“That’s what it’s for. I see you’re not drinking.”
This time she couldn’t control the blush. It started somewhere low and crept steadily up her neck to her face. She avoided his eyes. “I stopped drinking some time ago.”
There was a small silence. “Nicoletta.” “Mmmm?” It was the best she could do. She fiddled with her phone, pretending she was occupied with a text message.
“Look at me.”
It was a command, nothing less, and she was used to obeying a Ferraro command. No one disobeyed them. It just didn’t happen. She had to steel herself to meet his gaze. It took courage, but she managed to raise her lashes and meet all that dark blue. It was like looking at a turbulent night sky. Every time she did it, he robbed her of her ability to breathe.
Nicoletta was hopelessly in love with him and there was nothing she could do about it so she didn’t even try anymore to fight it. She had made up her mind a couple of years earlier just what she was going to do with her life—she was going to be like Emmanuelle and Mariko Ferraro. They were quiet about it, but they were warriors, exuding confidence, commanding respect, and she was slowly coming to find that belief in herself thanks to them.
The one thing the Ferraros had drilled into her over and over, wanted her to believe and given her as a gift, was that she could rise above everything that had been done to her—everything that had been taken from her. She could be a phoenix, rising like that firebird from the ashes of who she had been. She was determined that no one would ever be able to hurt her like that again, destroy her or anyone she loved. She would be a strong, confident woman and ensure that her daughters would be as well. If she had sons, she was determined they would be like the men in the Ferraro family, because she didn’t know better men.
“That night was not your fault. It was mine,” Taviano said, his voice very firm, but his tone was low, gentle, just the way he almost always spoke to her now, ever since that horrible night when she’d acted such a fool. “We are careful in our family not to drink to excess. You are aware of that. You’re one of the few we allow close to us. Only one of us can do so at a time; that night was my night, and I indulged too much. I should never have gone after you when you were partying, and I was angry. I knew better. My brothers should have stopped me. You have to let it go.”
She shook her head, her gaze flicking past him to her friends, who fortunately weren’t paying much attention to their conversation. “I’m ashamed of the way I treated you after all you did for me. I really am, Taviano. I think I wanted to run away from myself.” She knew that was what she’d been doing. She’d loathed herself, and she didn’t think she was worth anything. In some weird way she was punishing herself for the things her step-uncles had done to her—things she had been helpless to stop. “Every time I saw you, you were a reminder …”
“You don’t have to explain. I’m well aware.” Taviano brushed his fingers down her cheek very gently.
She caught her breath. There was something about the way he touched her that got to her every time. He put goose bumps on her skin. Sent a rush of heat through her veins. Fire always danced low and wicked at that touch. It had been that way almost since the first time she’d opened her eyes and stared into his. She’d been so young and so old. So terrified of living, and humiliated that he knew what had happened to her over the last few years. She could barely stand looking at him or his brothers. At any of his family. They knew.
Yet because of them, because of his family, because of Taviano, she had learned to have confidence in herself. To believe she was worth something. Her recovery was due to the Ferraros and their endless patience with her, and of course the counseling they paid for. But also, she was certain, it was due to Lucia and Amo Fausti, the family the Ferraros had chosen for her. Her foster parents had loved her through the worst of her striking out at everyone—mostly striking out at herself.
“Just have fun, tesoro. We’re going to worry about us and our relationship another day, but this day is for you and your friends.”
Her heart jumped and then clenched hard. It took discipline not to rub her chest. She was acutely aware of his declaration but had no idea what he meant. Their relationship? He rarely spoke to her, in fact he usually avoided being alone with her, not that she blamed him. The family relationship? She hoped they weren’t thinking of cutting ties with her. She’d toed the line, done more than what they’d expected of her.
She glanced at the three girls. Pia was glaring at her. It was her birthday and she wanted the attention, especially Taviano’s. He was wealthy and gorgeous and reputed to be dangerous. The combination was heady. Nicoletta was embarrassed that her three friends were throwing themselves at him, but she couldn’t throw proverbial stones—she’d done it, too. She’d been younger and drunk and feeling worthless, but she’d done it. The results had been disastrous, and she would never forget that lesson. Never. Not for as long as she lived.
The blush was back, and immediately Taviano reacted as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he probably did. She could swear he read minds—at least he seemed to read hers.
“You have to let it go, Nicoletta. We were both very drunk that night.”
“I was very drunk. You at least didn’t lose your mind completely.” She whispered it to him, afraid the others might hear, even though they were a good distance away and the music was loud.
His eyes, already so blue, darkened with something that looked so close to desire her stomach dropped and her sex clenched. His breath was suddenly warm on her neck, her ear, sending a shiver of need down her spine. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t dare. Not when every cell in her body was alive with need and awareness and he was so experienced he could read a woman like an open book.
“You might think of it that way. I look back on that night often and wish I’d had a little bit more to drink.” His voice, as always, was low. Velvet soft. He murmured the declaration into her ear and the words burned into her mind, etched there like some beautiful calligraphy that was written in stone.
Her gaze jumped to his and she couldn’t look away. He could seduce her so easily, and yet she’d offered herself to him and he had rejected her completely. She knew women came easily to him. He was in every glossy magazine, photographed with models and actresses on his arm. He went to charity events and parties, and women were all over him. The paparazzi managed to capture his life almost daily.
The paparazzi hung around the Ferraro Hotel and the Ferraro territory as well as anywhere any of the Ferraro family might be in order to capture pictures of them, especially if they might be able to get them in compromising situations. Taviano was the last eligible bachelor, the last single Ferraro brother, and women flocked around him, hopeful that he would choose one of them as his bride. He didn’t date. He didn’t even hook up for a night, at least no photographs had proven that lately, so he seemed to be pursued all the more, as if he had a secret life and the world was determined to uncover what it was.
“What does that mean?” She managed to choke out the question. Because what did it mean? She had been totally humiliated that night. She’d thrown herself at him and he had rejected her.
There had been kissing. So hot. He’d devoured her. She hadn’t known anyone could kiss like that. She’d thought she knew what kissing was. She’d thought she could control sex, but she’d suddenly realized she knew nothing at all about it. Taviano had kissed her like she was someone special. Someone who meant something to him. He had held her with care. His mouth had been gentle, but firm. He had taken control, leading her, not the other way around. Then things had just spiraled out of control.