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She only knew the truth of it, and that that truth was painful and seared her right through to the bone.
But then they reached the top of the second hill and her breath caught in her throat for an entirely different reason. The path delivered them to the banks of an absolutely perfect, kidney-shaped lake. The water gleamed like crystal and glass in the autumn sun, basking in the late-morning light. All around, birds called from the shade trees, and sweet-smelling grass swept along the banks.
“This is beautiful,” Bethany breathed. But a different set of tears stung her eyes now. How could she have missed this place, in a year and a half spent only a hill away? How was that possible? She had the strangest sense of vertigo—as if everything she had accepted as fact, had acted upon, was spun around before her, out of focus and somehow not at all what she had believed it to be.
“My mother might have been an artist,” Leo said in that low, irresistible voice of his, velvet and steel, whiskey and chocolate. He gazed out over the postcard-perfect setting, though the look in his eyes was far away. “Had she not had the misfortune to be the Principessa di Felici. When she provided my father with the necessary heir, he provided her with a token of appreciation for services rendered. This lake.”
He crossed his arms over his leanly muscled chest, making the black T-shirt strain against his well-formed biceps.
“He had it made to resemble a lake on an estate in Andalucia where my mother spent summers as a girl.” He sent her a dark look beneath a sardonic lift of his brow. “But do not cast my father as a romantic in this scenario. He had not one sensitive bone in his body. He did, however, care deeply about public opinion, and the birth of a new prince was certainly an event worth celebrating in an ostentatious manner.”
He waved a hand at the enchanting, peaceful view. “And he built her a lake so that forever after Domenico Di Marco might be hailed as the great romantic hero he was not.”
“It is beautiful,” Bethany said again, more firmly, past the lump in her throat, the ache in her heart. “However it came to be here.”
She moved toward the water, that same deep restlessness making her feel edgy, nervous. She stared out over the sparkling surface for long moments, only half-aware that he was moving around behind her. She needed to think, to calm herself. She needed to rein in the wild, chaotic emotions that buffeted her. This was supposed to be a different kind of day—no wildness, no upset.
Surely she could handle that? Surely she could manage to keep her cool if Leo, of all people, could bring himself to talk to her like this?
She would not let herself regret that it could happen only now, when it was all over between them save the legalities. She would not imagine what might have been between them if this day had occurred three years ago, four years ago, instead of now. She would not ruin this, whatever it was, with the things that could not be changed no matter how this day went. No matter what she felt.
When she turned back around, he had set out a large, square ground-covering and had unpacked some of the hamper’s tempting items. Cold chicken, a bowl of olives. Wine and two glasses. Cheeses and slices of meats—carpaccio, prosciutto—and a selection of pâtés. Slices of apple and plump bunches of grapes.
He lounged across the blue and white blanket, his jeans-clad body on deliberate display, every inch of him clearly a delectable and dangerous male animal, for all that he appeared so indolent. She could not seem to look at that tight black T-shirt without losing her focus, much less the tanned, taut ridge of his abdomen that was revealed beneath the hiked-up hem. She had to swallow twice.
The look in his dark eyes, when they met hers, made her temperature soar. She felt feverish, too hot and too cold all at the same time.
“Come sit with me,” he said, the wolf to the foolish girl.
And, because she had never been anything but a fool when she was near him, no matter what else she might have been or wanted to be, she did.
Bethany knew the moment she lowered herself to the ground beside him that something had changed. She wanted it to be no more than a shift in the light breeze that danced in the trees above her head, or in the temperature of the day around them, but she was afraid she knew better.
She tucked the white cotton skirt she’d worn because it felt far too casual for a principessa tight around her knees, and tried to keep her attention trained on the beautiful water in front of her rather than the raw sexual energy emanating from the man lounging next to her.
“Are you not hungry?” he asked after one heated moment bled into another. She could not help herself—she turned to look at him, as if his very body commanded her and she was helpless to do anything but obey.
