Her Italian Millionaire (29 page)

They lay there under the trees, his arms warm and protective, his shoulder a pillow for her head. When her breathing slowed back to near normal, and her tears dried on her cheeks and on his shoulder, she opened her eyes and raised her head. He smoothed her damp hair and tucked an errant strand behind her ear. And he smiled, a half amused, half tender smile.

“I know I promised I wouldn't cry anymore, but I didn't know,” she murmured, her cheeks and her whole body flushed. “I had no idea it could be like that.”

He kissed the corners of her mouth and the hollow of her throat. He tasted like wine and his kisses were even more intoxicating. She must be drunk, drunk on his kisses and his touch. Why else would she feel so dizzy, disoriented, wiped out?

Marco rolled over and lay on his back, and she propped herself on one elbow, her equilibrium returning, her adrenaline pumping at the sight of his marvelous erection. Shyly but purposefully, she leaned forward and ran her fingers over his smooth velvet sheath. Goosebumps rose all over her skin.

He shuddered and he wrapped his hand around hers. “Yes,” he said, his voice as rough as gravel.

She ran her fingers over the silky-strong length of his organ, marveling at the length and the steel strength. He moaned deep in his throat and she thrilled at the power she had over him, the ability to make him come alive in her hands; thrilled to feel his masculinity, to hold it, and want it. She wanted it deep inside her, wanted it to reach into the depths of her, to make her call out once again the rapture and the earth-shaking joy in the stillness of the pure air.

With her hand still around his penis, she shifted so she was straddling him. She ran her other hand over his skin, tracing the dark hair on his chest, then down to his thighs marveling at the texture of his skin and the outline of his muscles. She followed her hand with kisses, trailing her mouth across his belly, tasting the salt on his skin, delighting in the rough edges and the smooth surfaces. He made sounds so primeval, she no longer worried about whether she was doing it right or wrong. Whatever she was doing, it was working.

 He grew bigger and bigger, pulsating in her hand until she thought she wouldn't be able to contain all that masculinity. Joy bubbled up inside her throat. She watched his eyes dilate and heard the rough explosion of his breath. She'd never felt this way, never realized she could do this. The excitement went to her head, made her feel powerful, in control and yet a part of something bigger than herself, bigger than both of them.

He groaned and rolled over, taking her with him, and she knew what would happen next. Her body was ready, moist with the liquid honey he'd already tasted in her most intimate spot. She was quivering, silently begging him to come to her. To take her over the edge once again.

Though she was slick with wanting him, every nerve, every muscle, every organ waiting and wanting, nothing could have prepared her for the strength and the force of the thrusts of his organ. She gripped his shoulders, riding out the storm of passion as he filled the emptiness she hadn't known was there. The emptiness that no one else had filled or even tried to fill. The wild pulsations came faster and faster until the thunder crashed in her ears and lightning struck them both at the same time. In the middle of a warm summer day with the sun shining down on them a storm struck. Only there was no storm, no storm, except inside their bodies, in their minds and in their world.

He shouted. She screamed. And no one heard. Their voices echoed across distant green hills. He lay on top of her, his weight bearing down on her, a welcome heaviness. Eventually he rolled over again, this time coated with a film of sweat. The look in his eyes, the lines in his face, all told her he was sated and at peace.

With a supreme effort, she sat up and looked around. If she expected the world to be a different place, she was mistaken. The blanket was tangled beneath them, still covered with crumbs. The empty wine bottle had rolled away and the cheese and cherries spilled out of paper sacks. Bees were buzzing overhead.

One landed on Marco's hand.

“Va via,”
he told it, waving his hand to shake it off, but the bee stung him. Marco yelped, jumped up and grasped one hand with the other, his face contorted.

Anne Marie got to her feet. “How can I help? What can I do?”

“Nothing,” he said through stiff lips, getting dressed clumsily but quickly with one hand. “I'll be fine as soon as I get to the car and get some medicine. I'm allergic to bee stings.”

“Oh, my God.” She grabbed her underwear, jeans and shirt and threw them on. “My son is allergic. It's nothing to fool with. Come on, let's go.” She tossed the remains of the picnic into a bag, seized the blanket and they half ran, half walked down the path to the car.

He reached into the back seat of the Lancia for his valise and took out a small bottle of pills. He popped two in his mouth and washed them down with a swig of mineral water from a plastic bottle. Then he went around to the driver's seat. When he turned the key in the ignition, she glanced at his hands on the wheel.

“Wait a minute. We still have some ice. We'll wrap up your hand with ice.” She got out of the car and took the bag of ice from the trunk. After pouring off the excess water, she wrapped his arm and the ice in the picnic blanket and knotted it as tightly as she could.

“It's really swollen,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. She knew a bee sting could be potentially dangerous. “It will take a while for the medicine and the ice to work to make the swelling go down.”

“I feel like a fool,” he said, looking down at the makeshift bandage on his arm as if it belonged to someone else. “This is ridiculous. How can I drive?”

“You can't. I will.”

