Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Siobhán
S team filled the bathroom and fogged the mirror. I wiped away the condensation, clearing a patch to see my reflection. I felt like a new woman after the hot shower—out of the clothing I’d worn since Friday and rinsed clean of the previous night’s vodka-induced sweats—but I needed to see evidence of life firsthand.
My eyes were bloodshot, my makeup-free face a mess of wrinkles and freckles. I combed my hair with my fingers. Fine and stick straight, it would fall limp when it dried without the help of products and pins and my blow-dryer. I sighed. He was bound to see me like this at some point—Siobhán unplugged.
I dried my hair as best I could with the towel I found in the hallway closet. Luca’s bedroom door was ajar, but if he’d heard me, he didn’t bother to stop my snooping. I wrapped the big, fluffy towel around me.
My mouth had the taste and texture of an old rug, like it required a scrubbing worthy of one of those carpet-cleaning videos on social media. I rifled through cabinets until I found toothpaste and cleaned my cotton mouth, not once but twice, with my finger.
The shower helped the headache pulsing behind my eyes, but my stomach was tied in a big, ugly knot. The cramps were almost unbearable, and the acid burned its way up my esophagus. I needed food. Actually, I needed my Tums, but they were locked in the entertainment center with my purse. But something more than a bowl of noodles and olives surrounded by a cubic meter of vodka would be a step in the right direction. I’d never been a paragon of nutrition—not my choice—but yesterday was bad even by my standards.
Clouds of steam billowed into the hallway, and the mellow notes of classical music floated up the stairs. I paused outside the bathroom, straining to hear. It was soft. A single violin. I’d never taken Luca for a classical music guy.
His bedroom was empty, bed made. Not that anything different would have stopped me. I wasn’t about to wear my stale, dirty sweatshirt or leggings. If he was going to keep me holed up in his house, I needed fresh clothes, and the only fresh clothes were in his bedroom.
Pressed dress shirts paired with suits hung evenly spaced in his closet. His shoes formed neat rows beneath the orderly sets. He had one of those tie racks and his silks were arranged by color. I selected a white button down with thick cotton, the best option to battle obscenity. Luca was six-foot-four by my estimation, and the shirt would fit like a dress. Good enough until he either tossed me off the Tobin Bridge or decided I needed my own clothes. I buttoned the shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and padded down the stairs.
My head throbbed, and my stomach gurgled in time, cramping violently and threatening to double me over.
The music grew louder with each step, but when I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned for the living room, it was empty, the sound system silent. Confused, I shifted my attention to the kitchen and did a double take. The music wasn’t coming from a television or a stereo or a record player but the most unlikely source imaginable.
Beyond the island and the dining table, the blinds were pushed to the side and the French doors that led to the deck were open. They revealed a scene I wouldn’t have believed had I not seen it with my own eyes.
Luca stood on the deck in nothing more than track pants. His bare feet peeked out from beneath the fall of light gray fabric, pooled at the bottom from being slung so low on his trim hips. His hair, always so neatly combed back and tucked behind his ears, was pulled up, half of it tied in a messy bun. A few loose strands fell around the sculpted lines of his chiseled face. Over the past forty-eight hours, that face had been twisted in anger, all hard scowls and intense eyes, but now his jaw and brow were soft and relaxed. At peace. Eyes closed, his chin rested reverently on a violin, tucked into the crook of his neck like a cherished lover.
His fingers moved deftly up and down the instrument’s neck, and he swayed in time with the music. The thick muscles of his arms flexed with each movement of the bow, with each peak and valley of the melody.
I stepped delicately toward the entrancing scene, not wanting to interrupt the beauty emanating from Luca’s talented hands. I leaned a hip against the dining table and watched.
The most intensely beautiful man I’d ever seen, Luca was even more breathtaking when he played the violin. He transformed into an angel, however fallen, who laid his heart bare through his instrument. My bruised and broken heart beat for him once more, a metronome he controlled no matter how hard I tried to break free.
I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want Luca to kill me. I didn’t want Luca to want to kill me. How could someone create such beauty, pour so much emotion into their music, and kill an innocent woman?
