The Sicilian Surrender

Stefano shook his head, moved toward her and reached for her hand.

“Mia bella,” he said huskily, “how beautiful you are!”

Fallon put her hand in his. “So are you.”

He laughed, grateful for the reprieve.

“I’ve been called many things, but ‘beautiful’ isn’t one of them.” He kissed her knuckles, her palm, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m glad you liked the yellow roses.”

“All the flowers are wonderful. My rooms look like a garden.”

His face felt warm. Was he blushing?

“Well,” he said, “I didn’t know which ones you’d prefer.”

“All of them. It was the loveliest gift anyone’s ever given me.” She looked up and smiled again. “Thank you.”

He looked into her eyes, at her mouth, and wanted to kiss her. Just a light kiss, a way of saying it had been his pleasure to send the flowers, but her scent teased his nostrils, a strand of her hair brushed his cheek, and he felt his body turn hard.

Now he understood why he’d been so edgy all afternoon, why he’d snapped at Anna when she’d asked a simple question about dessert, why he’d snapped at Luigi over an equally simple question about the car, why he’d gone down to the beach and swum far into the sea—farther than he knew was wise—before swimming back to shore.

He wanted Fallon.

That was what this night was all about.

He wanted her in a way he’d never wanted a woman before. He looked into her face, saw both the scars that marked it and the beauty that defined it, and imagined how it would feel to move over her and watch her eyes darken with pleasure as he filled her.

The truth was that this night was less about luring her back into the world than it was about luring her into his bed, and if that didn’t qualify him to be the self-serving SOB she’d said he was, it came damned close.

“Stefano?”

He blinked at the soft tone of inquiry, brought his eyes back to focus on her.

“Is something wrong?”

Yes. Something was very wrong. She made him feel things he didn’t understand. More than hunger. More than desire.

“No,” he said, and cleared his throat, “but there will be, if we let Anna’s meal get cold.” He slid his arm around her waist, drew her against him and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “She’s thrilled you’re dining with me tonight.”

A wash of pale pink rose in Fallon’s cheeks.

“So am I,” she said softly, and the need Stefano felt for her pounded through his blood.

* * *

He opened the Cristal and poured it into Baccarat flutes. He served Anna’s paper-thin smoked tuna, her caponata, the grilled lamb and what she said was a Sicilian specialty, pasta con le sarde.

The tuna was like silk, the caponata a heavenly mingling of tomato, aubergine and olives. The lamb was delicious and the pasta with fresh sardines dazzled Fallon’s taste buds with hints of the sea and of the fennel that grew everywhere on Sicily.

But she managed only a bite of each.

How could she eat when her heart felt lodged in her throat? When Stefano was so gorgeous, so masculine, so funny, so wonderful?

It was a warm night and, after asking her if it was okay with her, he’d discarded his tie, his jacket, undone the top couple of buttons of his shirt and rolled back his cuffs.

As handsome as he’d been in his tux, he was even more handsome this way. Dark and dangerous and sexy, she thought, and felt her pulse accelerate.

They talked of the New York they both loved, of Sicily, of places they’d seen in their travels. He told her about buying back the land that the castello was built on; when he described the elderly Sicilians who’d owned it, he lapsed into a really awful imitation of Marlon Brando doing Vito Corleone, and she burst into giggles.

Stefano’s eyes darkened.

“I love the way you laugh,” he said, and she thought how long it was since she’d felt so happy. Not just since the accident, she realized, but long before that.

She hadn’t felt this filled with life in a very long time.

“Tell me about Castello Lucchesi,” she said. “About your grandfather.”

He shrugged his shoulders, leaned back in his seat and sipped his wine.

“I loved him,” he said simply. “He was tough and hard, like this island, and as giving and generous as its people.”

“And you built the castle for him.”

She said it so simply that he knew she understood.

“Yes. I built it for him. I only wish he’d lived long enough to see it.”

Impulsively, she reached for his hand. His fingers closed tightly around hers.

“I’ll tell you the story someday. For now, let’s just say that revenge can become a way of life for some people.” He smiled and squeezed her hand again. “Your turn. Tell me about you.”

