The Marriage He Must Keep

“I don’t ask for things very often, do I?” she’d said.

“You asked me to get up with Lorenzo this morning,” he’d countered.

“I said it was your turn. That’s different.” Gone was the mousy wife of his first year of marriage. Octavia was much more sure of herself now, not just in her sexuality—which she used unreservedly by leaning on one arm and offering him a delicious view down her top—but in ways that kept him on his toes. She voiced her opinions and woe betide the man who questioned her judgment where her son was concerned.

He would never have expected to like having a spitfire for a wife, but it was nice to be able to let loose with some of his own forceful personality without fearing he’d flatten her.

Case in point, he took his fill of the swells of her breasts, then dragged his gaze upward without making any effort to hide his instant, rapacious desire. “Are you asking me to make love to you? I have rather a lot of work today, but for you, I can spare the time.” He tossed his pen onto the desktop beside her hip.

She set the heel of her shoe, a sexy, strappy red one, on the arm of his chair, parting her legs slightly as she did. Her tongue wet her lips as though she was deciding whether to butter him up with sex first, or get his agreement before she gave him access to the sensual banquet she presented.

Either way he was enjoying the show so he was more than happy to be patient while she made up her mind. He toyed with the strap of her shoe, seeing if he could hurry the process along.

“I want to take Lorenzo to Spain,” she finally said.

“Alone?” His hand instinctively closed around her narrow ankle.

“I’d prefer it if you came with us.”

And he had thought, Well played, knowing he was done for, but he’d forced her to work for it. The shoes had stayed on and they’d brushed his ears a few minutes later. He would never again sit down at his desk without thinking of their erotic hour upon it.

But he hadn’t wanted to come here. Not really. “Sorcha needs moral support. It’s her first formal party,” Octavia had explained when they were straightening their clothes.

Alessandro looked around. The event was as polished and successful as any he’d seen. The house and grounds were ideal, the necessary elements of band and bar in place. Octavia led them out to a tent that held the silent auction items Sorcha had solicited to raise money for the excellent cause that Octavia had mentioned and now slipped his mind.

Sandro was always willing to write a check for sick children or cardiac wings, but he hated like hell to face down his own failure. He and Octavia had managed to distance themselves from the conflict of London and Primo and the baby swap. They were in a good place. His desire to revisit reminders of it was well below zero.

But he had agreed to accompany her and she, well, she’d been glowing like Christmas was coming ever since.

And her wedding rings were back in place.

Watching her as they moved through the gardens after the auction tent, he admired the way the pinprick lights in the trees made her hair and gown and eyes sparkle. The light breeze pressed the silk of her amethyst skirt against her thighs and he liked the look of it, but when she shivered in the salt-scented breeze, it was a good excuse to tuck her closer to his side.

He couldn’t regret being here when he was so intensely proud to be with her no matter where they were. Pausing, he turned her, thinking a kiss in the moonlight was in order.

“Octavia,” Sorcha called, interrupting. She crossed toward them with her husband. “Let’s sneak away for five minutes to check the boys.”

Octavia nodded enthusiastically, then glanced up at him. “Do you want to come?”

She looked very sincere, which almost made him laugh. “I have three sisters, cara. I know what girl talk is and when I’m likely to be in the way of it.” He kissed her temple and let her go.

Then turned to face his host, a man of his own height who wore his tuxedo and old-world surroundings as comfortably as Sandro did. He suspected that, if things had been different, he might have liked Cesar Montero.

“Thank you for coming,” Cesar said and canted his head toward the tent where Sandro had left a number of exorbitant bids. “And for your generosity. My wife invited you because she was anxious to see Octavia, not so we’d break records for our fundraising.”

“Penance,” Sandro dismissed with a shrug, accepting a glass of sangria from a passing waiter.

“Penance?” Cesar repeated with a frown. His face cleared as understanding dawned. “For the mix-up at the hospital? It was your cousin who caused it. I’ve read the full report from the hospital and police.”