Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

" I WANT ALL WHITE!" The bride-to-be cooed, pulling her silky blonde hair over one slim shoulder, barely making eye contact with Maddie, who was busy scrawling notes into her book. "White roses, white lilies, white carnations, baby breath, white everything. And the flowers should be everywhere, " she said, clapping her manicured hands together.

The wedding planner, a glamorous Italian woman who went by one name only—Lilliana—nodded emphatically, moving her hand through the air in a gesture of agreement. " Everywhere. You are not from Italy; I have put together a list of the best wholesalers and put a hold on an enormous quantity—for your inspection."

Maddie was a little annoyed by that—she liked to source her own flowers. Then again, Lilliana was right. Maddie had no contacts here, besides the few she'd reached out to before leaving the States, and they had less than a week to pull this together. There was no sense standing on her pride. "Great, thanks."

"We'll want flowers at the altar, on the backs of all the chairs, in the guests' hotel rooms, as well as the flowers for the bridal party and important guests."

"I have pictures," Marcia said enthusiastically, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a phone. "Can you add yourself to my Pinterest file?"

Maddie took the phone with a nod, adding herself as requested then returning the device. "I'll pull together some concept arrangements over the next day or so. I can either send pictures for your approval or arrange a showing."

"Oh, a showing," Marcia said. "I want to smell the flowers, to really get a feel for them. Flowers are so important, aren't they?"

Maddie nodded her agreement, watching as Marcia wandered off to the other side of the garden, her eyes chasing the view of the rolling Tuscan countryside.

"She is a little demanding but it's no matter, eh?" Lilliana said, when they were alone, rubbing her fingers and thumb together in a gesture of money.

Maddie diplomatically stayed silent. "I'll need a marquee set up on sight—or a room from which to work—and a cold room dedicated to flower storage, ideally with battery backup."

Lilliana's eyes widened.

"This is a serious amount of flowers. The cost alone will be enormous, let alone my labor. I'll need to start immediately to satisfy Marcia's requirements."

"Of course." The coordinator scanned her phone, pressed a few buttons then nodded. "My assistant will arrange it by the end of the day."

Money sure could talk, Maddie thought, taking her leave of the meeting and walking on a crunchy gravel path around the outskirts of the stunning villa. It was Rocco's cousins' family home, the place they'd grown up, but according to Rocco, he'd also spent a lot of time here, and she couldn't look around the lush gardens and rolling hills without imagining him here. As a little boy, an adolescent, as he was now, a fully grown man who took such pride in this family, and his place in it.

Unexpectedly, in a way that brought her to a complete standstill, a lump formed in her throat, a hard lodging of emotions that made the world stop spinning.

This, right here, this, was everything she'd ever wanted.

The security that came from a home like this. The love of a big, entwined family. Siblings, cousins, parents. It was all just so perfect, so ideal. A ripple of jealousy tugged her lips downwards, but not jealousy in the traditional sense. There was no accompanying resentment of Rocco, just a frustration at what she'd never had, and always wanted.

Oh, her grandparents had done their best. They'd loved Maddie in a way that left her in little doubt as to how badly they wanted her to be with them, and it had been almost enough to patch together the hole in her heart. Almost, but not quite. Her mother had dug it too deep, had practically cut the damned thing in half. But this? This many people, this much noise, this much love? It would be impossible to doubt yourself here, impossible to doubt how loved and wanted and necessary you were. Impossible to wonder if you were the reason your mother left, if you were so unlovable, so unworthy, that even your own parents didn't want a bar of your existence.

Her eyes stung with the threat of tears, and she blinked quickly, unwilling to take even the smallest risk of being spotted having an emotional moment in the gardens of this stunning villa. She sucked in a breath and, with her emotions still in a state of turmoil, stepped off the path and onto the lawn, looking around to be sure she was alone as she made her way towards a rich patch of garden sloping away from the house.

Rocco watched from the upstairs window. He'd caught sight of her quite by chance—he'd been heading to Dante's office, having promised his cousin and good friend a private chat once he arrived. No doubt Dante had thoughts on Raf's wedding, thoughts that were too delicate to air publicly. Neither of them cared for Marcia, but Dante was the only one Rocco had been honest with about how they'd met. The fact she'd hit on him, before realizing he was connected with Raf.

