereo speakers mounted on the outside wall, then drifted out into the night.
Caught in a sudden powerful tide of déjà vu, Maeve yearned toward her husband. Once before he had held her in his arms, and a chime had echoed across the quiet sea. As the bell-like tone died away, he’d kissed her just so, under the same stars that sprinkled the heavens now. And it had been wonderful. Magical. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
“I remember,” she breathed. “Dario, it’s all coming back to me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“A LL what?”
“Kissing you like this. Dancing with you under the stars.”
“Nothing unusual in that.” In marked contrast to her excitement, Dario kept his response determinedly casual. “It’s the sort of thing married couples do all the time.”
Except that, in their case, it had happened only once before, the night he’d seduced her. Considering the aftermath, he’d as soon it didn’t all come rushing back in vivid Technicolor now. They wouldn’t stand much chance of starting over if she recalled the embarrassment and hurt she’d suffered at his hands, the day after she’d surrendered her virginity to him. And in his opinion, a fresh start was long overdue.
He was tired of fighting his feelings for her, and of living like a monk despite being tempted beyond human endurance. Among other considerations, walking around with a permanent erection was humiliating, as he’d discovered during his meetings in Milan when his thoughts had repeatedly strayed from the serious business of international finance, to the much more pleasurable contemplation of soon making love to his wife.
Maeve wasn’t helping matters, either, in looking more desirable by the day. Plenty of homemade pasta, good, fresh seafood washed down with excellent local wine, and the mostazzoli panteschi and other pastries she enjoyed so much had eliminated her gaunt angles and restored her delicious curves. Add to that her impeccable sense of style, and he’d have had to be both neutered and brain dead not to desire her.
Plainly put, he missed the wife he’d grown to love, and not just because of the sex or lack thereof. He missed her companionship, her sharp intelligence and her quick wit. He missed how they would lock glances across a roomful of people at a dreary corporate party, and smile in complicit understanding that they’d enjoy their own private celebration at the first opportunity. Yet he’d been forced to keep his distance from her because he didn’t trust himself to be close.
Even worse, Maeve hadn’t seen their son in nearly nine weeks. The longer the separation continued, the harder it would be on everyone. Already she’d missed so much of their child’s development; milestones that would never be repeated. Sebastiano had three teeth now, which was three more than he’d had the last time she’d seen him. He pretty much sat up unaided, and already was trying to crawl by pulling himself over the floor like a baby seal. He gurgled with pleasure every time he saw his little cousin, Cristina, and had
Struggling to breathe normally, she nodded. “I do believe you’re right.”
He cupped her face between his palms and lowered his head.
Brushed his lips over hers lightly, fleetingly, then with crushing urgency, as one hand stroked past her shoulders to settle intimately at her waist. “After which,” he said, lifting his head to gaze deep into her eyes, “comes the first dance.”
Slowly he clasped his other hand with hers and guided her across the terrace. They moved together effortlessly, his longer legs accommodating her shorter steps, his lips skimming her temples.
A clock inside the villa rang out the hour, nine musical chimes that briefly drowned out a silken-voiced tenor crooning softly from stereo speakers mounted on the outside wall, then drifted out into the night.
Caught in a sudden powerful tide of déjà vu, Maeve yearned toward her husband. Once before he had held her in his arms, and a chime had echoed across the quiet sea. As the bell-like tone died away, he’d kissed her just so, under the same stars that sprinkled the heavens now. And it had been wonderful. Magical. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
“I remember,” she breathed. “Dario, it’s all coming back to me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“A LL what?”
“Kissing you like this. Dancing with you under the stars.”
“Nothing unusual in that.” In marked contrast to her excitement, Dario kept his response determinedly casual. “It’s the sort of thing married couples do all the time.”
Except that, in their case, it had happened only once before, the night he’d seduced her. Considering the aftermath, he’d as soon it didn’t all come rushing back in vivid Technicolor now. They wouldn’t stand much chance of starting over if she recalled the embarrassment and hurt she’d suffered at his hands, the day after she’d surrendered her virginity to him. And in his opinion, a fresh start was long overdue.
He was tired of fighting his feelings for her, and of living like a monk despite being tempted beyond human endurance. Among other considerations, walking around with a permanent erection was humiliating, as he’d discovered during his meetings in Milan when his thoughts had repeatedly strayed from the serious business of international finance, to the much more pleasurable contemplation of soon making love to his wife.
Maeve wasn’t helping matters, either, in looking more desirable by the day. Plenty of homemade pasta, good, fresh seafood washed down with excellent local wine, and the mostazzoli panteschi and other pastries she enjoyed so much had eliminated her gaunt angles and restored her delicious curves. Add to that her impeccable sense of style, and he’d have had to be both neutered and brain dead not to desire her.
Plainly put, he missed the wife he’d grown to love, and not just because of the sex or lack thereof. He missed her companionship, her sharp intelligence and her quick wit. He missed how they would lock glances across a roomful of people at a dreary corporate party, and smile in complicit understanding that they’d enjoy their own private celebration at the first opportunity. Yet he’d been forced to keep his distance from her because he didn’t trust himself to be close.
Even worse, Maeve hadn’t seen their son in nearly nine weeks. The longer the separation continued, the harder it would be on everyone. Already she’d missed so much of their child’s development; milestones that would never be repeated. Sebastiano had three teeth now, which was three more than he’d had the last time she’d seen him. He pretty much sat up unaided, and already was trying to crawl by pulling himself over the floor like a baby seal. He gurgled with pleasure every time he saw his little cousin, Cristina, and had
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