Innocent of His Claim (13 page)

“Marco!”

“Let go, Delanie. Let go like you did the first time.”

“I can’t,” she said, voice cracking.

“You can. Do it. You won’t regret it,
cara
.”

He held her as passion warred with her fear, as her fingers dug into his shoulders, her gaze locked with his. Triumph surged through him as desire finally glazed her eyes, as her lovely body rippled in erotic surrender and his patience paid off tenfold.

It had been too long since he’d enjoyed watching a woman reach her passion. Too long since he’d felt this sense of awe. Too long since he’d been gifted with Delanie’s full passion.

Her fingernails dug into his flesh so hard she likely drew blood but he didn’t care. His lips curled in male satisfaction, chest puffing with the assurance that he’d been the one to give her such pleasure. That he’d gained the same just watching desire sweep her up in its honeyed maelstrom.

The strength of her climax left her in sated bliss and he caught her, cradled her close. But what caught him by surprise was the swelling of his heart, the warmth that stole over him as he looked down at her, a rightness that was unlike anything he’d felt before, even with her.

A thread of fear pulled through him and tightened his gut. He didn’t want to feel emotion this deeply. Didn’t want those tender emotions clawing at him, trying to burrow in.

What he’d had with Delanie was history. This was their time to part amiably. To be adults and admit there never would be any future for them together. To savor each other and this moment.

He blocked everything from his mind but the fact he was overly aroused and had a very naked, very willing woman in his arms. This was sex and he would make sure it was the best sex either of them had ever had.

They would part without regret before the wedding. The past would be just a fond memory.

“I can’t wait,” he said, setting her on the counter, the bedroom simply too great a distance in his condition.

Her legs parted in invitation and her fingers dug into his shoulders. “Neither can I.”

He pulled her forward and thrust into her, and a deep satisfied growl rumbled from him. Being in her wasn’t enough. He had to kiss her. Had to parallel the sensual assault with his mouth. Had to hold her and stroke her soft flesh.

But he sensed no complaint. Nothing but sweet surrender.

The last was something he never allowed in a lover. But this was Delanie. This was something that was reserved only for her. That he’d waited to experience for far too long.

They were both lost in desire, their bodies moving in rhythm, knowing where to stroke, to touch, to bring the most pleasure.

It vaguely occurred to him that they were equally dominant now. That they were in perfect sensual sync. He took, she gave, and vice versa.

They were matched. Perfect together?

That was the last thought on his mind as she climaxed and he gave over as well. The lone thought that locked his knees and kept him standing as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him.

She clung to him, limp, sated. He laid his face aside hers, his breath tortured as he fought to regain sanity after the little death.

And he
had
lost his sanity, he realized, as he slowly eased from her. When had he been this irresponsibly horny?

“Dammit,” he hissed, muscles taut with anger.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice having a drowsy, sexy edge that was making him hard again.

“We—” He pursed his lips and made a slicing motion with his hand. “I didn’t think to use protection.”

Which brought a whole host of what-ifs into play, foremost being what if he got her pregnant? The answer was obvious. He would not sire a bastard. No way. They would have to marry and pronto.

Her hands slid around his hot, tense nape. “It’s all right. I’m on the pill and I assure you I’m clean.”

His breath left him in a whoosh, taking the tight coil of tension with it. She was protected. Not trying to trap him into marriage.

“That,” he said, kissing her forehead, her nose, “is very good to know.”

“I thought you would approve,” she whispered against his neck. “That was bloody awesome. In case you’re wondering, once won’t be enough.”

He tipped his head back and laughed, something else that he never did with a woman after sex. Delanie joined him, free, relaxed.

No strings. No commitments. Just pleasure. That was all this was. So why did he feel a moment’s annoyance? Why was he a bit disappointed to hear she’d had the foresight to protect herself against pregnancy?

He shrugged off the damned doubts that had no place in this moment. “This time, we will make good use of the bed.”

This time, on legs that thankfully didn’t shake, he carried her into the bedroom and proceeded to show her how much he enjoyed every delicious inch of her.

Delanie stirred, stretching like a lazy kitten. A twinge of discomfort streaked across her hipbones and she winced, stilling until the moment passed.

It had been this way every morning for the past three days,
each day and night spent in sensual wonder, each new day better than the one before.

Last night had certainly been no exception. She pinched her eyes shut, face heating to an uncomfortable warmth as each delicious minute flashed before her eyes.

