pale hand,the long slender fingers looking too effeminate to be capable of inflicting pain.
But she knew differently.
As Marco had asked of her, she suffered the evening in her father’s company. Her nerves jumped like live wires by the time they returned home but she held onto the belief he would make everything right. That she and her mother would soon be free.
She hurried to her mother’s room, hoping Marco had talked over a plan with her. That they would be leaving here soon. That they would finally be free of David Tate’s control.
“Well? What did Marco say? When do we leave?” Delanie asked in hushed tones.
Small furrows raced across her mother’s pale forehead, the skin so thin and white it was nearly translucent. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
And so Delanie explained it in a rush, her fragile faith in Marco withering when her mother gave her a pitying smile. “He never came, dear. He never called.”
“But he said—”
“Men are the kings of false promises,” her mother interrupted, her fragile blue-veined hand patting Delanie’s in a conciliatory gesture that failed to comfort. “You should know that by now.”
Yes, she should know it. Did know it. But she’d begun to trust Marco.
“Mother, did you ever mention what I told you about Marco’s grandmother?” she asked.
“No, not a word,” her mother said, but looked everywhere but at her. “Why do you ask?”
Delanie waved a dismissive hand. “Just curious. It’s just that I told nobody but you and yet Father has learned of it.”
Her mother had smiled. “You should know by now that the walls here have ears.”
Yes, of course. A maid must have overheard and toldsomeone. That’s how the information had trickled back to her father.
Delanie had gone to her room that night, refusing to sob. Tears solved nothing. She’d crawled into bed and curled into a ball, vowing never to fall victim to love and a man’s control again.
Yet, ten years later, here she was as the car stopped under the portico of the palatial villa, blinking eyes that burned with unshed tears. Heart aching in an all too familiar pain that she thought she had buried long ago.
A glance at the tall Italian who’d just pushed out of the auto gave her the answer.
Years ago Marco had simply stormed out of her life, turning her tenuous trust in him to dust as he walked over the shards of her broken heart. Now he was back, causing her to doubt her mother’s loyalty. Making her want to lean on him all over again. The odd pang in her chest confirmed the one thing she’d feared most. She was still vulnerable to Marco’s magnetic charm. Still not over him.
This time she would guard her heart.
Marco stood a moment stretching his long legs. His gaze climbed the gray walls of Cabriotini’s Italianate villa, the red tile roof gleaming in the late-afternoon sun and the well-tended lawn with artistically designed flower beds overflowing with bright yellow and orange blossoms.
His time living here was about over. Two weeks and he would move to his home. In two weeks he wouldn’t be haunted by the stigma of this villa. Or by Delanie Tate?
The hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he rounded the hood. He opened her door and extended a hand, challenging her to accept his manners or publicly snub him.
There was a long pause as she sat huddled on the plush seat, sunlight dancing down the length of her lovely legs encased in the sheerest hose, the skin pale. Were they still as smooth?
Sexy legs. That was the first thing he’d noticed about her before discovering how luscious the whole package was—full breasts, lush, inviting lips, soft, yielding body begging for sex.
“We manage a sparse staff,” he said, dragging his gaze back to hers. “But they’ll see that your reasonable needs are met.”
“I don’t need or wish to be waited on,” she said, slipping her small hand in his and exiting with the grace befitting quality.
“It’s
But she knew differently.
As Marco had asked of her, she suffered the evening in her father’s company. Her nerves jumped like live wires by the time they returned home but she held onto the belief he would make everything right. That she and her mother would soon be free.
She hurried to her mother’s room, hoping Marco had talked over a plan with her. That they would be leaving here soon. That they would finally be free of David Tate’s control.
“Well? What did Marco say? When do we leave?” Delanie asked in hushed tones.
Small furrows raced across her mother’s pale forehead, the skin so thin and white it was nearly translucent. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
And so Delanie explained it in a rush, her fragile faith in Marco withering when her mother gave her a pitying smile. “He never came, dear. He never called.”
“But he said—”
“Men are the kings of false promises,” her mother interrupted, her fragile blue-veined hand patting Delanie’s in a conciliatory gesture that failed to comfort. “You should know that by now.”
Yes, she should know it. Did know it. But she’d begun to trust Marco.
“Mother, did you ever mention what I told you about Marco’s grandmother?” she asked.
“No, not a word,” her mother said, but looked everywhere but at her. “Why do you ask?”
Delanie waved a dismissive hand. “Just curious. It’s just that I told nobody but you and yet Father has learned of it.”
Her mother had smiled. “You should know by now that the walls here have ears.”
Yes, of course. A maid must have overheard and toldsomeone. That’s how the information had trickled back to her father.
Delanie had gone to her room that night, refusing to sob. Tears solved nothing. She’d crawled into bed and curled into a ball, vowing never to fall victim to love and a man’s control again.
Yet, ten years later, here she was as the car stopped under the portico of the palatial villa, blinking eyes that burned with unshed tears. Heart aching in an all too familiar pain that she thought she had buried long ago.
A glance at the tall Italian who’d just pushed out of the auto gave her the answer.
Years ago Marco had simply stormed out of her life, turning her tenuous trust in him to dust as he walked over the shards of her broken heart. Now he was back, causing her to doubt her mother’s loyalty. Making her want to lean on him all over again. The odd pang in her chest confirmed the one thing she’d feared most. She was still vulnerable to Marco’s magnetic charm. Still not over him.
This time she would guard her heart.
Marco stood a moment stretching his long legs. His gaze climbed the gray walls of Cabriotini’s Italianate villa, the red tile roof gleaming in the late-afternoon sun and the well-tended lawn with artistically designed flower beds overflowing with bright yellow and orange blossoms.
His time living here was about over. Two weeks and he would move to his home. In two weeks he wouldn’t be haunted by the stigma of this villa. Or by Delanie Tate?
The hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he rounded the hood. He opened her door and extended a hand, challenging her to accept his manners or publicly snub him.
There was a long pause as she sat huddled on the plush seat, sunlight dancing down the length of her lovely legs encased in the sheerest hose, the skin pale. Were they still as smooth?
Sexy legs. That was the first thing he’d noticed about her before discovering how luscious the whole package was—full breasts, lush, inviting lips, soft, yielding body begging for sex.
“We manage a sparse staff,” he said, dragging his gaze back to hers. “But they’ll see that your reasonable needs are met.”
“I don’t need or wish to be waited on,” she said, slipping her small hand in his and exiting with the grace befitting quality.
“It’s
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