Wife By Force: International Billionaires II: The Italians Page 2

  The cool air seemed to heat between them. She felt him, felt his coolness turn to fire. The words had spat from her before she could stop them. A nearly uncontrollable compulsion ran through her to take a stick and poke him until he turned into a human. Into the boy she remembered. Which was crazy. That boy had been a figment of her imagination. She could poke for a lifetime and find only ice.

  “A fascinating conclusion.” His voice held no emotion, only a dry edge. “How quickly you have sized me up.”

  She was stupid to bait this man. If she kept going at him, it might appear she still cared. Better to offer another olive branch and make a wise retreat before she let any more of her inner turmoil spill out for his inspection. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Yet it is good to know where I stand.”

  A grim silence settled between them.

  She made a move to rise, to escape, but he had moved too close. For some reason, she couldn’t take the chance of actually touching him. Not even a whisper of a touch.

  She wiggled back onto the hard stone.

  The silence continued. The man made no attempt to cut into it with light chatter or pleasant commentary.

  In desperation, she struggled to find a neutral subject. “I can’t believe all five of your sisters are married, or almost. It seems like only a few years ago we were just kids.”

  “You married too.” His voice matched his body language. Cool and composed. “Even after my advice against it.”

  “Was that advice?” Every thought of keeping things neutral fled. “I took it as a threat.”

  “Either way, you ignored it.”

  His reaction astounded her. Although he was putting on a good front, his words were filled with fury. His tone was crisp, yet she heard it, the burn beneath the words. All these years and he was still angry she hadn’t immediately fallen in line with his instructions. He had the gall to be mad after a decade of silence between them because she hadn’t run home to Italy when he demanded it. “Unlike the rest of your world, I don’t have to follow your commands.”

  “You’ve developed a sharp tongue.”

  “Which isn’t to your liking, is it?”

  “Sarcasm. Delightful.”

  His rejoinder ripped at the last remnant of her determination to stay distant. “Clearly, we don’t like each other.”

  “Another conclusion. You make them so quickly, I am impressed.”

  “You do sarcasm well yourself,” she countered.

  His black stare pinned her to the stone seat. “Tell me about your husband.”

  His change of subject shook her. Gerry was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Especially with him. “What is this? Why should you care?”

  “I care.” The two words slipped from his mouth, dark and almost desperate.

  A shiver of something, something astonishing or horrifying slid down her spine. Desperate? This man didn’t do desperate.

  He stepped back. Cleared his throat. “I am merely trying to have a conversation.”

  His voice had returned to calm, cool. Not an iota of anything that spelled out emotion or feeling or caring. Her shiver stopped, turning into a block of ice at the bottom of her gut. Obviously, she’d read his tone all wrong. This man’s idea of caring for people was ordering them around. She, better than anyone, knew that.

  However, he had given her one thing she wanted. He’d given her enough space to leave without touching him in any way.

  “I’m not interested in conversation with you.” With an abrupt jerk, she came to her feet.

  “There it is again.” His stare was sharp, assessing. “The anger. At me.”

  She couldn’t take any more. She would admit this only to herself. He was too much for her. Bloody hell, she didn’t have to take anything from this man. Ever again. “I’m going to return to the party.”

  “Un momento.” His hand encircled her elbow and brought her to a halt right beside him.

  Staring down at the broad male hand, a shot of pure heat zipped through her bloodstream, making her mouth turn dry. “Let me go.”

  “Not until I experience something I have been contemplating for quite some time.”

  Resentment surged at his high-handedness. The emotion gave her enough courage to meet his calculating gaze. “I’m not interested in experiencing anything with you.”

  “I am afraid we will have to disagree then.” With a twist, she found herself in his embrace.

  His overwhelming presence hit her with stark clarity. The warmth of his body enwrapped her. The strength of his arms stilled her involuntary struggle. “Are you crazy?”

  “I might well be,” he said.

  And his mouth came down on hers.

  This kiss was nothing like before. Nothing like her fevered memories. Before, she'd searched desperately for a reaction from him, for some slight response that would tell her he felt what she felt. But there’d been nothing.

  Now? Now was completely different.

  His kiss didn’t match what she knew him to be. Instead of controlled and cool and in command, it was passionate and hot and—desperate.

  The kiss splintered every one of her perceptions of him.

  His arms tightened around her. A thick wall of heated muscle and searing passion burned along her body. One hand grasped her hip, dispensing with any finesse or kindness. No, this was a total taking, her hips pressed so closely to him the imprint of his belt buckle pinched the softness of her belly. And below…

  She wrenched herself from him to take a gasping breath. “I want you to—”

  His lips moved back over hers, taking advantage of her words to slip his tongue deep into her mouth. He tasted of the intoxicating champagne served at the party and something unique to him—some spice of wildness mixed with pent-up frustration. Beyond this, a calling, not to her brain but to her blood.

  The kiss, the call, her response was too overwhelming to take in.

