* * *
She curled against the seat, facing him, her dark hair twisted up into a messy ponytail. From the radio, Andrea Bocelli softly crooned, the rich notes floating over the car’s interior and out into the night.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He glanced over at her. “I thought I’d leave that up to you. Do you want to go back to your house?”
He dreaded the thought. It had been pure bedlam in that house. Noise until three in the morning, then someone up and banging around at seven. The door seemed to never stop, visitors dropping by unannounced, security an absolute nightmare. Before staying there, he had wanted her to have her own place. After staying there, it was no longer up for discussion. She needed a secure home, one where he could properly protect her. If she wanted her independence, if she wanted to bring all of those crazy women and hecticness with her, and live separately from him—fine. But it needed to be behind a gate, with cameras and alarms and a shower that didn’t run cold and could accommodate a grown man without molesting him with the curtain.
She shook her head and he breathed a sigh of relief. “I need a full night’s sleep. In a bed big enough to hold both of us.” She grinned at him and he reached over, cupping her knee, unable to resist the urge to touch her.
Yes, he needed her in bed. Loud. Moaning. Bent over. Thrusting back. Naked. Panting. Coming apart. His mouth against her slick mound. His tongue dipping inside, running along her slit, lightly feasting on her clit. Her thighs trembling. Mouth opening. Body clenching. He’d move up her body, then. Settle between her legs, her muscles still twitching, pulsing. Hot and wet. He’d push inside, feel her tighten, her nails clawing along his chest, her eyes opening, body reawakening. He’d never had a woman so responsive, so engaged. When she was touched, she bloomed. When he fucked her, she was a rabid animal. When he made love to her, she melted.
His hand tightened, sliding up her thigh, his fingers passing over the smooth skin, itching to be past the frustrating fabric of her shorts and inside her heat. She exhaled, a whimper of invitation in the tone. He could make her come right now. Softly strum her clit through her panties. Lean back that seat. Open up those legs. She could brace her feet on the dash. Arch into his hand. He could slip in a finger, crook it against her g-spot, and she’d come undone.
He saw an exit and didn’t hesitate, the Bentley taking the change with ease, the off-ramp slightly bumpy as they pulled off the highway and onto a side road, coasting down the dark lane, under tree cover, and pulling off to the side.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t hesitate. She popped the button on her shorts, pulled them down the length of her legs, and reclined back, opening her thighs to him, her yellow panties almost glowing in the dark. He cut off the lights and reached for her, his need only eclipsed by his awe.
God, she was perfect, in absolutely every way.
* * *
BELL
I lay on his chest, the expensive sheets cool along my back, his heartbeat thudding against my ear. My body twitched, an after-effect of the orgasm, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. Doubts wormed their way along my subconscious, interrupting my slumber, and I attempted to push them away. I didn’t deserve this. Him. This expensive suite, the butler service, the view. It all felt too perfect, too different, like I was Cinderella and—any moment—the clock would hit midnight.
His hand ran along my back. “Don’t give up on me, on us.”
It was annoying, how the man seemed to read my mind. Not that I was giving up on him, or on us. But my thoughts were colliding, my doubts rising and bringing my anxiety along with it.
I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. “I feel as if everything’s about to fall apart again.”
“It’s not. Besides, we’re through the worst of it. Hawk is gone. He can’t touch us anymore.”
I turned to him, repositioning so that I was on my side, face to face with him. I reached out, my fingers gently tracing over his features. “Are we through the worst of it? You make it sound like it’s over. Like people aren’t dead.”
Dead. It sounded like a curse word, and I wanted to take it back the moment it left my lips. I saw the impact when it hit Dario, the flinch of his features, the tightness of that mouth, the darkness of his eyes.
“Let me carry that guilt. It wasn’t you. It was me.”
“No.”
I struggled to prop myself up on one elbow, to gain some sort of stance. I’d heard the tone of those words before, recognized the pain in his features, the anguish in his eyes. My mother felt that guilt because I’d needed to work and help them cover the bills. Working at the barn had led to my rape. My mother carried that guilt because she’d been at the diner, and not able to pick me up, not able to be there when John had driven by and seen the barn light on. My father had felt that guilt when he’d been too drunk to be taken seriously, when his reputation with the Mohave police department overshadowed his teenage daughter’s statement. I had felt that guilt, for not saying no clearly enough. For being there. For not running. For every time I’d let Johnny’s eyes slide over me without glaring back.
Our guilt had been ill-placed, and it had almost broken our family. I couldn’t bear to see it break us. But I also didn’t know what to say. Because unlike my parents—Dario and I were to blame. Hawk had been the dynamite, but we had lit the fuse.
“Just love me through the cracks.” His voice was gruff, and when he pulled me to him, I flexed into the warmth of his chest.
“You’re the only thing holding me together, Bell. Just tell me you won’t give up on me.” He kissed my forehead, then my cheeks, the brush of his lips tender, then almost desperate. Dario needed me. Me. In this moment, he wasn’t the arrogant alpha male I knew. He wasn’t the King of Vegas. He was stripped bare of anything outside of this room, and he was mine. Needed to be mine. And I would never give up on him. Never.
