Italian Mavericks: New Year Temptation

It was true that no one ever saw themselves as other people did, but a tyrant? Always taking, never giving? He wasn’t like that. The presents he’d bought both her and Charlotte should have proved it. And she had this huge house to live in, no more worries about rent. He was prepared to give her anything she wanted. He’d even cut down on his working hours; hadn’t she noticed that?

The more he thought about it the more confused he became. He picked up the whisky bottle and poured himself a generous measure, tossing it down his throat in one swallow before refilling it. This time he set it on the desk in front of him, fingering the cut-glass, twisting it absently round and round. But the more he thought about the situation the more he failed to understand it and fury rose once more inside him. He gulped down the rest of the whisky and in a fit of rage threw the glass at the fireplace, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces.

The next moment his door was pushed open and there stood Megan, pale-faced and questioning, still in her nightdress and dressing gown. With nothing on underneath! This was the first thought that registered. The second was, what was she doing here? Why wasn’t she in bed? And his third, perhaps she’d had a change of heart, realised that she’d been too hard on him, and had come to make amends.

His entire body throbbed in anticipation.

Megan looked from him to the fragments of glass in the hearth and then back again, a faint frown dragging her brows together. ‘So you’re still angry about Jake?’

Damn! She wasn’t supposed to have said that. He felt his sudden hope draining away. ‘What are you doing here?’ he enquired gruffly.

‘I was on my way to the kitchen to heat some milk.’

‘Your conscience troubling you?’ he sneered. He couldn’t help himself. His optimism had been so miserably dashed.

‘Not as much as yours, obviously,’ she riposted, backing away from the doorway, ready to carry on her journey.

‘Wait!’ he said, though he didn’t know why. He wanted her company and yet he knew it would be volatile. But better that than nothing.

She looked boldly and questioningly in his direction. ‘For what? More of what you’ve just put me through? No, thank you.’ And this time she walked away.

But Luigi wasn’t prepared to let her go. He couldn’t get through this night without her. ‘Megan, please.’

She faltered and stopped.

‘Come and talk to me.’

‘Why should I?’

‘It’s silly us both being wide awake. We may as well keep each other company.’

‘Not if you’re going to pick another fight.’ She half turned towards him but still looked prepared to flee.

He held up his hands. ‘Truce.’

‘How can I believe you? You already have me hung, drawn and quartered. Why should I escape more misery?’

‘Because I don’t feel like my own company at this moment.’ He was exposing his feelings in a way he never had before. He always liked to give the image that he was in complete control—which he usually was. It was only Megan who managed to instil doubt into him—doubt and despair.

‘You mean you might throw a few more glasses? Is it an image of me that you’re throwing them at or disgust with yourself?’

He winced, but refused to give her the pleasure of seeing how accurate her second guess was. ‘Perhaps it’s a bad idea. I wasn’t intending it to be a re-run of what happened upstairs. I simply thought we might both enjoy some company. But if it’s too much for you…’ He saw her hesitate, the doubt in her eyes, then the reluctant decision that he might be right.

‘Very well,’ she answered quietly, ‘but I’d still like some hot milk. How about you?’

On top of whisky! But if it helped keep her at his side…‘I’d like that, shall I—?’

‘Come and help? No thanks! I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

He watched her walk along the corridor, her behind swaying seductively with each step that she took. She walked like a model, every inch of her alerting his senses to such a degree that he began to question the perverseness that had made him invite her into his sanctum. He wouldn’t be able to touch her, he knew that, there was a mile-wide gap between them that would be difficult, if not impossible, to bridge. Not in a few minutes, or even hours. Days, weeks maybe, but he wasn’t that patient.

To him it was simple. They resumed marital relations and the rest would follow. It was Megan who was making progress difficult, finding problems when there were none. He would never understand her.

In the five minutes it took her to heat milk and make their drinks he’d decided that they needed to have a real heart to heart. It was the only way they would be able to solve their problems. And probably now, in the middle of the night, was the very best time. No Charlotte to interrupt, no phone calls, nothing except the two of them—together.

Hunger for her crept through every one of his strong male veins. How he was going to sit there, knowing that she was as naked as the day she was born beneath her enchanting white nightie, laced from waist to throat with a Christmas-red ribbon, and do nothing about it he didn’t know. It would be the worst form of torture.

She returned with their drinks on a tray, together with a plate of home-made biscuits which he knew would choke him if he attempted to eat one. What he wanted to do was suck one of Megan’s nipples into his mouth. She always tasted so beautiful and reacted so wantonly. He wanted to suck and bite and tease until she was putty in his hands. He wanted to feel her softly scented body close to him, he wanted to mould her with his palms, feel every curve and contour; he wanted to touch her most intimate places, feel her moistness, make her as ready for him as he was for her.

But he knew he couldn’t.

