Chapter 3
BELLA
Itry to focus on my work. But the brush trembles in my hand.
I feel like Alice in Wonderland.
The bus lopes over the hills. Leaving me here with the man who protected me like it was the only thing he could do. Like any other course of action would be unacceptable.
I know he’s behind me again. At the balcony door, leaning against the wall. His muscles tight with tension like he’s getting ready to explode out of his clothes and pull me into his arms.
Kiss me. Take it further.
I almost laugh out loud.
Would I even be able to handle that?
But I saw his crotch. His rock-hard manhood in his pants. He didn’t even try to hide it. Every time he looks at me, he’s hard. Like he can’t control himself. And I don’t want him to.
When the sky cracks and grey clouds gather, he walks to the railing. Leans against it casually.
But every inch of him is hard hungry marble.
“Looks like a storm is rolling in,” he says. “You better stay for dinner.”
I try for a laugh. It comes out as more of a moan. “You say that like I have a choice.”
He smirks. “Something tells me you want me to take the lead.”
I swallow. He’s hit the bullseye. “You’re not wrong,” I murmur.
He steps forward. Reaches down. Brushes his hand across my face. I gasp and angle my head toward his touch. Electricity sparks over me. He groans as he brushes hair from my cheek.
“Then I’ll take control,” he growls, leaning down.
Before anything can happen—what the hell is going to happen?—a shrill metallic ring comes from somewhere distant, inside the villa.
He tenses.
His demeanor somehow gets darker. He steps back, fists clenched.
“Excuse me, I have to take that,” he groans. “Wish I didn’t, but even men like me have responsibilities.”
“Men like you?” I whisper, as the phone rings and rings.
“Men who have fought and bled and worked to do anything they want.”
He strides into the house.
I turn to my painting, shuddering.
What is this, what am I getting myself into.
All I see are the surreal shades of color in the scene I’m working on.
Like I’m creating a Salvador Dalí painting, and starting to live in one.
I breath, sigh, close my eyes. Press my legs together and feel my clit ache hotly, a point of pure anticipation.
I almost shove my hands between my legs to relieve some of the pressure.
Outside, a storm crashes like fate sent it here. Like something knew that I didn’t want to leave Alex … and he didn’t want me to leave.
I cut into my steak. My knife makes a tsk-tsk noise against the plate as my hand trembles.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Stares like he’d rather feast on me than the steak. My face is still warm from his touch. And now the warmth in other places has new significance, as if he’s touching me there too.
My underwear is holding on for dear desperate life. Soaked through, sticky and uncomfortable. I want him to tear it off. Shred it with his teeth. Kiss my clit and my lips and then …
“So, why a vineyard?” I ask. “How did you afford it? And why did you move to Italy?” A pause. “Sorry—this sounds like an interrogation.”
“I love how curious you are. Don’t apologize for being you, Bella. Don’t ever apologize for that.”
A warm glow whelms in me. “So …”
“Back home, I was a businessman. And my business meant hurting people. Here, now, I get to grow things. I don’t have to be a slave to my darkness. I don’t have to be the man I was. The man that world made me.”
Panic should tear through me. Darkness. Hurting people?
Somehow, it doesn’t.
“What sort of business are we talking about?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never hurt an innocent person. Never once in my life.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s better if you don’t know the specifics,” he says huskily.
I put my knife down. Look at him and try not to flinch. Outside, thunder grumbles as if mirroring the darkness he talked about.
“You don’t think I can take it?”
He reaches across the table. “I think you can take anything I give you.”
His hand finds mine. Warm, rough. I shift in my seat, my dress rubbing against my ass and my legs. My nipples are getting so hard. Can he see them through my bra and dress?
“Do you always hold hands with strangers?” I murmur.
“I don’t hold hands with anyone. I don’t want anyone. I closed off that part of me a long, long time ago. At least, I thought I had …”
My breath comes fast. I pull my hand away. Not because I don’t want him to touch me. But because I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. Make him think I’m somebody I’m not or that I’m capable of doing things I can’t. Or haven’t, not yet anyway.
“You’re a success,” I murmur.
“At forty, I can retire,” he agrees. “Though the idea of retiring makes me feel bleak. What the hell for? What about you, Bella?”
“What about me?”
He raises an eyebrow as if to say, Everything. I want to know it all.
I shrug. “I’ve always loved painting. Ever since I was a kid. Actually, that’s sort of why I’m here …”
Grief tries to close my throat. But his intense eyes become patient.
“My grandma was the one who introduced me to art. We always said we’d go to Italy together. To travel, to paint, to live. But then she … and before she passed, she made me promise I’d come here.” I laugh nervously. “So here I am.”
He stands, walks around the table. Reaches down and takes my hand with surprising gentleness, though I can feel tension beneath the surface.
He pulls me to my feet and into a hug. I slip my arms around him. Melt against him. Hugging a stranger shouldn’t feel this natural, but somehow, he doesn’t feel like a stranger.
He feels like the answer to everything.
“She would be so proud,” he says passionately. Kisses the top of my head. Warm treacle slides all down my body. “So, so proud.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He moves his hand down my back, to my hips. He shudders as if stopping himself from grabbing my ass.
I lean back in his embrace. His expression shows the war he’s fighting within. He doesn’t want to be the guy who kisses the grieving girl.
I put my hand on his chest. His heartbeat pounds heavily. “Your heart is going crazy,” I murmur.
“It hasn’t stopped doing that since the moment I saw you,” he growls. “That second, Bella—I knew you were different. I knew you were going to, no, already had changed me.”
I gasp. “But we’re—”
“Strangers? I know. But I don’t give a damn. It’s the truth. And you feel it too.”
He moves his face closer to mine. “I’m certain you do, too.”
I stand on my tiptoes, nodding.
“Say it,” he snarls. “Don’t just nod, beautiful. Say the words.”
“I feel it,” I whisper.
But—
More thunder. Like fate interrupting my words.
I need to tell him before this goes too far.
But then he kisses me.
He groans and pulls me against him. His huge manhood pushes against my belly. An outline of hunger and need. His hands slip down to my ass, picking me up.
Some wild instinct makes me wrap my legs around him. He handles me like I weigh nothing. Pushes me against the wall and angles his hips so his manhood presses between my legs.
It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life for him.
Who cares if I’m twenty-three and have no experience?
I won’t let nerves ruin this.
I won’t.
But when he carries me to the bigger table, lays me down, I make a noise. A gasp he can read. Like he can read every single thing about me.
He stands over me, trembling all over. His hand glides up my thigh, sending tempting signals to my sex. But he stops before going all the way.
“What. Is. It?” He speaks like an earthquake is splitting him down the middle. The civilized half warring with a being of pure possession.
I blurt the words out before I lose my cool. “I’m a virgin.”