Chapter 17
KARINA
I’m floating on a cloud after my massage, mani-pedi, and something called a glow treatment that involved a lot of scrubbing and scented oils.
I normally wouldn’t indulge myself so ridiculously, especially at the prices listed on the menu, but Marco had insisted.
And hey, it’s only my birthday once a year.
I find Marco dressed to the nines when I get to our room, still wrapped in my spa robe.
“So handsome,” I purr appreciatively, smoothing my hands over his chest and giving him a slow kiss. Then I pull back. “Where’s your sling?”
“I’m good without it,” he says.
Giving him a look, I shake my head. “Nope. You’re wearing it.”
“The doctor said two to six weeks—”
“Which means we’re still in the sling zone!” I insist. “Besides, I think it’s sexy.”
That gets a smile out of him. “Do you, now.”
“Mm-hmm. And if you put it on right away, I might have time to give you a little reward before we leave…”
Marco puts on the sling, and then we put the “quick” in quickie. I actually count off the seconds in my head—and set a record for myself when I orgasm in just over a minute and a half. He takes slightly longer to finish, but we both know we’ll have plenty of time later to go slow.
Once I freshen up my makeup and slip into a little black dress and heels, we head to a fancy Italian restaurant downtown.
The host greets us warmly and shows us to a private dining room at the back of the restaurant.
It’s small—intimate, really—with elegant, pale blue walls, a single table lit with candles, and a sparkling chandelier hanging overhead.
It almost has a Parisian feel, though the place is Italian, of course.
“What should we order?” I ask, overwhelmed by the menu. “Everything looks delicious.” And expensive.
“It’s your birthday,” Marco says. “Let’s just order it all.”
“No!” I gasp, scandalized. “We can’t waste that much food!”
“Shh. I’ll take care of everything,” he tells me, getting up and slipping out the doorway.
What the chef ends up personally bringing out to our table is a broad sampling of all the very best items on the menu—just a few bites of each.
I’m blown away, practically moaning with every taste.
For starters we’re given oven-fresh rustic bread with olive oil and herbs for dipping; stuffed squash blossoms; and a radicchio, fennel, and olive salad with champagne vinaigrette.
Then the mains come out in small ramekin dishes, and I applaud with delight as they’re lined up before us.
Perfectly cooked steak and polenta, light-as-air lobster ravioli, scallops with creamy pesto, lentils with prosciutto, grilled swordfish with artichoke caponata.
“That might have been the best meal I’ve ever had,” I tell Marco once the table is cleared and we’re sipping espresso. “Don’t rat me out to Alain.”
“I’d never,” he says with a wink. “What’s your favorite? Maybe we can ask him to recreate it.”
“All of it,” I say with a laugh. “But I’m sure he’ll be up for the challenge.” I let out a happy sigh. “Everything was perfect, but I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“How about just one more bite?” he asks, his gaze shifting to focus on something over my shoulder.
I turn around to see our waiter coming toward us, carrying a miniature chocolate ganache cake with a sparkler on top.
It shoots little sparks as the cake is set in front of me.
A few other waiters file into the room, along with the head chef, all of them singing “Happy Birthday.” All I can do is blush in my chair until they’re done singing, and after they clap and whistle for me, they leave Marco and me to devour the dessert on our own.
Looking over at him, I blink back tears. I’m stunned. “Marco, this is…nobody has ever spoiled me like this. Thank you so much.”
He leans over and cups my cheek. “Happy birthday, amore mio.”
Marco moves in for a kiss, and we nearly get zinged by the sparkler.
It finally dies, and we cut the cake, lingering over it with our espresso until the sun finally sinks behind the mountains and strings of tiny lights woven through the trees outside turn on with a magical glow.
I’m glad we’re in no rush. Marco has been watching me all evening, and I get the sense that there’s something he wants to talk about.
I take a deep breath and start twisting my engagement ring, a nervous habit I’ve picked up that I can’t seem to shake.
He reaches across the table and stops me by taking my hand. “Hey. It’s okay. We’re here to relax. I know my accident has been hard on you, and I just…wanted to give you a nice birthday weekend so you’d know how much I appreciate you.”
I nod, getting choked up. “I’m ready to go. I could use a little air, I think.”
“Good. Because there’s something else I want you to see.”
Our eyes meet and lock. My chest swells with a sweet, spreading warmth, my breath catching in my throat. I think I’m falling in love with my husband all over again.
A rush of emotion bubbles up inside me, and I can feel my anger, my hurt, my fear—all courtesy of my uncle, of course—cracking like broken glass. My love for Marco washes through it, carrying the shards away. I don’t know if this is going to last, but I’m going to cling to it now.
I want to tell him everything. To clear the air and destroy my family’s hold on me once and for all.
Tearing my eyes from Marco’s, I glance at my ring again and try to find the words to tell him about the transmitter.
Speaking out loud isn’t an option, because Uncle Sergio will hear me, and I don’t know what kind of scary contingency plan he’ll put in motion after the words leave my mouth.
I snag the edge of a cocktail napkin and draw it toward me.
Fumbling with the clasp on my purse, I reach in for a pen, but Marco stands and holds out a hand.
“Ready?”
