Passionate Calanettis: Soldier, Hero...Husband?

He sipped it carefully as she sat back down. “It’s really good. What would you say? Buono?”

“Yes, buono. Nico’s vineyard is one of the pride and joys of our region.” She took a sip of wine. And then another. It occurred to her neither of them were eating the soup.

Suddenly, it all felt just a little too cozy. Perhaps she should not have insisted on the wine. She took rather too large a gulp and set down her glass.

It was time to get down to business. “I will provide a simple supper like this, Mondays to Saturdays, the same days that I work. On Sunday, I do not. I provide breakfast every day, but I don’t usually leave a tray by the bedroom door.”

“I wouldn’t risk that again, either,” he said drily. She had the uncomfortable feeling he was amused by her.

“It’s not a hotel,” she said sternly, “so I don’t make beds.”

“Understood.” Did he intentionally say that with a military inflection, as if he was a lower rank being addressed by a superior? Was he perceiving her as bossy?

Given how she wanted to keep everything formal between them, wouldn’t that be a good thing?

“I also do not provide laundry service.” Thank goodness. She could not even imagine touching his intimate things. “I have a washing machine through that door that you are welcome to use. There is a laundry service in the village if you prefer. Except for sheets, which I do once a week. I provide fresh towels every day.”

“I can do my own sheets, thanks.”

“All right. Yes. That’s fine. The common areas of the house are yours to use if you want to watch television or cook your own meals, or put things in the refrigerator.”

The thought of him in her space made her take another rather large and fortifying sip of the wine.

“I don’t watch television,” he told her, “and I’m accustomed to preparing my own meals. I don’t want you to feel put out by me. I can tell it is a bit of an imposition for you having a man in your house.”

He was toying with the stem of his wineglass. He put it to his lips and took a long sip, watching her.

She tilted her chin at him, took a sip of her own wine. “What would make you say that? It’s no imposition at all, Signor Benson.”

Her heart was beating hard in her throat. He shrugged and lifted his wineglass to his lips again, watched her over the rim.

She might as well not have bothered denying it was any kind of imposition for her. She could feel her discomfort snaking along her spine, and he was not the kind of man you could hide things from.

“Connor, please,” he said. “We’re not very formal where I come from.”

“Connor,” she agreed. He had caught on that she was being too formal. Didn’t he know it would protect them both? But she said his name anyway, even though it felt as if she was losing ground fast. She was using his first name. It felt as though she was agreeing, somehow, to dance with the devil.

But the question was, was the devil in him, or was it in her?

“And where are you from?” she asked. This was to prove to him she was not at all formal and stuffy and could hold a polite conversation with the best of them. She hoped it would not appear as if she was desperately eager for details about him, which she was not! She still had not touched her soup. Neither had he.

“I’m from Texas,” he said.

“I thought the accent was like that of a cowboy.”

He laughed at that. His laughter was deep and engaging, relaxing some of the constant hardness from his face, and she found herself staring at him.

“Ma’am—”

“Isabella,” she reminded him.

“Isabella—”

Him saying her name, in that drawl, made her feel the same as if she had drunk a whole bottle of wine from the Calanetti vineyard instead of taken a few sips out of her glass.

Well, actually, her glass was empty, and so was his. He noticed, and tipped the wine out over both their glasses.

“Most people hear that drawl and automatically lower my intelligence by twenty points or so.”

“I can tell you are a very intelligent man,” she said seriously.

“I was just trying to make the point that regional accents can lead to judgments in the United States. Like you thinking I’m a cowboy. I’m about the farthest thing from a cowboy that you’ll ever see.”

“Oh! I thought everybody from Texas was a cowboy.”

He laughed again. “You and the rest of the world. I grew up in a very poor neighborhood in Corpus Christi, which is a coastal city. I started picking up a bit of work at the shipyards when I was about eleven, and occasionally cattle would come through, but that’s the closest I came to any real cowboys.”