They had made love well into the wee hours of the morning, not pounding urgent coupling but a slow, deep coming together that touched something in her she wasn’t even aware of. Sometime in the early hours of the morning they’d finally fallen into an exhausted sleep.

She’d never felt closer to him. Never been so close to giving up anything and everything for him.

Yet Marco had left their bed before dawn. Perhaps he was on the terrace drinking coffee.

Or, she thought as she slipped from the bed, he was in his office working.

She would have enjoyed indulging in a hot bath but she needed to find Marco first. Talk to him. Gauge his mood.

In moments she was dressed in jeans and a lightweight sweater, attire perfect for a day spent here at the house. She padded to the door, wincing again at the tenderness between her legs and the abrasive rub of her lace bra against her nipples.

Her nerves tautened as she stepped into the kitchen, where the doors were thrown open to let in a gentle breeze. Her gaze took in the open area and the salon beyond. No sign of him.

Then, distantly, she heard the low rumble of Marco’s voice drifting to her on the breeze. He was outside, speaking to someone in Italian.

She strode to the door and paused, catching sight of him pacing the length of the terrace, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. Words flew from him like bullets. Though Delanie couldn’t keep up with the conversation, she sensed by his clipped tone that he was upset.

“Okay,” Marco said, free hand fisted at his side. “Tell her I will be there in a few minutes.”

Her stomach knotted as much from the tension in his voice as the fact he would leave the villa soon. So much for expecting an intimate morning together.

But then the timing of such things was rarely left to the mistress, she supposed. He would come in. Tell her about his change of plans and she would see him when it was convenient for him. Not her.

She crossed to the kitchen and splashed coffee in a cup, needing the caffeine jolt to her system. Though she’d intended to adopt a cosmopolitan demeanor regarding their affair, she simply couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t even a hard admission to make. She’d known from the start that she couldn’t regard sex with Marco as a casual thing, especially if she stopped holding part of herself back. But there was no graceful way out now.

Her shoulders bowed as she walked toward the door, a smile trembling on her lips as she stepped out onto the terrace. A very empty terrace. Empty garden. Empty pool area.

She frowned. He hadn’t come back into the house. Had he zipped off in his red sports car without a goodbye? Without a word to her?

That was simply unacceptable behavior! She set her cup of coffee down beside his half-drunk one and rounded the house, thinking she just might catch a glimpse of him peeling down the winding drive in his sleek red auto toward the “she” who needed him so much. But the Bugatti was right where Marco had parked it last night.

Baffled, she retraced her steps to the terrace. Just as she was ready to turn toward the door, she caught a blinding flash of white moving in the hills above the house.

She shielded her eyes and focused on the figure.

Marco? Yes, the more she watched the more sure she was of it. He was taking the trail upward and would soon be out
of sight. Who was he going to see? Whose call had the power to send him out like this on foot?

A female neighbor in need perhaps? A convenient lover?

Delanie fisted her hands, welcoming the swift jab of anger that finally prodded her feet to move. She was well onto the track winding into the hills before it struck her that the wisest course was to fob this off and leave him to whatever lady had snared his fancy.

But curiosity was a cruel companion to jealousy and both were playing hell with her emotions right now. So she struck out after him, determined to find out where he’d gone in such a rush that he couldn’t even leave her a note.

Staying on the well-maintained trail took her to a lovely clearing a good two kilometers above Marco’s house. The stands of cypress and perfect lines of lofty poplars kept this little area well secluded, the perfect place to secrete away a mistress.

Her gaze took in the small farmstead. Instead of livestock, which she hadn’t expected to find anyway, her gaze lit on several dozen medium-sized lanky dogs lazing in a fenced enclosure.

A woman with a dog kennel was the last thing she’d expected to find. How odd she’d never heard more than a few barks in all the time she’d been here.

She looked toward the barn, which she guessed was the heart of the operation, and just caught sight of Marco going inside. Without thinking that she was now trespassing or at the least spying on her lover, she struck out toward the barn as well.

Her heart was racing like the wind long before she stepped inside a small room furnished with a half dozen utility chairs and a counter that looked suspiciously like a reception area of sorts. She followed Marco’s voice into the adjacent room where he knelt beside a tan dog. A woman of modest years
with a stern countenance stood behind him with a perplexed look on her face.

“How long has she been like this?” Marco asked, brow furrowed as he ran a gentle hand over the dog’s sleek coat.