Rising from my chair, I let out a held breath. “Yes.”
I can’t do it. I can’t tell him. I’m a coward.
We walk out into the balmy evening and stroll down the well-lit sidewalk, window-shopping as we pass all the adorable local boutiques.
At the end of the street, Marco pulls open the door of a store with a sleek black facade and gestures for me to enter.
The name Trieste hangs in gold letters above the door.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s a gallery for local artists,” he says. “I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Inside, we go down a short hallway, and then the room opens into a brilliantly lit art gallery with a marble floor and exposed beams overhead, Edison light bulbs hanging down on black cords.
All around us, I see paintings and photography and even a few large sculptures, in subjects ranging from abstract mixed media to classical nudes and local landscapes.
“Wow. This place is gorgeous,” I say.
“The concierge said it was a must see. Maybe we’ll find something to take home.”
Marco takes my hand and we begin our tour. Some of the paintings are so well done that I mistake them for photographs until we get up close. We take our time browsing through all three rooms at the gallery, appreciating the views. I never realized that my husband was into art.
“What about this one?”
I stop at a portrait of a woman facing the ocean, the entire painting in shades of blue. Her hair blows in the wind while seagulls wheel lazily overhead. Beside it, a matching portrait hangs, with the woman facing the viewer, the expression on her face faraway and contemplative.
“You know, I can see these hanging over the bed,” Marco says, nodding. “Or in the sitting room. Or in our new house, when we’re ready.”
“New house?” This is the first time he’s ever mentioned getting a place of our own.
“Sure,” he says. “There’s plenty of acreage on the Bellanti estate to build on.
Hell, Dante and Frankie are having their dream house built right next door on the Abbott property.
I mean, technically it’s Bellanti property now, but I guess the build site is one of Frankie’s favorite spots from her childhood.
Or we can look at properties around town. Or farther away, if you want.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. I haven’t given any thought to leaving Napa, leaving the vineyard. The truth is, I love it here. But I wouldn’t mind us having our own space.
“I need to think about it,” I tell him.
“Of course.”
His lips find mine for a sweet kiss, but it quickly turns into something more. My body lights up with desire for him and I suddenly can’t get close enough. Sliding my arms around his neck, I press my hips into him, almost backing him up against the wall.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
He pulls back from me reluctantly, grabs my hand, and hurries me to the receptionist so we can pay and arrange to have the paintings shipped home. Then we run to the car, laughing and exuberant, pawing at each other through our clothes like a couple of teenagers.
Once we’re in the car again, he claims my mouth in a deep, demanding kiss that steals my breath away. Groping him hungrily, I unbutton his shirt and press my hand to his warm skin. His heart is beating so fast and hard, I can feel it under my palm. It only turns me on more.
He pulls back and runs his thumb over my lips. “I have to have you. Right now.”
“In the car?” I ask, glad we put the top back on the convertible but dubious about the amount of space in the back seat.
Marco laughs. “I think I can hold out until we get back to the hotel.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I tease, squeezing the bulge in his pants.
“If needs must,” he says with a shrug, starting to unbutton himself.
“Okay, okay, stop, I was kidding!” I squeal. “Let’s hurry though.”
He puts the car in gear and it barely takes us twenty minutes to get across town and back to the hotel.
Our lust is out of control. We make out in the elevator, Marco’s finger slipping inside me as he presses me against the mirror paneled wall, and when we get to our floor we practically race each other down the hall to the room.
The door isn’t even closed behind us before Marco starts stripping, his sling coming off first, and once he’s down to his briefs, he reaches for me with his good arm.
I’m momentarily awed by his perfect body, but I hold back.
There’s something I need to do first. Before I lose my nerve.
“Give me a second to take off these heels,” I say, all serious.
“Oh, no. You can leave those on,” he says, his eyes dark with desire.
“Maybe I will, then.”
I hold up a finger, silently telling him to wait, and go to the desk across the room. His brow furrows as I grab a pen and the small pad of hotel paper. Then I motion for him to join me and hold my finger over my lips so he knows to be quiet.
“That restaurant was so amazing,” I say cheerily, gently pressing the pen to the page. “Best lobster ravioli I’ve ever had. This has been a perfect birthday.”
“You are so welcome,” he says uneasily, moving toward me with soft steps.
“I’d like to get a better view of the redwoods,” I go on. “We should take a drive.”
He watches me writing, but goes along with my cover. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
I finish and then point to my wedding ring. Putting a finger to my lips one more time, I hand him the notepad. Marco reads, his expression going hard as his gaze tracks over the words, There’s a microphone inside my ring. Uncle S. is using my mom as leverage. I’m sorry.
Looking at me, he gently runs the back of his knuckles down my cheek, and then mouths, “I’m sorry.” Out loud, he says, “Why don’t we do that tomorrow? If we take the 92 to the 35, we can drive south through all the redwood preserves. Stop somewhere nice for lunch, too.”
“I’d love that,” I say, trying to sound cheerful even as I blink back tears.
He pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly as a slow breath squeezes out of him. My tears fall silently, but I don’t cry out. We stay that way for a long moment before he leads me into the bathroom, turns on the shower, and strips me naked.