His profile reminded her of carved granite. A muscle worked in his jaw. “Does it matter?” he asked. “I did what I had to do. For my family. I have no regrets.”
Her heart squeezed and broke open. Without thought, she slid her hand across the seat and grasped his. He threw her a startled look. “Yes, it matters. Have you ever even recognized and mourned the loss of something you loved? Not your father. Your dream. You were getting close to something you’d always wanted and suddenly it was ripped away from you. I’d be severely pissed off.”
She got a chuckle from him but he kept his gaze on the road. “My papa and I had a difficult relationship,” he admitted. “He looked upon my racing as a dangerous, selfish hobby. Eventually, he pushed me to choose—my career or the family bakery. I chose the circuit, so he told me to leave. I packed my stuff, went on the road, and tried making myself a name. But when I got the call that he had a heart attack, and saw him so frail and sick in the hospital, I realized my wishes weren’t as important as I originally thought.” He shrugged. “I realized sometimes others have to come first. As Papa once told me, a real man makes decisions for everyone, not just himself. I owed it to everyone to make the business work, and I did. In a way, I have no regrets.”
She stared at him a long time “Do you miss it?”
He tilted his head as if considering her question. Then shot her a grin. “Hell, yes. I miss racing every day.”
Dear God, this man was going to break her apart. Not only was he honest, he never viewed his self-sacrifice in any negative manner. How many men had she dated who whined about anything that didn’t please them or fit perfectly into their own wants or needs? No, Michael held a core of beliefs she’d never experienced with another lover. “Your family is lucky to have you,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Just squeezed her hand as if he’d never let her go.
They reached the vacation home a few hours later. Maggie inwardly laughed at the Contes’ version of a rental. The elaborate mansion held its own helicopter pad, lagoon, gardens, and hot tubs. Ivy climbed over the massive brick walls and matching clock tower surrounded by jungle greens and elaborate gardens. The cobblestone path led up a massive staircase where an open terrace held comfortable rocking chairs and was connected to a full bar. Polished marble, brightly colored mosaic tiles, and rich chocolate browns and gold made up the color scheme. A warm breeze flew through the rooms from the open windows, and the scents of lilac and citrus flooded her senses.
Her heels clicked on the gleaming tile as Michael grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses from the bar, then led her upstairs. One door opened up to a huge bedroom with a king-size platform bed. The balcony doors were opened as if they were expected and the room was already prepared. A full bouquet of bloodred roses sat on the high table, serving as the centerpiece of the room. She walked over the rich Oriental carpet, admiring the carefully placed antiques and fine white lace curtains. Then she realized her husband stood to the side, hip propped up against the bureau, studying her from across the room.
Maggie swallowed. Suddenly, a rush of pure terror overtook her. This whole thing was too much—the bed, the wedding, and her realization of her true feelings for her count. The ground broke beneath her and she scrambled for footing. Her nails curled into her fists in an urge to grab for leverage. Damned if she’d let her voice shake like a virginal bride. She chided herself for this type of behavior and straightened her spine.
“Do you want to go to dinner?” she asked.
“No.”
The blood thickened in her veins. His lip quirked upward in a half smile, as if he sensed her sudden awkwardness.
She stuck her chin out and refused to break his gaze. “Do you want to go for a walk in the gardens?”
“No.”
“Take a swim?”
“Nope.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest to hide the obvious thrust of her ni**les. “Well, what do you want to do? Just stand there making googly eyes at me?”
“No. I want to make love to my wife.”
Grief ripped through her. His wife. God, how she wanted it to be real.
“Don’t say that,” she hissed. Maggie grabbed on gratefully to the anger that burned in her blood. “I’m not really your wife and we both know it. You promised to leave me alone. No sex.”
He closed the distance and took her in his arms. The concern and tenderness on his face broke her in two. “La mia tigrotta, what is wrong? I would never do anything you didn’t want.” He stroked her hair back from her face and tipped her chin up.
“This is a lie.” She blinked back blinding tears, enraged at her weakness before him. “We’re a lie.”
His breath rushed over her lips and he kissed her gently, slipping his tongue inside to tenderly mate. She longed to fight him but her body weakened under each hot stroke and his musky scent. She opened for him and gave back, digging her fingers into his shoulders as every carved muscle pressed against her curves.
Slowly, he lifted his head. Inky dark eyes seethed with a blistering heat that seared through her and crashed every ounce of resistance. “No, Maggie,” he said fiercely. “This is not a lie anymore. We are not a lie. I want to make love to you, my wife. Right now. Will you let me?”
His honor came first, and Maggie knew only a shake of her head would force him to his own separate corner. Dear God, what was wrong with her? Why did she want this man so much after only a few hours of being in his arms? He’d destroy her.
He waited for her decision.
Her body and mind warred, but deep inside, the tiny voice triumphed. Take what you can get now and you’ll have the memories. She’d survived much worse. But she didn’t think she could survive pushing him away tonight.
She dragged his mouth to hers. He kissed her completely, his tongue tangling with hers as he carried her to the bed. Each movement melted into the next as he stripped off her clothes and explored every part of her body with hands and mouth and tongue. She moaned as he brought her to the brink, stopped, then stripped off his own clothes and started again. She writhed and begged until finally he parted her thighs and paused at her entrance.
As if sensing her innate fear, he immediately rolled her to the side without question, grabbed her hips, and pulled her down onto his shaft.
He filled every aching crevice and she cried out and began moving, frantic for release. His hands rubbed her br**sts, flicking the tips, and with one final scrape against her clit she exploded into a thousand pieces.