Pride (In Wilde Country 1)

Of course he was. Did he think she was blind?

“I, of all people, would never think of you as wishing to be in control. We both know that’s an idiotic perception. Why, that day at Sweetwater, you were the very soul of conciliation and reason.”

“I am entitled to my own ideas.” Jesus. She sounded like a fool. “What I mean is, if a person knows what is correct, why shouldn’t that person say so?”

“Indeed.”

“Other people should appreciate the input.”

“Without question.”

“Dammit, Luca, stop agreeing with me.”

“Consider it stopped.”

She hit his shoulder in frustration. Then, to his delight, she began to laugh.

That was good. It was excellent. For a few minutes, he had seen an awful darkness in her. It had made him feel helpless, and he was not a man who enjoyed feeling helpless.

“You’re a woman who knows her own mind, cara. That’s a fine trait—but every now and then, easing back, you know, combining control with cooperation, can be a good thing.”

She thought about arguing, but a little voice inside her told her that he was right. She sighed and slumped against him.

“I know. But sometimes, it’s hard to do.”

He stroked the hair back from her temple and tilted her face to his.

“You do it with me,” he said softly.

He could almost see her thinking that over. Then she nodded.

“And that’s a new thing for you, si?”

Another nod. And then, a smile that made him want to kiss her—so he did.

It was a tender kiss, but as it went on, the tenderness mixed with awareness and that awareness became desire.

Luca rested his forehead against hers.

“Would you like to try this new thing again, bellissima? Being cooperative? Just so we can be certain we know how to do it correctly?”

She smiled. “Now?”

“Right now. All you have to do is ask.”

She laced her arms around his neck.

“Make love to me.”

“Say it properly.”

“Please,” she said, her mouth a breath from his. “Make love to me, Luca.”

He lifted her in his arms.

“What a good girl you are, cara. And because you are so very, very good, you’re going to get a reward.”

He kissed her and carried her through the plane to a handsome bedroom in the rear of the cabin. Then he shut the door, locked it, undressed her, undressed himself, and taught them both what command, control and cooperation were all about.

* * *

Milan had always been one of Cheyenne’s favorite cities.

One of her first big breaks had occurred there, during September Fashion Week almost a decade ago.

Four top designers had asked her to show their clothes. She became a fashion “name” virtually overnight. How could she have anything but a special affection for Milan? Venice had its Grand Canal, Florence had its David, and Rome had its Coliseum, but Milan had the Via Monte Napoleone as well as her heart.

And if you gave the city a chance, it was happy to show you its hidden parks and cathedrals and ancient works of art.

“I only wish we were here in season,” Luca said as they stood on the wide balcony of their suite while the last rays of the sun touched the Duomo with pink and gold. “I would take you to La Scala.”

She put her head back against his shoulder and smiled.

“I heard you that morning.”

“What morning?”

“That first morning we were together. You were singing an aria.”

He chuckled. “Howling it, you mean. When we were kids, Matteo used to threaten to smother me if I didn’t stop what you so graciously refer to as ‘singing.’”

“I think you sounded wonderful.”

“I used to think so, too, until he recorded me and played it back. When he did, I decided it was truly a miracle that he hadn’t carried through with the threat.”

Cheyenne smiled as he put his arms around her waist and drew her back against him.

“It must be nice, growing up with a brother.”

“Don’t forget the two sisters.” Luca rolled his eyes. “Brothers can be annoying, but sisters…”

“What?”

“Well, you have to worry about them all the time. Who are they dating? Where are they going? What are they doing? Are they taking foolish risks? Are they blind to the possibility of trouble?”

“Are you much older than they are?”

“Four years older than Bianca, five years older than Alessandra.”

“Mmm. I can see that must have been hard. Big brothers worrying about teen-aged girls, I mean.”

“I wasn’t talking about them as teenaged girls.” He chuckled, bent his head, nuzzled her hair aside and kissed her neck. “I’m talking about now.”

Cheyenne laughed. “You’re lucky they let you.”

“That’s the point. They don’t. And they get—”

“Huffy.”

“Si. They get huffy if they find out, or if I ask too many questions.”

She turned in his arms. “But they love you for it.”

“Bianca has used other terms. So has Alessandra.” He smiled. “But, yes, they love Matteo and me, and we adore them. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you have sisters?”

Amazing. A simple question, and he could see those walls going up again.

“No.”

“No family? What about your father?”

“I have no father.”

He almost said that was impossible. Everyone had a father, even if it was a father they preferred not to acknowledge.

Then he realized that her choice of words had been deliberate.

“I’m sorry, cara.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. He was never part of my life. All I know about him is that my mother named me for him. He was Cheyenne.”

“A Plains Indian tribe, right?”

She nodded.

“And he taught you the language?” Luca grinned. “I’ll never forget the look on that punk’s face when you cursed him out.”

She grinned back at him. “That was a nice moment, wasn’t it?” Her grin faded. “Actually, my father took off l before I was born, but I knew a kid in school whose family was Cheyenne and he taught me a couple of words.”

“Well, your mother named you wisely. A beautiful, proud name for a beautiful, proud woman.” He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers and played with it. “My mother named me, too, but her choice was far less dramatic. She named me for her great-grandfather. At least, that’s what she told me. The truth, I think, is that she picked the first name she could come up with, because my father was not there to offer any suggestions.”

“Was he away on business?”

Luca smiled grimly.

“He was away, spying for his country. Or playing at being the great general who would save the world. Your choice.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No. Neither did we.” He paused. “Do you remember asking me if the Bellinis were related to the Wildes? Well, you were right. We are.”

“Cousins?”

“Siblings,” he said flatly. “Half-siblings. Our father married our mother in Sicily even though he was already married to a woman in America.”

Cheyenne stared at him.

“You mean—”

“I mean that he was a bigamist. And,” he added, with a tight laugh, “I cannot believe I am telling you about it. It is such a dishonor. Such a disgrace. Such a—”

“The dishonor is your father’s, Luca. He should be proud to have a son like you.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

“This is the first I’ve told anyone.”

“You don’t have to worry. I’d never—”

“Yes. I know. What I was going to say is I didn’t expect t

hat sharing the truth would make me feel as if I’ve been freed from a darkness. Does that make sense?”

A therapist had long ago told her almost the same thing. Face who you are, he’d said, and realize that there is no disgrace in what someone else imposed on you, but it wasn’t so.

How could it be, for a truth like hers?

To her dismay, sudden tears filled her eyes.

“Cheyenne, dolcezza, are you weeping?” Luca drew her closer, rested his chin on the top of her head. “Don’t weep for me, sweetheart. Never weep, I beg you.”

“I’m not weeping,” she said, as her tears flowed onto his shirt.

He dug a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket.

“Let me see your face.” When she did, he dried her eyes, then held the hankie to her nose. “Blow. Good. And again.”