Dante's Stolen Wife Page 9

  “Did that count? I thought you were dating Sev before you joined Dantes.”

  “Was blackmailed into joining Dantes. Don’t you read The Snitch? I guess Britt saw my relationship with Sev as a loosening of the rule and made a concerted effort to catch Marco’s eye. Then when both Lazz and Marco went after you…” Francesca shrugged. “I’m sure it felt like a slap in the face to poor Britt.”

  Caitlyn considered the situation. Sunlight poured down across the red spans of the bridge and bounced off the whitecaps far below. If Francesca’s comments were accurate, it explained many of the barbed remarks Britt claimed were jokes. “Thanks, Francesca. I appreciate you clueing me in.”

  Sympathy gleamed in Francesca’s dark eyes. “Anytime. I’m just sorry I had to trash someone you consider a friend.”

  Caitlyn leaned back against her seat and studied her sister-in-law for a long minute. How odd that with one simple “I do” she’d gone from having almost no family to having one so sizeable that she didn’t even know all their names or faces yet.

  A few minutes later they climbed the hillside above Sausalito and pulled into the drive of a large, rambling gated home. Francesca led the way through the dusky interior and out into a huge, meticulously tended garden, overrun with flowers, shrubs and shade trees. A wrought iron table had been placed beneath the widespread arms of a mush oak and set for lunch. Seated at the table was a woman who could only be Nonna.

  Caitlyn returned the older woman’s stare, fascinated by Marco’s grandmother. She must be well into her seventies, considering she and Primo just celebrated their fifty-sixth anniversary. Yet she looked a full decade younger, her face one of radiant beauty despite the lines life had carved there. Or maybe because of them.

  “Marco has your eyes,” Caitlyn observed.

  Laughter danced within the hazel depths, revealing that Marco had inherited a second characteristic from his grandmother. “So does Lazzaro,” she said, her voice carrying the lilting strains of her Italian heritage. “Or did you not notice?”

  Caitlyn blinked in surprise. “I…I guess I never did. But, of course they would since they’re identical twins.”

  Nonna lifted a shoulder. “Ah. Once you have been touched by The Inferno, you see only one man clearly.” She kissed Caitlyn on both cheeks, followed by Francesca, then gestured to the two empty chairs. “Come. Sit. You will call me Nonna as Francesca does, and we will break bread together and talk as women have talked since the day we were formed from Adam’s rib. About men, life, children and then, inevitably, about men again.”

  Francesca grinned. “Sounds good to me. Especially the men part.”

  “Hah. With you I suspect children are more on your thoughts, yes?”

  “Not quite yet, Nonna.”

  “Time will tell. I am rarely wrong about these matters. But since that is not yet an issue, we will have a lovely glass of wine with our lunch.” A mischievous expression twinkled in her eyes. “Maybe two.”

  “I’m sorry, Nonna,” Caitlyn began. “I can’t—”

  “Because you are not finished with your workday.” Nonna waved that aside and poured the wine. “If it makes you more comfortable, consider keeping me happy for the rest of the day one of your duties. One of your primary duties since I have arranged for you to have the afternoon off. And keeping me happy right now involves drinking some Dante wine while we get to know each other.”

  Caitlyn gave in gracefully. “A dangerous proposition. Last time I had a glass of your Dante wine, I ended up married to Marco.”

  The other two women dissolved into laughter. “Such is The Inferno,” Nonna said. “It turns sane, rational women into creatures of instinct.”

  The comment roused Caitlyn’s curiosity. “Would you mind if I asked you both a personal question?”

  “Hit me,” Francesca said.

  Nonna looked momentarily disconcerted at the response but nodded energetically, anyway. “Yes, yes. You may hit me, too. But I am old, so do it very gently.”

  “It’s more of a verbal hit,” Caitlyn explained with a smile. “I know you believe in The Inferno, Nonna. Marco told me how it changed your life and forced you to make a difficult choice.”

  “Not so difficult. More sad and unpleasant.”

