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It hadn’t been just a kiss, but The Kiss. The kiss of a lifetime. The kiss where everything in life made sense and emotion and intellect and passion came together for the first time ever.
Maybe the only time ever.
Even now she remembered how natural it had all been, how uncomplicated it had felt. There had been no doubts, no questions. She just wanted more with him, more of his touch and more of his passion and more of the pleasure.
In his arms that one night she’d experienced something so powerful and so profound she’d never wanted anyone else. Couldn’t contemplate being with anyone else.
“Payton.”
Marco was saying her name, asking her a question. She jerked, returning to the present. “What was that?”
He smiled faintly. “I asked if you wanted more wine.”
“No. I’m good. Thank you.” She felt a bittersweet prick, a fluttering of regret. If only she and Marco had handled things differently, if only they’d been able to make the marriage work out.
The waiter presented them with the bill at the end of the meal. “Well, I’d consider dinner a success,” Marco said, putting away his wallet.
“And we’ve done all right without our two little chaperones,” Payton said.
“I’m not the one in need of a chaperone,” he retorted.
Just what was he implying? “You think I need one?”
His eyes narrowed a little as his gaze settled on her mouth. “I think you want one.”
It suddenly felt as if someone had let loose a hundred butterflies in her middle. “And why would I need one?”
His gaze left her mouth to slowly travel over her face. His intense scrutiny made her aware that her long hair had been tousled by the evening breeze and the scoop neck of her beaded camisole probably exposed more skin than it should.
“You think I’m immune to you?” he persisted, his deep voice dropping even lower. “You think I don’t find you attractive anymore?”
“I don’t know—”
“I do. For your information that mysterious spark which was there from the start has never gone away, never flickered out.”
His words pulsed inside her, quickening her pulse, warming her body. She shouldn’t get carried away. They were just words and yet she didn’t know if it was the warm night or the wine she’d had with dinner, but she liked the way his words were making her feel. She liked the way his gaze made her belly knot and muscles tighten.
“This isn’t smart, Marco.”
“Have we ever been smart…at least when it came to each other?”
“But that’s cause for alarm now, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It all depends on one’s perspective.”
Perspective. Good word, she silently acknowledged, and something to think about right now. She needed to keep some perspective. If she lost her head, she wasn’t the only one to get hurt.
There were the girls. And Marilena. That was at least three others impacted.
Payton forced herself to shut down her emotions, deaden her senses. She had to act responsibly. She couldn’t give in to hunger and need. “It’s getting late. Maybe we should head back before Pietra starts worrying.”
“Pietra’s not going to worry. Besides, she’d love for us to stay out all night. She needs the cash.”
“I should call her though.” Come on, keep your perspective. Put some distance between the two of you. “I’ll just go use the phone—”
“Here, use mine,” he pleasantly interrupted, reaching into his coat pocket and holding the phone out.
His dark eyes met hers, challenging her and Payton felt a current of excitement fizz through her. He knew she didn’t really want to call. He knew she was just trying to hang on to what was left of her self-control.
“Maybe later,” she answered huskily.
He shrugged, a very Latin shrug, and slipped the tiny phone back into his pocket. “Just let me know.”
And then he looked up at her again and the guard had dropped from his gaze, and in his eyes she saw heat, fire, hunger. He wanted her. He wanted to take her back to the house and strip her clothes off and do things she hadn’t done in way too many years.
Then his mouth slowly curved into a sexy, sinful smile. “Don’t get nervous.”
“Who’s nervous?”
“Payton, it’s just you and me. We know each other well enough to let down our hair a little, have some fun together. You do still know how to have fun, don’t you?”
Her heart raced. “Of course I do.”
“Good.” He was trying not to laugh at her. “Then let’s enjoy ourselves. The night’s still young, you look unbelievably sexy, I think we ought to go dancing.”
They crossed the plaza and took a right on a side street, following the sound of thumping music. Payton spotted the disco by the long snaking line of bodies waiting outside the front door.
“I guess we can’t dance after all,” Payton said brightly, relieved that she wouldn’t have to go shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip with Marco tonight. She didn’t trust him in this mood.
“Not a problem,” he answered, taking her hand.
He was right. There was no waiting in line and no charge for admission, either. The door manager spotted Marco and immediately waved him in. Nice life, Payton thought, as Marco led her through the disco’s dark interior with the curving walls painted aqua-marine-blue.
Marco found them a small booth on the side of the dance floor and whenever the shimmering disco ball turned and the strobe hit, the blue neon club turned ghostly white and silver. The music was loud and the bass thumped so hard the floor literally jumped.
Conversation was next to impossible and before Marco could order a bottle of wine, two cocktails arrived, the drinks the same shade of blue as the walls of the disco.
“Courtesy of the lady sitting at the booth over there,” the cocktail waitress said, and she gestured to the booth on the other side of the disco. A young woman with a mass of golden-brown hair lifted her drink in salute.
Payton did a double-take. The “lady” was only America’s biggest film star.
“You know Lyssa Harper?” Payton demanded, practically shouting to be heard over the music. She was trying not to stare but Lyssa was now blowing Marco kisses. The actress had either been drinking or had a major soft spot for Marco.
Marco shrugged. “I dressed her for this year’s Oscars.” He nodded at the drinks on the table. “Do you want this or should I order something a little more sedate?”
“Why should I want something more sedate?” She practically had to shout to be heard above the din.
He picked up the neon blue cocktail and took a sip. His nose wrinkled a little as he swallowed. “I just wasn’t sure if you were ready for a Tongue in the Grotto.”
She nearly choked on her own tongue. “What?”
“Tongue in the Grotto,” he repeated, dark eyes glinting with amusement.
“I heard you. I just couldn’t believe that’s
actually the drink’s name.”
“It’s the house drink. Named after Capri’s famous Grotta Azzurra. The Blue Grotto draws thousands of tourists each summer.”
Tongue in the Grotto, indeed. She felt heat flood her cheeks and she crossed her legs, clenching her knees. “I don’t think we’ve been there yet, have we?”
“No.” Marco leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. “But it is something I’ve always wanted to do with you.” And from his wicked expression she knew he didn’t mean sightseeing, either.
Payton tried to drink the neon cocktail, but every time she lifted the bright blue vodka beverage to her mouth she pictured erotic activities that had nothing to do with touring a cave in a little four person rowboat.
“You can’t drink it,” Marco said watching her.
“It’s a bit much for me. But that’s fine. I don’t really want anything else to drink.”
“Shall we dance then?”
It’d been years since they danced and yet it was something they both loved to do. Besides, it had to be safer than sitting and sipping potent cocktails with him. “Please.”
He led her out onto the crowded dance floor and astonishingly the frenzied throng parted a little, giving them room.
They knew Marco, she realized. But then, most people here would. He was a regular on Capri. His family had been coming for three generations. His mother’s father had even played a role in the island’s colorful history.
The two fast songs gave way to a slow number and Marco drew her closer, his hand settling low on her waist, his thighs pressed against hers. She’d liked watching him dance—there was no question he knew how to move—but she enjoyed being in his arms even more. He had grace, strength, and the easy elegance of an athlete.
As they danced, Marco took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes met hers and turning her hand over, he kissed her wrist, his mouth so warm on the wild beating of her pulse. “I think this is exactly what you needed,” he said. “What I needed, too.”
Her wrist tingled and her heart pounded and she felt like they were on the start of a significant journey. Could they cross the great divide?