  She let him sip and taste until her mind went misty and her body sagged in his arms. She’d lived with this dream for so long, aching in her memory. This kiss, his kiss pulled all the old strings of her heart she’d been sure she cut long ago. So she did something very stupid.

  She took one willing sip, one tiny nip of his mouth.

  His big body stiffened in reaction. He raised his head to stare at her. The black of his eyes blazed with a blinding light of...victory.

  Victory.

  She gulped. Gulped in a deep, deep breath of complete horror. With it came some sense, some realization of how foolish she was being. “Wait.”

  He ignored her, dipping his head to reach for her mouth once more.

  Which was exactly what she needed. Animosity immediately vibrated inside her. Never being listened to, never being respected. Merely a chattel, an object to be won and used. She pushed hard against his chest with both hands, trying to disregard the lure of the heat spilling from him. “Stop.”

  The inflection of her one word must have alerted him. He lifted his head, a grimace on his face. Clearly, victory had turned into his defeat. “Lara.”

  Pushing out of his arms, she took a step away. “No more.”

  His hands fisted by his sides as if he were ready to grab her.

  She took another step away.

  The edge of his mouth quirked. “Do not worry, bella. I have control over myself. I will not pounce. For now.”

  The old nickname twisted inside her. “Don’t call me bella. And don’t pounce.”

  “Something you must remember about me—”

  “I don’t want to remember anything—”

  “I do not follow directions well if I don’t agree with them.” The quirk appeared once more on his mouth. “Actually, I don’t follow them at all.”

  “Listen to me, Dante Casartelli.” She glared at him from several safe feet back. “I want nothing to do with you. I’m not interested in you. Leave me alone.”

  Meeting her glare with a bland look, he stood silent.

  “Did you he
ar me?”

  “Si,” he murmured. “I heard you.”

  “Good.” She turned and walked away without looking back.

  Chapter 2

  Dante’s hand was steady as he poured the Hennessy cognac into a crystal glass.

  Remarkable, since the blood in his veins beat hot against his skin and his body sizzled with leftover lust. Even hours later.

  The color of the liquor brought back the memory of her eyes. Honey gold, they dominated her face. The moment when she’d looked straight at him, mere hours ago, would last in his mind for a long time. He’d anticipated, realized there would be some impact when he saw her. Still, the jolt had been harder and stronger than his expectations.

  Lara had grown into her coltish legs, big eyes, pointed chin. Grown into the woman he’d known she would be. Lush, lovely and sexy. The photos and videos he’d been sent over the years by his security team had not done her justice. Convincing her father to send her to England had been easy once he’d promised his security would follow her. Little had he understood how tied he’d become to the constant stream of images passing across his computer.

  Yet none of those pictures had captured the reality of Lara Derrick in the flesh.

  The lust churned in his blood.

  He sipped the cognac and calmly clamped down on his libido. It would not do to let himself off his long-held leash. He’d waited this long; he could wait a bit longer. The important thing was she was home at last where she belonged. He’d forced himself to keep away these last few months. Forced himself to give her some time before making his move and causing any disruption in her decision to return.

  He’d been correct to do so. Apparently, she’d settled in and planned to stay.

  This isn’t a holiday.

  Which was all to the good. His maneuvering, his work behind the scenes during the last months—it had placed her right where he wanted her.

  Home.

  Where she’d always belonged even though she’d denied it, and him, ten years ago. However, he was known for his patience now, patience he’d learned one hard step at a time. Impetuous actions led only to disastrous results. The years had taught him well and he never allowed himself to slip. Now he was legendary for quite the opposite of what he’d once been.

  Patient. In control. Always, always achieving the goal.

  Taking another sip, he grimaced at himself. He would not pretend this was like any other objective he needed to carry out. This goal. Oh, no. This objective, this goal meant everything.

  Dio, the impact she had on him.

  He’d forgotten. Purposefully.

  With one glance, she'd brought it all back.

  The need for her had drummed in him through tonight’s long dinner. Desire had lashed him as he stood and watched her smile and laugh with his sisters. Craving had curled its way into his gut as he said goodbye to her father and noticed her ignoring him once more.

  She was angry. At him. Even after all these years. Over a few blunt words.

  True, he had not handled the night of her seventeenth birthday well. In his defense, she had caught him by surprise. Though surely as a grown woman she would have realized why he’d said and done what he had. He’d needed to draw a line neither of them could cross.

  A piercing memory struck him. Her young face white in the night shadows. Her eyes staring at him as he talked. The way her pointed chin wobbled for a moment before she turned and walked away from him.

  Exactly as she had tonight.

  He pushed the thought back. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that night; still it had been necessary. If he had to do it over again, he would. And his subsequent actions, actions she knew nothing of, had been necessary to separate them before the temptation became too great. He’d also thought it would help her to broaden her horizons and spread her wings. His actions had all been for Lara’s benefit.

  Not all your actions.

  Ah, well. That was long ago, when he still allowed his emotions to ride him.

  He swirled the liquor in the glass. None of it mattered anymore. Now was the time to move forward. Time to forget the past and embrace what had always been their destiny. This resentment she held towards him would be dealt with. A few words said years ago would not stand in the way of his determination. She would soon realize who she was meant to be with.

