Intimate Knowledge Book 1 Part 2 (5 page)

As I stand there with the images once more sinking in, as they have so many times these last few days, it dawns on me that it taps into the same damaged depth of my psyche that Leo seems to engage.  That part that secretly pines for the promise of new life.  I felt more alive than I have in a very, very long time as I arched in passion in his arms.  Alive in a way I never expected to feel again.

His approach is so quietly graceful that I don’t hear or feel him until he is behind me.  Wrapping my hands around my body, I stare at the painting.  His hands at my shoulders and nape have a quality that is strangely healing.  The hot, rough chemistry that has flared so much today is dormant and all I feel is his intent to comfort and encourage.  For an infinitesimal moment, I indulge the feeling and sink into his welcoming body before turning swiftly to create a distance between us.  The moment is not missed on him, the coup clear in every part of him.

“Are you ready to go now, cara?  Or do you need more time?”

I slowly shake my head.  “No I have everything I need for now.  I think I have lots of ideas here.”

He nods.  “Good, let’s go.”

He holds out his hand and I surprise us both by slipping mine easily into his.  I tell myself that I need to advance our relationship to gain a foothold, but I know the reason for my continued surrender is far more complex.

Chapter Ten

Taking Raisa’s hand evokes the recent memory of her body so fucking hot against mine and my erection is torturous.  The sound of her voice calling my name in ecstasy is still pounding in my brain.  Waiting for her at the exhibit she took so long, I headed down to investigate.  When I heard the telltale sounds through the door, I couldn’t hold back and pushed through just as she climaxed and called my name.  Twice.  Limiting my response to simply kissing her showed startling restraint considering the clutching hunger that slammed into my gut at the sight and sound of her getting off so powerfully on me.

With the heat of her body curved into me as I held her captive against the wall, that hunger continued to slam at me to take what I craved, but her backhanded confession was enough to hold me back. …
just because I feel this way doesn’t mean I want these sensations or intend to act on them. 
It was a frustrating admission and made her surprising, swift yielding only moments later all the more exciting.

She was amazing when she surrendered.  So responsive, abandoned and hot.  It’s true what I told her.  She is mine now and I
will
make her happy, whether she likes it or not!  If her current retreat and attitude are anything to go on, she won’t make it easy for me.  Looks like she will fight me every step of the way.  Stubborn little hardass!

In my emotion, I grasp her hand more firmly, almost harshly.  I hear her indrawn breath and feel her look up at me in quick surprise.  Stopping us without heed to the bustling crowds surrounding us on the cobbled streets, I soothe her hand with my massaging thumb.  Her eyes have taken on a doe-like expression and her lips are moist and parted. Turning her face up towards me, I trace their softness and take them gently in a slow exploration.  Just before my lips claim hers, I hear a frightened squeak similar to the one she emitted back in my kitchen.  The cute, little sound is at odds with her other smartass characteristics and adds to the chaotic, confusing mix that is turning out to be Raisa Gordon.

Our kiss is different from the ardent mix of molten sensuality and fast, hot excitement we shared in the art gallery.  This is a gentle, quiet moment.  A soft embrace, a tender fusion that soothes and comforts us both.  I hold her against me after our lips part, savoring the feel of her in my arms and the trusting almost possessive way her hand clutches at my shirt.  I take her other hand, the one I squeezed a little too hard before, and brush it against my lips.

“I’m sorry, sweet.  I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  I ask her, genuinely concerned that I may have.  Despite her denial of fragility, holding her quietly in my arms, I am acutely aware of how physically tiny and delicate she is compared to my masculine strength.  She shakes her head and buries her face in my shirt, no doubt to avoid the possessive, protective blaze in my eyes.  I breathe a sigh of relief and hold her against me for a moment longer.  Kissing the top of her head, I take her hand in mine once more. 

“Come on, pastry time.  This café is my favorite outside of Italy.”  A swift joy rips through me at the prospect of sharing something I love with her.  One of my simple pleasures multiplied by her presence.  Even greater joy flares when I think of all the places and pastimes yet to share spread out in front of us.