“I found her this way this morning,” the woman said. “The knee is completely displaced. Surgery might give her full range of movement again but at her age …”

Marco flung the woman a glacial look that made Delanie shiver. “Then operate. I have made it clear that Rifugio del Cuccia was built for the animals and that means prolonging their quality of life as long as it is humanly possible.”

“Very well,” the woman said. “I will operate on her this afternoon.”

The woman walked off but Marco remained crouched by the animal. He stroked the dog gently and crooned so softly Delanie had to strain to hear the soothing melody, so rich and warm she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sigh.

But the old greyhound responded, giving a weary wag of her tail. The dog lifted her head once to look at him before moaning and lying back down with a contented sigh.

Delanie’s throat tightened and her eyes misted. And her heart … Oh, God, her heart flooded with warmth.

The animal loved him and he was clearly protective of the dog. Yet she never recalled him talking of animals the entire time she had known him. Just another slice of Marco Vincienta that he kept hidden from the world. A very compassionate side that she’d never seen to this degree.

She eased back toward the door, feeling very shallow for the earlier negative thoughts that had consumed her, compelling her to follow him. Feeling far too weak-kneed as well.

What she wouldn’t give if he would show that much love to her!

But he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

She’d known from the start that leaving him would hurt. That she still loved him.

But she hadn’t realized until this moment that walking away from this wonderful man would surely kill her.

“Y
OU
don’t have to leave,” Marco said, still not looking up. “I’m not going to bite your head off for following me.”

She grimaced. Another second and she would have been gone. Instead she scrambled for composure and a steady tone.

“No, you’ll just sic the dogs on me,” she said, aiming for a tease.

To her relief he smiled, a boyish grin that made her heart thump harder. “There’s not a vicious one in the kennel,
cara
.”

Again, she saw a different side of Marco as she crouched on the floor in a kennel making light conversation. The tension that had bonded to her suddenly came unglued. She shivered at the naked freedom of losing the encumbrance, of allowing herself to simply relax around him again.

An odd thing to admit after the intimacies they’d shared last night. She chafed her upper arms and glanced at her surroundings.

Kennels side by side down the perimeter, separated from each other by solid walls, had pet doors that opened into the fenced yard. A few dogs dozed in their cages but none as listlessly as the greyhound sprawled at Marco’s feet.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on a private moment,” she said.

“You’re not. I should have invited you to come with me,” he said. “At the least, I should have told you why I had to rush off.”

But he hadn’t. His thoughts had been on the dog he obviously cared for instead of the woman he’d romanced all night.

Yet she couldn’t fault him.

“It’s all right. I take it this place is yours,” she said.

He gave a crisp nod. “I bought this old farm several years ago and refurbished it into the dog kennel you see it today.” His hand stilled on the listless greyhound, his smile tender. “Zena was one of our first guests.”

“She’s special to you then.”

“Yes, but not like you think.” He continued to pet the dog, seeming in no hurry to move or avoid her questions. “She was a champion, setting records with the amount of races she won in four years and deserves a luxurious retirement.”

She shifted, her smile fading. “I wasn’t aware you were involved in dog-racing.”

Dark, narrowed eyes drilled into her and a muscle jerked along his jaw. “I never have been, at least not as a proponent of the sport. Their less-than-humane practices to the animals sickens me. The dogs earn billions for their owners yet are treated abominably. That is part of the reason I built this rescue shelter.”

Zena moaned and lifted her head and Marco instantly focused his attention on the animal. The dog responded by stilling with a weary exhalation.

His broad shoulders relaxed, his hard features softened. It was all she could do to keep from going to him, rubbing the taut muscles, soothing him as he was comforting the dog.

“I just assumed …” She rubbed the chill from her arms again. “My apologies.”

That earned her a negligent shrug. “It’s ok. You made the same assumption most make considering my biological father had a penchant for gambling.”

Delanie bit her lip, debating whether to let the subject drop or pursue it. There was certainly more to it. More that bothered him or else he wouldn’t have gone to all this expense.
Wouldn’t have been so emotionally invested in building a shelter just moments from his home.

“Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Please, sit,” he said, and the dog did no more than cast big brown eyes her way. Eyes that had clearly seen too much hurt and very little of the affection she was reaping now.

She bit her lip as she eased down on the other side of Zena. “I’ve never been around dogs.”

He looked up. “You never had a pet?”