I lifted my mouth to his. “I won’t give up on us, Dario. I love you.”
His mouth pressed against mine and I tasted, in the moment before he returned the words, his pain.
He was broken. Like me.
Love me through the cracks.
I would. I did. There was no way I could walk away now.
Nineteen
BELL
I woke up to SILENCE. Cool room, warm bed, the sight of Dario shaving at the sink. His back muscles were insane, rivulets of dips and curves that had my fingers itching to pull back the sheets and explore. He wore black boxer briefs, the underwear’s package open on the bed. I sat up, holding the fluffy white blanket against my bare chest, and eyed the gold bag at the entrance to the bathroom.
“Good morning.”
He turned at the words, half of his face smooth, a razor in hand. It was a good look. I pulled the blanket back and slid off the bed, walking toward him.
“That’s a sight I could become addicted to.” He reached for me, pulling me against him and I raised to my toes, kissing him.
I tugged the razor from his hand. “Let me finish.”
His hands settled on my bare hips, slid upward to my waist, and he lifted me up, setting me on the marble surface, a wicked gleam in his dark brown eyes. The counter was cold against my ass, and when he pushed my knees open and moved closer, the feel of air between my legs felt deliciously sexual.
I admired him from this new angle. Still gorgeous. Still ruggedly wild and untamable, even with white foam over half his face. I lifted the razor and pressed the blade of it against his cheekbone.
“Ever done this before?” he asked.
I met his eyes. “No. So be still.”
A smile ghosted across his lips. I held his chin still with one hand and dragged the razor down, a path cut between the white.
“You’re beautiful when you concentrate.”
I smiled and pulled away, leaning to the right and twisting the handle of the sink. Water gushed, and I rinsed the blade underneath it, then returned to his face. I was halfway along his jaw whe
n his hand brushed over my breast.
Pausing, I met his eyes, which held mine. “You’re not behaving.”
“Your nakedness is distracting me.” His palm was warm, his fingers gentle, and he closed his hand softly around my breast, my skin awakening under the contact. I let out a breath and finished the razor’s path.
Lifting it from his jaw, I leaned right to rinse the blade, and almost came apart when he tugged softly on my nipple.
“Dario…”
I sat back in place, focusing on his cheek, starting a short stroke down his face. His second hand joined the game, tickling the top of my free nipple, and my knees parted a smidge out of reflex.
I struggled to control my breath and carefully moved the blade across a fresh patch of skin. His eyes met mine, and he reached up, gently swiping the tips of his fingers from my lips … all the way down the center of my body … down to my clit.
I lifted the razor from his face before I nicked it. “You’re going to make my pussy drip all over this counter if you don’t stop.”
It was a sentence that unleashed a beast. The razor flew aside, his arms wrapped around my waist, and I was off the counter and against his chest, his hands on my ass, carrying me easily, my legs wrapping around him, our mouths colliding in a hot tangled mess of passion. Shaving cream smeared under my fingers, I tasted it in our kiss, his body still warm from the shower, a landscape of slick muscles against my skin.
We fell onto the bed, and I yanked at his underwear. A half breath later, he was inside me. God. Fuck. Yes.
* * *
Meredith and I had eaten at Transit a dozen times before. She got the rainbow roll. I liked surf ’n’ turf. We’d flirt with the sushi guy and sit at the bar. If we were chatty, we’d get edamame and split some tempura.
It’d been a few weeks since we’d had lunch together, but in that time, everything had changed. “I’m sorry about the excessive security measures,” I say leaning forward, making eye contact with her and trying to ignore the fact that two of the six other tables in the restaurant were filled with Dario’s men. Big guys, each with a visible gun on their hips. One had a badge. Two had driven us here and now stood watch outside the restaurant.
It was ridiculous. Major overkill. He took my insistence at a light security team and tossed it out the window. And why? We went to Mohave last night without a lick of security. Sat in a crowd at Becky’s within a team of armed guards. Managed to feel normal and lived through the night without a single instance of trouble. This wasn’t necessary.
“It’s a man thing,” Meredith explained. “He thinks he can protect you better than anyone else.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Whether it makes sense or not.” She wrapped her hands around her tea and inhaled the steam from it. “Just deal with it. Give him a couple of weeks, he’ll relax a little. The man’s been through a lot.”
“Yeah.” I thought of him dressing for the funeral. The solemn way he had knotted his tie. The long moment when he had studied his watch before putting it on.
“What?” She nudged me with her foot. “What does that look mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.” She took a sip of tea, then placed the cup down. “What’s bothering you?”
“It’s just…” I sighed. “I feel terrible even saying it. I—he—he misses her.” I looked up from the table. “Does it make me a terrible person to be jealous of that?”
“It makes you normal.” She pulled a pair of chopsticks from the wrapper and broke them apart. “Have you talked to him about it?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t even—I mean, I don’t want him to feel like he needs to hide that. He should miss her. It just makes me feel insecure in our own relationship. One, because they have—had—such a long history, and so many memories and this hard bedrock of friendship. And two, because it’s my fault, or our relationship’s fault, that she’s gone. So I worry that every time he’s hurting over her death, or thinks of her—”
“That he’s going to begrudge you for it.” She put the pieces together too quickly, a reaction that validated my concerns.
