Valentino's Love-Child

He swore. He wasn’t sure, and that was as disturbing as any other revelation from this night. He fell back on what he considered the topic at hand. “Let’s not make this more complicated than we need to. You know I do not allow the women I sleep with into my personal life. It would be too messy.”

Cocking her head to one side, she gave him a look filled with disbelief. “You don’t consider what we do together as personal?”

“You are nit-picking semantics here, Faith. You know what I am meaning here. Why are you being willfully obtuse? You knew the limitations of our relationship from the very beginning.” She was not normally so argumentative, and why she had to start being so now was a mystery to him.

Certainly she had strong opinions, but they were not, as a rule, in opposition to his.

“Maybe I’m no longer happy with them.” She watched him as if gauging his reaction to that bombshell.

Alarm bells for a five-alarm fire went off in his head. Her words filled him with pure panic—not an emotion he was used to feeling and not one he had predisposed reactions for. “Faith, you must understand something. I have no plans to remarry. Ever.”

“I know, but—”

Those three little words sent a shard of apprehension right through him. She could not keep thinking in this manner. “If I did remarry, it would be to a traditional Sicilian woman—like Giosue’s mother.”

Some Sicilian men married American women, but it was rare. Even rarer still, almost to the point of nonexistent, were Sicilian men who continued to live on the island after marrying them.

Regardless, were he to remarry, he felt compelled to provide a female influence as like Giosue’s real mother as possible. He owed it to Maura.

Being honest with himself would require he acknowledge that his reasons were not limited to cultural gaps and the obligation he felt to his dead wife, but had as much to do with a promise to keep. Only one woman put his promise to Maura at risk, his promise not to replace his wife, who had died too young in his heart.

And that woman was a smart, sexy American.

Faith crossed her arms, as if protecting herself from a blow. “Is that why you didn’t nip your son’s obvious attempt at matchmaking in the bud? Because you believed the woman he was trying to fix you up with was Sicilian?”

“Yes.” He could not lie, though the temptation was there.

This time Faith didn’t just wince, she flinched as if struck. “I see.”

“I don’t think you do.” Needing her understanding— her acceptance—he cupped her face with both hands. “My son is the most important person in my life, I would do anything for him.”

“Even remarry.”

“If I believed that was what he truly needed for happiness, yes.” But not to a woman who would expect access to more than his body and bank account. Not to a woman who already threatened his memories of Maura and his promise to her.

Not Faith.

“Do you?”

Again wishing he could lie, he dropped his hands. “I did not, but after tonight, I am not so sure. He loves his grandmother, but he glowed under your affection in a way that he does not with his nonna.”

“He’s very special to me.”

“If he is so special, why did you not tell me he was your student?”

“You already asked that and the simple truth is that I thought you knew. I assumed he and, well, your mother, talked about me. We are friends. I suppose that’s going to send you into another tizzy of paranoia, but please remember, she and I were friends before I even met Gio.”

“You and…and…my mother?”

“Yes.”

Tonight had been one unreal revelation after another. “You did not tell me this.”

“I thought you knew,” she repeated, sounding exasperated. She turned away from him. “Perhaps Agata and I are not as close as I assumed.”

The sad tone in Faith’s voice did something strange to Tino’s heart. He did not like it. At all. He was used to her being happy most of the time—sometimes cranky but never sad. It did not fit her.

“She did talk about you, but I did not realize it was you she was talking about.” His mother had mentioned Gio’s teacher on occasion. Not often, though, and he too wondered if the two women shared as close a friendship as Faith believed.

His mother was a true patron of the arts. She had many acquaintances in the artistic community. He could easily see her warm nature and natural graciousness being mistaken for friendship. But the only artist she mentioned often was TK.

For a while, Tino had been worried his mother had developed a tendre for the male artist. However, when he had mentioned his concern to his father, Rosso Grisafi had laughed until tears came to his eyes. Tino had drawn the conclusion that clearly there was nothing to worry about.

“That’s hardly my fault, Tino.”

“I did not say it was.”

“You implied it by asking why I didn’t tell you.”

What was it with her tonight and this taking apart everything that he said? “You are apparently very close to both my mother and my son and yet you never once mentioned seeing or talking to them.”

“You always discourage me from discussing your family, Tino.”

It was true, but for some reason, the reminder bothered him. Probably because everything was leaving him feeling disconcerted tonight. “I did not think they had a place in our combined life.”

“We don’t have a combined life, do we, Tino?” She was looking at him again and he almost wished she wasn’t.

There was such defeat and sadness in her eyes.

“I do not understand what has changed between us?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all has changed between us.”

“Then why are you sad?”

“Perhaps because I thought it had.”

Why had she believed this?

“You were under the impression I wanted you to come for dinner tonight,” he said, understanding beginning to dawn. Clearly she had liked the idea. Learning differently had hurt her. Even though he had not meant for this to happen, he had to take some responsibility for the outcome.

She nodded, silent, her lovely red hair swaying against her shoulders. He had the wholly inappropriate— considering the gravity of their discussion—urge to run his fingers through the familiar silky strands. Worse, he knew he did not want to stop there.

Focus, he must focus.

“It is not good for Giosue to be exposed to my lovers.”

“I understand you think that.”

“It is the truth.”

She said nothing.

He could not leave it there. The compulsion to explain—to make her understand—was too great. “When our relationship ends, he will be disappointed. Already he has expectations that cannot be fulfilled.”

“I’m his friend.”

“He wants you to be his mother.”

“And you don’t.”

