Dante's Honor-Bound Husband (7 page)

The colors she'd chosen were as vivid as she was. Strong, bright blues and greens with splashes of lavender, all accented with crisp white trim. She'd blended antiques with contemporary furniture and pulled it off brilliantly. She definitely had an eye for color and balance. If she ever tired of working for Dantes, he could use her in his restoration firm.

He checked each and every room, including closets and beneath furniture. Anyplace a man might hide. He didn't expect to find anyone. The house had an undeniable air of emptiness, but he refused to take any chances with Gianna's safety.

“Do you really think David is hiding under the bed in my guest room waiting to attack me?” she asked near the end of his search, exasperation clear in her voice.

Even after the events of that evening, she still didn't get it. “When it comes to d'Angelo, anything is possible.” He could hear the Italian in his voice deepening, thickening.
“Since your safety is paramount, I search the house. The entire house.”

She instantly caved. “You're right. Of course you're right.”

She trailed behind him, a distracting sight in his shirt and tails. The outfit hung on her slender frame, giving her a vulnerable, disheveled appearance that stirred his most primal protective instincts. She didn't look well, her face even paler than before. Without a word, he headed for her bedroom.

“Do you want a shower before bed?” he asked. “You'd probably feel better. Then I want to take a look at your feet and make sure you don't need stitches.”

She pulled a leaf from her hair and wrinkled her nose at it. “My feet are fine. If any of the cuts were bad enough to require stitches I wouldn't be able to walk. That said, I definitely want a shower. I'm filthy and I think I brought half the forest home with me.” She folded her arms across her chest, the ends of his tux dribbling off her fingertips. “But I don't want to go to bed.”

He fought back a smile. She sounded like a recalcitrant five-year-old. “You're afraid to go to sleep. I understand. But I swear to you, Gianna, I'll keep you safe.”

Tears filled her eyes and she stepped into his waiting arms. “It was so close, Constantine.”

“Not as close as you might think,” he lied, holding her tight against him. She was safe, he reminded himself. And relatively unharmed. “I'd tracked you as far as Calistoga and wasn't too far behind you. I knew d'Angelo owned a lodge near there, and my father was working to get the exact address.”

She stilled. “You called Vittorio? He knows what happened?”

“I would have called His Holiness, himself, if I thought
he could have given me d'Angelo's address. Fortunately my father has excellent connections. One way or the other, I would have reached you in time.”

Her chin quivered, her jade-green eyes overflowing as emotion set in. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He released her, nudging her in the direction of the bathroom. “Try not to fall asleep in there, okay?”

She didn't linger. Ten minutes later she emerged, pink-cheeked and smelling subtly of herbs and flowers. She'd wrapped herself in a thick, velour robe. After checking her feet and finding only minor cuts and bruises, he turned down the bed while she stripped off the robe and climbed between the sheets. He lifted an eyebrow at the thigh-length cotton shift she wore beneath. With the light behind her, it was practically transparent. He kept his eyes off the press of feminine curves thrusting against the thin cotton, all the while fighting to maintain an ironclad hold on his libido.

“I think I'd like to leave the light on,” she said, pulling the covers up to her chin.

“That's fine.” He indicated a heavily cushioned chaise lounge chair covered in antique-rose velvet. “I'll be right here if you need me.”

She frowned. “Don't be ridiculous, Constantine. You'll never get to sleep on that. It's way too small. Use the guest room.”

“I'm staying right here.” His voice brooked no opposition. He held up his hand when she would have argued. “You'll sleep better,
piccola,
having someone close by. And I'll sleep better having you where I can keep watch over you.”

She examined the chair again, then him. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Knowing that all I have to do is open my eyes and see you, safe and sound, will put me right out.”

Tears filled her eyes again. “Thank you, Constantine,” she said in a husky voice. “You have no idea—” She broke off and shook her head.

“I think I do.” He approached and, using the utmost restraint, kissed her forehead. “Try to sleep.”