But he hadn’t killed me. Not yet. He hadn’t pushed me off the bridge that first night. He hadn’t dragged me into the woods with a knife. He hadn’t taken advantage of me in my drunken state. Who knew what went through his mind, but forty-eight hours after being kidnapped, I was still alive. And as scared as I was, I knew one thing for certain, one thing I believed deep in my gut—Luca Moretti wasn’t going to kill me. He couldn’t.
The somber notes slowed and quieted, and the piece ended. He lowered his bow and lifted his chin. I swiped at my eyes to hide the evidence of tears. He must have noticed the motion in his periphery, because he dropped his arm, letting the violin hang at his side, and faced me.
We stood on opposite sides of the glass, separated by the invisible barrier. His calm, relaxed features assessed me without surprise, anger, or delight. But I drank Luca in like I was seeing him again for the first time. His sculpted torso and powerful arms. The breadth of his chest dusted with dark, trimmed hair. The gold chain and pendant ending between his pecs. To its right above his heart, words etched in black ink.
The sun peeked out from behind a cloud and illuminated his skin’s golden hue, the olive undertones a rich base for a tan marred only by a handful of birthmarks on his shoulders and the ridges of his stomach. He appeared mythical in the morning light, as bright as Apollo, the god’s lyre replaced by a violin.
He shifted the bow into his other hand and walked inside. A cool spring breeze wafted into the kitchen and pebbled my skin. He set the bow on the table and, with surprising care, placed the violin into its case.
“That was beautiful,” I said.
He folded black velvet atop the strings.
“You must have started playing when you were very young.”
He closed the case, clasped it shut, and rested his hand on the back of the chair. He glanced over his shoulder and held my gaze for no more than a heartbeat before his eyes dropped to my body. His eyebrows drew together, and he canted his head. He reached across the corner of the table and took the collar of my shirt between his fingers.
“I needed a shower.” My whispered words broke, and I cleared my throat. “And something to wear.”
His fingers traveled from my collar to a piece of hair stuck to my cheek. He tucked it behind my ear, and I shivered. “I didn’t know you had freckles,” he said.
“I didn’t know you played the violin.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up, a cocky bend to his pouty lips—Luca’s signature smirk. The one that made women around the world drop their panties and follow him like puppy dogs. The same sexy smile that caught my eye across the lobby of Terme di Boston two years ago.
But there was a sadness in his eyes that belied his flashy charm and the tempting turn to his mouth. The real Luca, trapped behind the face he showed to the world. The Luca I’d seen in brief moments when we shared lunch. The Luca I’d seen talking to Marco when no one else was around. The Luca I’d played pool with at Vesuvio, free of pretense and inhibitions if only for a night.
“How often do you play?” I asked.
“Often enough.”
I arched an eyebrow. “If you don’t want a conversation, fine. I’ll find some breakfast and go back to my prison cell. But lose the fake front. We’ve known each other too long and been through too much at this point to be anything but real.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched, reminding me of Marco, and his near-black eyes held mine, sincere and unwavering. “Whenever the mood suits me. Whenever I need to clear my head.”
“Doesn’t a clear head come for free with your pretty face?”
His lips turned into a wry grin, genuinely amused, and his body relaxed as though my snarky comment came as a comfort. “You weren’t the only one who had a rough night.”
I huffed. “Excuse me if I’m unsympathetic. No one’s threatened to throw you off a bridge or is holding you hostage without clean clothes or a toothbrush.”
He scowled. “There’s a spare toothbrush in one of the cabinets, and I’ll get you some clothes. Today.”
“Or”—I held up a hand—“here’s a crazy idea—you could let me go.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
Disappointment hit hard. I bit the inside of my cheek and looked past him to where the violin case sat on the table. “Well,” I said and shrugged, “I don’t know much about music. At least, not classical.” I glanced at him sideways.
He folded his arms, and it drew my attention to his chest. His pecs and biceps bulged. My lips parted on an intake. Why did he have to be so unbelievably hot on top of everything else?
