Chapter Six #2
Sanzio shrugged indifferently. ‘I give him some from time to time, though not nearly as much as he tries to cadge off me. After all,’ he allowed, ‘I did get the Palazzo for free.’ His expression changed, lightened. ‘And I got you, too,’ he said.
She looked troubled again. ‘A not-very-trophy trophy wife,’ she said.
Something flashed in his eyes. ‘A totally-trophy trophy wife!’ he shot back.
A rasp sounded in his voice. ‘Didn’t this evening just prove that?
Even if I were shallow enough to think that appearance was all that mattered—and believe me, Eleanora—’ there was vehemence in his voice as he spoke ‘—I am not that shallow—being seen out and about with you would pander to any man’s vanity! ’
She slid her eyes away. ‘I know I look better—much, much better, but—’
She felt her hand being taken. His was warm and strong and his fingers pressed on hers.
‘No buts,’ he said. He spoke firmly, brooking, she realised, no argument.
‘I won’t permit buts,’ he said. He pressed her hand again to emphasise his words.
His eyes were holding hers in the intermittent light from the street and traffic.
‘What you look,’ he said, enunciating each word, ‘is beautiful. Beautiful in your way—not Tonia’s!
’ He drew a breath, and she was consumingly conscious of his hand holding hers, the warmth of it… the possession of it.
For all her reminding herself that the reasons for their marriage had never been personal, she could feel her own breathing quicken at his words. Suddenly, the car seemed very small—Sanzio very close. His eyes were still holding hers.
‘And your way, Eleanora, is, I promise you, a very, very pleasing way.’ He paused, his eyes searching hers.
‘Don’t you believe me?’ There was something different in his voice now, his eyes, the way he was looking at her, something that made her conscious of the beating of her heart. The suddenly hectic beating…
Her eyes were wide, searching his now. ‘I want to believe you.’ Her voice was only a whisper, her heartbeat faster.
Something had changed, out of nowhere, something in the way he was looking at her now, something that was quickening her pulse, and she must not let it. Must not…
But his dark eyes were holding hers, and in the confines of the car, cocooned as they made their way down into the city, she could catch the faint trace of his aftershave, sense the nearness of his powerful body to hers, feel the grip of his hand on hers. Feel the warmth of his touch.
Overwhelming her.
‘I don’t know.’ His features, so familiar, were etched against the darkness surrounding them. She realised her pulse had quickened yet more, heart racing suddenly. He was so close to her. So very close…
There was no breath in her lungs. Not a single breath.
She saw his lashes sweep down over his eyes as he leaned towards her.
‘Then believe this,’ he said.
And kissed her.
* * *
Her mouth was velvet, her lips trembling beneath his. For an endless, timeless moment he let his mouth stay on hers, tasting her sweetness, sensation drumming through him, muscles tensing throughout his body to hold himself where he was. To not deepen the kiss. Not let his mouth feast on hers.
Not let the urge knifing through him overpower him.
With force of will, he lifted his head away. Released her hand.
Kissing her was not the reason I wanted her to be beautiful.
That was what he had to remember. And stick to. Despite the sudden pounding of his heart.
But it was going to be hard. Harder, as that mistaken kiss had just proved to him, than he’d realised it was going to be.
His glance went to her as he straightened.
He saw her move away slightly, fold her hand over the beautiful bejewelled Fabian original which went so perfectly with the perfect dress for her this evening that the commessa had shown him.
All part of his plan to show the woman he’d married that she had a transcendent beauty of her own.
A beauty that would serve his purpose perfectly.
A purpose he’d planned all along.
Which had nothing, nothing to do with kissing her.
He let his eyes rest on her. She was looking out of the car window, and he thought, from her averted profile, in the dim light, that she was blinking rapidly, that her fingers had tensed over the fabric of her clutch gripped in her lap.
He cursed himself.
But the damage had been done.
Especially to himself. He could feel the blood coursing in his veins and knew why.