And he'd damned near taken her up on it because he hadn't known she was dating his brother. Despite her obvious beauty, there had been something about Marcia, though, that Rocco hadn't liked. Something he hadn't trusted—a quality that had seemed conniving to him. He'd turned her down, flatly, and the next time they'd met, she'd been attending a charity benefit on Raf's arm. They'd been dating three months.

Dante had hated her from that moment on—Rocco had tried to reserve judgement. Marcia had pleaded with him to keep the secret. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. I'd been drinking, and I just—wasn't thinking straight. I love your brother. Please don't ruin this.

He'd agonized about it. Of course, he had. But after the shit show they'd lived through following his mother's death, their father's never-ending relationships, and his casual disrespect for women, Rocco had been secretly hopeful that Raf might have been the one brother who'd been capable of breaking the spell and actually falling in love with someone.

So, he'd sat back, biding his time at first, keeping a close eye on things, making sure Marcia didn't misstep again. And she hadn't, so far as he knew. They'd been together a couple of years now—what choice did Rocco have but to accept that they were the real deal? Raf seemed happy enough.

Only Dante had always had a difference of opinion with Rocco, something he'd made very clear to both him, as well as Marcia. Dante's ultimatum had been delivered in private, but he'd spelled it out to Marcia that he was watching her, that he would never accept nor trust her, and that she should think very carefully about whether or not she was up for the fight that would come from sticking around.

Apparently, she had been.

As Rocco watched, Maddie reached for a tree, picking a small branch with several leaves and a delicate blossom, lifting it to her nose and smelling it, smiling. It was like the sun was piercing a storm. Brightness. Beauty. Warmth. He felt each of those qualities bathe him, and despite his promise to Dante, found his feet carrying him closer to the window. She twirled the branch between her finger and thumb, appearing lost in thought. His eyes were glued to her.

"Rocco, you're here."

Dante's voice was as unwelcome as it was familiar. He didn't want to look away from Maddie. He almost couldn't. It was like some force greater than him was holding his gaze steady, locked to her, forcing him to watch her every move. But then she took a couple of steps, behind a shrub, and Dante came right up behind Rocco, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Thinking about a race?" Dante asked with a quirked brow, reminding Rocco of the summers they'd spent tearing down that exact same hill, weaving in and out of the ancient gardens, seeing who could navigate the difficult course fastest—ideally without knocking down any of the statues that had pride of place.

"I wouldn't put you to the humiliation," he responded quickly, turning around and forcing a grin, holding out his hand. Dante shook it, then put an arm around Rocco's shoulders, drawing him in for an embrace.

"It's been too long."

It had been a while, Dante was right. "The Hamptons business," he explained. Then he reminded his cousin, "And your marriage, and baby."

Dante grinned, and it was so, so heartwarming to see his smile. It had been years without. Years of Dante in mourning, after the death of his first wife and child, Dante finding it impossible to get on with any kind of a life, because of what he'd lost. Dante miserable and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. And now he was back, their Dante, returned to them in a way they'd never dreamed possible.

"Right. Georgia can't wait to see you."

"I'm looking forward to that."

"You're staying for dinner?"

Rocco thought about that. It would be strange for him not to be there. This was the family home, the place they gathered and shared stories, talked business, connected. No matter where in the globe they were living or working, the Santoros could be found here. Except…Maddie. He thought about coming for dinner, leaving her to her own devices, and it was like being pricked by a thousand razor blades. He shook his head, feigning regret. "I've got a meeting I can't reschedule."

Dante's lips formed a quizzical line, but before he could ask for more details, Rocco spoke. "You wanted to talk privately?"

Dante's expression grew thunderous, and he looked around quickly. "I'm sure you can guess why."

Rocco nodded. "The office?"

Dante gestured to lead the way, but before setting off in that direction, Rocco couldn't resist one last glance towards the window. At first, he was thwarted, unable to see her, but then, his attentiveness was rewarded by the quickest glance of the back of one of her red sneakers. His gut tightened with anticipation and need, a heady combination that had him wanting to speed through this conversation and then go in search of her.