I ripped my gaze away from his body, and that cocky smirk of his resurfaced. I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, you play beautifully. With real feeling.”
“My father put me in lessons as soon as I was old enough to hold a bow. I could barely wrap my fingers around the neck.” The lines around his eyes and mouth softened, steeped in nostalgia.
I grabbed onto the tenuous lifeline. “Most kids are allergic to discipline, and I can’t imagine you were a quiet, well-behaved child.”
He snorted. “I was a hellion. But I was determined to learn how to play that violin.” He nodded in the direction of the violin case. He shifted his weight and licked his lips. “It was my mother’s.”
The declaration hung in the space between us. It weighed on the silence, loaded with baggage. Despite my surprise, I held his eyes, kept mine steady, let him know I was listening. Because the heartache attached to that simple statement was near palpable in its severity. Antonio Moretti was Boston legend, his ending known to anyone who grew up in our world. But his mother? I knew she wasn’t in the picture—Marco and Gina raised Luca—but beyond that…
“She was first chair in the Boston Symphony Orchestra.” His spine straightened with pride. “My father gave it to me on my sixth birthday, just a few months before he was murdered.” He glanced at the case, and his gaze grew distant, his voice strained and hushed. “He wanted me to have something of hers. Something she loved. Something he loved about her.” He slowly turned back to face me, as though traveling forward through time. His eyes were glassy, and his nostrils flared.
I swallowed, bracing myself for the answer to the next inevitable question. He spared me the discomfort of asking.
“She died,” he said, matter-of-fact and devoid of feeling.
“How?” I whispered. Something about the loving way he handled the violin and the honesty that poured out through the notes forced the question from my lungs.
“In childbirth,” he croaked, the rawness in his voice as terrible as the truth.
The space around my heart constricted. “I’m sorry.”
Never knowing his mother. Losing his father when he was six years old. The bitterness that ruled Luca’s life no longer seemed so strange, and my heart ached for him. Words never escaped me, but I couldn’t find any that wouldn’t sound trite. No words could ease that kind of loss or provide comfort to a man whose childhood had been weighed down with such heaviness.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were on vacation?” he asked.
I blinked rapidly, the question giving me whiplash. “What—what are you talking about?”
“You’re on vacation for the next two weeks. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I was preoccupied with you being alive. Or because you broke into my house, kidnapped me, and threatened to throw me off the Tobin Bridge?” I shook my head. “My vacation plans didn’t exactly seem relevant.”
“Even if the reason you’re taking the vacation is to find a new job?” He raised an eyebrow.
My head jerked back. “How do you know that?”
“Maybe this pretty face is smarter than you think.” He cocked a shit-eating grin and winked.
I huffed. “Anna’s got a big mouth.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but I’m not going to toss you off the Tobin Bridge anymore if that helps.”
“Decided on chains and the pond?”
He snorted. “I’m not going to kill you, Siobhán.”
Relief-induced adrenaline shot into my bloodstream. It made my knees weak, and my vision blurred. I placed my palm flat on the table to steady myself and let out a shuddering breath. My eyelids moved through a slow blink, and my lips parted to let out the hysterical noise percolating in my chest, but instead, I just stood there and gawped.
“Don’t look so surprised, Shamrock ,” he said dryly. “I know you think I’m an asshole, and you’re probably right, but I’d never kill an innocent person. You’re a smart woman, and if it never occurred to you to tell me you’re leaving Terme…” He shook his head. “You’re not a rat. You may be a Shaughnessy, and you did lie to me about that, but you’re not a rat.”
My ears started ringing. Heat traveled from my belly into my head, a rush of fury that burned away the dizziness and boiled over almost as soon as it started.
“You asshole!” I punched him in the shoulder. It was like hitting a brick wall. He dropped his arms and raised an eyebrow. “You were going to push me off that bridge!” I hit him again, harder. “I told you I wasn’t a rat!” I swung at him with both fists, right then left, back and forth, pounding on his pecs.
He grabbed my wrists, and I flailed beneath his grip, my breath coming in short, angry bursts.
“Hey. Shamrock. Relax.”