“No.” It was a knee-jerk response, the result of ingrained beliefs since his wife’s death.

Shocking to realize he wasn’t sure he meant it. With that came grief—a sense of loss that made no sense and was something he was not even remotely willing to dwell on.

“Because I’m not Sicilian.”

“Because our relationship is not a love affair.” But was that true?

How could it be anything else when he could not love her? He had promised Maura that he would love her always. Her sudden death had not negated that pledge.

“I thought we were friends, too.”

“We are friends.” Friendship he could do—was necessary even.

“But not sweethearts.”

His heart twinged, making his tone come out more cynical than he meant it to. “What an old-fashioned term.”

She shrugged. “It’s one Tay used to use.” She said the dead man’s name with a wistfulness that he did not like.

“I gather he was an unusual man.”

“Yes. He was. One of the best, maybe even the best man I ever knew.”

“But he is gone.”

“Yes, just as Gio’s mother is gone.”

“Maura will never be gone from my heart.”

“No, she won’t, but are you so sure your heart has no room for anyone else?”

“That is not a discussion you and I should be having.” It was one he frankly could not handle.

A Sicilian man should be able to handle anything. Even the death of his wife and raising his child without a mother. But most definitely any conversation with his current mistress. The fact that he could not shamed him.

“Because we agreed that sex and friendship was enough?” she asked in a voice husky with emotion.

“Yes.”

“And if it isn’t any longer…for either of us?”

That could not be true. He would not allow it to be. “Do not presume to speak for me.”

“Fine. What if I am only speaking for myself?”

“Then we would need to talk about whether what we have is still working.” It was not a discussion he wanted to have. He was far from ready to let her go.

She nodded and turned from him. “I think it’s time I was going.” She was hurting, for all that she tried to hide it.

“No.” He hated the melancholy in her voice.

He hated the sense that somehow it was his fault. He hated thinking of going to bed alone after spending the whole evening in her company. Even worse, he hated feeling as if he might lose her and really hated how much that bothered him.

Perhaps he could erase her sorrow while easing his own fears. He was a big proponent of the win-win business proposition. It was even better when applied to personal relationships.

Before she could take more than a couple of steps, he reached out and caught her shoulder.

“Tino, don’t.”

“You do not mean that, carina.” He drew her back toward his body. He could not imagine doing the opposite—pushing her away.

Yet he knew he could not hold on to her forever. One day she would tire of life in Sicily—so different from her home—and would return to America. Isn’t that what all American women did eventually?

Faith was currently the only single American woman he knew who was making a go of actually living permanently in Sicily. For all its charm, Marsala was a far cry from New York or London.

That only meant they should not waste the time they did have. “We are good together. Do not allow tonight to change that.”

“I need more, Tino.”

“Then I will give you more.” He was very good at that.

“I’m not talking about sex.”

He turned her to face him and lowered his head so his lips hovered above hers. “Let’s not talk at all.”

Then he kissed her. He would show her that they were too right together to dismiss their relationship because it wasn’t packaged in orange blossoms and meters of white tulle.

She fought her own response. He could feel the tension in her, knew she wanted to resist, but though she might want to, she was as much a slave to their mutual attraction as he. Her body knew where it belonged. In his arms.

But her brain was too active and she tore her lips from his. “No, Tino.”

“Do not say no. Say rather, ‘Make love to me, Tino.’ This is what I wish to hear.”

“We’re supposed to be exclusive.”

“We are.”

“You were willing to have a blind date with another woman, Tino.” She wrenched herself from his arms. “I cannot be okay with that.”

“It was not a date.”

She glared at him, but it was the light of betrayal in her eyes that cut him to the quick. “As good as.”

“I did not consider it a date.”

“But you knew your son and mother were matchmaking.”

“I had no intention of being matched.”

“But that’s changed. You said so. You said you would do anything for Gio, even give him a second mother—if she’s Sicilian.” The tone Faith spoke the last words with said how little she thought of his stance on the matter.

“I said I was considering it, not that I had decided to date other women. You are all the woman I want right now.”

“And tomorrow?”

“And tomorrow.”

“So, when does my sell-by date come into effect? Next week? Next month? Next year.”

He wanted to grab her and hold on tight, but he laid gentle hands on her shoulders instead. “You do not have a sell-by date. Our relationship is not cut-and-dried like that.”

“I won’t be with you if you’re going to date other women,” she repeated stubbornly.

“I would not ask you to.”

“What does that mean, Tino?”

“It means you can trust me to be faithful while we are together. Just as I trust you.”

Her eyes glistened suspiciously, sending shards of pain spiking through his gut. He did not want to see her cry. He kissed her, just once, oh so carefully, trying to put the tenderness and commitment—as limited as it might be—that he felt into the caress.

“Let me make love to you.” He was pleading and he did not care.

They needed each other tonight, not empty beds where regrets and memories would haunt the hours that should be for sleep. Or making love.

“No more blind dates.”

“It wasn’t—”

But she shushed him with a finger to his lips. “It was. Or would have been. Don’t do it again.”

“You have my word.” Then, because he could not help himself; because he needed it more than breathing or thinking or anything else, he once again kissed her.

He poured his passion and his fear out in that kiss, molding their lips together in a primordial dance.

At first she did not respond. She did not try to push him away, but she did not pull him closer, either. It was the only time in their relationship she had not fallen headfirst into passion with him.

She was still thinking.

He would fix that. Increasing the intensity of their kiss, he stormed her mouth, refusing to allow their mutual desire to remain a prisoner to circumstances that would not…could not…change. Bit by bit her instincts took over.

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