"You have to tell him." Dante's missive was low-voiced and to the point. As he spoke, he walked towards the side of the room and poured two measures of whisky into cut crystal glasses.

"You can't be serious."

"He deserves to know."

Rocco's lips formed a flat line. "To know what?" He demanded. "That she made a drunken pass at me one night when they were only first dating?"

"They'd been dating—sleeping together—for months, and she asked you to her bed. Does it matter she did not know you were related?"

Rocco stood firm, only shifting to take the proffered drink from Dante, and holding it without sipping.

"She was remorseful."

Dante snorted. "Or acted like it."

Rocco lifted the scotch to his lips and drank a small measure. "You and I feel the same way about her. I don't like her, nor do you. But this isn't up to us. Raf loves her. He's loyal to her, for some reason. If either of us gets involved, he won't forgive us for it."

"He's too nice for her."

Rocco lifted a brow.

" Nice," Dante repeated. "You know what I mean," he waved a hand through the air, impatient. "You or I can handle someone like that. We've been in the world more. Raf's…"

"He's not as innocent as you think."

"Oh, really?" Dante prompted skeptically. "Enlighten me."

"Okay, he's a good guy," Rocco grunted. "But that's more to the point: he's marrying her. All we can do now is get on board and try to make nice."

"With Marcia?"

"With Marcia," he agreed. Then, finishing his scotch, he walked to the edge of the desk and placed it down. "She's pregnant."

Dante froze. "What?"

"That's why he proposed. Or at least, it's one of the reasons," Rocco hastened to add. "Need I remind you what a powerful motivator that is?"

Dante's cheeks flushed. It was no secret that his proposal to Georgia had come about because of her unexpected pregnancy. At the time, Dante had been determined to mourn his late first wife for the rest of his life and had sworn off any other commitment.

"Now imagine you'd been in a relationship with Georgia for two years," Rocco said, slowly. "Would anything cause you to break off the engagement, with a baby on the way?"

Dante finished his own scotch with an emphatic, ‘damn', then shoved the glass down on the table. "So, this is happening?"

"This is happening," Rocco agreed. "We just have to smile and bear it."

"I make no promises," Dante muttered. "But I will tell you this. If she hit on you, how are you so sure she hasn't done it to dozens of men, and with more success?"

Rocco had wondered that himself. "Raf's not an idiot," he said, after a beat. "And I think she truly loves him."

"Love?" Dante's expression showed amusement then. "Who are you, and what have you done with Rocco Santoro? I thought love began and ended with the bedroom, for you?"

"For me, yes," he was quick to agree. "But not with Raf, and not with Marcia. At the end of the day, this isn't our decision."

Dante grunted. "Like you're okay with that."

"I'm not," Rocco admitted. "There's a part of me that would love to do whatever I could to ruin this because I'm sure Raf would be happier without her. But it's not my life; it's his. He has to make his choices."

"He's made the wrong choice."

" Forse. Only time will tell."

"How can you be so sanguine about this?"

"Because he's my brother," Rocco said, with a hint of irritation. "And I love him. You know what our childhood was like. You know what losing our mother did to him, and how our father was afterwards. You know what he saw, what we all saw. If he has been able to erect something good out of all of that, to build this life for himself, then how can I possibly jeopardize it? He is my youngest brother; all I want is his happiness."

"With Marcia?"

"And their baby," Rocco reminded Dante. "Our niece or nephew. Let me put it another way: if they don't marry, Marcia will be raising that baby, and who knows when we'll ever see them. Is that what you want?"

Dante's eyes shimmered like coal. "None of this is what I want."

Secretly, Rocco agreed, but he'd come here determined to be supportive. They had no parents left, and for a long time, Rocco had stepped into the breech, playing the part of father to his two younger brothers. He'd always done that, he supposed. Even before their father's death. Losing their mother as they had, and their father falling apart at the seams, it had come down to Rocco a lot of the time, to hold things together.