“Argh! Don’t tell me to relax! You almost fucking killed me! And now you’re all, Oops, my bad . Fuck you, Luca!” I kicked him. “Ow!”
“Stop.” He snickered. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I stopped writhing and glared at him, panting fire. My damp hair hung in front of my eyes, and I puffed a breath to get it out of my face.
Luca’s gaze travelled to my chest. I followed his eyes. The top button of my shirt had come undone, revealing the tops of my breasts. With his height, he probably had a pretty good view.
“Let go,” I snapped and yanked my arms back.
He tightened his grip and dragged his gaze back up to my face. The dark depths of his eyes deepened with sinful promise. He inched closer. “I know how I can make it up to you.”
I averted my eyes, unable to withstand the intensity of his indecent attention, but they landed on his chest. His firm, smooth chest. Thick with muscle and covered in trimmed hair. His gold chain and pendant accentuated the cleft between his pecs. I wanted to run my palms over all that hard muscle and hair and the black ink that artfully scrawled Antonio & Lucia above his heart. My mouth went dry, and heat pooled between my legs.
“You’re deluded,” I said.
He rounded the corner of the dining table and crowded me against it. “Am I?”
I drew back, but the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the table and blocked my retreat. His big body loomed over mine, heating me from the inside, the air between us infused with his masculine scent. Clean, but musky. A hint of yesterday’s cologne. All Luca.
My breath quickened, but its shortness had nothing to do with disgust and everything to do with lust.
He released my wrist, and his hand hovered above my nipple, hard and poking against the shirt, straining for him to take the next step. He brushed the backs of his fingers across the sensitive peak, and I stifled a groan, the throb between my legs almost too much to master.
But I was angry—angry with him for putting me through hell and angry with myself for turning into putty at a single touch. I swatted his hand away. “Don’t.”
He didn’t bat an eye, his countenance unfazed, his focus fixed on my chest. He used his thumb to draw lazy circles around my areola, teasing me, making me want to beg.
“I said, don’t.” A harsh order in my head, the words came out quiet and husky. I swatted at his hand again and twisted my body away from him.
He grabbed my wrist and leaned closer, not allowing me to turn away. He lowered his face to my neck and nuzzled the space below my ear the way he’d done in the past just to fuck with me. Now the move felt ripe with sensuality.
I wished I was one of those badass women with enough strength and coordination to headbutt a man right in his smug face. But I wasn’t. Worse, my body betrayed me—my knees weakened at the caress of his breath against my skin and the brush of his nose beneath my ear—and I tilted my head to give him better access.
He rubbed slow circles on my wrist with his thumb. “Do you remember what you said to me, Shamrock?” His hot breath tickled, and his lips brushed against the ridge of my ear, sending a zing of desire straight to my core. “That night at Vesuvio? The night you took me with your mouth?”
My eyes fluttered closed and memories of my lips wrapped around his cock flooded my senses. The smell of him. His taste. “Hm?”
“You told me I could return the favor.” He nudged my earlobe with his nose—“Seems like the perfect occasion”—and teased it with the tip of his tongue.
I melted. His heat, his smell, his tongue. Years of wanting him so badly it hurt. They all conspired to box out my indignation with ruthless defiance. I sighed, a breathy, wanton noise that announced my desperate answer to his wicked suggestion.
He released my other wrist, and my hand hovered midair, my body frozen in wait for what came next.
I opened my eyes. His burned with desire, the deep brown pools speckled with rich amber flecks that almost appeared… red. The undercurrent of danger raised the temperature, and a shock of desire zipped between my legs. I rested my hands on his chest, hot and hard beneath my palms and begging to be licked, and the sparks in his eyes brightened with feral intent.
He lowered his gaze and lifted his hands to the top button of my shirt. His eyes darted to mine as it came undone, then returned to where his thick fingers worked the next button out of its hole.
I watched him, enthralled, my nipples hard, core on fire, until the shirt parted, an open invitation for Luca to explore.
He pushed the fabric aside, exposing my right breast. My nipple was plump and ready. I was ready. Ready for him to take whatever he wanted. And I wasn’t sure who I hated more—Luca or myself.