I nodded, sitting back as they delivered our rolls. “Yeah.”
“I think…” She plucked an end piece from her roll and popped it in her mouth, leaving me hanging as she slowly chewed the enormous piece. By the time she swallowed, I was ready to stab her with a chopstick.
She cleared her throat. “I think you have to get over it. All of it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop comparing your relationship to his with Gwen. Stop beating yourself up and expecting him to blame you for something that he is just as guilty—NO.” She waved a sticky pair of chopsticks in the air between us. “Fuck that. Neither of you are to blame for it, but he’s a grown ass man. He knew the risks a hell of a lot more than you did. And if he wants to dwell on his own guilt, fine. But you need to pull your head out of the mess on this one. I know you beat yourself up every day in Louisiana over it, but it’s time to stop that shit.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the stern look she gave me, the effectiveness of it hampered slightly by the smear of wasabi along her bottom lip. “Okay,” I conceded.
“Don’t just blow smoke up my ass,” she warned.
“I’m not.” I lifted up my hands in surrender. “I promise.”
“Good.” She glanced around the restaurant and lifted one brow. “Now, are there any rules about dating the help? ‘Cause you know I’ve got a weakness for men in uniform.”
I smiled at her and wondered how, with everything going on, I would make it without her.
* * *
DARIO
Outside of the church, the lines circled the block. He walked down the street toward the church, nodding at the faces, each one somber, some avoiding his eyes. The rumors had already started. Whispers of his infidelity, of his mistress, the circumstances of Gwen’s death… they were too juicy to ignore, and they’d spread like a virus through the city.
How many of them were here out of love for her, and how many were here out of curiosity? It was impossible to know. He climbed the steps and nodded to the usher, who swung open the door with a respectful nod.
“Mr. Capece.”
“Thank you.” Dario stepped into the cool interior of the church, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “How long do I have?”
“They will begin seating in twenty minutes, sir. If you need more time, please just let us know.”
Dario nodded. Moving through the entranceway, he pushed on the heavy double door and entered the main hall of the church. Before him, at the end of a flower-lined aisle, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, lay the casket. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and started down the aisle.
They’d been married in this church. He’d stood where the foot of the casket now was, and watched as she walked down the aisle. She’d smirked at him, amused by all of the pomp and circumstance. The two of them had been the only ones in the crowded church to know the truth—that their marriage was a sham, their love a façade, but their vows … at least the ones they had said … those had been meant.
In sickness and in health.
Till death do us part.
He slowly climbed the steps and stopped at the open casket, looking down at her. His throat tightened and he reached out, gripping the edge of the mahogany. His vision blurred and he swallowed hard, fighting to maintain composure.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “You begged me to stay and I just—” His words broke off and he searched her face, so perfect, so serene. She looked untouched, her hair artfully arranged to hide the exit wound, her makeup simple and elegant. He thought of her in the shower, the way she had clung to him, her pride abandoned, her desperation coating every plea.
She had left that shower and gone to talk to Bell. What had she planned to say? What would have been that outcome? Where had her mind been?
He knew how she had looked, in that last glance she gave him before she left. Disappointed
. Hurt. Thirteen years together, and that had been their final moment. It broke his heart.
“Oh, Gwen.” He lowered his head and closed his eyes, fighting to hold onto a memory, a good memory, of the two of them. “I miss you so much. I hope, wherever you are, that you are at peace.” He tried to feel her presence, tried to connect with the perfect and silent body before him, but all he felt was emptiness. Loneliness.
She had been, for a third of his life, his partner. His best friend. His confidante. His sounding board. She had been the first person he saw each morning, and the first number he dialed when something happened.
And now, she was gone.
He tried to pick up her hand, his chest constricting at the stiff set of it. Releasing the hand, he attempted to compose himself. Looking up to the arched ceilings, angels painted along their curves, he told her how much he loved her. He begged her for her forgiveness, and he said the first of a lifetime of goodbyes.
Behind him, the doors to the inner church creaked open, a thin man in a robe entering. “Mr. Capece, would you like more time?”
He shook his head tightly, struggling to tamper his emotions, his façade of composure settling into place. “No. You can begin to bring them in. Thank you.”
Turning, he bent over and gave her forehead one final kiss, hating that she no longer smelled like his Gwen. Hating her father for stealing her life, her innocence, her chance at a real future of her own choosing. Hating that … his throat tightened. He hated that this lonely cold moment was their goodbye.
She had deserved better.
Twenty
The weight of the funeral was washed away by the open air in the Lamborghini. He tossed Bell the keys, and she drove. Her hesitancy was cute, her exit out of The Majestic’s parking garage cautious, the engine over-revving as she shifted into second. But once she got the hang of the gears, her confidence grew to a level that was impressive. She wove around slower traffic, the car responding to her cues, her smile widening with each passing minute. Her beauty was mesmerizing, and he relaxed in the passenger seat, stealing glances at her as she focused on the road.