Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
VIOLA
It’s the night of the gala. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.
The dress is blood-red, floor-length, and off-the-shoulder, the silk falling like liquid over my body.
It clings in all the right places and drapes beautifully everywhere else, the color so deep and rich it looks almost dangerous under the soft bedroom lights.
I spent almost an hour wrestling my hair into an updo, but it’s already rebelling.
Loose tendrils have already escaped from around my face and neck, curling softly against my skin.
I try to tuck one back, but it slips free again.
I give up. It’s just going to have to be like this.
Back in the bad old days, I never had to lift a finger to get dressed. Stylists would arrive, maids would zip, and pin, and adjust, and I would stand there like a doll while they turned me into whatever Salvatore wanted me to be that night.
Tonight, I did everything myself. I don’t look as perfect as they could make me look, but at least this is me. The real me. At least I chose this dress, this hairstyle, this make-up.
I smooth my hands down the silk.
Truth is: I really, really, really don’t want to go.
None of them cares about the children’s hospital. Not really.
They just want an opportunity to show off, to preen in their designer gowns, to gossip and tear each other apart behind pretty smiles and perfectly manicured nails.
I already know exactly what they think of me.
I know they gossiped about me constantly, and now that I’ve married Ricci, they call me a slut.
They say I jumped from one powerful man to the next before my husband was even cold in the ground.
The whispers have probably been growing sharper and nastier with every retelling.
But really, they’re just jealous. Every single one of them would give their right hand to be married to Ricci.
They want what I have. The power, the status, and the man himself.
And that jealousy makes them vicious.
They made sure not to ask for the check.
I wish they had. I’d rather just write a cheque and be done with it.
Something generous enough to make the hospital happy and keep my name out of their mouths.
I know Ricci couldn’t be bothered whether we went or not.
He’s never once tried to control me the way Salvatore did.
But I want to support him. Even if it’s only by standing at his side and looking the part.
Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if every step I take tonight will feel like walking back into a world I thought I’d escaped.
A knock sounds on the door.
My heart gives a little jump, the way it always does when I know it’s him. I call out, my voice a touch unsteady, “Come in.”
The door opens, and Ricci steps inside.
The sight of him steals the breath right out of my lungs.
He’s in a luxurious black tuxedo, perfectly tailored, the fabric caressing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Why wouldn’t it?
It was made for him alone. His dark hair is brushed back from his clean-shaven face.
He towers. Like a general. Or a king who could command a room with a glance.
Even back when I was Salvatore’s wife, my breath used to catch every time I saw him dressed like this.
Back then the feeling never went beyond how devastatingly good he looked in a tux. Now it’s different. So different.
A fire ignites in my belly, sudden and fierce.
Then he was a stranger. Now he is mine. And all I can think about is peeling that tux off of him.
Slowly, deliberately, inch by inch. I think of me pushing him down onto the bed, climbing on top of him, and taking exactly what I want.
The image is so vivid it makes me wet under the silk, heat blooming hot and urgent between my legs.
He stands in the doorway, eyes locking on me.
For a long moment neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches, thick and electric, the only sound the faint hum of the city far below the windows. I feel exposed under his gaze, but in the best possible way. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I have to fight the urge to reach up and smooth the unruly loose tendrils at my neck.
I swallow, my voice a little unsteady. “Do I look okay?” I touch one of the rebellious curls self-consciously. “I’m afraid my hair’s a bit of a mess.”
His gaze moves over me slowly from the off-the-shoulder neckline to the upper swell of my breasts bare, down the long line of red silk that clings to my waist and hips, all the way to the floor, then back up again. When his eyes finally meet mine in the mirror, the look in them is full of awe.
“You look breathtaking,” he growls.
The sincerity in his voice, the way his jaw tightens like he’s physically holding himself back, makes me believe him. He really does think I look good.
He steps closer and reaches into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “I have something for you.”
I watch him in his reflection as he moves behind me.
Both of us are facing the mirror now. His body is so close I can feel the heat radiating from him.
I gasp when he places the necklace around my neck.
It’s a stunning string of emeralds, and the stones are the exact green of my eyes.
How did he find such an amazing match? The emeralds seem to be alive against my collarbone.
It’s too much. Too beautiful. For a second I can’t breathe.
His fingers brush the back of my neck as he fastens the clasp.
His skin is warm, and I feel the slight tremor in his fingers.
Suddenly, his body presses lightly against my back through the thin silk.
I feel his hard shaft, already thick and insistent.
His arousal sends a rush of heat straight between my thighs. My nipples tighten against the dress.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, his voice low and rough with desire. “I hate taking you out. I want to be the only man looking at you tonight.”
The words are possessive and dark, and they make my pulse spike hard.
I meet his eyes in the mirror, my own voice barely above a breathless whisper. “When we get back… you can see me wearing your necklace and absolutely nothing else.”
His gaze darkens instantly, whiskey-gold turning almost black.
He turns me in his arms, one big hand sliding to the small of my back, the other cupping the back of my neck, and kisses me, ravenously, hungrily, like he’s been starving for the taste of me all day.
My hands slide up the front of his tux, and my fingers curl tight into his lapels as I pull him closer.
The kiss is deep and wet, and desperate, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming every inch.
I can feel how hard he is pressed against my stomach through the layers of fabric, and it makes me ache, makes me press my thighs together in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing need between my legs.
I pull back just enough to breathe. My lips are tingling and my voice shaky. “It took me ten minutes to do my face and lipstick… It’s going to take another ten to redo it.”
But he doesn’t laugh. His eyes are dark, burning, forehead resting against mine, his breath coming fast and warm across my lips.
“Let’s not go then,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, edged with raw hunger. “I don’t think I can wait to see you naked in your necklace.”
The words send a fresh wave of heat rushing through me.
I feel it everywhere. My breasts tighten painfully against the silk, and the ache between my legs grows sharper.
For one wild, dizzying second, I actually consider it.
Just staying here. Letting him peel this dress off me right now, letting him push me down onto the bed with only the emeralds around my throat while he takes me exactly the way I want him to.
But I know we can’t.
The gossipers will have a field day.
I kiss him once more, and this time, I pour everything I’m feeling into it — the want, the fear, the growing need that terrifies me as much as it thrills me.
Then I rest my forehead against his chest, and breathe him in.
The clean, expensive scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of his skin fills my soul.
His arms tighten around me for just a moment longer, strong and possessive, like he’s fighting the same battle I am.
“We have to go. The women… they hate me. It will be another reason to gossip about us,” I whisper, even as every part of my body protests.
He exhales a long, reluctant breath, the sound rough against my hair. His arms stay around me, heavy and warm.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and strained. “You don’t need their fucking approval, but let’s go anyway.”
I pull back and meet his eyes in the mirror again, and the look he gives me is pure, unfiltered hunger. Like he’s already imagining exactly what he’s going to do to me the second we come back through our front door. The promise in that gaze makes my knees weak and my pulse race faster.
The night is definitely going to be interesting.