She was out of bounds.

For the moment!

But soon…

Megan nibbled on a biscuit, sitting in the armchair opposite him where he couldn’t possibly touch her, but he could look…It was warm in the room. He had stoked up the fire and it burned brightly in the grate. Her purple dressing gown was undone, the ribbon on her nightdress beckoning his fingers to untie the bow and unlace it. Lord, he wanted to look at her—she was his wife, after all. Instead she was covered up as primly as a nun.

He picked up his mug of malted milk and cradled it in his palms. It was absolutely no compensation for her temptingly full breasts. He felt compelled to close his eyes so that he needn’t look at her.

‘Are you tired now? Shall I go?’

Her question had his lids jerking open. ‘Not at all. I was simply thinking.’

‘About what? Us?’

He shrugged. ‘Does it matter when you’re determined that—?’

‘I’m not determined about anything,’ she forestalled him.

‘I don’t see any sign of you wishing to kiss and make up.’

‘That’s because a lot of water’s gone under the bridge. Before we kiss we talk. We have to resolve our differences. It’s the only way.’

‘I’m trying.’

Megan raised her beautifully shaped brows. ‘You could have fooled me.’

Something red shot in front of his eyes and he was ready to blast. It was only with an extreme effort that he managed to exercise caution and say calmly, ‘Perhaps you’re not really looking. You have it so firmly fixed in your mind that I’m the baddie in all of this that you’re missing the improvements.’

‘Spell them out to me.’

He didn’t want to do that. It wasn’t the answer. ‘If you can’t see them then perhaps I’m wasting my time.’

‘I have noticed,’ she said with slow consideration, ‘that you don’t spend quite so much time at work. But I assumed it was because of the Christmas holidays. It doesn’t really prove anything.’

His breath whistled thinly through his teeth. ‘Did I ever take time off at Christmas?’ He couldn’t help the sharpness of his tone.

‘The first year we were married you did. We had a wonderful Christmas together.’ Her eyes lit up as she spoke and he saw a glimpse of the girl he had first met. The girl who had ensnared him in an invisible net that could never be broken. ‘But after that,’ she went on, ‘you only took Christmas Day off. Even then you were a grouch.’

That was because his mind was always connected to whatever money-spinning idea he was working on. Looking back, he could see that perhaps he had been a little unfair on Megan—but not as much as she was making out. ‘So surely you can see,’ he pointed out, his tone strong and firm, ‘that I’m doing my level best to spend more time with you.’

‘And how long will it last?’ she asked caustically.

‘With your co-operation, if you don’t constantly raise your hackles whenever I’m around, for ever.’ He saw the way her brows rose ever so slightly, the disbelief in her perfectly shaped grey eyes. ‘I’m serious. I want this to work, Megan. You are my whole life. Without you it has no meaning.’

Disbelief gave way to surprise, her eyes widening as they remained steadily on his. ‘You’ve never said anything like that before.’

‘I didn’t feel I had to. I thought you knew.’

‘I know nothing unless you tell me,’ she insisted.

Not that he loved her? How could that be? He didn’t find it easy to say the words, but surely she knew? Why else would he want her back? He took a long, slow drink from his mug, watching her over the rim as he did so. He could prove to her in bed exactly how much he loved her—if she would only let him. Dared he suggest it?

He didn’t think so.

She was just as likely to slap him across the face. But even that contact would be better than the distance that separated them. It felt like a mile instead of a couple of feet.

Megan sipped her milk too, avoiding his eyes, staring absently into the flickering flames of the fire. She looked so beautiful sitting there, the glow from the coals warming her face, softening the shadows. He could imagine her in just such a position breast-feeding her baby. He had missed that! He had missed everything to do with Charlotte’s birth and her first important years. He hadn’t seen her learn to walk or talk, her first teeth coming through, her first word—which might have been ‘Daddy’ if he’d been there! Instead she’d never known what it was like to have a father.

Bitterness crept in and he began to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to invite Megan to sit with him. He didn’t want a confrontation, but that was exactly how he felt. So much he had missed! And it was all her fault! He clattered his mug down on the table.

Megan followed suit. ‘I’m feeling sleepy now,’ she said, although he knew she was lying.

‘I think I might go to bed too,’ he declared. This wasn’t how he had wanted it to end but it looked as though he had no choice.

‘I’ll leave you to make sure the fire’s safe. Goodnight, Luigi.’

‘Goodnight, Megan.’

So formal! No kiss, no touch, no sign that they meant anything to each other, and yet he would stake everything he owned that her body craved his just as much as his did hers.

Perhaps he should kiss her, a gentle peck on the forehead, nothing more, just enough to let her know that he cared. But already it was too late; she had left the room and he could hear her running lightly up the stairs.

When he followed later his footsteps were much slower and heavier.

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