“That night was not your fault. It was mine,” Taviano said, his voice very firm, but his tone was low, gentle, just the way he almost always spoke to her now, ever since that horrible night when she’d acted such a fool. “We are careful in our family not to drink to excess. You are aware of that. You’re one of the few we allow close to us. Only one of us can do so at a time; that night was my night, and I indulged too much. I should never have gone after you when you were partying, and I was angry. I knew better. My brothers should have stopped me. You have to let it go.”
She shook her head, her gaze flicking past him to her friends, who fortunately weren’t paying much attention to their conversation. “I’m ashamed of the way I treated you after all you did for me. I really am, Taviano. I think I wanted to run away from myself.” She knew that was what she’d been doing. She’d loathed herself, and she didn’t think she was worth anything. In some weird way she was punishing herself for the things her step-uncles had done to her—things she had been helpless to stop. “Every time I saw you, you were a reminder …”
“You don’t have to explain. I’m well aware.” Taviano brushed his fingers down her cheek very gently.
She caught her breath. There was something about the way he touched her that got to her every time. He put goose bumps on her skin. Sent a rush of heat through her veins. Fire always danced low and wicked at that touch. It had been that way almost since the first time she’d opened her eyes and stared into his. She’d been so young and so old. So terrified of living, and humiliated that he knew what had happened to her over the last few years. She could barely stand looking at him or his brothers. At any of his family. They knew.
Yet because of them, because of his family, because of Taviano, she had learned to have confidence in herself. To believe she was worth something. Her recovery was due to the Ferraros and their endless patience with her, and of course the counseling they paid for. But also, she was certain, it was due to Lucia and Amo Fausti, the family the Ferraros had chosen for her. Her foster parents had loved her through the worst of her striking out at everyone—mostly striking out at herself.
“Just have fun, tesoro. We’re going to worry about us and our relationship another day, but this day is for you and your friends.”
Her heart jumped and then clenched hard. It took discipline not to rub her chest. She was acutely aware of his declaration but had no idea what he meant. Their relationship? He rarely spoke to her, in fact he usually avoided being alone with her, not that she blamed him. The family relationship? She hoped they weren’t thinking of cutting ties with her. She’d toed the line, done more than what they’d expected of her.
She glanced at the three girls. Pia was glaring at her. It was her birthday and she wanted the attention, especially Taviano’s. He was wealthy and gorgeous and reputed to be dangerous. The combination was heady. Nicoletta was embarrassed that her three friends were throwing themselves at him, but she couldn’t throw proverbial stones—she’d done it, too. She’d been younger and drunk and feeling worthless, but she’d done it. The results had been disastrous, and she would never forget that lesson. Never. Not for as long as she lived.
The blush was back, and immediately Taviano reacted as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he probably did. She could swear he read minds—at least he seemed to read hers.
“You have to let it go, Nicoletta. We were both very drunk that night.”
“I was very drunk. You at least didn’t lose your mind completely.” She whispered it to him, afraid the others might hear, even though they were a good distance away and the music was loud.
His eyes, already so blue, darkened with something that looked so close to desire her stomach dropped and her sex clenched. His breath was suddenly warm on her neck, her ear, sending a shiver of need down her spine. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t dare. Not when every cell in her body was alive with need and awareness and he was so experienced he could read a woman like an open book.
“You might think of it that way. I look back on that night often and wish I’d had a little bit more to drink.” His voice, as always, was low. Velvet soft. He murmured the declaration into her ear and the words burned into her mind, etched there like some beautiful calligraphy that was written in stone.