“Eleven?” she said, horrified. “That is very young to be working.”

Something in his expression became guarded. He lifted a shoulder. “I was big for my age. No one asked how old I was.”

“But why were you working at eleven?” she pressed.

For a moment, he looked as though he might not answer. Then he said quietly, “My mom was a single parent. It was pretty hand-to-mouth at times. I did what I could to help.”

“Was your mom a widow?” she asked. She and Giorgio had not had children, though she had wanted to, even with Giorgio’s prognosis. Now she wondered, from the quickly veiled pain in Connor’s face, if that wouldn’t have been a selfish thing, indeed, to try and raise a child or children without the benefit of a father.

“No,” he said gruffly. “She wasn’t a widow. She found herself pregnant at sixteen and abandoned by my father, whom she would never name. Her own family turned their backs on her. They said she brought shame on them by being pregnant.”

“Your poor mother. Her own family turned away from her?” She thought of her family’s reaction to the news she was going to marry Giorgio.

Life has enough heartbreak, her mother had said. You have to invite one by marrying a dying man?

Isabella could have pointed out to her mother that she should be an expert on heartbreak, since Isabella’s father, with his constant infidelities, had broken her heart again and again and again. One thing about Giorgio? He was sweetly and strongly loyal. He would never be like that.

But it had seemed unnecessarily cruel to point that out to her mother, and so she had said nothing. And even though they were not happy with her choice, Isabella’s family had not abandoned her. At least not physically.

Connor lifted a shoulder. “My mother is an amazing woman. She managed to keep me in line and out of jail through my wild youth. That couldn’t have been easy.”

“I’m sure it was not,” Isabella said primly.

He grinned as if he had enjoyed every second of his wild youth. “Then I joined up.”

“Joined up?”

“I joined the navy as soon as I was old enough.”

“How old is that?”

“Seventeen.”

She drew in her breath sharply.

“I served in the regular navy for two years, and then I was drawn to the SEALs.”

“SEALs? What is this?”

“It stands for sea, air, land. It’s an arm of the navy. Combat divers.”

She could tell there was a bit more to it than what he was saying.

“And your mother? Was she heartbroken when you left her to join the military?”

He smiled wryly. “Not at all. Once she didn’t have to expend all of her energy keeping me fed and in line, she married a rich guy she cleaned for. She seems deliriously happy and has produced a number of little half siblings for me.”

“You adore them,” Isabella guessed.

“Guilty.”

“I’m glad your mother found happiness.”

“Me, too, though her luck at love has made her think everyone should try it.”

“And shouldn’t they?” Isabella found herself asking softly.

He rolled his shoulders, and something shut down in his face. “A man who seeks danger with the intensity and trajectory of a heat-seeking missile is not exactly a good bet in the love department. I’ve seen lots of my buddies go down that road. They come home cold and hard and damaged. Normal life and domestic duties seem unbearably dull after the adrenaline rush of action.”

“That sounds very lonely,” Isabella offered. And like a warning. Which she dutifully noted.

Connor studied her for a moment. Whatever had opened between them closed like a door slamming shut. He pushed back from the table abruptly. “Lonely? Not at all,” he insisted coolly. “Thank you for dinner.”

But he hadn’t eaten dinner. After a moment, she cleared his uneaten soup off the table and cleaned up the kitchen.

Really, he had let her know in every way possible that any interest in him would not be appreciated.

After putting her small kitchen in order, she retreated to her office. She hesitated only a moment before she looked up navy seals on the internet. She felt guilty as sin doing it, but it did not stop her.

It was actually SEALs, she discovered, and they were not just combat divers. Sometimes called Frogmen because they were equally adept in the water or on land, they were one of the most elite, and secretive, commando forces in the world.

Only a very few men, of the hundreds who tried, could make it through their rigorous training program.

Isabella could tell from what she read that Connor had led a life of extreme adventure and excitement. He was, unfortunately, the larger-than-life kind of man who intrigued.