Entering the crowded, dark interior, I lead her to the bar, helping her into the stool, stifling a smile when she sits with her feet dangling several inches from the ground.  She notices my gaze and gives me a rebuking, but wry glare, crossing her ankles to stop her feet from swinging.

“I can get Alberto to find us a table, if you prefer.” I tell her with a soft tease in my voice.

S
he smiles, happily, settling into her place at the bar, shaking her head. She is almost childlike in her pleasure. “Nope!  This is the best place to sit for pasticceria tradizionale.”

Her accent is impressive and I smile.  “You speak Italian?  Or just menu Italian?”

She shakes her head, a note of pride creeping into her voice.  “No.  I actually understood and spoke it reasonably well at one point.  I am a bit rusty, now, but I get better when I am around where it is spoken.  That’s one of the reasons I like coming down here, you can hear it on the streets.”

“Yeah, that’s why I live in the North End.  That and the waterfront.  Where did you pick it up?  In Italy?”  Her background check shows that she spent a few months in Italy a number of years ago during a college summer job, but most American students don’t take the time to learn the language. 

“I had a summer job in the Dolomites.”

I nod as if this is new information.  “Pretty good to pick up the language in that time.”

She shrugs.  “I knew I was going for a while, so I took classes and then I had the best method - an Italian boyfriend!”  She looks at me under her lashes as I try unsuccessfully not to look jealous.  I can hardly object to her previous boyfriends considering my own history, but my feelings are far from logical when it comes to her.

“That’s why you understand my endearments.”  I say wryly.

She nods and chuckles. “Yeah, we used to use that one you called Bernadette on quite a few of the kids at the camp.  I spent most of my time with the Italian camp counselors.  I kept up with the Italian-American club for a while after I got back, as well.”

“Did you visit Rome?”

“No.  I didn’t have time. I got to Venice and Florence.  I thought I would make it, but my time was over before I knew it.  It was disappointing to miss it, but...”  She shrugs again, attempting to look philosophical, but her disappointment peeks through.

“Well, selfishly, I’m glad.  I’ll look forward to introducing our Eternal City to you, myself.  I’m planning an extended trip back there to oversee my architectural firm in August.  I will be quite busy with business, but I should still have enough time to show you around.  You will be able to see quite a lot over the three weeks we are there.”

Our eyes meet directly and I wait for her to challenge my assumption that she will accompany me on an extended trip only a few weeks from now.  Biting her lip, she swallows, but surprisingly says nothing.  Elation sweeps through me as I take this for a tacit acceptance.

Alberto, the owner, arrives and gives a lecherous look and a conspiratorial wink.  I have never brought a woman here, before, and it is clear from the light in my eye that Raisa is special.  I never see the need to hide my feelings over a woman, so it is natural that he should recognize our connection for the romantic one it is.

I tip my head to Raisa giving her an unspoken invitation to order for herself in Italian.  This trattoria is true to its traditional nature and has no menus, as most of the clientele are regulars.  She smiles and orders sfogliatella quite expertly.  Alberto is delighted and launches into a full-blown conversation.  She manages to keep up fairly well for a minute or two until he loses her and she turns, laughing, to me for help.  Inanely proud of how well she managed at first, I explain in my mother tongue that she is not native.  Alberto is surprised, understandably.  With her coloring, matched with her accent, she could pass easily for one of my countrywomen.  I order two bomboloni for myself and lattes for each of us after consulting with her.  I also ask for two limoncellos.

“I shouldn’t really.” She protests unconvincingly.

“Why?  Are you driving?”  I humor her.

“No, but I am planning a night out with a friend tonight and should save myself for that.  She likes cocktails.”

I stiffen and then relax when she identifies the friend as female.  Hell, am I really going to get this riled over who she keeps company with?  My uncharacteristic over the top possessiveness disturbs me.  I struggle to suppress it.  It is a trait I don’t care for, reminding me too much of my father’s dark nature.  I will myself to unwind and suggest to her, deliberately, keeping my voice light.  “Consider it an early start.  It is a good complement to the pastry.”

