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She took it. Pushed her fingers through his and held the smile on her face in place as she said, ‘Show me the way, Raffaele.’
‘Flora...?’
Her eyes moved up the length of him. Over the muscular body of a man she’d never have guessed had once been hungry. Or cold.
‘Raffaele...?’
‘Why did you get off the chopper?’ he asked.
‘Because we want the same thing.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that?’
‘For our baby—if I’m pregnant—to be protected. Safe.’ She pulled in a deep breath and added, ‘Loved.’ And the last word caught her in the ribs.
Who was going to love her?
Who would love Raffaele?
Could she?
Raffaele didn’t respond—because why would he damage the tentative connection they’d formed? The connection that had encouraged her to get her off the chopper? Why would he admit to her that he didn’t love? That he didn’t know how to love and didn’t want to learn.
His mother had loved completely. With all of herself.Selfishly.She’d neglected everything around her because of that love. Until the promise—the lie—of its return to had driven her to death’s door.
‘What I told you has made you think that?’ he asked.
He wouldn’t have summarised his rise to wealth using those words.Protected...safe...Loved.He certainly hadn’t been loved, protected, or kept safe.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Your origin... Your beginning...’ She shrugged. ‘They’re powerful.’
‘They hold no power over me,’ he dismissed. Because they didn’t. He’d only told her because she’d asked. And the story he’d told her hadn’t been his origin. It had been an ending. An end to the constant worry of watching over his mother. Because once he’d left that village he’d paid someone else to watch her for him.
Raffaele hardened himself against the woman holding his hand. The small wisp of a woman who’d broken his control, encouraged him with her whispers in the dark to throw that glass against the wall and let the shards fall where they might...
Step for step they moved along the deck. His hand absently pulled open the glass door and he led them inside. A sense of unease settled over him as he recognised the pull in his groin for what it was.
Desire.
His eyes raked over her. He wanted the softness of that hand holding his against his chest. He wanted to bury the memories she’d pulled out of his mouth in the warmth of her body. To find oblivion as he sheathed himself inside her and to drown out the part of the story he hadn’t told her.
How could he tell her that the hand she held so softly, so carefully, hadn’t been able to reach his mother? That he hadn’t been able to protect her or make her feel safe?
Hismammahad never grasped the hand he’d held out. Yes, she’d accepted his wealth. Accepted him turning that dilapidated house on the hill into a beacon of privilege. But she’d never acceptedhim.
So what did it matter that he hadn’t been there? Would she have taken his hand that night when she’d seen no alternative?
He’d never know.
‘Which way?’
Eyes bright, Flora turned to him.
‘Raffaele?’
He swallowed down the lump in throat. ‘Straight ahead.’
She smiled. A small, delicate pout of her lips. And, oh, how he wanted to lean down and sample their fullness. Taste her again. But this time with his name on her lips. He wanted to hear her panting it. Screaming every syllable into his mouth.