  Caitlyn glanced at her sister-in-law. “But you, Francesca. Do you believe in it?”

  Francesca relaxed in her chair and took a sip of the crisp, golden Frascati. “I gather you don’t?”

  Caitlyn shook her head. “I think it must be legend or fantasy,” she said, shooting Nonna an apologetic look.

  “Yes, so did I. At first. It’s only natural, all things considered.”

  “You said…at first. That implies that at some point you bought in to the story.”

  Instead of laughing, an odd expression settled over Francesca’s face. “Give me an honest answer, Caitlyn. Was there an electric current when you and Marco first touched? I mean, an honest-to-goodness spark?”

  “There was something like that,” she admitted.

  “And do you feel him, even when you don’t see him? If I lined up Lazz and Marco in identical suits. If I mixed them up and turned them so their backs were to you. Could you tell which was your husband and which your brother-in-law?”

  “I’m not sure.” Perhaps if she could look directly at them, catch some clue as to expression or attitude. Or would it take that much effort? The mere idea of Lazz putting his hands on her struck her as downright distasteful. She closed her eyes. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Does Marco rub his palm, like this?” Francesca demonstrated, digging the fingers of her left hand into the center of her right. “Look familiar?”

  “Yes,” Caitlyn whispered. “I’ve caught him doing it on occasion. I catch myself doing it, too.”

  “It happens with all the Dante men once they have been struck by The Inferno, and it would seem, with some of the Dante brides,” Nonna explained. “Primo. Our two sons. And now Sev and Marco. So it has been since the beginning of the Dante line.”

  “It’s up to you whether or not you choose to believe that it’s The Inferno.” Francesca shrugged. “I happen to believe.”

  Before Caitlyn could ask more questions, Primo delivered their lunch, one he’d prepared for them himself. Clearly, Marco had inherited Primo’s ability in the kitchen, despite there being more of a physical resemblance between the older man and Sev. Though Primo’s countenance reflected an almost harsh nobility, only warmth showed in his expression. After welcoming her with a warm bear hug and a smacking kiss on each cheek, he checked to see whether they had everything they needed, then made himself scarce.

  The hours raced by after that, brimming with sweet, tart laughter and rich, full-bodied feminine conversation. Caitlyn couldn’t remember ever having a more enjoyable time in the company of women. At one point she attempted to compare Nonna with her own grandmother, but aside from a certain strength of character, the two couldn’t be more dissimilar.

  Early evening had just crept into the garden, pinching shut colorful day blooms and coaxing open their heavy-scented nocturnal sisters, when the Dante boys descended. Sev took one look at his wife and shook his head in mock dismay. “I see Nonna’s been a bit heavy-handed with the wine,” he addressed his grandfather. “I’m going to need your wheelbarrow to get this one home.”

  “You know where I stash it,” Primo said with a chuckle. He pulled a chair up beside Nonna and gathered her hand in his. Heads bent toward each other like a pair of sleepy white daffodils and they murmured softly in Italian.

  Caitlyn sensed Marco’s approach and knew that Francesca and Nonna would claim it was The Inferno at work. Whatever caused the awareness, it mitigated her surprise when he simply picked her up in his arms, stole her seat, then sat down again with her on his lap.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  “Perfect.” Her head dropped of its own accord to his shoulder. “Better than perfect.”

  “I’m glad. Nonna is…” He
shrugged.

  “There’s no describing her, is there?” Caitlyn agreed.

  They continued to sit, the six of them, and talk for another hour before Marco called it a night. They made their farewells and exited through the garden gate to the circular drive, maintaining a comfortable silence on the drive from Sausalito to Marco’s apartment.

  “Nonna’s different from my grandmother,” Caitlyn commented on their way inside.

  “You know, I think that’s the first time you’ve mentioned your family since our wedding night.” He inclined his head toward the rear of the apartment. “Fill me in while we change. How’s your grandmother different from mine?”

  She followed him into the bedroom and stripped off her suit jacket. “They’re both strong women,” she said, heading for the closet. “But Gran was rigid. Nonna…not so much.”

