Marco's Stolen Wife (The Dante Inferno: The Dante Dynasty Series Book 2) Read online

  “This is too much, too soon. We need time to get to know each other.”

  He laughed, the sound soft and deep and oddly arousing. “We have all the time in the world, cara. Decades to get to know every intimate detail.”

  “That’s not what I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. It’s just not something I can offer you.”

  So compassionate, and yet so absolute. He didn’t give her time to argue any further. His mouth drifted across hers, nibbling a lazy path. The casualness of the kiss should have allowed her to turn away. Instead it incited a desire to deepen it, to drive it from temperate to ardent. To feel the burn that happened only with Marco.

  She whispered his name and felt him practically inhale the sound of it, felt his need as though it were her own. She expected him to exhibit some sign of victory or complacency. But he didn’t. He simply gave to her, allowing her demand to set the pace.

  “If I ask you to stop, will you?” she asked.

  “Yes. Reluctantly. But, yes.”

  He needed to stop. Now. “Don’t stop. Not yet. Soon—” She groaned as the buttons of her blouse gave, one by one, and he stroked his finger from the dip at the base of her throat to the scalloped edge of her bra. “Marco!”

  Then his mouth followed the same path, his tongue tracing the lacy contours while he found the back fastening and released it with a flick of clever fingers. Cool air sliced across her bared skin before Marco warmed it with a single touch. He palmed her breasts and laved each tip into tight peaks, catching first one and then the other with his teeth until she could barely contain her response to the pleasure.

  Her hands moved of their own accord, tearing at his shirt. She heard the cotton rip, heard the muted ping of buttons popping before she finally, finally, finally hit hot, bare flesh. Satisfaction bubbled through her like warm syrup as her hands plied the sculpted muscles, tripping across them with her fingertips. He groaned his encouragement.

  She wanted more. Needed it. She cruised across rippled abs until she found the belt anchoring trousers to hips. Two deft tugs and she had it open and her hands plunging downward, cupping and stroking. Harsh Italian exploded from him, an endless stream of what sounded like a combination of demand, curse, and plea.

  “Panties,” she managed, praying he understood her shorthand. “Off.”

  Rending silk competed with the sound of their desperate breathing. And then came the pause, that long moment of sweet hesitation before temptation tipped over into inevitability. She stared up at Marco, wishing she didn’t see Lazz mirrored in her husband’s face and eyes, wishing that with one glance or touch or word, she could tell the difference between them. But she wasn’t sure she could. Not unless she demanded he show her his hip each time they came together.

  “I’m not him,” Marco bit out.

  “I know you’re not,” she attempted to soothe.

  “Not yet, you don’t. But you will.” He fumbled behind him. She heard a drawer being yanked open and the distinctive crinkle of foil. The instant he’d protected himself, he measured her length with his eyes. “Maybe this will help.”

  He swept his hands from her knees to her thighs, dragging her skirt upward as he went, baring her to the waist. She’d never been taken like this, simply flipped onto a bed and driven so insane with want that removing their clothes proved beyond them. She shuddered as he palmed the back of her thighs, lifting and opening her for his possession. A rush of cool air competed with the scalding heat of him as he came down on her, drove inward with a single, powerful thrust. She thought she screamed, but if she did, he caught the helpless sound in a desperate kiss.

  She locked her legs around his hips and surged upward to meet his next stroke, the need in her so huge and overwhelming, nothing else mattered but having this man inside her. The past didn’t count any more than the future. All she cared about was right here and right now.

  Marco loosened another barrage of Italian, and she answered as though she understood, inciting him to go higher and harder and further than they’d gone before. It was her turn to plead. To demand. To pray that she survived the encounter if only so she could do this again and again.

  Her climax hit with unexpected suddenness, careening through her in chaotic, unmanageable waves. No order. No logic or reason. She could only hang on and give in to something beyond her ability to control. To surrender utterly. Endless minutes passed while they fought to regain their breath.

  “Cara, please.” Concern lashed the words. “Don’t cry.”

  “Am I?” She lifted a boneless hand to her cheek. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Does it seem so wrong to you?”

  No, that was the scary part. It seemed all too right.

  “It’s just . . .” Damp hair curled across his brow, framing a face still carved with the remnants of desire. She itched to brush it from his eyes, and with a sigh of impatience, caved to the impulse. “It has to be more than this. More than just good sex.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Is that how you’d describe what just happened here? What happened between us last night?”

  She refused to consider it might be anything else. That would give it too much importance. “There’s more to a relationship than great sex,” she argued doggedly. “Far more to a marriage.”

  “So now it’s great sex,” he said. “At least that’s an improvement.”

  She slammed the heel of her palm against his shoulder, hurting herself more than him. “Would you be serious? At least with Lazz—” She broke off at the expression on his face, eyeing him apprehensively.

  “Do not,” he said in a low voice, “do not put my brother in bed with us. Not ever.”

  “It’s just—”

  “Am I not clear on this point?”

