‘Yeah, right. You hate shopping with such a passion that you instruct top designers to send you their collection at the start of the season so you don’t have to lift a finger. Which makes me think you’re only coming along because...’ She paused.
He shot her a heat-filled look. ‘You would be right. I’ll take any moment I can with you, even if I have to endure a few brain cells committing hara-kiri while you shop.’
He joined in when she laughed. ‘That is not the way to make a girl feel special. But thank you.’
His right hand left the steering wheel, caught hers and brought it to his lips. Heat drenched her and although her heart surged with foolish delight, a part of her clenched in distress. This was the part of the truce that wasn’t going so well. By mutually unspoken agreement, they hadn’t discussed sex. Or the distinct lack of it. At night, they went to their separate beds, where Ava endured either tortured yearning-for-Cesare dreams or hours of wide-awake craving-Cesare tossing and turning.
Another kiss on the back of her hand recaptured her attention. His darkened eyes told her he was struggling with this part of their truce too.
Unable to dispel the atmosphere, she plucked her shades off the top of her head and slid them on. Not that it helped one iota. ‘Let’s go.’
She found her dress in an exclusive designer shop in Amalfi. And, despite thinking it impossible, they found the perfect purple gown for Annabelle.
‘Those aren’t giraffes, cara,’ Cesare muttered, the worry back in his eyes.
‘No, but she loves purple horses just as much. We just have to manage her expectations a little bit.’
His lips firmed as he handed over his platinum card. ‘If she threatens to annihilate me with those adorable green eyes, I will use you as a human shield.’
‘Wow, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be slayed by a three-year-old.’
‘She’s almost four. And you haven’t been watching, tesorio mio. I was slayed a long time ago.’
Every single breath whooshed out of her lungs as she stared into Cesare’s golden eyes. He stared right back, a vulnerability lingering in his eyes she’d never seen before.
In that single moment, Ava knew she owed it to herself and Annabelle to find a way to make this work—even if it meant accepting less from Cesare.
* * *
The Marinello wedding took place in another stunning palazzo on the shores of Lake Como after the official blessing at the Duomo in Amalfi.
Cesare watched his wife, who, in a stunning cream silk gown that bared her arms and back, and hugged her perfect backside, could’ve been mistaken for the bride, save for the camera slung around her neck. Despite that clunky accessory, she was a bombshell whose figure made his breath catch and his body burn with hunger every time he looked at her.
She was also scarily talented. Her work with the Marinello couple was displayed on a giant screen on the side of the ballroom where the reception was being held, and Cesare watched with pride as the guests effused over the stunning sepia and black and white pictures. Also, despite her threats to cause her bodily harm, Ava had managed Agata Marinello with a skill that left him awestruck. In the same circumstances, he wouldn’t have been so kind to the shrill, demanding woman.
Lifting her camera now, she captured another image of the happy couple, then glanced down at the image. Raising her head, her gaze caught his. She tried to smile but he saw her distress. His insides churned.
They’d agreed to talk after the wedding but the back of Cesare’s neck tingled with the premonition that time was running out. He had a toast to give—something Agata had sprung on him as they’d left the church—and several acquaintances and the Marinello family to acknowledge before he could reasonably get away.
He glanced Ava’s way again. She was crouched, camera poised, as Annabelle and a newly made friend posed in front of her. This time her smile held a joy that made his own lips curve upward.
In the next moment, the alien feeling attacked him again. Sudden hunger clawed at his insides that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the unwavering feeling that he needed to act now or lose his wife.
Surging to his feet, he picked up a dainty sterling silver spoon and tapped it against his crystal champagne flute. His speech was a few minutes early but, what the hell. He had more important things to do. When he had everyone’s attention, he racked his brain for appropriate words and made a reasonably coherent toast to the happy couple.
Duty done, he stepped from the VIP table and made a beeline for his wife.