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Her skin was silky.
Her hair was soft.
Eight times three is twenty-four. Twenty-four times two is forty-eight. Forty-eight times two is ninety-six. Ninety-six times, Dio, ninety-six times ninety-six is—is—
Nicolo shut his eyes, gathered Aimee into his embrace. She sighed, her breath a susurration of sweet warmth against his throat.
Please, he thought, please, let her fall asleep quickly. Once she did, he’d get up, read a book. Do some work. Anything but lie here with Aimee in his arms because, of course, he would not sleep. This was too much. She was half-naked, they were completely alone…
He smiled.
And she had not called him a name in easily half an hour. That was a first.
It was a night of firsts. He’d never had a wife before, never even had a woman in this bed until now. He’d never slept with one without making love to her and most of all, most of all, he’d never held a woman against him and felt—and felt—
He drew back a little. Another minute, he’d carefully push back the covers, leave the bed—
“Nicolo?”
His wife’s voice was soft as the touch of a feather.
“Yes, cara?”
“Did I fall asleep in your arms on the plane, or was it a dream?”
Nicolo brushed his lips lightly over hers. “It was not a dream, amante. You slept just like this…and I hated to leave you.”
“I’m sorry you did,” she whispered.
A second later, she was asleep.
Get up, Nicolo told himself, you damned fool, get out of this bed right now.
Instead he rolled onto his back, taking Aimee with him, her head nestled in the curve of his shoulder, her arm thrown lightly over his chest.
He stared up at the ceiling, at a tiny bit of moonlight caught in the ancient fresco of cherubs and fauns.
“Ninety-six times ninety-six,” he whispered into the darkness, “is—is nine thousand two hundred and sixteen.”
Then, to his amazement, he closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SOMETIME JUST before dawn, it began to rain.
The windows were all open; a breeze ruffled the curtains and brought with it the scent of the gardens that surrounded the palazzo.
Aimee was warm and safe in Nicolo’s arms, her body sprawled half over his, hearts beating in unison.
She was asleep.
He was awake.
Awake, and enduring the sweetest kind of torture. The feel of her against him. The whisper of her breath against his naked shoulder. The gentle weight of her thigh over his.
Nicolo was trapped halfway between the heaven of holding his beautiful wife in his embrace and the hell of knowing he had promised he would not touch her.
It had seemed an easy promise to make.
