Somebody's Angel (#5 in a Military Romance / BDSM Romance series) (Rescue Me) (28 page)

“Give my regards to Natalia. Tell her I never forgot her.”

Somehow Marc knew he wouldn’t be extending the man’s greetings to Mama, not anytime soon at least.

With more questions than answers, Marc said good-bye and headed outside. The late-winter air was chilly but the sun bright and warm. He needed to walk, to think, to breathe. Leaving the side street, he headed toward the
Piazza del Campo
. The pleasure of being back in his homeland for the first time in twenty-some years, albeit only as close as nearby Tuscany to his native province of Lombardy, had been dampened by meeting the man who had fathered him.

He entered the
Campo
and a flock of startled pigeons took flight, distracting him. He watched two of the birds alight on a sculpture perched high on a pedestal above the plaza. The bronze-looking sculpture showed two babies suckling at the tits of a wolf. Sweat broke out on Marc’s forehead. Why did the statue send a chill down his spine? He’d never been to Siena before, but of course, he was familiar with the story depicted by the sculpture. Every Italian schoolboy learned the tale of Romulus and Remus being rescued by the she-wolf. But he hadn’t thought about the story since primary school. And that story was about the founding of Rome, not Siena.

Images of a child’s costume mask flashed across his mind before being replaced by the wolf mask he once wore at the Masters at Arms Club, the one someone stole four months ago. Why anyone would want to steal something like that was beyond him, but he hadn’t really missed it. Why he’d chosen to wear a wolf’s mask when Mama had asked him to be discreet while at the club was beyond him.

The child’s mask flashed again before his eyes.

Marc shook off the eerie feeling the sculpture gave him and continued through the
Campo
on his way to his hotel. He needed to see if he could catch an earlier flight home. Remaining in Italy even another day held no appeal. He wanted to get back to Angelina.

What would he tell her about the man who had fathered him? He’d prefer to forget this meeting had ever happened.

Dio,
he needed to hold Angelina.

* * *

Marc opened the garage door and saw that her car was gone. Maybe she’d gone over to Karla’s. The two had become good friends. He’d texted her to let her know his plane had landed and asked if she’d like to have dinner out. No response.

He needed to talk with her about Siena. Marc placed his keys on the granite countertop and surveyed the kitchen. Spotless, not that unusual. Even the leftovers from Damián’s birthday party had been removed from the fridge.

The silence within the house threatened to envelop him as he walked toward the foyer. Too quiet. He took the stairs two at a time and went straight to their bedroom. Inside, he found the bed made, his latest mystery on the nightstand, but no sign of Angelina’s e-reader. Crossing the room, his heart pounding, he opened the closet. Only her red dress hung there, the one with the keyhole back she’d worn the night at daVinci’s the night she’d come back into his life.

Everything else was gone.

Angelina was gone.

He was alone.

Again.

He couldn’t believe she’d actually left him. She’d threatened to do so, but he hadn’t expected her to follow through.

Or had he?

Marc turned back toward the vanity and saw a card propped against a photo of him and Angelina taken at Adam’s wedding. Trying to keep calm, he walked across the room and picked up the card. He opened the tucked-in flap and pulled out the small flowery card. Marc stared at the columbines on the card’s face a moment, afraid to open it and see what she’d written. He set the card down again.

Maybe if he didn’t read it, none of this would be real. Angelina would still be here. Perhaps this was just a dream, and he’d awaken with Angelina by his side.

He looked at the card. No, this was more like a nightmare that had started more than two months ago. He glanced at the bed.

The room began to close in on him.

Trapped.

Funny, but in the past, he’d gotten that feeling when a woman got too close. Now the prospect of being without one very special woman left him feeling suffocated.

Needing to get out of this room where they’d shared so many special times, he exited the room and headed back to the kitchen, pulling a bottle of pinot bianco from the wine rack and placing it in the chiller. His hands automatically reached for two wine glasses from the cabinet before he remembered he was alone.

Again.

