Why did he want her to be happy about marrying him?
Maybe it was because he was actually quite happy with her. He liked her, a great deal as a matter of fact.
He liked looking at her and he thoroughly enjoyed touching her and tasting her and giving her pleasure. He even found himself wanting to hold her, and since Adelisa, he hadn’t wanted to hold any woman, not after sex. Usually after his orgasm, he was done. Physically satisfied and ready to move on to the next thing. But with Rachel in his bed, the orgasm was just the beginning. The orgasm was almost incidental. There was something about her warmth and softness that made him want to stay with her, keeping her close, kissing her and exploring her sweet curves, and then making love all over again.
With her in his bed, he felt relaxed and settled. Calm. Peaceful. Yes, that was it. Peaceful. She fit in his life. She fit in his arms and, indeed, in his heart.
He wasn’t one to use flowery phrases and spout poetry, and he didn’t glorify romantic love, but some part of him believed that marrying might just possibly be the smartest thing he’d ever do, and not simply because it’d keep her and Michael in Venice, but because it’d give him a strong, independent and self-sufficient partner. A partner he could trust.
But she needed to trust him. And be happy with him.
* * *
Rachel entered the smaller salon, which had been turned into a dining room for them that evening. In front of the marble hearth, a table had been set for two, with a high chair placed between the two dining chairs.
Seeing the antique wooden high chair at the table put a lump in Rachel’s throat. The chair was so ornate, probably a family heirloom, and it made the dining table look cozy and domestic.
Moments later Gio entered the room with Michael in his arms and she had to blink back tears.
“I thought it was time we had a family dinner,” Gio said, giving her a smile that made her heart turn over. Michael babbled something and took his fist from his mouth and bounced it on Gio’s freshly shaven cheek. Gio grinned and his quick flash of white teeth made everything inside her chest tighten and ache.
Gio looked beyond gorgeous tonight, and his ease with Michael made her want t
o weep. How was she going to resist a man who loved children?
* * *
“You don’t mind that I wanted him to join us, do you?” Gio asked, looking from Michael to her.
“No, of course not,” she answered quickly, breathlessly. “In Seattle, he’s my dinner date every night.” She couldn’t quite get over Gio’s ease with Michael, though. He looked incredibly comfortable and it didn’t make sense. He was supposed to be this cold, unfeeling man, and yet he was carting around the six-month-old as if they were lifelong friends. “Have you had a lot of experience with babies and children?”
“None. Does it show?”
“No. You’re a natural.”
“I think it helps that I like him,” he answered, glancing down at the baby, but she heard the way his voice deepened. She heard the rasp of emotion. Gio loved Michael.
“He reminds you of your brother, doesn’t he?” she said.
“Yes. It’s bittersweet, but definitely more sweet than bitter.” He hesitated. “Do you see your sister in him?”
“No. Not at all. He is very much a Marcello.”
“So you don’t hate all Marcellos.”
She felt another pang. “I don’t hate you, Gio,” she whispered, because she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not when she’d begun to care so very much. Somehow in the past four days he’d become not just familiar, but hers. Her Giovanni Marcello, her impossible Venetian.
Or maybe she felt like his. He was making her his, and she was finding it hard, if not impossible, to resist.
“Good, because Michael and I have a question for you.” Shifting the baby, Gio reached into his coat and withdrew a small black ring box.
Her heart did another funny dip. She knew what this was.
He could see that she knew, too, and his lips curved ever so faintly. Gio walked toward her and Michael batted the velvet box. Rachel couldn’t move, rooted to the spot.
Reaching her side, he opened the top revealing an enormous, intense yellow, square-cut diamond ring surrounded by smaller white diamonds, but he wasn’t looking at the ring. He was looking into her face, his gaze holding hers. “Bella Rachel, marry me.”
He’d been calling her bella for the past few days, and she’d thought she knew what it meant—beautiful—but she wasn’t beautiful. Juliet was beautiful. Rachel knew she bordered on plain. “Please don’t mock me,” she whispered.