The Good Daughter (9 page)

Blood dripped from her hand. She followed the red sticky trail up her arm. A bowling ball hadn’t hit her. A bullet. She’d been shot--

Nia jerked awake, her heart beating furiously as if she’d tried to run a hundred-yard dash in an impossible two seconds.

The dream. No . . . nightmare.

It had haunted her for years, but hadn’t bothered her for several months now. Of all times for it to recur. She had enough fear to conquer without her own mind creating horrible scenarios. Even if it was a recurring nightmare, it still had the power to scare her.

And always before, Sandro had been there to comfort her. Ease the irrational fears. Even the time she first had the dream, he’d been there. The same night she met him . . . .

* * *

Ten years earlier

Italy had been in the states for a friendly soccer match with the USA team. Nia and her former soccer coach Giuseppe Zambrotta had tickets. The day had been magical. Not only did she get to see her soccer hero Sandro in live action, she learned he was Giuseppe’s nephew. Giuseppe and Sandro’s mother were siblings, different last names, which is why she’d never known there was a connection. That, and the fact that her coach had been mysteriously closed- mouthed about his famous relative.

That night, Sandro would dine at Giuseppe’s and she was invited. From the moment she met Sandro, he stole her heart with as much certainty and skill as he’d ever scored a goal. Even more amazing, he seemed to be as attracted to her--later, he told her about the
“thunderbolt”
, an Italian man’s expectation of being struck blind with love. For her, he told her, she had been his thunderbolt.

He even persuaded Giuseppe to let her spend the night, upstairs in the guest room of course, while Sandro volunteered to take the couch. Alone in her room, reviewing the day, she knew she’d never get to sleep. But she dropped right off, awakened a short while later by the nightmare.

Too agitated to go back to bed, she went downstairs for juice. Only to be scared for real when Sandro, whom she thought was sleeping, whispered in her ear, “It is dangerous to walk in the dark.”

“
Yikes! Sandro.” Her shoulders slumped as the tension eased from her muscles. “I thought you were asleep.”

He turned her to face him. “I pretend. In case it was Beppe or Luciana.” He picked up the juice glass from the countertop. “You have trouble to sleep? Drink
latte
…milk.” The glass made a soft clink against the marble counter as he sat it down.

“
I wasn’t having trouble sleeping, not at first. Then I had a bad dream. I don’t like milk, but I thought juice would help.” Realizing she was inanely chattering, she turned the question to him. “Haven’t you been able to sleep?”

She felt him studying her. In the dark, she couldn’t clearly make out his features, but she felt his intense look, his warm breath stirring the air between them.

“
No. Sleep does not come to me tonight.”

She wanted to ask him if he couldn’t sleep because he was thinking of her, but to her shame, just the thought made her tremble.
Coward, she scolded herself. He’s years older and totally experienced. The last thing he wants is a nervous virgin.

His hand slid from her shoulder, up her neck to cup her face. “You are shaking. Because the dream frightened you?”

No, not the dream. Her feelings for him. “It was very bad,” she agreed, while wondering if she should rub against his hand, which felt so nice and strong against her cheek.

“
Vieni qua
. Come. Tell me. I will hold you.” He took her hand and led her to the gray-and-blue plaid sofa, gently illuminated by a lamp turned on dim. He sat on the hide-away mattress, and gently tugged her down beside him, not giving her a chance to resist.

Nestled in his arms, her cheek pressed against his warm bare chest, she felt safe and secure. The dream seemed less frightening in the telling especially when he kept rubbing her back and dropping soft kisses atop her head as she spoke. She was having more trouble by the minute remembering terror pulled her from sleep.

“
Someone shot you? This is very bad.”

His whisper-soft kiss brushed her hair. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat strong and steady while hers was bouncing all over the place. “Just a dream though.”

“
But still enough to frighten.”

His warm, masculine scent filled her nostrils. “Yes, it was scary.” She finally looked at him. “But I’m not afraid now.”

Their gazes locked; the moment dragged out between them. She became aware of the bulge in his fitted boxers growing larger, harder. Unable to stop herself, she glanced down.
Oh, wow
. When she looked back at him, she saw him swallow. Hard.

“
It is time for you to go back to bed,” he said, his voice tight with strain.

A surprising thought practically knocked her upside the head. “Come to my room with me,” she blurted before she chickened out.

He stared at her, the moment stretching to infinity, before he finally said, “This is bad idea. Is better we watch television instead.”

She was inexperienced, true, but surely she hadn’t misread him that badly. “You don’t want . . . ? ”

“
Si, I very much
want
. You need your sleep.”

“
I’ve heard sex makes you sleep better.” God, where did that come from?

“
Is true then, you are
innocente
like Beppe says.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

“
Beppe said that?” she gasped. Heat rose up her neck. “How could he?”

Sandro chuckled. “Because he knows the way a man’s mind thinks.”

Beppe and sex. That was not an image she wanted to consider.

“
Is true?” he repeated.

“
Does it make a difference?”

“
Do you never answer a question?”

“
Why should I answer if it doesn’t make a difference. Does it?” She held her breath as he stared at her.

“
No,” he answered at last. “
Innocente
or not, is best we watch the television.”

She sighed. “It figures I’d fall for a lady’s man with scruples.”

He chuckled again. She settled back against him while he punched on the remote, lowered the volume, and flipped channels on the wall-mounted flat screen television, one of the first she’d seen at the time.