“Okay, twist my arm, I guess.  I do like it.”  She smiles her acceptance when Alberto places the tart liqueur in front of her with her pastry and coffee.  She looks over at my plate and blurts out.  “How can you manage to eat two bombi’s, my thighs would explode!”

I laugh, charmed by her candor.  “I am twice your size.  But don’t worry, go ahead and indulge.”  I tear off half of one of the custard-filled donuts and offer to feed it to her.  “I’m sure I can find ways to help you burn off more than enough calories.”  It is a cheesy, predictable comment, but I am agreeably aroused when her reaction is heated rather than sardonic, as I half-excepted.  She shakes her head, blushes and looks down.  “Come on.”  I insist.  “I ordered two because I wanted you to taste some.  This is the special filling from my home region of Friuli rather than Tuscany.  With eggs – it’s healthy!”

“Yeah, right!”  She looks up, laughter bubbling over in her eyes, shaking her head even more when I continue to offer it to her.  “Oh alright!” She capitulates, suddenly and unexpectedly, just as she yielded to me in the gallery.  Opening her lips, she lets me guide the gooey pastry into her mouth.  Part of the delicious, yellow filling drips down her chin and it is all I can do not to use my tongue to guide it back into her delectable, little mouth.  I wipe it instead, drawing the movement out to caress her jaw line and then linger over licking the custard off my thumb, while never taking my eyes from her.

Her eyes take on the intensity of crushed pansies again, a characteristic darkening I am fast realizing that is brought on by passion.  I am certain she feels as turned on as I do.  Yet there is an undeniable, childlike quality to the moment.  The mixture is confusing and heady.  On one hand, it feels like we are teenagers fooling around on our first date, while on the other a deep, dark eroticism fuels our actions.

Our eyes stay locked in this confusing, ardent mix for a few moments until she sits up and turns around, drawn to the direction of my sudden, dark, disturbed stare.  My name on his beefy lips, walking towards us through the small, crowded space is Tony Gold, my cousin twice removed.  The moment with Raisa is killed.  He is one of my family’s thugs.  A lowlife, but an unavoidable, necessary part of my paternal family business.  The nature of our various undertakings, undeniably, requires a man of his tactics.  Shorter than me and considerably stockier, with dark hair and an even darker five o’clock shadow, he is a sinister sight, his criminal origins unmistakable.  Almost  twenty years older, he grudgingly defers to my position as heir apparent, made inevitable by the death of my cousin, two years ago..

Members of the Gold clan seldom come to the North End, another one of the reasons I choose to make my home here while in America.  They usually keep to the Southside or to the zone where our clubs are.  He must be up here at my grandmother’s request to help with my father’s upcoming annual memorial ball.  I curse inwardly.  I had hoped to keep Raisa well clear of this side of me, at least for a while.  She looks at me questioningly.  Shaking my head, I giving her a warning look and lean in to tell her in an urgent, adamant tone.  “Say as little as possible.  I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.”

She nods, seemingly obedient, but her body has taken on a watchful stance and her eyes are narrowed.  For yet another time today, I am struck by her confidence and control in the situation.  I am definitely beginning to doubt the surface Raisa.  She appears to be on alert, like she has been waiting all day for something like this.

Tony comes up to us and nods to me explaining, as I thought, that he is on an errand for my grandmother.  He senses my unease and is almost apologetic, careful to give me my due in the pecking order.  I deliberately don’t introduce Raisa, keeping him on my side, distancing them, but he keeps looking over to her, like he is trying to place her.  Finally, recognition seems to creep in and he speaks to her, a note of genuine warmth in his tone.  I don’t think I have ever heard this tone in any of my dealings with him.  Guess she just has a powerful effect on all men, not just me, although his greeting is fond, almost paternal.

“Hey, I know you.  Marguerite, right?  So, how’s that cute kid of yours?  She must be a teenager, by now.  It was the the dark hair that threw me.”  He turns full on to look at her.  “Don’t remember me, huh.  I get it.”  He pats his beer gut.  “I’ve put on a few pounds.  Not like you.  You’re wearing well.  You hardly look much older than back in the day.”