“I saw him touch you and I wanted to grab him by the neck and throw him out,” Luca ground out beside her ear. “But that’s not Fiori. At least that’s not what the hotel stands for. Fiori is class and elegance, not brawling in the lobby. Even if he deserved it.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I-I hate violence. But I was afraid, Luca. So afraid.”
“It took all I had to hold my temper.”
She stepped back out of his arms. “You may think you were polite, but I saw the look on your face. Oh Luca, I was so glad to see you. I knew you wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”
He lifted a finger and ran it over her cheek. “I’d never let him hurt you, Mariella.”
“But I know…I know what men like Reilly can do.”
And then the shakes hit.
Mari felt the trembling strike deep inside and was helpless to control it. Her body went cold and suddenly it was impossible to get enough air. She stared straight ahead but could hear the gasping of her own strident breath.
“What the hell?” Mari barely registered his exclamation as his hands gripped her arms and pushed her down on the sofa. He said something to her in fast Italian. The breaths came fast and shallow and she started to see gray spots.
“Damn it! Mari, put your head between your legs!” He bit out the command and she felt the pressure of his hand against her head, pushing it down. She closed her eyes and fought against the darkness. “Breathe, darling,” his voice came, gentler now, and she concentrated simply on the in and out of respiration.
Reilly was gone. Robert was gone. No one would hurt her.
If she said it over enough, perhaps she’d believe it.
After a few minutes she’d gained control again. The shakes had hit her so hard and fast she hadn’t been prepared, though she should have been. She’d had them often enough before. It just hadn’t happened for a very long time. She’d let her guard down since being with Luca day in and day out. She was safe here with him. He was looking after her and knowing it made her want to cry all over again. She was always alone. This time she wasn’t. Luca was here.
“You…I thought you were going to hit him,” she murmured, bracing her arms on her knees and holding her head.
“And I wanted to, the moment I saw him put his hand on you. But sometimes there are better ways to accomplish things than with fists. He’s gone now, and he won’t be back. Not to any Fiori hotel. I’ll make sure of it.”
At his words a tear snuck out of the corner of her eye and she blotted it. He couldn’t know how much his words meant to her. How much he’d risen in her eyes, just knowing he’d preferred a calmer, more effective way to deal with a brute. Knowing he had had that urge to protect her, yet held his temper.
The warmth of his body disappeared for a moment and she heard him over at the bar. When he came back, he pressed a glass of water into her hands. “This might work better than the brandy,” he suggested quietly, his fingers cupping hers around the glass.
She took a grateful sip. Wondered what she could possibly say to make him understand. Understand both why she’d reacted the way she had and also understand how much it meant to her, having him there with her.
“Mariella, is there anything you could have done to make Reilly happy?”
She took another sip. “Short of magically making the Primrose Room appear out of our new spa, I doubt it. But I should have found a way. We were the ones who inconvenienced him. I should have found a better way. He was within his rights to be angry…”
“Don’t you dare make excuses. Don’t you dare, Mariella. There is no excuse for a man raising his hand to a woman. Ever.”
In the moment when Reilly had grabbed her arm, she had forgotten everything she’d learned since that day seven years ago. She’d forgotten how to be right and instead had only known what it was to feel wrong. And Luca was right. She was making excuses. She’d been good at it. Good at blaming herself, at playing the “if only” game. If only she’d been smarter, prettier, better behaved. If only she’d said something different, or nothing at all. If she hadn’t looked into his eyes, if she’d cooked the pasta a few minutes longer, if only, if only, if only.
And for a few seconds, she’d truly believed, if only she had looked away, said something differently, maybe Mr. Reilly wouldn’t have grabbed her. Seven years of progress down the drain.
“Mariella.” Luca knelt by her knees. “Sweetheart. I saw your face when he put his hands on you. You went so pale. That’s happened to you before, hasn’t it?”
She would not cry. She would not.
She nodded, a tiny affirmation.
“Oh Mariella, I am so sorry.”
This kinder, gentler Luca was tearing her apart bit by bit. Every place his hand touched was warmed and reassured. Every word he said healed something inside her. She didn’t want his pity. All she wanted was his understanding and…and…
And his love. It was all she’d ever really wanted, and she hadn’t even known it.
Luca continued, “It all makes sense now. That day in the attic, all those times you didn’t want to be touched. Who was he, Mariella? An ex-husband?”