“
Stop,” she said. “I like this movie.” It was
The Bodyguard
, one of her mom’s favorite movies, and Kevin Costner had workmen ripping up Whitney Houston’s estate, installing security measures. She explained the movie to that point, well aware of what would happen later. Hoping the growing attraction between Whitney and Kevin might persuade Sandro to change his mind. Nia never realized she was so devious.

When as a prelude to their love scene Kevin let Whitney’s scarf float down to slice in half on his sword, Nia felt Sandro’s body tense next to her.

“
You are very bad,” he scolded, obviously realizing what was coming next.

She looked at him. “I’m trying to be but no one will let me.” She slid her hand across the hard ridges on his stomach surprising herself with her boldness.

He grabbed her arm with a low growl.

That’s when she came to her senses, aware she was throwing herself at him. “I’m no better than a groupie,” she muttered realizing he must have women throw themselves at him all the time. “I’m sorry,” she told him, embarrassed by her actions. “I thought you were interested. Beppe’s right, I am inexperienced. Sex has never been high on my priority list.” She slid her arm from his grasp. “I’ll just um . . . go back to my room. Um, now.”

She intended to climb off the couch, but he caught her around her waist, and in an unexpected move she was on her back with him straddled on top of her.

Her eyes widened.

Sandro moved closer, closer, so close she felt his breath whispering across her face. Her heart thumped heavy and hard. She was certain he could see it pounding as he lowered his gaze to her chest. As if in proof, he laid his hand between her breasts. Her eyes drifted shut. Anticipation. Fantasy. Need.

Maddeningly avoiding her breasts which were swelling with desire, he trailed his hand up to her neck. There, his thumb brushed the thudding pulse at the base of her throat.

When he pulled back, she moaned.

“
You are wrong,” he said.

Her eyes snapped back open.

“
I am interested. But your first time . . . should be special. Not like this.”

“
Like this?” The weight of him, the closeness of him, her brain seemed sluggish and she didn’t understand what he meant.

“
In a hurry,” he told her. “Afraid someone will interrupt.”

“
There’s my room,” she suggested.

“
And if Beppe wakes up and I am not on this sofa, where do you think he will look? Besides, it would not be honorable to use his house for our pleasure.”

Nia knew he was right. She sighed. “Why do you have to be so logical?” She didn’t know
how
he could be so logical either, since the thing most prevalent on her mind was finding a way to get closer to him.

“
Is not easy being logical, especially when I want to . . .” and what followed was a whole string of Italian words that sounded so sexy she wanted to rip off her clothes, even though she had no idea how to translate.

“
What’d you just say to me?”

“
I told you what I want to do with you, but I don’t know how to say the English.”

“
Why don’t you show me instead, and I’ll interpret for you? I know, I know.” She cut off the sure protest he would make. “You don’t want to do anything here. So you can come to my dorm room with me tomorrow night. I’ll kick out my roommate.”

He chuckled. “You have one thing on the brain.”

“
Can you blame me?”

His smile swiftly changed to seriousness. “I would like that very much, but Beppe and Luciana--”

“
I know what you’re going to say. You haven’t seen them in years. And I understand. You don’t have enough time with them as it is. I guess I’m out of luck.”

“
Don’t be impatient. You will be at the World Cup.”

“
World Cup? Geez, that’s four months away.”

“
Will give you time to learn Italian so you know what I say.”

“
Ha. You’re the one making me wait. Better learn those words you need to know in English.”

He kissed her then, a passionate kiss that had her pushing her body as physically close as possible. He followed with more whispered words in Italian.

“
All right, all right. I’ll learn Italian,” she gasped. “You just make sure you find a way for us to be together during the World Cup.” She hoped he had an idea how he was going to pull that off.

“
I’ll find a way. I will be your first lover.”

“
My first lover, hm? That means I’m not supposed to have sex with anyone in the meantime? After you got me all worked up like this?”

“
Your first lover,” he repeated, all seriousness. “And it will be very special.”

When he put it that way, all desire to tease him fled while she fought off a renewed wave of sexual desire. “I better get to bed before I do something you’ll regret,” she said.

“
But we were watching the movie,” he protested, before he kissed her again. Teasing kisses, nibbling kisses, then more serious tongue-dueling kisses that had her reeling with dizziness and desire.

Coming up for air endless minutes later, she glanced at the television. “Too late,” she breathed. “We missed it already.”

His gaze turned to the TV where Whitney sang the last refrains of
I’ll Always Love You.
Kevin stood guard next to his new employer. Loving the song, Nia hummed along.

“
What happened?”

She stopped humming. “He left her in the end. To move onto his next job.” The ending always made her sad, which is why she felt sorry for herself as she added, “Like you’ll leave me.”

Sandro stared at her, passion still smoldering hot in his eyes. “There is a difference,
carissima.
I will be back. And you will be my woman. For always.”

* * *

He came back; he made her his as promised. But now he was gone. And she was alone. No comforting, strong arms. No sweetly whispered Italian words to ease her fears.

No, not alone. There were bad guys. Mob guys. With guns. And she was prisoner--God only knew where. And Sandro had disappeared, running from these bad guys. She was certain of that. No matter the little charade he pulled off this morning, he hadn’t left her for another woman or broken his promise that she would be his woman always. He had only been trying to protect her, for what reason she wasn’t sure. She only knew they were all in danger now.

He needed her. Her son needed her. Her son would be frightened without her.