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His body felt taut and hard, his senses flooded with her scent and heat. Why was she the only one who made him feel this way? Why did she drive him mad? It made no sense. This desire wasn’t logical and yet it was the most compelling thing he’d felt in years.
Her cheeks already flushed, darkened to a luscious rose. She chewed on her lower lip. “You’re not abiding by the rules,” she whispered.
“What rules?”
She closed her eyes, and drew a slow, unsteady breath before exhaling just as slowly. “Exactly my point.”
Marcu’s body was so hard he ached. He pressed his knuckles to the wall. He craved her mouth. He craved her taste. It was all he could do to just hold his position. “This isn’t working, is it?” he muttered.
She gave her head a very slight shake.
“What do we do?” he asked.
She dragged in another unsteady breath. “One of us needs to leave.”
“Leave? Your room?”
“No. This place. The castello.” She opened her eyes, and looked straight into his. The gold-brown of her eyes was dark with emotion. She looked as if she was in pain, and it sent a lance of white-hot agony through him.
He flinched and ground his knuckles against the wall.
“We can’t both be here,” she whispered. “Nothing good will come of it. You know it.”
He did know it, and he hated what she was saying, but she was right. This wasn’t good for either of them. This was beyond torturous. He hated feeling so much. He hated feeling helpless. But to leave her...
To lose her...
Again.
And yet she wasn’t his. She’d never be his. Why couldn’t he accept it?
But no, he could. He did. He was an adult, a man who understood responsibility. He understood ramifications.
“You need to be here. I don’t,” he said brusquely, before peeling himself away from her and taking a step back. The effort had drained him. He felt almost beaten as he put space between them. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Good, because if you don’t, I will.”
* * *
Monet sagged as Marcu left her suite. Her heart was still racing so fast that she could barely cross to the chair by the fire before she collapsed into it.
She’d never wanted a kiss so badly.
She’d never wanted anything as much as she’d wanted him to throw caution to the wind and just kiss her...
And not a sweet, tentative kiss, but mad passion. Her hands itched for his, her body trembled with longing. If only he’d clasped her hands and pinned them over her head and held her there against that wall as he claimed her mouth, and then claimed her.
She’d wanted the weight of his body, and the heat and pressure. Her body felt so unbearably sensitive. Monet wrapped an arm over her chest, pressing against her breasts, against the tingling in her nipples.
She’d wanted his hands there, and she’d wanted his mouth on her skin, and she’d wanted him...
My God.
This was everything she’d felt in Palermo, and yet more, because she was older now and more confident and she didn’t want him because she had some big emotional hole inside of her, but rather she wanted him because he set her body on fire and torched her senses and she loved it.
Loved it.
And she wanted more.
Monet’s head fell back against the back of the chair and she sighed heavily. Obviously she wouldn’t be kissing Marcu, or taking him to her bed, but the desire burned within her and it wasn’t going to be easy to forget just how hungry and fierce he’d made her feel.
* * *
Marcu stood at his bedroom window watching the snow fall in white sheets beyond the thick beveled glass. It was after midnight and he hadn’t even tried to go to bed, knowing it would be impossible to sleep when his brain still raced, struggling to process everything said tonight.
All these years he’d thought Monet had left Palermo because she’d been disgusted by the kiss. He’d thought she’d wanted to escape, because she was filled with regret over what they’d done. He’d agonized over his actions, thinking he’d let her down, betrayed her trust. Had she viewed him as a surrogate brother, someone who would look after her instead? If that was the case, no wonder she’d given him a look of repulsion when he’d returned to his room after speaking to his father.
He’d misread the situation and violated her trust.
For years he couldn’t even think of her without self-hatred, disgusted with himself for taking advantage of her and making her feel unsafe in her own home.
But she hadn’t said any of that tonight. No, she’d flung different words at him instead...an altogether different accusation.
She’d been hurt by his father’s words, and devastated that Marcu hadn’t defended her.
He hadn’t known she could hear the conversation—a conversation he remembered quite differently.
His brow creased as he stared out at the swirling world of white.
Either way, it was problematic being under the same roof with her again. He wasn’t sure how he had thought this would play out. Had he imagined that he wouldn’t be attracted to her any longer? Had he hoped that by bringing her to Aosta, he would finally feel free of the past? Of her?
Except that he wasn’t free of the past, or her. Being near her now was even more difficult than before.
Being near her made him feel, and a dark dangerous hunger seemed to fill his veins and heat his skin. He wanted her. He wanted to possess her...to touch her and taste her, to take her, and know her, and make her shudder and come apart for him.
And yet despite the desire, and despite his body being hard and his pulse thudding with demanding need, he had a ring for Vittoria in his travel bag. He had a suitcase packed for his departure tomorrow. His head told him that Vittoria would be the right one. His head said he needed someone suitable, someone who didn’t threaten his calm, and control. He preferred a rational world, a world of order and reason. Not passion. Or hunger. Or volatile emotions that weren’t to be trusted.
Now if only his body would listen, and his pulse would slow, and his uncomfortable aching erection would ease.
He put a hand to the cold glass, pressing his palm against the chill, trying to freeze the heat within him.
Monet wasn’t for him. She was never meant to be his. But at the same time, there was no one he trusted more with his children. They’d be safe with her.
There was no one he wanted more...
But marriage wasn’t about passion, or desire. Marriage was duty, responsibility. He couldn’t confuse the two.
He’d leave first thing tomorrow. He’d leave before he did something rash, something illogical...something that might change all their lives forever.
* * *
The snow was falling thickly in the morning when Monet dragged herself from bed. Her head ached and her eyes felt dry and gritty. She’d tossed and turned all night, her dreams tormenting her almost as much as Marcu had tormented her with the promise of something he had no intention of delivering. He’d been pretty ruthless last night, and she’d been aroused by it, wanting him more than ever.
Monet wrapped herself in her thick robe and went to the sitting room, where a breakfast tray waited on one of the small tables. Even better, there was no note from Marcu.
She plugged in the lights on her little tree and sipped her caffe latte, and tore apart the warm fragrant roll, liberally spreading butter and jam on it. She’d forgotten how much she loved prima colazione. Even though she was in the Italian Alps, not Sicily, a part of her felt as if she’d come home.
She was just finishing the last of her breakfast when a knock sounded on her door. She closed her eyes, said a swift prayer—please don’t let it be Marcu—and then rose to open the door.
It was Marcu, dressed, in winter travel clothes.
