“Please,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands, “just take me back to my daughter.”
She felt him staring down at her.
“Basta,” he suddenly muttered. “Enough of this.”
Enough? She looked up. Just like that, he was done? He was so powerful that he could simply decide not to feel things like love or grief?
She wished she could do the same.
Maximo leaned forward to speak in Italian to the chauffeur. When he sat back next to her, he said, “You need heat and sunshine, cara, the kind that will make you warm again. You need the wind against your face, the smell of flowers waving in the fields. You and your baby need light and air. But you also—” he reached over to her, stroking the bare skin of her collarbone “—need to feel young again. To remember that you are young and beautiful.”
Young and beautiful? She shuddered as his smooth stroke sent waves of pleasure down her breasts. How could she ever feel young ever again?
“I’m taking you on a vacation,” he said firmly.
“A vacation?” She hiccuped a giddy laugh. “That’s good. Because I was getting so tired—” she waved her hand around the backseat of the Rolls-Royce limousine “—of putting up with all this.”
He gave her a crooked grin. “Then you will enjoy our trip very much.”
She licked her lips. “So what are you thinking? Meeting up with your friends at a private Caribbean island? Sailing the Greek islands on your yacht?” She shook her head. “I’m not used to it, Maximo. Being watched by servants. Surrounded by your friends—” by your ex-mistresses “—who can’t understand why you married me.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to invite any of them on my honeymoon.”
She stared at him.
“Honeymoon?” she croaked.
“Sì.” He looked down at her. His eyes were darkly blue. Sensual. Arrogant. “Did you think I’d forgotten my promise? No, cara. For too long, I have held myself back. Given you time to grieve.” He stroked her cheek with a predatory smile. “But my patience is over.”
She nearly gasped as he stroked down her neck, resting his hand between her breasts.
“Tonight, cara, I will show you how good pleasure can feel. I will take you to bed. I will at last make you mine.” He leaned forward, his eyes a challenge as he whispered, “Just try to resist me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY arrived at a private airport in southern Sicily shortly before sunset.
Lucy descended from the plane with Chloe in her arms. It was so warm, she’d left her coat in her suitcase, and now wore only a white cotton blouse, slim dark jeans and wedge sandals. Her dark hair, tied back with a green silk headband, was whipped by a warm breeze as she came down the steps to the tarmac. The wind was fragrant with flowers and the salty tang of the sea. Above their heads, palm trees swayed.
Ahhhh…Sicily. She took a deep breath, and suddenly, the weight on her shoulders seemed to lighten. Though it was January, she’d at last seen the warm Italy of her dreams.
But at the bottom of the steps, she stopped. She didn’t see a Rolls-Royce or anything remotely like a limo. In fact, the only car parked anywhere on the pavement of the tiny private airport was a beat-up old truck. Confused, she looked to the right and left. “Where’s our car?”
Pulling their luggage from the plane himself, he nodded toward the old truck. “Right there.”
“That? It doesn’t even have a roof!”
“It’s a convertible. A classic.” He tossed their luggage in the back of the truck. He’d rolled back his sleeves, the first time she’d ever seen him do so, and her eyes unwillingly traced his muscular forearms, lightly dusted with dark hair. “Lucy?”
She abruptly focused on his face. “Yes?”
Slowly his lips spread into an arrogant, knowing grin. “Do you like it?”
Blushing that he’d caught her, she shook her head emphatically and pointed quickly at the truck. “If you like antiques, you should have kept my old Honda.”
He gave a mock sigh. “A pity we donated that to charity.” He tossed a long, lean leg over the driver’s-side door. She couldn’t help but gawk at his muscular backside. She’d never seen him wear jeans before.
“Need some help getting Chloe into the back?”