  Lara Derrick was his. Had always been his.

  Her first marriage was done. Finally. It had been an eternity of waiting.

  He stared at the liquor for a moment longer, and then threw back his head and swallowed. The tang hit his tongue as the burn slid down his throat. The taste reminded him of the taste of her; hot spice laced with bite.

  At long last, the kiss he’d dreamed of giving her for years.

  “Dante.”

  He turned toward the library door. “Mamma.”

  Giana Casartelli bustled in, black dress wrapped tightly around generous hips and bosom. Easing into a leather chair, she sighed. “The last guests have left. I think it went well, no?”

  “With you in charge, how could it not?”

  She waved away his comment with a ring-encrusted hand. “It was nothing.”

  “A Casartelli wedding, and the parties leading up to it, cannot be a nothing.”

  She chuckled. “Well, of course. We are the Casartellis.”

  He rolled the glass in his hand and thought of a time when he would have given anything to not be a Casartelli, and certainly not The Casartelli. The mantle, the label, the duty had colored his entire existence, for as long as he could remember. Being the wild boy he’d been, he’d fought against it. For as long as he could.

  Yet just as Lara was inevitable in his life, so too was his duty. The wild boy had, in the end, died inside him. In a strange way, it had been a relief. He’d eventually accepted, eventually even embraced the destiny laid out for him from the moment of his birth. A destiny that demanded he always step up to his duties. “Sandro is a good man. He will fit into the family smoothly.”

  “You picked well for Carlotta.”

  You’ve turned into an arrogant ass.

  “She picked him herself.” He realized with sardonic humor he was answering her as well as his mother.

  His mamma clucked her tongue. “With your guidance and encouragement.”

  “I merely suggested.”

  “You have a way of suggesting, Dante...”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Si?”

  “Never mind.” Giana’s hands clapped together. “Her babies will be so beautiful.”

  He hid his amusement behind another slight lift of his brow. For the last few years, his mamma had been all about marriages. This man and that man. Which daughter and what daughter. Lately, however, babies had taken over as the theme of her life. “Let us hope Carlotta’s children take after Sandro and not me.”

  Her mouth pinched. “You were a beautiful baby.”

  “I was not—”

  “And you will have beautiful children.”

  The words hit him in the chest with a punch. He’d thought, until this moment, he had one goal as far as his personal life was concerned. Now, suddenly, he knew quite clearly, he had another. He glanced over to see his mother’s keen focus upon him. With long practice, he blanked his thoughts and gave her his usual bland look. “If you say so, Mamma.”

  “I say so.” Her gaze continued to cling to his face.

  “Carlotta appeared very happy tonight.”

  As he’d hoped, her eyes blurred with joyful tears and her attention slipped from him. “Si, si,” she gushed. “My youngest is happy.”

  Happy.

  Lara's face slid through his mind. She did not appear happy. She appeared tense, strained. Evidently, she was still suffering from the loss of her husband last year.

  His hand tightened around the crystal glass.

  “She is happy,” his mother interrupted his thoughts. “Put your mind at ease, figlio. You have done well for her.”

  “I am not worried about Carlotta,
Mamma.” He would make Lara forget her damned dead husband. The compulsion rushed through him, fierce and overriding.

  Patience, Dante.

  His father’s counsel whispered in his memory.

  Si, patience.

  Taking a deep breath, he purposefully closed his mind to the driving desires. A habit he’d learned and come to appreciate. With relief, he felt his passionate nature ease back, subside, disappear.

  Giana brushed her hands down her dress. “And now, this part of your life is behind you.”

  He leaned on the antique mahogany desk his grandfather and father had once ruled behind. He knew what was coming; they’d had this conversation many times in the past few months. Like him, his mother had the talent of being relentless in the pursuit of a goal.

  She eyed him. “The last of your five sisters, Dante. Successfully launched.”

  “They are not boats, Mamma.”

  “What I’m trying to say is you have finished the job your father gave you long ago.”

  “Not quite,” he said. “There is Tomas.”

  “Tomas.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “He is too busy sowing his wild oats. It will be years before I have to organize his wedding.”

  “True.” He’d given his brother the freedom to play that he’d never had. He’d had no choice for himself. He’d given up his freedom because he had to. For his family. For the business.

  For his honor.

  That was what he’d done so long ago with Lara. The night he’d relived over and over in his memory. With no resolution, no way back. Because he’d done the right thing that night. The only thing he could have done. He hadn’t had the freedom to take her, take her as she wanted and he wanted. Not then.

  Little had he known how much he would pay for that decision. Pay for years and years.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Dante? Are you listening to me?”

  “Si.”

  “That boy,” his mother clucked her tongue. “He has more women than he knows what to do with.”

  “He is not stupid. Or foolish.” Setting aside his regret, he eased himself off the desk and paced to the window. “He’s still in his twenties. Let him have his fun.”

  “I suppose he has a right to enjoy his youth.”