  He reached around her for a wooden hanger. “Let me guess. Your grandmother came from the school of thought that teaches seeing is believing.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Passed that right on to you, did she?”

  A smile flirted with Caitlyn’s mouth, then faded. “She didn’t have much choice. She raised me, you know. Or maybe you don’t know.” She shot him an uneasy glance. “Sorry. I guess it was Lazz I told.”

  To her relief, he didn’t take offense. “Tell me now,” he encouraged. He unzipped her skirt for her, before ripping free his tie with a sigh of relief.

  She stepped out of her skirt and clipped it to the hanger holding her suit jacket. It never ceased to amaze her how comfortable she felt performing these little domestic chores in front of him. Relishing the sizzle of awareness combined with the gentle bite of sexual tension. Wondering if the sight of her half-undressed would tempt him to pick her up and toss her to the bed behind them. If his nudity would tempt her to entice him there. She suddenly realized he was waiting for her response.

  “Oh, it’s an old, sad story,” she hastened to explain. “One told by countless women over the years. My grandfather was a charmer.”

  She broke off when Marco lassoed her with his tie and yanked her up against him. “Excuse me?” he rumbled.

  She couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, stop glaring at me. I don’t mean your kind of charmer.”

  “What other kind is there?” he asked, genuinely bewildered.

  Her amusement evaporated. “The sort who makes pie-in-the-sky promises and neglects to keep them.” She strained against the confines of the tie, regarding him with amused exasperation. “Do you mind?”

  “Another time, perhaps.” He reluctantly released her and continued to undress. “That explains why my promises worry you so much. You don’t know me well enough to believe I’ll keep them.”

  “Something like that,” she confessed. “Gramps encouraged Gran to give up a high-powered budding career, which in those days, very few women managed to achieve. But she did it because he sold her on the dream.”

  He leaned against the closet doorjamb, shirtless, his only covering a black pair of boxer briefs. “Which was?” he prompted.

  She tore her gaze away and scrambled to remember where she’d left off in her story. “He…he wanted the dream. A two-story home and white picket fence, dinner on the table at six, where a freckle-faced son with a slingshot tucked in his back pocket would be waiting for him, along with a sweet little daddy’s girl dressed in a frilly dress and pigtails.”

  “What did he end up with?”

  “A ramshackle house in dire need of repair with a fence falling into splinters, a dinner of mac and cheese because the budget didn’t stretch to more than that, and a squalling daughter suffering from colic. Somehow it managed to escape his attention that in order to have the dream, someone had to earn a living. Not long after my mother was born, he took off. He’d found a new dream that appealed far more than the realities of the old one.”

  “What happened to your grandmother and mother?”

  She turned to face him. “Gran raised my mother the best she could. Worked whatever menial jobs she managed to pick up, since by then the possibility of a career had passed her by. My mother took off at sixteen with the first man who looked twice at her. I landed on Gran’s doorstep nine months later.”

  “Hell, sweetheart.” He wrapped her up in a hug.

  “Saying I’m sorry sounds so inadequate. But I am.”

  Caitlyn shrugged, inhaling the unique scent of him. God, he smelled good, and felt even better—strength and warmth and comfort all rolled into one. “I had Gran. And my mother showed up periodically, whenever she found herself between boyfriends. Then the next rainbow would appear in the sky and she’d go dashing after it, certain that this time she’d luck into that pot of gold. Took after my grandfather, Gran always said. It’s been years since I last saw her.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “She died of Alzheimer’s a few years ago. She’d talk about him sometimes. Gramps. She didn’t have a clue who I was, but she’d talk about when Jimmy came back, how they’d have the dream. Maybe it’s good that her disease offered her some happiness at the end. I don’t think she experienced much all the years I knew her.”

  He pulled back an inch to gaze down at her. “You have the Dantes now, cara.” Emotion gave his voice a musical lilt. “You know that, right? No matter what anyone says about our marriage, we look after our own.”

