“There’s an elevator to the roof that Amo and Lucia can take,” he assured her. “I’m glad you mentioned that he was beginning to have problems. I’ll keep a closer eye on it and tell the others to watch out for him as well. He has a lot of pride.”
For the first time, he saw a genuine smile reach her eyes. “All of you men do. I think there’s something in the drinking water.”
He flashed an answering grin. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”
“We’re walking too fast, and you’re not letting me look at anything.”
“You can look tomorrow. It’s late, and we both need sleep. If you don’t, I do. My arm is hurting like a son of a bitch.” It wouldn’t hurt to remind her he’d been shot and was in no shape to jump her—although that wouldn’t stop him for a second if she gave him the go-ahead, which wasn’t likely.
The hallway was wide. He liked open space, and the house gave him that. The master bedroom was its own suite. He could just live there and be happy. The hallway ended at the wide double doors. Nicoletta stood staring at them without saying a single word. There were dim night-lights spilling shadows from sconces above their heads and decorating the halls with familiar tubes that called to him, but he kept his eyes on his reluctant little bride.
“Nicoletta.” He said her name softly and just waited. Breathing in and out. Willing her to turn and face him. Willing her to breathe with him when he could feel the tension in her rising all over again.
She stood staring at the double doors and then looking down at the beautiful stonework in the floor before she finally turned around, her long lashes fluttering before she lifted them to look at him with her astonishing dark eyes.
“I’m still the same man I was when I first got on the plane with you. Nothing has changed since then. What are you afraid of?” He asked the question as gently as he knew how. She wasn’t just afraid, she was terrified, and Nicoletta terrified could be anything—a runaway, or just plain lethal.
Those long lashes fluttered again, and along with them, his stomach muscles did the same. She didn’t look away. She might be terrified, but she had courage and she stood her ground, just the way Emmanuelle would have done. His heart nearly broke for her. She was magnificent. Beautiful. Tragically so. It was all he could do not to sweep her into his arms and hold her to him. Her chin lifted a little defiantly.
“That’s not true, Taviano. You tied yourself to me. You married me.”
He wasn’t certain what the big deal was. “We’ve always been tied together. You knew that. You’ve always known it. I sat on your bed every night for three years, piccola. I held you when you cried. I listened to the horror of what those bastards did to you, and I let you use me as a punching bag when you needed to. I rocked you when you couldn’t sleep. We’ve been tied together for years, Nicoletta.”
He waited a heartbeat. “Even after, even when we didn’t talk because we both knew what was between us, we were tied together these last two years. You felt it. Don’t tell me that you didn’t.”
Color swept into her face, but she didn’t look away. “I detest that you know what those men did to me. I really do. I’ve come to a place of acceptance, I think, at least I’m getting there, but I still hate that you know all the details. It makes it difficult to look you in the eye, or to think about ever …” She trailed off, clearly embarrassed to bring up the real reason she was so upset with being alone with him now.
Sex. He’d never pushed his needs or desires on her. He wanted her with every breath he took, but he was careful not to ever make it a thing with her. His need of Nicoletta wasn’t just sex, and it never would be. He could wait until it developed naturally with her, and he was confident it would. She might be afraid it wouldn’t happen because she was so traumatized, but she was attracted to him, and she wanted him with the same urgency. She just got spooked when it came down to it. He was determined to be patient.
He’d talked to some of the best rape counselors in the world on what to do and how to handle the situation between his woman and him. The answer was always the same: She needed to handle it. She needed to set the pace. She needed to feel in control, and he had to let her. That was a hard one for him, when he needed to feel that same control, but he loved her that much to give it to her. Where and when that had begun, Taviano wasn’t certain, but the emotion had grown until it was so strong, he knew his path was locked with hers.