“You?” He looked at her as if she'd offered to pilot a jet plane. “Do you know how to drive a..a...”

“Stick shift? Yes, of course.”

“All right, go ahead.” He got into the passenger side of the car.

She took the driver's seat, scared spitless. She hadn't driven a stick shift for years, not since Dan had sold their old VW beetle and bought a Honda Civic. But she had to do it. Bee stings were nothing to be fooled with.

She was also determined to show Marco she could take care of herself and him, too, even though there was plenty of evidence to the contrary.

“We'll find a doctor in the next town,” she said.

“What for?” he asked.

“To have a look at this and prescribe something else if necessary.”

“It won't be. No doctor. I wish...”

She waited. He said no more. She could only imagine what he wished. He wished that he'd used a condom. He wished they hadn't stopped there to have a picnic. Her hands were shaking; she needed something to calm her nerves before she took the wheel. “Would you be able to reach around and get me the candy in my tote bag with your good hand?” she asked.

He hesitated, then reached for the candy. Before he handed her the box, he read the note.

“Who's Misty?” he asked.

“The cousin of my friend Evie,” she said.

“And you're going to eat her candy?”

“I need it now, and she doesn't. I'm going to replace the pieces I've eaten before I give it to her.” She slipped her fingers under the wrapping and took out the first piece she came to, a dark chocolate truffle with a swirl of milk chocolate on top. She took a large bite and closed her eyes to savor the taste and the texture of one of the best truffles she'd ever eaten. They really were worth the exorbitant prices; no wonder Misty had her bring them all this way. “Would you like a piece?” she said politely, handing him the box.

“I don't eat chocolate.” He put it back in her bag and tossed that on the seat behind her.

After devouring the truffle she felt better. Much better. Sex and chocolate. Chocolate and sex. Her body hummed with contentment and a sense of comittment to Marco’s well- being.

“Shall we be off?” she asked brightly.

He gave her a reluctant stiff smile, one she imagined was full of admiration for her courage and her gumption and maybe more, and she put her hands on the steering wheel.

He settled back in the seat, resting his swollen arm and hand on the open window ledge.

She took a deep breath and put the clutch in with her left foot. Then she turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine, enjoying the sound and the feeling of power. She'd never been aware that she was lacking in power, but ever since Dan walked out on her, she'd known what it was like to lose it. Now, slowly but surely, she was getting it back. She worked the knob of the gear stick, trying to figure out where the five gears were.

She glanced at Marco, hoping he didn't know she was unsure of herself, but he wasn't fooled. He pointed to the little diagram on top of the knob and she nodded. Of course she knew there was a diagram. It was just that she thought Italian cars might be different.

She bit her lip and shifted into first gear then let out the clutch a little too fast. The car jerked forward, and stalled inches from a large birch tree. She was breathing hard, and perspiration beaded on her forehead. She felt Marco's critical gaze on her.

“Give it a little gas as you let the clutch out,” he said.

“I did.”

She restarted the car, found reverse, and raced the engine as she let the clutch out. This time the car jumped backward five feet before stopping.

“Do you want me to - “ he said.

“No,” she said shortly. She would start this car, and she would drive it if it took all day. He had his medication; his hand was wrapped in ice. There wasn't anything more anyone could do for him right now, since he refused to see a doctor. And they were on vacation. At least she was.

 “Look,” he said, “it's just a matter of coordination. I don't know why women can't do two things at once. For some reason, they can't operate manually.”

Even if pain was making him irritated, his remarks made her face turn red and her throat burn. “Oh no?” she retorted. “I think I did a pretty good job of operating manually back there on the picnic blanket.”

She started the engine again, shifted into first gear, eased the clutch out as she lightly pressed on the gas, and felt a surge of pleasure as it all came together. The car nosed its way smoothly back onto the highway, and she shot him a triumphant smile.

Marco smiled back at her, despite his pain and his fear that she couldn't drive and that she'd either burn out the clutch or they'd end up in a ditch. How could he resist her? Her blue eyes glowed and her smile lit up her face. She had guts, this woman. She also had a beautiful smile, and he wanted to think he'd given her reason to smile a little more often.

He'd been a boor to criticize her that way. He also hadn't said anything about their love-making, but he didn't intend to. Making love to Ana Maria was like nothing he'd ever done before. Her cries still echoed in his mind, and the sight of her body under the dappled sunlight would stay with him for a long time.

Marco shifted in the bucket seat tying to get comfortable, but his mind, as well as his body, was in turmoil. He'd done what he thought she wanted. God knew he wanted it too. He'd thought once would be enough. He'd discovered what he'd suspected; she hadn't had much experience. Her husband was a
zuccone
, a fool, a cretin who hadn't appreciated her.

She was a passionate woman, one who deserved more. But was he the man to give it to her? Marco was worried. He'd felt something back there he'd never felt before. He'd felt a connection, an invisible cord that stretched between them. He'd also felt it on the boat and that night in the hotel. And now, with their clothes back on, with her driving his rented car badly, and he under the influence of the medication, he felt the connection all over again. What did it mean?