  “Fine. You’re clear.” She shoved at his shoulders. “I’d like to get up, please.”

  He rolled to one side, allowing her to escape. It annoyed her that he remained so comfortable with his partial nudity, while she needed desperately to cover herself while they talked. She tugged at her wrinkled skirt, attempting to restore it to some semblance of order. Next, she tackled the buttons of her blouse, only to realize she hadn’t a hope of hooking her bra unless she removed her blouse first. Turning her back on him, she did just that. A small, choking sound emanated from the direction of the bed and sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh, though when she turned back around he regarded her with such a sober expression, it stretched the bounds of credulity.

  She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m a logical person, Marco,” she finally said. “And though I enjoy sex as much as the next person—”

  “Great sex,” he reminded her.

  “Fine. Great sex.” He’d thrown her off track and it took a split second to find her stride again. “Marriage is more than sex. Even great sex,” she hastened to add before he could correct her again.

  “True,” he surprised her by saying. “Since we have that part down pat, we can spend the next fifty or so years working on the rest.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Does that alleviate your concerns, moglie mia?”

  Caitlyn planted her hands on her hips. “Why do you use so much Italian? Lazz never—” She broke off and rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes. He was right, Lazz didn’t belong in the room with them. “I’m sorry. I meant to say that you use a lot of Italian and I don’t understand a word of it. What does mog-whatever mean?”

  Marco left the bed. “Moglie means wife.” After stripping off the remains of his tattered shirt, he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. When he reappeared, he paused in front of her and dropped a swift kiss on her brow. “Thank you for trying.”

  She didn’t dare admit that Lazz might as well not have existed right then, despite her reference to him. Not while Marco stood in front of her, shirtless, his trousers gaping at the waist where a thin line of dark hair darted downward along a path she’d just recently followed. She struggled to keep her gaze fixed on his face. He must have known how
difficult she found it not to peek, because a slow grin built across his mouth.

  “I’m your husband, remember?” he said. “We have a piece of paper that says it’s not rude to look.”

  Her lips twitched, “I must have missed that particular line on our marriage license.”

  “Ah. That’s because you forgot your reading glasses.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “And if I’d remembered them?”

  He shrugged those magnificent shoulders of his. “Fate and chance give life interesting twists and turns, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Since I’m currently in a twist over one of those wrong turns, I’m not sure interesting is the word I’d use.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “I don’t consider our marriage a wrong turn,” he informed her quietly. “In time I hope you won’t, either.”

  She’d been inconsiderate, and hurt him without meaning to. It occurred to her that in the short time they’d been together, he’d used great care with her. Despite some of his more outrageous actions, everything he’d said, as well as his overall treatment of her, had been not just careful but downright tender. The least she could do was follow his example.

  “Where are we supposed to go from here?” she asked.

  “I was thinking the kitchen might be a good direction.”

  She stared at him in patent disbelief. “You want me to cook for you?”

  Lord help her, but Marco liked to laugh. “Actually, I thought I’d cook for you.”

  After snagging a shirt, he ushered her into the kitchen and seated her at a tiny table tucked within the sunny embrace of a bay window. Opening a drawer, he removed an apron, which he tied around his waist with such familiarity and efficiency, she realized this was far from his first foray into the kitchen. Coffee came first, freshly ground. And then he proceeded to cook. Really cook. In less than thirty minutes he placed two steaming plates of shrimp fettuccini on the table. After whipping off his apron, he joined her.

  “If this is meant to impress me—”

  “Has it succeeded?”

  “And then some.” She sampled the dish and groaned.

  “Do you cook like this all the time?”

  “When I’m not out of the country or entertaining potential clients. I got lucky and found a woman to shop for me who appreciates fine food as much as I do. I email her when I want something to appear in my refrigerator.” He shrugged. “And it appears. She also takes care of general housekeeping and various other chores that don’t appeal to me as much as cooking.”

  For some reason, that had Caitlyn returning her fork to her plate. “Maybe this would be a good time to discuss our marriage.”

  He picked up her fork and speared a succulent piece of shrimp and held it to her mouth. “Fine. What, in particular, would you like to discuss?”

  “Marco . . .” She couldn’t resist. She ate the shrimp, took the fork from him and dug in again. “What do you want from our marriage?”

  “Ah. You’d like rules. Order.”

  “I’d like some idea of your expectations.”

  “Scintillating conversation and companionship. Incredible sex—we’ll have to work to nudge it up from great. And with God’s blessing, more laughter than tears.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I can go on. Do you want me to fetch your tablet so you can jot down some notes?”

  “I need you to be serious. Marriage is a serious business.” Her fork clattered to her plate. An empty plate, she realized to her amazement. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this. None of this is real and it’s pointless to pretend otherwise.”

  “Marriage is not a business and I refuse to turn it into one.” He reached across the table and caught her hand. “Relax, cara. You need to give our relationship time and stop applying an agenda to it. Do flowers bloom on command? Does spring arrive simply because the calendar says it must? If it makes you more comfortable to create some sense of order, then let’s call this moment in our marriage point A. In a few weeks we can reassess and see if we haven’t moved to B or C.”

