Chapter Nine
MIRA’S GREAT-GRANDPARENTS on her mother’s side had purchased the villa on the Amalfi Coast as a holiday home. Even at that time, it had been old. Half of it was built from stones that were still visible in some of the interior walls.
The grounds had shrunk to a postage stamp when an addition had been built onto the original cottage and the pool put in.
The pool needed work and the exterior stairs were cracked with age.
One corner of the terrace was sagging. The trees needed pruning, but they were mature and thriving, and the views were outstanding.
Mira looked to Rocco, but he was silent as he followed her through the house.
She was still feeling raw and unsettled by everything that had happened this morning—Rocco’s suspicion of her, her spilling of the fact that Otto wasn’t her father, then Rocco’s insistence that they continue this farce of an engagement.
She had sat in his office for a full hour while he rolled heads over the spy. She had told herself she ought to simply walk out, but she hadn’t known where to go.
When she had left Otto’s office—was it only six days ago?—she had been blinded by hurt and anger, lashing out wildly in every direction, including coming to Rocco and accepting his outlandish proposal.
What she had really been seeking was relief from the pain of being lied to. Of being cast adrift by a man she had believed was her only family.
For a few hours in Rocco’s bed, she had forgotten all of that, only to be slapped by his suspicions when she rose. Provoked by more pain than she could stand, she had told him Otto wasn’t her father.
He swore he would keep that secret for her, but she wasn’t sure she believed him.
And yet, she had let him put this ring back on her finger. The allure of having his protection had enticed her. She was so tired of feeling alone and on her own.
“I’ll put my best team on this for you. We’ll turn it into something you can truly love,” he said as they arrived on the terrace. “And if you don’t, I will buy it from you. I’ve always wanted a house here.”
“Really?”
“Sì. My aunt used to bring me to a beach here in the summer.” His restless gaze skimmed the cliffs below and the blue water lapping at the horizon. “It was a long walk down thousands of steps with our picnic lunch, and even worse when it was time to go home, but I loved it.”
“I know the beach you mean. That’s a nice memory to have of her.” She was touched that he had shared it with her. “Am I recalling correctly that she raised you?”
“Until I was nine.” His expression grew flinty. “She was… I don’t know if there was ever a diagnosis. My father’s friend gave me some insight years later. Silvio.” He looked at her with that penetrating way he had sometimes, as though he thought the name ought to mean something to her.
“What did he say?” she prompted gently, curious about what formed him.
“That she became sensitive after an illness. Silvio knew my father from an early age, so he was acquainted with the whole family. He said my aunt had had a terrible fever when she was six or seven. Seizures. They went away within a year, but he said they altered her personality. She became upset more easily. I suppose it would be treated as a mood disorder today. Perhaps depression? I’m not sure.
I only know she had spells of sadness and upset.
It was disturbing. I won’t pretend I wasn’t affected.
I was very young and felt very helpless, but Zia cared about me very much.
It wasn’t her fault that she struggled. We managed. ”
“You loved her.”
“I did.” His profile tightened with intense emotion, then hardened to hide it.
Before she realized what she was doing, she had set her hand on his where it rested on the rail. “She passed when you were nine? That’s so young to lose someone so important to you. Where did you go? Foster care?”
He turned his hand to capture hers. Squeezed. Grimaced into the horizon.
“Yes, but not because she died. That happened later. No, I was taken from her. Someone decided she was unfit. A neighbor, perhaps. Authorities came on a bad day. Zia grew hysterical when they questioned her so they took me. I didn’t even have my shoes.
Later, someone sat me down and asked me questions.
What did I know to do but tell the truth?
They asked if we had enough food in the house.
We didn’t. I wanted them to help us. I said I did the shopping when we had money, but we didn’t.
For a long time, my mother’s mother had supported us, but she had died the year before.
Things had become difficult. Did I have to cook what little food we had?
Yes, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love me.
She didn’t deserve to have her child taken from her. ”
“Oh, Rocco. I’m so sorry. That was cruel. To both of you.”
“It was.” He swallowed. “I only saw her occasionally after that.”
“Were the foster situations…okay?”