But he had told her with his own words what he was. Cold and hard and damaged. She was all done rescuing men.

Rescuing men? something whispered within her. But you never felt you were rescuing Giorgio. Never. You did it all for love.

But suddenly, sickeningly, she just wasn’t that sure what her motives had been in marrying a man with such a terrible prognosis.

And fairly or not, looking at her husband and her marriage through a different lens felt as if it was entirely the fault of Connor Benson.

Even knowing she had been quite curious enough for one night, she decided to look up one more thing. She put in the name Itus Security. There was a picture of a very good-looking man named Justin Arnold. He was the CEO of the company. Beside his picture was one of Connor, who was the chief of operations. There was a list of services they offered, and a number of testimonials from very high-profile clients.

Their company was named after the Greek god of protection, Itus, and their mission statement was, “As in legend, Itus is sworn to protect the innocent from those who would do them harm.”

Intrigued, she went and read the mythology around Itus. A while later, Isabella shut off the computer and squared her shoulders.

A month. Connor Benson was going to be under her roof for a month. After one day, she was feeling a terrible uneasiness, as if he could, with just his close proximity, change everything about her, even the way she looked at her past.

“I have to avoid him,” she whispered to herself. And it felt as if her very survival depended on that. She went to bed and set her alarm for very early. She could put out his breakfast things and leave the house without even seeing him tomorrow. There were always things to do at school. Right now, she was preparing her class to perform a song and skit at the annual spring fete, and she had props to make, simple costumes to prepare.

She had a feeling with Connor under her roof and her badly needing her schoolroom to hide out in and something to distract from the uncomfortable feelings she was experiencing, she was about to produce the best song and skit the good citizens of Monte Calanetti had ever seen!

CHAPTER THREE

CONNOR RETREATED TO his room, annoyed with himself. He was not generally so chatty. What moment of madness had made him say yes to that wine? And why had so very little of it made him feel so off balance?

Intoxicated.

Maybe it hadn’t been the wine, but just sharing a simple meal with a beautiful woman in the quintessential Italian kitchen, with its old stone walls and its deep windows open to the breeze, that had brought his guard down.

He had told Isabella things he had not told people he’d worked with for twenty years. Justin knew about his hardscrabble upbringing on the wrong side of Corpus Christi, but no one else did.

The soft look in Isabella’s eyes as he had told her had actually made him feel not that he wanted to tell her less, but as though he wanted to tell her more, as if his every secret would be safe with her.

As if he had carried a burden alone for way too long.

“Stop it,” Connor snapped grimly at himself. He acknowledged he was tired beyond reason. You didn’t unload on a woman like her. She, cute little schoolteacher that she was, wouldn’t be able to handle it, to hold up to it. She’d buried her husband and that had sent her into full retreat. That’s why someone so gorgeous was still unmarried six years later.

So there would be no more wine tastings over supper that loosened his tongue. No more suppers, in fact. Tomorrow, rested, his first duty would be to find a nice little place to eat supper every night.

With none of the local wines. That one tonight had seemed to have some beautiful Tuscan enchantment built right into it.

And if avoiding her at dinner proved to be not enough defense, he would go in search of another place to stay.

Not that he wanted to hurt her feelings.

“The Cat does not worry about people’s feelings,” he said, annoyed with himself. What he needed to do was deal with the exhaustion first. He peeled off his clothes and rolled into bed and slept, but not before grumpily acknowledging how hungry he was.

Connor awoke very early. He knew where he was this time. Again, he could hear the sounds of someone trying to be very quiet. He rolled over and looked at his bedside clock.

Five a.m. What the heck? He had the awful thought Isabella might have gotten up so early to make him breakfast. That made him feel guilty since he knew she had a full day of work to put in. Guilt was as unusual for him as worrying about feelings. Still, he needed to tell her not to bother.

He slipped on a pair of lightweight khakis and pulled a shirt over his head, and went downstairs to the kitchen.

She had her back to him.

“Isabella?”