Wait. She’d left her beloved Nonna’s vanity. No way would she leave that and not plan to come back. The image of the flowers on the card had been branded on his mind. He poured another glass of wine and returned to the bedroom, needing to know what she’d said. Picking up the card once more, Marc walked over to the bed. He set the glass on the nightstand, sat on the edge of the mattress, and stared at the front of the card a little longer.

Open it.

He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it before finally opening the card. Angelina’s neatly printed words filled the entire inside of the card. He began to read:

Marc,

I love you more than life itself, but if you can’t let me be a part of your life, it won’t be good for either of us. I need to know that you want—no,
need
—me by your side, in good times and, well, times like now.

She’d drawn two lines under the word need.

I hope one day you will be able to shed whatever pain from the past holds you hostage. Call me if you ever decide to let me share your heart and your life.

Yours,

Angelina

Marc blinked as the words blurred. He picked up his glass, needing a drink, and realized he’d already emptied it. Leaving the card on top of his book on the nightstand, he carried the glass back to the kitchen and refilled it before he picked up the bottle to carry into the living room.

Once more, this enormous house closed in on him like a mausoleum. Angelina had brightened it up with her presence, but she was gone. From the sound of that letter, she wouldn’t be back until he got his shit together.

If she could wait that long.

Perhaps he should have taken her with him to Tuscany, but that mess was between him and his father. No, Solari. The only man who would be honored with the name father was Marc’s
real
father, Papa. That man in Tuscany had done nothing but donate some of his sperm. Still, Marc hadn’t wanted to involve Angelina in something that private—and potentially volatile. He’d had no idea what he’d find in Italy.

Nothing had changed.

Realization dawned. Therein lay the problem. How many times while in Siena had he wished Angelina had been with him? He’d included her in the discussion with Mama, and she’d helped him remain grounded—up to a point. Unfortunately, his own stubborn pride and need for privacy had kept him from having her with him—both in Italy and now in their home. No, his home. She’d left. She wanted no part of being here with him.

He was thankful she hadn’t met the bastard who had fathered him, though. Would she have seen traits of Marc in Solari? Marc preferred to think there were no similarities between them that couldn’t be detected without a microscope, but what if he was destined to be like his sperm donor—lecherous and lonely, looking for his next lay and never finding a woman he could share himself with?

A woman like Angelina.

He took another gulp of the wine and picked up the remote to turn on the DVD player to finish a movie he’d started watching last week, some blockbuster action flick that would take his mind off Angelina.

Instead, he found himself on a high-speed train barreling through southern France with the couple in Angelina’s favorite film,
French Kiss
. He’d always balked at watching the sappy chick flick with her unless she cuddled up next to him watching while he read and relaxed.

In this scene, the callous Frenchman Luc was rummaging in the leather handbag being used as a pillow on the train by the sleeping Meg Ryan character. Her hair was too short. Too blond. Not long, lush, and dark like Angelina’s. But when the sleeping woman reached out and drew the Frenchman into a kiss, Marc felt his balls tighten as he remembered the feel of Angelina’s lips against his. He took another sip of wine to banish that memory.

The actor deepened the kiss. No amount of wine would help Marc forget kissing Angelina. He remembered that first kiss when she, too, slept. Well, sleep wasn’t the right word. Angelina had tried to kiss him while in subspace the first night he met her, but he withdrew from her even then. Why couldn’t he stop pulling away?

As he reached to press the remote’s power button, the kiss ended, and Meg Ryan’s character rolled over, her back to the Frenchman, leaving him as confounded as Marc felt so many times while trying to process what Angelina did to him emotionally. The man on the screen had been run over by a slip of a girl who had barreled into his life and changed everything. Forever.

Just as Angelina had done in Marc’s life.

Not wanting to see anything more, he turned off the television. A burning ache targeted his heart in a way he’d never experienced before, a pain worse than having cement rebar pierce his lung in Fallujah. Ignoring the wineglass, he drained the remaining wine straight from the bottle. He wanted the pain to go away. He wanted to be numb again.