An image of chasing a dog flickered in her memory. “Mother was given a puppy once. He looked like a puff of fur and was so soft and so full of life.” Too full of life for her household.

“What happened to him?”

She frowned at her clasped hands. “Father told us he had to find a new home for the dog because his allergies prevented close contact with animals of any kind.”

He snorted. “Did you believe him?”

“Back then I did,” she said. “But now? No.”

Her gaze lifted from the dog to the man and her breath caught as her gaze locked with his dark somber eyes. The last thing she needed now was his compassion.

“What about you?” she asked. “Did you grow up around animals?”

“We had a dog when I was a boy. A mongrel, really.”

He cracked a smile and her heart ached as she imagined him playing in the streets of Florence with his pet. Ached because she envied him that memory when her own was so fleeting.

“Tell me about your dog,” she said. “What was his name?

“Sebastian,” he said. “He followed me home from school one day, so scrawny he was little more than matted fur over bones.”

“So you took him in,” she said.

“Yes. Mama gave him scraps and he made himself at home on our back stoop.”

His features softened, his eyes glowed, as he launched into a slice of life about a poor Italian boy on the winding cobbled streets in Florence, running with a mutt of a dog. Laughing. Free. Enjoying his childhood with parents who were passionately close at that time.

A gnawing pain that was simply jealousy for what he’d had and she hadn’t popped up in her, as ugly as a sudden pimple on a cheek or chin. A mark to ignore or treat, and she struggled to do either.

At one time she’d pitied him for the dire straits he’d come from. But in truth it was she who’d lived in emotional poverty in the mansion in Mayfair. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t remember her mother and father laughing, together or apart. Couldn’t remember the wealthy Tate family doing anything for the sheer enjoyment of it.

The only time she’d truly lived was when she’d met Marco. He’d pulled her out of her staid life and showed her a world bright with promise. He’d been exciting and loving and powerful.

When he’d left her, she’d retreated to what she’d known—protecting her mother as best as she could. Enduring.

Her budding career as a wedding planner became her only outlet. Through it she lived vicariously, enjoying others’ happiness without risking her own heart again.

Sitting with Marco on the floor of a fabulous dog shelter terrified her more than she wished to admit. Her heart beat too fast, her thoughts whirled like a tempest, all centered around the man who had stormed back into her life and forced her really to look at her existence.

Gaining her independence had been all she’d wanted for so long. It still was her goal.

Entertaining thoughts of Marco remaining in her life was moot. Nothing had changed between them.

She deserved more than a one-sided affair of the heart. He couldn’t open his heart to love. Or was there hope that would change?

That thought remained front and center in her mind as she reached out to stroke the dog. The stiff coat was surprisingly soft, much like Marco: He projected a hard exterior but clearly had a much softer spot in his heart for animals.

The dog was a breathing, needy connection between them because it was safer to touch the dog than each other. Safer than opening herself up to those feelings that were already battering down the door she’d locked them behind.

“I’m jealous of your memories of a happy home and family,” she said.

He shrugged, and she coveted even that careless surety he affected without effort. “I have good ones and not so good ones. There are more chapters of the latter than the former.”

“Mine range from bad to indifferent,” she said, though she suspected her bad memories outweighed his. “But you had more than just parents at odds. My maternal grandparents died long before I was born. My father was estranged from his family.”

He frowned. “So you were cut off from kin?”

She nodded. “Henry sent word to a younger sibling of Father’s upon his death, but they didn’t respond.”

“That’s wrong.”

“Perhaps, but it was proof that Father reaped what he’d sown with family and business associates,” she said.

She was spared saying more as the veterinarian strode into the room, her dark blue surgical scrubs a sign she was ready to operate. The woman didn’t spare Delanie a glance.

“Marco, we are ready for Zena,” the veterinarian said.

He shifted to a squat, his gaze on the dog as Delanie rose to her feet. “Should I carry her for you?”

“Grazie.”
The veterinarian held the door open. “Bring her in here, please.”

He gently lifted the dog in his strong arms and disappeared through the door with the veterinarian trailing him. The metal panel closed with a clang.

Delanie paced the room and rubbed her bare arms again, debating whether to stay or to go back to the villa. She had no desire to witness a surgery though she suspected Marco would remain here until Zena was on the road to recovery.

She slipped out the door and headed to the path that wound back to Marco’s house. Yes, she was running away, even though she couldn’t run far from her troubles.

