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Alone.
“That was a beautiful service,” he said, unexpectedly. “It was more than my father deserved.”
“He was my husband—” she stressed the word “—it was the least he deserved.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Anyway, I’m taking my mother back to the clinic.” Rafe twisted a heavy ring around one of his fingers. “She’s confused and upset.”
“Who isn’t?” Donni said, before she could think better of it. Then she almost felt bad, not wanting to seem like she was demeaning his mother’s mental health. Then she wondered why the fuck she cared when this man didn’t give a damn about hers. “I’m sorry she’s unwell.”
His mouth twitched in that humorless way that was more of an acknowledgement of a joke than pure enjoyment of it. “She’ll be better when she gets some food inside her. What about you? I don’t think I’ve seen you touch a bite.”
Donni glanced at the rather unappetizing buffet table. Opal had inexplicably brought a two-layer red velvet cake, which she’d set out on a beveled glass plate. The vol-au-vents were sagging and the asparagus spears were bathing in pools of oil. Only the deviled eggs and the compote seemed to be getting any takers.
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“You might want to develop one, for appearances’ sake,” he murmured. “You’re making people nervous.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was implying. “Howdareyou,” she said, pitching her voice low, keeping her face composed. “You think I’d poison my guests?”
“No,” he said. “But your guests might.”
“Screw. You.”
“I’m sorry.” Rafe let his hand slide free from his belt. “I’m not good at funerals. And you seemed to find this one very moving. I just thought I’d offer a little piece of advice.”
“I think you know what I think you can do with your advice.”
His smile flickered. “Yes,” he said, in a slightly darker tone. “I can imagine.” He held out his arms, stepping closer. “Embrace me. Otherwise, you’ll look cold.”
Cold. She thought of saying, “Not now, Rafe,” but couldn’t bring herself to be that cruel at a funeral. Besides, he was right. Bastard. Reluctantly, she stepped into his embrace, and he crushed her to him in a way that might have looked like a desperate need for comfort to anyone who didn’t hear him whisper, “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Fine,” she said tightly, girding herself against the feel of those warm fingers brushing down her bare spine, the cold burn of his ring. “Bring your checkbook,” she added unpleasantly.
He breathed out a laugh, once, and then he was gone.
But his scent—cedarwood and bergamot—lingered. And her skin still tingled from his touch. She had never thought of him like that before, not in a sexual way, and the fact that he could stir her to such reactions, especially now, disturbed her.
Despite his height and build, he was much slimmer than his father, who had thickened around the middle from years of what he liked to call “rich living.” Unlike Marco, her arms wrapped easily around Rafe’s smaller waist, and there was no gut to prevent her body from molding against his when he had pulled her in, to feel the hard flex of muscle beneath that too-thin shirt, or the rather sizable bulge in his dress pants.
Unwillingly, she found herself remembering his confession to her. The way he’d spoken, it had almost sounded like he’d been . . .waitingfor her this entire time.
And that was terrifying. Because if that was the case, it meant he was more obsessed than she had ever believed possible. It was borderline insane behavior, is what it was. A man like that might hurt her in his eagerness like a charging bull. He might do anything.
Nervously, she straightened her clothes, which suddenly felt too tight, and locked eyes with Christophe, who toasted her ironically with his glass of cider. The esurient look on his face suggested that he’d seen Rafe embrace her and drawn his own conclusions about it.
“Was that Rafael Nicastro I saw you with?” The question was accompanied by the jangle of silver and made Donni jump. She turned to see Opal standing there, drink in hand. Nonalcoholic, of course. They wouldn’t allow alcohol at the funeral parlor so Donni had set up a wake in the private room of a nearby restaurant. She felt a winery would be a bit tasteless under the present circumstances.
“Yes,” Donni said. “It was him.”
“What a handsome young man. I almost didn’t recognize him. He’s all grown up. And a published author, no less. He must be quite popular with the ladies.”
Donni shifted her clutch to the other hand, wondering what the other woman was suggesting with her remarks. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Everyone here is so proud of him. We read his books in our book club not too long ago. Well, the first one, anyway. Irene didn’t like it, but that’s Irene. She never likes anything. My, my, they certainly were sensational. I thought one of the ladies was going to have a heart a—” Opal broke off, looking convincingly horrified, although whether it was at the admission that there had been meetings to which she hadn’t been invited, or the near-joke about Marco’s cause of death, Donni wasn’t sure.
“I know what you mean,” she said vaguely, not wanting to be too merciful.
“Well, it’s nice to see he’s grown up. With a mother like that, I was always concerned. He was such an angry, vicious little boy. I still remember the time he punched my Christophe in his dear little nose. I had to take him to the plastic surgeon so he wouldn’t look like one of those bar fighters. You did the best you could with him, poor thing.” She patted Donni’s shoulder. “As best a woman like you could, anyway.”