“Fine.” He grimaced dismissively. “No one was abusive. It was just…wrong. I didn’t want to be there.
They didn’t want me. Not the way she did.
She told me every time she saw me that she was trying to get me back.
People kept telling me she had to be able to support me, but she struggled to hold a job.
I started making money however I could, picking up nails on a jobsite, sweeping, cleaning up tools.
I thought if I made enough to support us, I would be allowed to live with her.
She died before I was able to make it happen. ”
“I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t help it. She flowed into him, needing to hug the hurt, confused boy who still existed inside him. “The world is not a fair place.”
“It’s not,” he agreed as he cradled her close, chin resting on her hair. “I probably would have turned into one of those bitter online trolls if Silvio hadn’t come along.”
“Your father’s friend?” She drew back, pleased that he was sharing so much. “Was he not always in your life?”
“No.” His expression was inscrutable. “He was living in Melbourne and had already lost touch with my father when he and my mother died. Silvio came back years later to take over his father’s company.
I was on a crew repainting his office building in Salerno and he saw my name on the security log—the same as my father’s. Ricardo. He came looking for me.”
“I didn’t know that was your real name.” She smiled faintly.
“To anyone who knows me well, I’m Rocco.
” He shrugged. “Silvio was very sincere in his condolences. I thought it was strange because I had never known my father. I was suspicious that he was being so kind, buying me coffee and insisting I have dinner with his family. He’s become like an uncle to me, though. ”
“That’s so nice.” She tilted a look up at him, envious.
“He is.” He cupped the side of her neck, expression very serious. “He has been instrumental in my success. I owe him everything I have today. Everything.” His gaze, deeply introspective, traveled over her face.
The air shifted. The world quieted. She had the urge to lean on him, but stopped herself. Yearning pressed hotly behind her eyes.
“Rocco…” She stepped back, confused and out of her depth.
He waited, patient.
He’d changed into a collared T-shirt and casual trousers for their travels.
He was all smooth, fine fabric over tensile muscle.
Alluring in a different way. Her fingers itched to explore those textures, to shape the ball of his shoulder and find the bare skin of his upper arm.
She wanted to feel the twitch of his biceps before allowing her hand to rest in the crook of his elbow.
“I’ve never been good at any type of relationship. That’s why last night was my first time. I’m very sensitive to criticism and don’t think I can—”
“Mira.” The pad of his thumb touched her lips. “Before you say anything else, let me tell you that last night was incredible. It was remiss of me not to say that sooner.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments.” She jerked away from his touch, unsettled by it and his words. “Especially ones you don’t mean.” She turned to the rail to glare crossly into the sun.
“Do I strike you as a sycophant? Because I say what I mean and mean what I say.”
“Then say what you actually want from me.”
“I want you to believe me,” he said impatiently. “Damn it, Mira, I haven’t looked at anyone else for three years. That’s how much I wanted you.”
“That’s not true!” She twisted to face him.
“Feel.” He dragged her hand to his chest where his heart was knocking hard and fast. “It’s all I can do not to throw you over my shoulder and onto the nearest bed. Do you need me to show you?”
She should have snatched her hand away, but her blood quickened. She tried to break their eye contact and couldn’t. Her brow flexed with anguish at being so easily overcome.
“Now, you begin to understand,” he said gravely.
“I don’t want you to have that sort of power over me. It means you can hurt me.”
“I will hurt you. And you will hurt me in turn. Such is the nature of close relationships.”
“But we’re not—”
“We are lovers, Mirabella.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “I am not prepared to end things yet. Should we not find out where this goes?” His eyes grew heavy-lidded with invitation.
She melted. It wasn’t a conscious decision.
A distant part of her was urging caution, but she wanted too many things.
She wanted the freedom to slide her hand around to the back of his head and urge him to kiss her.
She wanted the power of eliciting a groan and the pleasure in his arm sliding behind her back.
She wanted the closeness and safety of being pulled up against his strength.
His mouth angled across hers, hot and careful and hungry. As though it had been three years since they’d kissed. A lifetime, even.
She wanted this. The relief from waiting and yearning and feeling unwanted.
In a powerful move, he swung her into his arms.
“Yes?” he asked.