Returning to the kitchen, he pulled another bottle from the rack but didn’t bother chilling it this time. Just before popping the cork, he pushed the bottle away and went into the living room to the cocktail cart to pour an amaretto neat.

Carrying the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Who the fuck was he kidding? He couldn’t sleep in that bed tonight without Angelina. Perhaps never again.

Marc crossed the room and opened the door to the tower. He and Angelina hadn’t played in here since Christmas night. He flipped on the light switch and surveyed the pristine equipment. They preferred to play in the bedroom. The living room. The kitchen. The club.

Dio
, he realized the playroom might be the place least touched by Angelina’s memory. Good. He stripped, pulled the comforter back, and crawled in between the sheets.

Escape. Sleep.

Perchance to dream.

Dear God, don’t let her be waiting for him in his dreams. The thought of waking to find he’d only dreamt about her would be more than he could take right now.

The walls were closing in around him.

Trapped.

He shut his eyelids, only to be accosted immediately by his sweet angel’s smiling face. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling a moment. There would be no escape in sleep tonight. He reached to pick up his mystery, hoping Guido Guerrieri could distract him before he realized the latest Carofiglio novel was on the nightstand in their bedroom.
His
bedroom. Tossing the comforter back, he went down to retrieve it, keeping his gaze away from the lonely bed, and returned to the playroom bed. He opened the book to Chapter Two. After rereading the same paragraph three times, he resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to escape inside these pages as he usually did. This would be one very long, sleepless night.

The first of many if he didn’t go after Angelina.

But what had changed? He certainly hadn’t. Maybe she was right, and he should let her go.

The stabbing pain to his chest led to a burning in his eyes. He was just drunk enough to cry. But no tears came.
Dio,
he’d fucked up everything.

An indeterminate number of hours later, he awoke with a jolt. He glanced at his Breitling. Oh-two-forty. Marc picked up his cell and hit Angelina’s number in recent activity.

Merda
. He ended the call before it was too late. Calling her in the dark of night wouldn’t endear him to her.

He rolled over onto his side. No adventure treks scheduled at his outfitter store this week, but the call of the mountains was stronger than it had been in a long time. He set about planning an escape to the mountains first thing in the morning. He’d find peace there. Angelina hadn’t been on any long treks with him, although she’d gone with him on a couple of camping trips before the weather set in for the winter. He knew the wilderness still frightened her.

She accused in her note that he hadn’t let her inside his heart, but hadn’t he shared his beloved mountains with her? The mountains were as close to him as any lover had ever been. How could she say he hadn’t included her in his personal life?

Didn’t she know he loved her as much as he did his mountains?

So why was he rotting away in this mansion in the city? Because Gramps had gifted him with this mausoleum after Marc had been discharged from the Navy. Marc didn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings.

At least with Angelina it had begun to feel more like a home.

Merda
, he would feel at home anywhere on earth as long as she was beside him.

I need you,
mio angelo.

He clenched his fist.
No.
He didn’t
need
anyone.

Gino’s voice haunted his thoughts. Marc translated from the Italian.
Stop crying. They won’t keep you if you’re a baby. Don’t let them see you’re weak.

When had Gino spoken those words? Once again, he sounded like a kid in Marc’s mind. Marc closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about Gino right now. He’d gotten closure when he’d talked with Adam and even more at Adam’s wedding when he’d met Staff Sergeant Anderson, the Marine whose life Gino had saved in Afghanistan.

He’d forgiven Gino for what he’d done with Melissa, hadn’t he? In reality, nothing could be done about the way Gino had left things between them before being killed in combat. They’d burned that bridge.

Marc rolled over and closed his eyes. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to resolve issues with Angelina, but that would mean going to her and begging her to take him back. He had no clue what he was going to do without her, but he sure as hell knew he wouldn’t go crawling to her like some big-ass baby asking for another chance. She had to want to come back on her own.