  For some reason his comment had her eyes filling. “This is crazy, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Tears,” he said with a frown. “Now that I will keep track of. Because for every tear, I’m going to make certain you have reason to laugh at least a hundred times.”

  “At this rate I’m going to spend all day laughing.”

  “See how easy that was? We already have our first marital rule. A hundred laughs for every tear.” The humor in his gaze eased, replaced by undisguised warmth. “I know you planned to tell me today that you’re leaving and putting an end to our marriage. But will you agree to stay and give it a try? We can set a time frame if that makes you more comfortable.”

  “A negotiation, Marco?”

  “I could, if I considered marriage a business deal. I could use The Snitch as an excuse or the Romano account.”

  She stirred uneasily. “Will our marriage have an adverse impact on that?”

  “No. But our divorce would.” He let that settle for a minute before continuing. “I could explain how much more beneficial it would be to your career to remain with me, or how it would look if we divorced after a single day of marriage. But this isn’t about business, as I’ve already explained. There’s only one real reason to stay together.”

  “Which is what?” She hazarded a guess. “To get to point Z?”

  He smiled, a gorgeous, sexy smile that she’d never, ever seen on Lazz Dante’s face. Only Marco could smile like that. “Why would I want to jump straight to Z when there are so many fun points to explore in between? The point of a dance is not to rush to the end, but to enjoy each step along the way.” He pulled her up from her chair and swung her into his arms, causing her to melt helplessly against him. “Come, my beautiful wife. What do you say? Let’s dance.”

  Chapter Seven

  Over the next few days, Caitlyn discovered Marco meant just what he said. He didn’t seem to care about the business ramifications should she walk out on him. He only cared about her. For some reason, that realization left her shaken. All the while a small voice whispered insistently in her ear that it had to be a lie. How could she possibly be more important than winning an account that would guarantee the meteoric success of Dantes in the European market?

  Marriage should be more complicated than Marco made it out to be. It certainly had been for her grandmother. Thanks to her disastrous union, there’d been exhaustive instructions on how to build a proper foundation and which qualities to look for in a husband, an endless list to be detailed, considered, and checked off long before marriage should ever be contemplated. She and Marco hadn’t done any of that, and Caitlyn couldn’t help but believe that lack would bring a fast end to a short marriage.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have long to dwell on her worries. The minute she returned to work, she was assigned a huge, complex project to oversee that involved transferring decades worth of old financial records from paper to computer.

  “With the expansion into the international market, we need to have this information available at the touch of a button,” Caitlyn’s supervisor explained. “And we need someone with your background in finance and attention to detail to sort the wheat from the chaff. Determine what’s important to computerize and what can be safely discarded.”

  “But what about my current duties?”

  “We’re assigning you temporary help with that while you concentrate on getting this other project in hand. I’ll be honest with you, Caitlyn. We’re hoping you can succeed where every other person who’s attempted this assignment has failed.”

  It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, Caitlyn realized with a touch of Marco’s sense of humor. The idea that she could accomplish what no one else could, appealed immensely and she threw herself into the project with unfettered enthusiasm. Unfortunately, it meant a temporary move from the Dantes main office to their warehouse where most of the records were stored.

  Toward the end of the week, Britt track
ed Caitlyn to her new location and tossed a folder onto her desk. “Here. Lazz said you needed this. I could have emailed it to you, but it gave me an excuse to come for a visit. Just so you know, you’re missed.”

  “Thanks. I miss you and Angie, too.” She checked her watch. “I wish I’d known you were coming. I’m actually scheduled to have lunch with Francesca in about five minutes.”

  “Sev’s wife, right?” Britt grimaced. “Makes sense. I guess she’s been assigned to explain what the family will expect from the latest Dante bride.”

  Caitlyn’s brows drew together. “Expect? What are you talking about?”

  Britt snapped her fingers. “Oh, come on, girl. Get with it. You’re in the public eye now. The Snitch will be all over you when news of your whirlwind marriage to Marco breaks. I suspect Primo or Nonna assigned Francesca as your handler, to guide you through the various family dos and don’ts so you don’t accidentally make matters worse for them than you already have.”

  It took an instant before Caitlyn could gather herself enough to reply. “I’m sure that’s not the case at all.”

  Britt shrugged. “If you say so.” She shoved a pile of papers to one side and levered herself onto the desktop. Lifting Caitlyn’s left hand, she let out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a rock, sweetie. Even more impressive than the one Lazz was planning to give you.”

  Caitlyn tugged her hand free, annoyed at the hint of color she felt creeping into her cheeks, and even more annoyed at Britt. “You and Angie made a bigger deal of my relationship with Lazz than it warranted.”

  “Apparently. Poor Lazz. I guess you fell for Marco’s charm just like every other woman working at Dantes.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “So? Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” But Caitlyn could guess, given the various rumors flying around the office about the events that had transpired the night she and Marco had eloped.