  His comment reminded her of her run-in with Britt. “Would you mind if I asked you a question about your past?” she said hesitantly. “You don’t have to answer. It’s just…”

  He winced. “Uh-oh. Busted. Who, what, when and why?”

  “Britt stopped by my office today right before Francesca arrived to take me to lunch.”

  His expression gave nothing away. “And?”

  “Francesca mentioned that Britt once hit on you.” Caitlyn struggled to keep her voice casual. Not that she succeeded in fooling him. “Did she? Hit on you, I mean?”

  He released a rough sigh. “I’d call it more of a tap than an actual hit, one I politely ignored.”

  A swift smile came and went. “Mr. Irresistible,” she managed to tease.

  He gave a short, ironic laugh. “I’ll take your word for it. Some women hit on me, though whether it’s because I’m irresistible or not I can’t say. More irresistible for most women is that I’m a Dante and they want the sparkle a Dante husband can bring to a marriage. After all these years, I can tell the difference. Britt likes the sparkle.”

  “While I prefer the spark.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” He slid a hand around the nape of Caitlyn’s neck and lifted her for a lingering kiss. “My turn to ask a question.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Who, what, when and why?”

  “Why did Francesca feel the need to tell you about Britt?”

  Once again Caitlyn tried for casual and once again came up short. “Britt demonstrated a bit too much curiosity about how I ended up with you instead of Lazz.”

  “It was more than that, wasn’t it?” When she didn’t respond, he let it go. “You’re a loyal friend, Caitlyn. But you have nothing to worry about when it comes to other women. Once The Inferno strikes, that’s it. No one else exists as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Prove it.”

  The words slipped out before she could stop them, and his response came in a flash. Determination hardened his features and he kissed her with a passion that instantly sent her spinning out of control. Over the past several days he’d gained a familiarity with how to arouse her, how to drive her soaring to the highest peaks. Of course, it didn’t take much. A kiss. A touch. Even a look seemed to ignite the flame between them.

  Their remaining few clothes slid away with soft sighs, forming a path of cotton and silk from closet to bed. Where had her anger gone these past days? Her indignation over his deception? They’d both vanished in the face of a far more powerful emotion, one that left her mindless with need, a need only one man could fulfill.

  Gran would have called her every kind of fool for putting fan
tasy ahead of reality. But in that moment Caitlyn didn’t care. Winding her arms around her husband, she surrendered, soaring over rainbows and floating away on clouds of pleasure. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

  Tonight she’d take the dream.

  Eight

  She was gone.

  Marco came instantly awake. He didn’t try to explain this new awareness of Caitlyn’s presence or absence, but simply tossed back the covers to go in search of his wife. He tracked her down raiding the refrigerator. To his amusement, she’d prepared a snack for two.

  “I see by all those sandwiches that you knew I’d come,” he said with a yawn.

  “Yes.” He caught a hint of resignation in her voice.

  “No doubt you’ll say it’s The Inferno.”

  He took the plate from her and set it aside. Wrapping his arms around her, he rested his forehead against hers. “It still bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Simple and concise and down-to-the-bones honest. He appreciated that about her. “Do you think The Inferno makes what we feel for each other less real?” he asked.

  Despite the lack of light, he could see her gaze grow troubled. “If our relationship is all at the whim of this Inferno, then it isn’t because of who I am as a person. Or who you are, for that matter. We’re just mated to each other without anything in common other than sexual attraction. How long do you think that’s going to last?”

  “Got it.” He cut straight to the heart of the matter. “You want security. You want assurances. You want to know that we’re still going to be together fifty years from now.”

  She choked on a laugh that contained more than a hint of tears. “I’ll take a year, for now. Even a week. But I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For it to all go horribly wrong. If what we feel is due to The Inferno, then it’s fantasy, not reality.”

  “It’s more than that, Caitlyn, and you know it.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter and cushioned her against his chest. “Either The Inferno is real or it’s fantasy. If it’s fantasy, it’ll end and you’ll get hurt. But if it’s real, you’re afraid your ability to make your own choices in life will be taken out of your control.”