She did, which came as a huge relief to Constantine. He waited until she was deeply unconscious, then slipped from the room and placed a call. When he finished, he returned to the bedroom. He paused at the foot of the bed, gazing at Gianna, and made a silent vow.

No matter what it took, he'd keep this woman safe from harm. He knew that part of the drive to protect came from this peculiar Inferno which connected them, the link so strong it didn't give him any other option. But it went much deeper than that. When she hurt, he hurt. When she hungered, he felt the need to feed her. What gave her joy, he was driven to provide for her. Her wants and his were so tightly bound that they were almost indistinguishable.

Even as he acknowledged those binds, they chafed, stealing his independence. He hadn't asked for this connection. And though he wanted Gianna, he didn't want to be controlled by her. It felt unnatural.

Well, that would change soon enough.

What David d'Angelo had set out to accomplish would happen, just with a different man. Instead of d'Angelo being honor-bound to take Gianna as his bride, Constantine would be the one. Oh, his bride-to-be wouldn't be pleased with his ruthlessness. But she hadn't given him any other choice. She'd inflicted him with The Inferno, infecting him with its fever and desperation. Then she'd had the unmitigated gall to change her mind and allow d'Angelo to come within inches of harming her.

Now she'd deal with the consequences. Her family would take care of the problem from this point forward, sweep
them up in an unbreakable net of demand and propriety and cart them to the altar—willingly or not.

And then he would be in charge of The Inferno. He would find a way to douse the fire. At the very least, he'd wield the flames instead of suffering from the constant burn of its touch.

 

Gianna woke a few hours later with a panicked gasp, swimming to the surface from a terrifying nightmare landscape filled with monsters and screaming tires and bogs of quicksand that sucked at her legs and prevented her from fleeing from some unseen threat. Before she'd shuddered out a single breath, Constantine joined her on the bed, pulling her into the warm protection of his embrace.

“Easy now,” came his steadying voice. “You're safe. He can't get to you.”

His mouth drifted across the top of her head in the lightest of caresses. Reassuring. Passionless. Compassionate. Although she appreciated the reassurance and compassion, she didn't want passionless. She wanted to feel something other than fear. She curled tight against his bare chest. His warmth surrounded her, easing her bone-deep chill, while the calm, steady beat of his heart soothed her.

“Nightmare,” she explained through chattering teeth. “Bad.”

“I gathered.” She thought he might have feathered another kiss across the top of her head, though she couldn't be certain. But it gave her hope. “It's not real,” he soothed.

“I know. At least, part of me knows. The other part—”

She broke off with a shrug. Unable to help herself she pressed closer, sliding her arms around his waist and clinging. To her relief, he didn't push her away, though she sensed a serious internal debate raging. Not that she cared. She was scared and alone, and tired of being both. It wasn't a case
of “any port in a storm.” She needed Constantine. Only Constantine.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

He swore in Italian, a soft, intently masculine comment that under other circumstances would have made her laugh. “Gianna, this is dangerous.”

“I'm not asking you to make love to me.”

“I may not be able to help myself.”

“You're not David.”

He stiffened. “No, I'm definitely not d'Angelo. But I'm still a man. You're vulnerable right now. It's late and I'm tired. And you're not wearing many clothes. For that matter, neither am I.” He adopted a reasonable tone. “Admit it, Gianna. Given our reaction to each other, it's a volatile combination.”

True. That didn't change anything. “I swear I won't take advantage of you.” To her relief, he released a snort of laughter. “But right now I need someone to hold me.”

He sighed. “I should have taken you to your parents.”

“Probably,” she conceded. “Since you didn't, you're stuck with me.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. Lie down.”

She did as he requested. To her surprise, he jerked the covers up to her chin so she was completely cocooned, then slid an arm around her while he remained on top of the sheet and blanket.

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Seriously.” The metaphorical—or maybe not so metaphorical—immovable object. “Now go to sleep. It'll be daylight in another few hours.”