Once Marco had time for her, he would seek her out. Wine her. Dine her. Seduce her until she begged him to make love to her—to ease the torment of desire.

And when they’d rested, she would welcome his passion all over again.

Stolen days of bliss, that’s all she had with him.

Halfway down the hill she paused at the breathtaking vista of Montiforte far below. She drank in the beauty like one famished, convinced she would never tire of letting her gaze wander the hills and quaint villages where hustle and bustle were foreign concepts.

How odd that she, the girl who had craved the excitement of London, would come to appreciate the quiet beauty of this landlocked part of Italy. Not once had she pined for her typical breakneck routine that was mired in the city. She had rarely thought of her friends.

An anomaly.

She’d been busy planning the wedding, getting to know the village and the people who were always quick to help. Then she’d gotten caught up in Marco’s charisma, lost in his arms, addicted to his passion.

Too soon it would all end and she would return to her world. She would have the company she’d sacrificed years of her life to regain. She would lose Marco all over again.

Her shoulders slumped, her stomach knotting. Why
couldn’t her heart race with excitement over finally gaining what she wanted? Why was the world she’d known less appealing than this laid-back lifestyle?

“It’s a beautiful sight, no?” Marco said.

She let out a yelp, startled he’d sneaked up on her. “I thought you would stay with Zena.”

He shook his head. “She is in good hands.” His gaze roamed her length, as intimate as a caress. “What are your plans for today?”

“I have none,” she said.

He slipped an arm around her, pulled her into the heat and hardness of his body and she melted against him effortlessly. Her heart leapt to life, thudding hard in her chest. Her breasts grew heavy, the nipples peaking to aching awareness.

“Then let’s return to the house and enjoy the time left us. Okay?” he asked.

Asked!

She smiled and hoped he couldn’t tell it was pained.

He offered the one thing he could give her without reservations. With total honesty. Passion.

Denying herself the pleasure wouldn’t make leaving him any easier. A heart couldn’t break any more than it had, could it?

“How can I say no?” she said.

Something had changed between him and Delanie in the shelter and damned if he could put his finger on it. But he didn’t like it.

Her smile was just as warm as the sun. Her fingers still clung to his with the same urgency. Her eyes still burned with passion.

Yet he felt the distancing between them as if she were leaving him now instead of in a few days. That would come soon enough. For now, while he had her here they would make the most of their time together.

He would know for sure before she left him again if his pride had cost him the most important thing in his life.

“That sweet spicy smell. Is it coming from that flower over there?” she asked, pointing to a light purple bloom that had newly unfurled its petals.

“Yes, the much-prized
zafferano
,” he said, and at her pulled brow added, “Saffron. It grows wild here and has been a major export for centuries.”

“It’s so delicate.”

Much like Delanie
, he thought, smiling. “Ah, but she is stingy with her treasure.
Zafferano
is the world’s most expensive herb.”

“Our chef made saffron rice,” she said.

He snorted. “As does the world. But a saffron risotto with cinnamon pork—” He kissed his thumb and forefinger.
“Delizioso.”

Her kissable mouth pulled into a playful smile but it was the fingers tightening on his that sent a surge of heat blazing through him. “Okay, where do I sample this delicacy?”

One jerk brought her slamming against him, full lush breasts to hard heaving chest. He kissed her mouth quickly, then swooped back for another one, longer this time, lingering over her as one would a scrumptious dish.

“At my house, of course,” he said, his voice thickened with his growing need to have her. Not any woman. Her. “With a stop in the village for ingredients.”

“Who is going to cook this delicacy?” she asked as he inched toward the crocus and plucked off the three reddish stigmas.

He held such a treasure, yet it paled in comparison to the woman. She was the rare treasure.

“Me, of course,” he said as he picked his way back to the trail, careful not to tread on new tender shoots. “I am not just a pretty face!”

She laughed, a rich playful sound that lifted the weight of
worry from him. They had this. The spontaneity of lovers that had not faded with time. But was it enough?

It had to be.

Delanie Tate wanted love. Wanted hearts and flowers. Wanted a man who would let her spread her wings and fly independently of him.

Marco simply couldn’t do that. He couldn’t allay his doubts that she would return to her lies. That in the end, she would find a man more dashing, more amiable than he and would betray him.

No, all he had with her was her time in Italy planning Bella’s wedding. He intended to make the most of it.