Chapter 12
Rafe
Iloosened my tie the second I stepped into the elevator, rolling my shoulders to release the tension that had built up over hours of tense negotiations with clients too stupid to understand their own best interests.
The penthouse doors slid open, and I stepped inside, my carefully constructed thoughts scattering like birds when I saw my wife standing in the living room.
Holy fuck.
Cecelia stood with her back to me, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows. She hadn't heard me enter, which gave me a moment to take her in—and holy fucking hell, I needed that moment.
The black dress she wore clung to every curve of her body, the fabric hugging her waist before flowing over her hips in a way that made my mouth go dry.
Her dark hair tumbled down her back in waves that made my fingers itch to tangle themselves in the strands, to pull just hard enough to expose the vulnerable arch of her throat.
She turned at the sound of the door closing, and the breath left my body in one fell swoop.
The front of the dress was worse—or better, depending on your perspective.
The neckline dipped just low enough to suggest rather than reveal.
The material hugged the curves of her breasts before tapering to her narrow waist. It was elegant, sophisticated.
And still somehow the most erotic thing I'd seen.
My cock stiffened instantly, pressing painfully against my zipper, and I shifted my briefcase to hide the evidence.
Unbidden, images flashed through my mind—that dress pushed up around her waist as I bent her over the dining table, that dress pooled on my bedroom floor as I spread her out across my sheets, that dress torn off entirely as I pinned her against the wall.
"I thought you’d be here later." Her voice cut through my inappropriate fantasies.
I forced myself to breathe, to walk forward, to act like a fucking adult instead of a teenager seeing tits for the first time. "Traffic was lighter than expected."
"Is this okay?" She gestured to the dress, unaware of the inferno her appearance had ignited. "For meeting your grandparents, I mean."
I set my briefcase down with deliberate care, buying time to gather the tattered remains of my self-control. "It's perfect. You look..." Beautiful? Stunning? Fuckable? "Appropriate."
Seriously? Appropriate? What the fuck was wrong with me?
Her lips quirked in that way they did when she was trying not to show irritation. "High praise. I'll add that to my collection of lukewarm compliments."
I closed the distance between us, moving on autopilot while my brain short-circuited from her proximity.
The scent of her perfume wrapped around me, something with jasmine and vanilla that made me want to bury my face in her neck and inhale for days.
My hands ached to touch her, to test if that dress felt as smooth as it looked, to discover what she wore underneath it—if anything.
"You look beautiful," I amended. "More than beautiful."
For a split second surprise flickered in her eyes before she schooled her features and gave me a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you."
I realized we were standing too close, close enough that I could see the flecks of darker green in her eyes, close enough that her breath ghosted across my lips when she exhaled. My fingers clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms to keep from reaching for her.
"We should go." I stepped back, needing distance before I did something stupid. "I don’t want to be late."
She nodded and gathered a small clutch from the coffee table. "So I finally get to see where the great Rafael de Luca comes from."
If only she knew how wrong that statement was. My grandparents were everything my parents were not—warm, genuine, loving. The only good parts of me came from them, not from the cold-blooded sharks who'd raised me to be a perfect corporate weapon.
"Ready?" I asked, moving toward the door in my desperate attempt to escape the pull of her before I gave in to it.
Edward appeared with impeccable timing, holding Cecelia's coat. "The temperature has dropped, Mrs. de Luca. You may need this."
"Thank you, Edward." She smiled at him with genuine warmth as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. I watched his professional mask soften in response to that smile.
And yet another victim falls under her spell.
I'd witnessed it before—at functions, at dinners, the way people gravitated toward her. She was magnetic in a way that had nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with the authenticity she couldn't seem to hide no matter how hard she tried.
"We won't be late," I told Edward. "If any deliveries arrive, hold them until morning."
His eyes flicked to Cecelia before returning to me. "Of course, sir."
Something in that exchange felt off, but I didn't have time to analyze it as Cecelia stepped into the elevator beside me.
The small space amplified everything about her—her scent, her warmth, the sound of her breathing.
I watched our reflections in the polished doors, the contrast striking: me in my tailored suit, her in that sinful dress, both of us pretending this was normal.
When the doors opened to the parking garage, she looked confused. "I thought there would be a car waiting."
"I always drive myself." I guided her toward the far corner where my Aston Martin waited. "It's one of the few things I insist on."
"Let me guess… control issues?"
I glanced at her, surprised by the accuracy of her assessment. "Something like that."
The car beeped as we approached, lights flashing once in welcome. I opened her door, painfully aware of how the dress rode up her thighs as she lowered herself into the passenger seat. The sight of her bare legs disappearing into the leather interior would haunt my dreams for weeks.
Rounding the hood, I slid behind the wheel and couldn’t hide my grin when the engine roared to life with the mere push of a button.
"This car…it's very... you," she commented as we pulled out of the garage. "Expensive, powerful, showing off without being too flashy."
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Both, probably."
Traffic moved steadily as we wound through Manhattan streets.
Cecelia watched the city pass by, her profile highlighted by the glow of passing streetlights.
I kept my eyes on the road or tried to. They kept drifting to the curve of her neck, the way her hands rested in her lap, the slight parting of her lips as she exhaled.
"So," she said eventually. "Tell me about your grandparents."
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, searching for words. "They're... not what you might expect."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they're not like my parents." The comparison alone felt like blasphemy. "My mother's family threatened to disown her when she married my father. Thought it was beneath her to marry an Italian immigrant's son, even if he was rapidly climbing the social ladder."
"That's awful."
I shrugged, the gesture dismissive even as the old wound throbbed. "My father wanted the connection to old money. My mother wanted access to new money. It was a transaction, not a marriage."
Cecelia shifted in her seat, the movement drawing my eye to the place where the hem of her dress met her thigh. "And your father's parents?"
"They came from Naples with nothing but a dream to open a restaurant in Little Italy.
They succeeded, but not at the scale my father wanted.
He considered their modest success an embarrassment.
" The old bitterness coated my tongue. "When he married into Manhattan high society, he distanced himself.
Kept them away from company events, social functions.
Anything where their humble background might embarrass him. "
"But you didn't."
I glanced at her, struck by the quiet understanding in her voice. "No. They were the only people who ever..." I trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.
"The only people who ever what?" she pressed gently.
"Who ever loved me without conditions," I admitted, the words scraping my throat raw.
Her sharp intake of breath told me I'd revealed more than I intended. We drove in silence for a block, then two as my confession hung between us.
"Do they know?" she finally asked. "About our arrangement?"
"No." I guided the car onto a side street, slowing as we approached our destination. "And I’d like to keep it that way."
"So what am I supposed to tell them when they ask how we met? How we fell in love? Why we eloped without telling anyone?"
Pulling into a spot half a block from the restaurant, I killed the engine. "Just be yourself. They'll love you."
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized they were true.
My grandparents would adore her—her sharp wit, her fierce independence, the genuine warmth she couldn't quite hide beneath her tough exterior.
They would see in her what I tried desperately to ignore: a woman worth more than the arrangement I'd forced her into.
"That's not an answer," she pointed out as I came around to open her door.
I offered my hand, helping her out of the low-slung car. She took it without hesitation, her fingers warm against mine. I didn't let go immediately, holding her there for a moment longer than necessary.
"Tell them we met through mutual friends. That we kept it quiet because of my parents' expectations. That we got married quickly because when you know, you know." The half-truths tasted less bitter than expected. "They're romantics. They'll believe it."
She looked skeptical but nodded, smoothing down her dress with her free hand. I realized I was still holding the other and reluctantly released it.