She shrieked and turned, hand to her throat.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’ve startled you again.”

She dropped her hand from her throat. “No, you didn’t,” she said, even though it was more than obvious she had been very startled.

“Whatever. I think we’ve got to quit meeting like this.”

The expression must have lost something in the translation, because she only looked annoyed as she turned back to the counter. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be up so early.”

“I wasn’t expecting you up this early.”

“I’m preparing for the spring festival,” she said. “I have extra work to do at school.”

“And extra work to do here, because of me?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and then looked quickly back at what she was doing, silent.

“I wanted to let you know not to fuss over me. A box of cereal on the table and some milk in the fridge is all I need in the morning. And coffee.”

“I’ll just show you how to use the coffeemaker then—”

He smiled. “I’ve made coffee on every continent and in two dozen different countries. I can probably figure it out.”

She looked very pretty this morning. Her hair was scraped back in a ponytail. It made her look, again, younger than he knew her to be. The rather severe hairstyle also showed off the flawless lines of her face. She had on a different sleeveless dress, and her lips had a hint of gloss on them that made them look full and faintly pouty.

“All right then,” she said, moving away from the coffeemaker. “So, no breakfast?”

“I don’t need supper tonight, either. I’m kind of used to fending for myself.”

And he did not miss the look of relief on her face.

So he added, “Actually, I probably won’t need dinner any night. Instead of letting you know if I won’t be here, how about if I let you know if I will?”

The look on her face changed to something else, quickly masked. It only showed him the wisdom of his decision. The little schoolteacher wanted someone to look after, and it would be better if she did not get any ideas that it was going to be him!

“I actually like to swim before I eat anything in the morning. This is the perfect time of day for swimming.”

“It’s not even light out.”

“I know. That’s what makes it perfect.”

Whenever he could, Connor had begun every morning of his life for as long as he could remember with a swim. That affinity for the water had, in part, been what made him such a good fit for the SEALs. But when he left the SEALs, it was the only place he had found where he could outrun—or outswim, as it were—his many demons. Despite Justin’s well-meaning advice to take a rest from it, Connor simply could not imagine life without the great stress relief and fitness provided by the water.

“You’ll wake people up.”

“Actually, Nico invited me to use the pool at his private garden in the villa, but I’d prefer to swim in the river.”

“The river? It’s very cold at this time of year.”

“Perfect.”

“And probably dangerous.”

“I doubt it, but I already warned you about men like me and danger.”

“Yes, you did,” she whispered. “There’s a place on the river where the boys swim in the summer. Would you like me to show it to you?”

“You aren’t trying to protect me from danger, are you, Isabella?” he asked quietly.

“That would be a very foolish undertaking, I’m sure,” she said, a little stain that confirmed his suspicions moving up her cheeks. “It’s hard to find, the place where the boys swim. That’s all.”

“Yes, please, then, show it to me,” he heard himself saying, though he had no doubt he could find good places to swim all by himself. He didn’t want to hurt her pride. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

And so he found himself, with dawn smudging the air, painting the medieval skyline of Monte Calanetti in magnificence, walking down twisting streets not yet touched by the light beside Isabella to the river.

And enjoying the pink-painted splendor of the moment way more than he had a right to.

* * *

Isabella contemplated what moment of madness had made the words slip from her mouth that she would show Connor the way to the river. By getting up so early, she’d been trying to avoid him this morning.

Instead, she was walking through the still darkened streets of Monte Calanetti with him by her side.

And despite the pure madness that must have motivated her invitation, she would not have withdrawn it had she been given a chance. Because that moment, of unguarded impulse, had led to this one.

It was unexpectedly magical, the streets still dim, the brilliance of the dawn that was staining the sky above them not yet reaching into the cracks and crevices of the town. The occasional light was blinking on in the houses and businesses they passed.

Isabella was intensely aware of how it felt to have this man walk beside her. He was so big, his presence commanding. He had gone back up to his room for a moment, and when he came down he carried a small black bag and had a white towel strung around his neck.

