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That feeling—that urge to stay close to her—is what makes me pull out abruptly, stepping away to put distance between us as I tuck my cock quickly back into my pants. Amalie doesn’t move for a long moment, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and then she finally pushes herself off of the bed, refusing to look at me as she sits on the edge. Her legs are clamped tightly together, and she wraps her arms over her breasts, looking pointedly away.
Something about it infuriates me. I’m not sure exactly what it is or why, but I stalk towards her, closing the distance between us in two quick strides as I grab her chin and turn her face to mine.
I feel her gasp when I crush my mouth against hers, my fingers gripping her jaw—and I don’t know what’s come over me.
I’ve barely kissed her since our wedding. I’ve made a point ofnotkissing her. I don’t want there to be anything romantic between us—and this isn’t meant to be a romantic kiss, either.
But somehow, it feels like one. And she feels it, too. I can tell from the way she turns towards me, softening into my touch, her mouth parting under mine. For a brief moment, we’re both lost in the kiss, and I have the sudden urge to spill her back into the bed, to run my hands over every inch of her the way I did in Ibiza, to keep her there with me for the rest of the day.
I pull away, releasing her with a sharp twist of my hand that sends her reeling back a little. Her eyes are wide as she looks up at me, startled, as if she wasn’t expecting me to kiss her like that. Iknowshe wasn’t expecting it.
“I have a flight to catch,” I tell her coldly, turning away. “Don’t leave the immediate grounds of the house, Amalie. I’ll be very upset if I come back to find that you’ve disobeyed me. I’m leaving security here, and they’ll keep an eye on you.”
Her face tightens instantly, any softness gone as her expression turns mutinous. But she just nods, her arms still tightly crossed over her chest as I reach for my leather duffel and walk out of the room.
—
On the short flight to Boston, I do my best not to think about my wife. It should be easy—I don’twantto think about her, and I have plenty of other things to consider, since my father wants me there to discuss business. But I can’t seem to shake Amalie from my thoughts.
She’s different here from the girl I met in Ibiza. There, she was carefree and flirtatious, wild, and a little reckless. Here, she’s anxious and petulant, angry and suspicious by turns, and seemingly intent on infuriating me constantly. Every time I think back on that afternoon in the library, I feel certain that I should have refused to marry her. My father might have been frustrated with the failure of the arrangement, but I’m rapidly beginning to think I’d rather have faced that than the frustration of having been pushed into marrying Amalie Leone. She’s far from the kind of girl I would have chosen for a wife.
I wanted someone who understood my expectations, who would want peace and security above all else. Those things I can provide, so long as I’m given my own peace in return. But Amalie—
Maybe I should have brought her with me. The problem of the attic pokes at the back of my mind, and I grit my teeth, realizing I should have re-locked the door and taken the key. If she continues to snoop around—
I have to hope that she’ll be bored with that particular line of investigation before it becomes more of a problem. But I already know that’s decidedly not the sort of woman Amalie is. She’s stubborn and persistent, and I can tell from even this short time that she’s not going to simply smile and put on a pleasant face for dinner parties and charity events, and then return to us ignoring each other at home. She’s going to keep poking, prodding, and insisting that I answer her questions until things blow up between us. At this point, I half-hope the baby isn’t mine, so I have an excuse to be finished with her.
Is that really what you want? That nagging question lingers in my mind, taunting me. No matter how much I insist that I want a gulf of distance between my wife and me, to only be closed when we lower a mutually agreed-upon drawbridge, I don’t react that way when I’m near her. I can’t figure her out, and it’s making me feel obsessive. The opposite of what I want.
Truthfully, I don’t know what it is thatshewants. And we can’t seem to stop fighting with one another long enough for us to figure that out.
I know my father is going to bring up my marriage from the moment I take a seat in his office that evening, after dinner. There’s a cautious but knowing look on his face that I recognize, and I wince as I take the glass of port he offers me, waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s on his mind.
It doesn’t take him long.
“You need to get your new wife pregnant sooner rather than later,” my father says without preamble, and I have to force myself not to choke on my port. “Don Fontana isn’t thrilled with the arrangement I made. He didn’t disapprove enough to step in, obviously, but I think he wants the Leone family permanently ground into the dirt for the trouble they’ve caused, not rehabilitated. He’s still got the Leone boy under house arrest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he disappeared one of these days and was simply—never heard from again.”
The idea isn’t shocking. I wouldn’t put it past Fontana to do such a thing, if he thought it was for the good of the Family.
“Don’t worry,” I say dryly, taking a sip of my wine. “I’m doing my best to make sure there’s an heir sooner rather than later.”
I try to keep my expression tempered, but the conversation makes me angry with Amalie all over again. For all that she keeps insisting that she was a virgin the first time we slept together, that the babymustbe mine, I’m not entirely sure that I believe her. If the baby is mine, then the issue of an heir is already solved. But if it’s not—
Then Don Fontana will makeabsolutelycertain that the Leone family never recovers from this final shame. If Amalie’s family were the only ones affected, I might say it serves her right for trying to pass off another man’s child as mine. But the disgrace of having been tricked into arranging a marriage with a ruined bride carrying an illegitimate child might very well be the final nail in the coffin for our family, too.
My father chuckles as he sits back down, thankfully not noticing anything amiss with my mood. “I’m sure you’re quite the enterprising groom in that regard. It will be a happy day all around once we know that the Carravella family has an heir to carry on after my sons once again.”
I wince at the plural. My brother is gone, but my father often makes references that make it seem as if he’s still here. As if his mistakes aren’t the reason that I’ve been put in position after position that I want no part of. As if they’re not the reason I’ve been forced into marriage when I could have otherwise remained a bachelor, a second son with fewer responsibilities and more freedom, the life that my order of birth earned me.
“You’ll be the first to know,” I tell him evenly. “And thenmama, of course.”
My father smiles, finishing his glass of port and sitting back. “I’d like to send you to Sicily in my stead next spring,” he says slowly. “But it will all depend on timing, of course. If your wife is pregnant, you might bring her here to stay with us, and you can go on the trip alone. I think you’d prefer that.” He looks at me knowingly, and I take a slow breath.
He’s right, of course. While a trip to Sicily isn’t as pleasant as carousing through Ibiza, it’s still far from here, and there’s plenty in and around it to amuse myself—especially if I’m there without Amalie. But, of course, Amalie should have had her baby by then. She’ll have a newborn, which is even more reason for me to want to leave her here with my mother to supervise and take off for Sicily alone.
Amalie, I know, will throw a fit at the prospect.
“I’ll certainly think about it,” I tell him, finishing my own drink and getting up to refill the glass. “After all, time apart makes the heart grow fonder, doesn’t it?”