“Would you do one more thing for me?”

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“No.” She leaned into him, doing her best to be an
irresistible force. In her case, definitely not a metaphorical one. “Would you kiss me good-night?”

“You are determined to test the limits of my self-control.” He spoke in Italian, a dead giveaway.

“Would you rather David was the last man to have kissed me?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Absolutely. Totally. The. Wrong. Thing.

The soft light from the bedside table cut across the rigid lines of his face, striking off the hard planes and sinking into the harsh angles. He gazed down at her, his eyes black crystals of barely suppressed emotion, anger in the foreground, hot desire glittering behind. He said something else in Italian, the words fighting each other. Biting words that came too fast for her to catch. Not that she needed to understand each and every word. The underlying message came through loud and clear.

Constantine wasn't a man to taunt.

He moved so fast she never saw it coming, stripping away the covers and baring her to his gaze. He took his time, looking his fill. The cotton shift she wore provided next to no protection, the fabric so sheer it revealed more than it concealed, hugging her feminine curves and misting his view just enough to make it all the more enticing.

He took his time, studying the generous curve of her breasts, the nipples tight coral peaks thrusting against the cotton and betraying the extent of her hunger. He noticed. Of course he noticed. How could he not? His gaze wandered lower, across her belly which quivered in reaction. Lower still. To the soft brown shadow at the apex of her thighs.

He lifted his hand and for a split second she thought he'd touch her. That he'd rip off her nightshift the way he'd ripped off her gown in the gas station parking lot. Her breath caught and held, waiting for that touch. It never
came. Instead his hand hovered a scant inch above her, before following the same path as his gaze. He splayed his fingers, heat pouring from his palm and burning through her shift. Not once did he touch her, though her body reacted as though he had.

She waited for the acrid wash of fear to sweep over her. But it never did. Hunger and want—those existed without question. So did a keen edge of pleasure. Her breasts felt painfully full, lush and acutely sensitive. A heaviness invaded the very core of her, loosening and softening and ripening. A woman preparing for the possession of her mate.

One emotion was lacking.

“No fear,” she murmured in relief. “None at all.”

He froze. “This is a mistake.”

She smiled. Hell, she beamed. She was just so thankful that Constantine could look at her with such intense desire without it sparking flashes of David. “A lovely mistake.” She caught his hand in hers, guiding it to her body. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Touch me the way a man is meant to touch a woman.”

And then he did. As though unable to help himself, he trailed a finger from the juncture between neck and shoulder downward over the slope of her breast. Her nipples pressed against the cotton, so tight she almost couldn't bear it. He hooked a finger in the neckline of her shift and nudged it down just enough to expose them. Gently, sweetly, he took the first into his mouth and caressed it with tongue and teeth. A cry caught in the back of her throat, a keening sound of intense pleasure. Then he turned his attention to the other.

Her head tipped back and the breath shuddered from her lungs, his name escaping on a moan of delight. She slid her
fingers deep into the heavy waves of his hair and held him close. “How can this be a mistake?”

He lifted away from her, ignoring her attempts to pull him back into her embrace. Then he waited, allowing the tension to build. Stillness settled over them both, their breath harsh in the silence of the night. Then, slowly, oh, so slowly, he cupped her head. Little by little he leaned in until their lips were no more than a breath apart.

Then he erased even that bit of space. He kissed her, eradicating all memory of everything and everyone who'd gone before. He took his time, the kiss slow and potent and deliciously thorough. She responded, helpless to resist. And why should she? She wanted this as much as he did. Maybe even more. She'd waited for months. Nearly two full years. She refused to wait another minute.

“Make love to me,” she urged.

To her distress, he shook his head. “That's not going to happen, Gianna.”

“But—”

He stopped her with another kiss that had every thought seeping from her head except what he was doing to her and how he did it. “D'Angelo drugged you tonight,” he murmured between leisurely, sampling tastes. “It's likely that you're still feeling the effects.”