Knew what it meant. He tamped it down, breathing deeply.
The journey back to his apartment block seemed to take forever.
They did not speak, nor when he finally stood beside her in the elevator whisking them up to the penthouse floor.
She had tensed completely, and he cursed himself yet again. He wanted to apologise, but no words came. It was taking an effort to keep control of himself. The control he must exert.
In the entrance hall of his apartment, she turned.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice strained and avoiding meeting his eyes, ‘for a lovely evening. I’m very tired, I think I’ll just go straight to bed.’
She made to turn away, head to her bedroom.
Sanzio caught her arm. ‘Eleanora—’ his voice was low ‘—I’m sorry.’
He broke off, dropped his hand away.
Walked away.
* * *
Eleanora gazed at her reflection in the mirror in her bedroom, an ache filling her. Never, in all her life, had she ever looked the way she did now.
Beautiful.
She heard the word in her head, heard the echo of it in Sanzio’s voice. Then another voice intruded. Telling her the truth.
Beautiful? You? Oh, little Ellie-Ellie, did you really think you were beautiful enough for Sanzio? He tried you out—and didn’t want you. How could he, when it was me he wanted?
She turned away, not wanting to see her reflection.
Memory drummed, of how she’d dressed up that evening, so long ago, a hopeful teenager, thinking she looked good.
She had failed then, all those years ago, and she had just failed again.
Oh, maybe there were men out there who would find her attractive now—
But not Sanzio. He put me aside.
Then said sorry to me. For not wanting me.
The ache tightened in her chest.
* * *
Sanzio was out on his terrace. Beyond, the lights of the city glittered.
Rome, the city he had been born in, where he had worked tirelessly to haul himself from poverty to the wealth he enjoyed today.
Crowning his achievements with a trophy wife, the titled daughter of a nobleman he could never have aspired to had he still been that penniless, working-class youth.
A trophy wife—
His mouth twisted.
Except the woman he’d married was not the one he’d set his sights on. The one he’d intended to marry.
But she brought me what I wanted, just the same—brought me the palazzo my forebears built for their rich lords, brought me the trophy wife I wanted, descendent of those rich lords.
And now—now, with her beauty revealed, she would be a trophy wife indeed—shown off to the world. And to one person in particular.
And, most of all, to herself. That was what he could give to her in the marriage they’d made—to know herself beautiful.
The trouble was—his mouth twisted—that her beauty was also affecting him, in entirely predictable ways.
He felt again, vivid in his mind, the velvet touch of her mouth beneath his, as he had kissed her to convince her of her own beauty.
She had yielded to him—he had felt it instinctively in the tremor of her lips, the faint breath she had exhaled, the slow lowering of her eyelashes.
And if he had done then what, outside her bedroom door, he had so, so wanted to do, not let her go, not said what he had, but what every overpowering instinct was impelling him to do—take her into his arms, sweep her to him, press her slender body to his, find that velvet mouth again, feast upon it to feed the quickening desire coursing through him, unstoppable, hungry—then right now, right now, he could be with her.
Right now, I could be in her room, her bed, making her my own.
But that would be unforgivable.
There were reasons why they’d married, reasons which held good—but the intimacy his body now craved was not one of them.
She married me only to save the palazzo she loves. For her, there is no other reason. She didn’t even know I was going to bring her to Rome, reveal to her the beauty she does not even know she possesses.
Let alone what effect that newly revealed beauty would have on him…
So now, for him to indulge himself in celebrating that beauty in the way he knew his body wanted would be just that—indulgence. For himself.
An indulgence he must resist, because it was not what Eleanora had married him for.
With a raggedly indrawn breath he steeled himself. He had to draw back, hold back—make himself as immune as he could to the temptation to yield to what was coursing through him.
I have to do it—I have to be strong and self-denying.
For her sake. That was all he must fasten on now. Hold on to. However hard to do…