He had a way of walking—shoulders back, stride long and confident and calm—that gave a sense that he owned the earth and he knew it. Isabella had never felt unsafe in Monte Calanetti, but she was aware, walking beside him, of feeling immensely protected.

“I can’t believe the light,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s part of what makes Tuscany famous, that quality of light. Artists throng here for that.”

“How would you say this in Italian?” he said, making a sweeping gesture that took in everything—the amazing light and the twisting streets, still in shadows, dawn beginning to paint the rooflines in gold.

She thought a moment. Wasn’t this exactly what she had longed to do and had decided was dangerous? The morning was too beautiful to fight with herself, to be petty about what she would and wouldn’t give. She would give him a few words, nothing more.

“In tutto il suo splendore,” Isabella said.

He repeated it, rolling the words off his tongue. Mixed with his drawl and the deepness of his voice, it was very charming.

“And the translation?” he asked her.

“In glory.”

“Ah,” he said. “Perfect.”

After that neither of them attempted conversation, but the quiet was comfortable between them as they moved down the narrow streets. It gave a sense of walking toward the light as they left the last of the buildings behind and followed the road past the neat row of vineyards that followed the undulating green of the hills.

“There it is,” she said, finally, pointing at the ribbon of river that had become visible up ahead of them. “When you come to the bridge, turn right and follow the river. You’ll see a tire suspended on a rope where the boys swim.”

“Thank you. Grazie.”

“You’re welcome.” She should have turned back toward the town, but she did not. She recognized a reluctance to leave the simple glory of this moment behind. He must have felt that, too.

“Come with me.” His voice was husky.

Come with him? Where?

“Swimming?” she asked. Her voice felt very squeaky. It felt as if he had asked something far graver. To tangle their lives together, to follow the thread of magic that had led them through the town in the enchanted light of early morning.

When he said nothing, she rushed to fill the silence. “I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know how to swim. The water will be cold. I—I—I don’t have proper bathing wear.”

“Don’t come this far and not at least put your feet in the water.”

It felt as if he was saying something else altogether. He was inviting her to wake up instead of sleeping. He was inviting her to really live instead of going through the motions of living.

“I have to tell you a little secret,” she confessed. “I’ve never learned to swim because I am a little bit afraid of the water.”

“All the more reason to say yes instead of no,” he said.

It occurred to her Connor Benson was that kind of man. Being with him would challenge you to be more than you had been before. She had always been perfectly content with who she was before!

“Maybe another time,” she said uneasily.

“Putting your feet in the water is the first step to swimming, to overcoming that fear.”

“It’s not as if it’s a crippling fear—it’s not as if it changes my life,” she said defensively, already sorry she’d confided in him that she was afraid.

“Fear can be a gift,” he said, his voice calm and low. “It can show you that you are in very real danger. But an irrational fear can change your life in ways you don’t even understand. If you give in to it, it can expand. So, one day you’re afraid of swimming, the next you’re afraid of everything.”

Did he see her as afraid of everything? And how much truth was there in that? She looked at the safe little world she had created for herself. Maybe, even if it was annoying, maybe he was right. She needed to stretch just a tiny bit out of her comfort zone.

What would it hurt to get her feet wet?

“All right,” she whispered, and was rewarded with a tentative smile. The smile put the dawn to shame and warned her exploring new territories and experiences was always going to be fraught with hidden dangers.

That’s why she had chosen life as a schoolteacher in a small town. Her choices had given her a life with a reassuring sameness to everything that made her feel safe and secure.

Though in this amazing dawn, she saw things in a new and less flattering light. Had she allowed herself to become utterly boring? Apparently. Apparently she had become the kind of woman who you could tell in a single glance was a schoolteacher.

They came to the bridge and stood on it for a moment. The water was flowing underneath it like liquid gold, stained by the rising sun. They stood there in silence, watching morning mist rise off the vineyards all around them.