He was doing that again, now, doing what was necessary to make Raf happy. He just hoped it was going to work out—he couldn't bear to see Raf, of all people, hurt. And if it was, in part, because he'd chosen not to expose Marcia two years ago? He'd never forgive himself.

He found her beneath a sweeping arbor of bougainvillea, a rich pink in color, stark against the crisp blue sky. She was marveling at it, to the extent she didn't notice his intrusion until Rocco cleared his throat.

Her eyes dropped to his, but her smile remained. "This place is magnificent," she said, with a shake of her head. "I meant to leave straight after my meeting with Marcia, but then this—," she waved to the arbor and beyond it, to the gardens. Some were formal and structured, others were quite wild, with sprawling patches of color and contrasting textures. From the spikes of the agave to the softness of lilacs and Irises, the fragrance of lavender.

"How did your meeting go?" he asked, keeping any wariness from his voice.

"Oh, good," she exclaimed. "Marcia has—firm ideas—about what she wants," Maddie responded, with a slight furrowing of her brow. But it cleared quickly, and she smiled once more. "As she should. She's the bride; it's her wedding day."

"What does she want?" He asked, coming to stand beside her at first and then finding he couldn't stand so near and not touch her, so he moved behind her and wrapped his hands around her waist, drawing her against him.

She made a little sound of surprise but came willingly. "White," she murmured, almost as though she was finding it hard to concentrate. He grinned, enjoying that. Enjoying this—her. Enjoying and needing her, in a way he hadn't in the States. That had been about them. About what they shared and how this felt. This was about…escaping. His concerns about Raf, his guilt about the secret he'd kept for so long it was impossible to share now.

Until it wasn't. Until it was just about Maddie again, and the way she felt against him, and how much he loved touching her, how he loved to feel her. His hand crept beneath her shirt, lifting it from her pants until he found her skin, her flat stomach and then, higher, the fabric of her bra.

"Rocco," she said, her voice a little taut, but still she made no effort to pull away from him.

He pushed under the fabric of her bra, brushing her flesh with his fingertips, delighting in the way she shuddered against him. "And what would you do, other than white?" He nibbled low down on her ear, teasing the lobe between his teeth.

"I—," her breath was more of a pant. "This," she said, as his other hand moved into her pants, finding her most sensitive cluster of nerves and teasing it slowly at first, and then fast, until she was writhing against him, her body like a live wire, a current she couldn't contain. "Rocco," she ground out. "God, Rocco."

She was incandescent with need. He could feel it moving through her, every frantic jerk of her limbs, every pulse of her body. He loved that he could touch her like this, could do this to her. Power thrummed in his veins, an ancient, primal thrill of masculinity that went straight to his cock. She pushed back against him there, too, so he knew she must feel his strength and hardness, must know how much he wanted her.

He moved his fingers faster, knowing how she liked to be touched, how she needed to feel, strumming her until she was crying out softly and then falling apart in his arms, and he kissed the side of her throat, the sweet, elegant column, tasting her flesh, feeling her moans against his lips, until she grew quiet and still, and her pleasure had calmed.

But only for now. He spun her in his arms, his hands on her hips directing her, his touch filled with his need for her. And a desire to tease her.

"This?" He asked. "What does ‘this' mean?"

She looked at him with obvious confusion. "The wedding flowers," he reminded her.

"Who can think about flowers right now?" she said on a husky laugh, clinging to his shirt. He grinned, that same sense of ancient power throbbing in his gut. He kissed her then, hard and with all the passion he felt, drawing her to the grass with him, his weight on her, as he continued to kiss her, to touch her all over, until he found the button of her pants and undid it.

"Rocco!" She gasped. "Someone will see us."

"It's unlikely."

Her eyes widened. "We agreed to keep this secret…"

"We did," he pushed up onto one elbow, a challenge in his eyes. "Do you want me to stop?"

Her face showed a thousand emotions, her eyes flitting with them as she considered that and then, to his relief, shook her head. "No," she answered quickly, pressing her teeth into her lower lip. "Don't stop. Just…be quiet."

His laugh was throaty. "I will if you will."

Her response was to start unbuttoning his pants, her fingers shaking, her need, he realized, was every bit as great as his.