She said there wasn’t much to tell, yet somehow, a quarter of an hour later, she was still talking, telling him about her family, the years spent growing up and moving from place to place while her father searched for ways to make the roll of the dice and the turn of a card pay off.

She told him things she’d never told anyone, how gawky she’d felt in high school when she shot up to five-ten and all the other girls, even her sisters, were inches shorter.

“Height impaired,” Stefano said, straight-faced.

He grinned and so did she, and that made her laugh all over again and when she did, he thought how incredible it was to see her laugh so many times in one wonderful evening.

“Meg and Bree caught up, eventually,” Fallon said, and suddenly she knew she couldn’t manage the pretence much longer. She wanted to be in Stefano’s arms, to feel his mouth on hers, and if he didn’t touch her soon, she was going to make a fool of herself by throwing herself at a man who was interested in being kind, not in being her lover.

God, what was she thinking?

Fallon sat up straight, put down her fork and touched her mouth with her napkin.

“Well,” she said briskly, “it’s getting late.”

Was it? Yes, Stefano thought in surprise, it must be. A while ago, he’d lit the tall white tapers that stood in the center of the table and the tiny lights strung among the trees in the garden had come on. To the west, the blackness of the night was broken only by the faint lights of scattered houses and by the rivers of fire that streaked the breast of the volcano.

Speakers, hidden in the garden, sent the softest possible music into the flower-scented night.

Beautiful, all of it, but not as beautiful as Fallon.

She was getting to her feet. He didn’t want her to go. But she was probably tired. All this—the meal, though neither of them had eaten much; the wine; even the night air must have exhausted her…

Stefano stood up.

“Don’t go.” She looked at him, her eyes wide and shining, and he felt a fist close around his heart. “You can’t leave until we’ve had our dance. Remember? I asked you to have supper with me and to go dancing.”

“I know, but here…?”

“Here. Right here. Right now.” His voice had taken on a note of command and then it softened. “Please,” he said, and opened his arms.

He saw the little lift of her breasts and knew she’d caught her breath. Would she turn him down? If she did, he’d be a gentleman and let her go.

The hell with that. He hadn’t made a fortune by being a gentleman. If she said

no, he’d pull her into his arms, bring her soft body against his, stroke his hands over her until she sighed and said yes to dancing with him, yes to making love with him, yes, yes, yes…

“Yes,” Fallon whispered, and went into his arms.

He held her close. Put one hand at the base of her spine, curved the other around the nape of her neck, under the lush mantle of her hair. She was tall, taller than ever in those incredible shoes, and that was good because it meant when he brought her head against him, her face tucked just against his shoulder and he felt the warm sigh of her breath against his throat.

Stefano put his lips against her hair. He’d held her before but never like this, with her body pressed against the full length of his, her breasts soft against the hardness of his chest, her long legs molded to his.

He shut his eyes. The music was slow and soft and he began moving to it, holding her close, inhaling her fragrance, feeling himself grow aroused at the sway of her body against his. He wanted her so badly it was agony, feeling her against him, but he didn’t want to push her into something she didn’t want or wasn’t ready for, and he almost laughed as he wondered what the world would think of il lupo solo right now, cautious and unsure for the first time in his life.

One kiss, he thought. One taste, and then Fallon whispered his name on a sigh. Stefano looked down into her face, saw eyes that were dark and filled with desire, a mouth that trembled in anticipation of his kiss, and he forgot everything but this woman and this night and what his heart told him they’d both wanted from the first time they’d met.

He bent his head, took her mouth. Her lips parted, opened to his, and he groaned, angled his head, slanted his mouth over hers again and feasted on her taste. She made a little sound, the breathless whisper a woman makes in the moment of her surrender, and he gave up thinking.

His hands skimmed over her, molding her breasts, toying with the tight, erect nipples. Fallon’s head fell back and he nipped at her bared throat, kissed the hollow where her pulse raced as rapidly as his.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, and she cupped his face, brought his mouth to hers.