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“What?” Maxim asks. He’s naked and beautiful, his eyes bright in his tanned face, as he hugs his pillow facing her.
She stares at his tattoo of his coat of arms and, reaching over, traces the outline with her finger while she wonders how she should ask this question.
“What?” he presses her and smooths a stray strand of damp hair behind her ear.
“Um… it is something your sister said to me at the wedding.”
* * *
Oh shit. What could that be?
I tense, wondering what Maryanne has blurted to my dear, dear Alessia.
“She said, ‘Reformed rakes make the best husbands.’” Alessia’s dark eyes glimmer, full of questions in the soft light.
I blow out a breath, trying to think what to say.
“I have read Georgette Heyer. I know what a rake is…” she adds.
“And?”
“Is your sister saying that you are a rake?”
“Alessia, it’s the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth.”
She stares at me for several seconds, her teeth toying with her upper lip as she assesses me.
Hell. Is she judging me?
Found me wanting?
I have no idea. I hold my breath.
“How many women?” she asks eventually.
Ah. My stomach sinks. This is where her thoughts are going. “Why do you want to know?”
“I am curious.”
I reach out and caress her face. “In all honesty, I don’t know. I didn’t keep count.”
“Many?”
“Many.”
“Tens. Hundreds. Thousands?”
I make a face. Thousands! Sheesh. I don’t think so.
“Tens… or so. I don’t know.” And it’s a small white lie.
Hundreds more like, dude.
She stares back at me, and I hope to God she’s not seeing through my untruth or seeing me in a sordid new light. It was just sex. “Hey.” I shift closer to her. “No one since I met you.”
“Not the widow?” she whispers.
And in those three words, I hear her anguish and distrust. I close my eyes as an ember of anger flares in my gut at my loose-lipped sister-in-law.
Bloody Caro!
“No. No one since I saw you clutching the broom in my hallway.”
When I open my eyes, she’s studying me once more, and I have no idea what she’s thinking. But Alessia nods, seemingly satisfied, and I blow out a breath.
Thank fuck for that.
“Here.” I draw her to me. “There was before Alessia, and then there’s the rest of my life with you. That’s all that matters.” And I kiss her once more.
* * *
As dawn breaks over their little part of heaven, Alessia is curled up in one of the armchairs watching Maxim sleep. He’s sprawled facedown and naked on the bed. His legs tangled in the sheets, like the first time she ever saw him… not so long ago.
She was shocked then but fascinated—drawn to the chiseled lines of his athletic body. Now she can appreciate every line and sinew. How sculpted he looks and how young and relaxed he seems in sleep. The tan line between his back and his muscular, curved behind is far more defined, and she’d like to sink her teeth into that butt. Shocked at her wayward thoughts, she sips her unsweetened black coffee, enjoying its bitter, strong taste and the enticing view of her husband.
Should she wake him?
A wake-up call?
He’d like that. The muscles deep in her belly tighten in pleasure at the thought.
Alessia! She can hear her mother’s voice.
He’s my husband, Mama.
Today, they head back to England.
Her new home.
And she’ll have to face his family, his friends, his work colleagues, and she only hopes they won’t find her lacking.
And she’ll have to find something to do.
What’s expected of her, she doesn’t even know.
She suspects this is why she can’t sleep. It’s the excitement and the anxiety.
Maxim stirs and reaches out to her side of the bed, then looks up and around when he finds the bed empty, his green eyes bright in the soft pink light of dawn.
Alessia puts down her cup, lifts the net, and scrambles into bed beside him.
“There you are,” he murmurs, pulling her into his arms.
* * *
We touch down at Heathrow just after eight in the morning. Once we’ve disembarked the plane, we arrive at the top of the jetty, where an official from the VIP service greets us. She escorts us airside via a lift to ground level, and we exit the terminal beside the British Airways Boeing 777 that’s brought us from St. Lucia. There, a sleek black 7 series BMW awaits us. Our greeter opens the boot and places our hand luggage inside. Then she opens the rear passenger door, and we both climb in and sink into the leather seats.
“This is unexpected,” Alessia says, turning wide eyes in my direction.
I shrug. “I’m not dealing with the scrum that is passport control.”
Our guide climbs into the car and drives us across the airport to the VIP building.
“You’ll need your passport,” I tell Alessia as we’re ushered out of the car.
The Border Force official gives my passport a cursory glance and a more thorough inspection of Alessia’s.
