Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

G EORGIA PULLED HER STILL-DAMP HAIR over one shoulder as she stepped from the car. "I'm going to take a shower," she said, focusing beyond Dante, her heart racing for a thousand reasons now. The sun was low in the sky, the late afternoon light a thing of immense beauty, but on top of that, she couldn't flush the image of Dante from her mind, as he'd been on the shores of the Lake. He hadn't swum with her—Georgia had been determined to go into the water despite the temperature not being as delightful as it might be in summer—but he'd taken his shirt off and sat on the shallow steps near the shoreline, watching her, and she'd found it impossible not to watch him. He was so bronzed and muscular, so perfectly sculpted, that just a glimpse of him had made her pulse throb and her body ache with need. It tormented her, even in the salty waters of Lake Como, so her whole body had felt flush with warmth despite the cool water surrounding her.

When she emerged from the water wearing the only pair of bathers she'd brought with her—a black bikini—his eyes seemed to bore into her, slowly tracing her entire body, from her feet, to her slender legs, to her more generous bottom and neatly rounded belly, to breasts that were only just contained by the lycra of her costume.

Her awareness of him was beyond anything she could have imagined, and it was amplified by the way he looked at her. Georgia's mouth had gone dry and her knees had knocked together, and from that moment on, the pleasure of the day had been overtaken by an all-consuming desperation. To touch, to feel, to be close to.

And why shouldn't she?

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to reach out and grab him, to kiss him, like she'd kissed him before. But that had been different. The first time had been like the breaking of a storm, desire had overtaken them both and they'd given into it, but it had been easier then. There were no strings; walking away had been easy. The second time, they'd been angry, and white hot need had made it impossible to resist.

But now? Now she didn't hate him. She wasn't angry with him. And there were a thousand strings wrapped around them. So what would it mean if she gave into temptation, stood onto her tiptoes and sought his lips with hers? Nothing? Something? Everything?

So she didn't look at him as she walked away from the car. She didn't dare. One glance and she feared she might burst into flames.

"Georgia?"

She stopped walking but didn't turn around.

"Are you okay?" Was she imaging a richness to his voice? A husky tone that threatened to reach right inside of her and undo all her good intentions ?

"Yeah, fine." Her own voice was brittle. She forced a smile even though he couldn't see her. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Okay? No. He wasn't okay. He felt as though he'd been struck by lightning. From the moment he looked at her on the boat and thought of her as his, he hadn't been able to stop thinking of her as his. When they'd eaten lunch and the waiter had flirted with her, encouraging Georgia to practice her Italian on him, Dante had wanted to punch the guy in the face—and he was not, and never had been, someone who resorted to violence. When she suggested a swim, he'd almost groaned, because he hadn't realized she'd been wearing bathers beneath her dress, but like some vixen from a fantasy, she'd slowly stripped out of the dress, running her hands over her stomach out of habit, as if to connect with the little baby growing inside her, day by day. And he had only been able to stare at her as she'd strolled towards the shoreline, letting the water lick her toes and then inch its way up her legs, so Dante had wished he was the water, his touch the caress that the Lake was giving her in his stead. He'd had to sit on the steps because if he'd stood, evidence of his desire for her would have been apparent for anyone to see. Varenna was a family friendly place, and his thoughts most definitely weren't.

He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her as she'd swum like a siren, dipping beneath the surface despite the cool temperatures, emerging eventually, covered in water droplets he longed to slowly lick from her body. They'd barely spoken since. The easy atmosphere they'd discovered over lunch had evaporated like the remnants of Lake Como from her skin. He hadn't known what to say. He'd half- worried that if he opened his mouth to start a conversation, he'd just proposition her instead.

So he'd brought them back to his private pontoon, and driven them home, tight-lipped, fingers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles showed white.

He needed to cool down. To get her out of his head once and for all. He needed…a swim, he thought, moving with relief into the house and taking the stairs two at a time, until he'd reached the roof. He hadn't come up here at all when he'd first bought the property. The roof had been designed for pleasure and Dante hadn't wanted to enjoy anything in his life, let alone the spectacular views from here. But over time, he'd allowed himself at least to spend time here, then one night in winter, he used the hot tub, and the next summer, the pool and even the outdoor kitchen.

He dove into the pool and swum hard and fast, trying to get rid of his excess energy and the electrifying sense of need coursing through his veins, but if anything, the water exacerbated his situation. It had always been a little like a sensory deprivation chamber, and with each stroke he took through the water, he saw Georgia's face and body and smile and felt an enormous sense of frustration in not being able to control this. What the hell was wrong with him?

For five years, he'd avoided women and entanglements and now he just couldn't get her out of his head.

He stopped swimming at the edge of the pool and braced his arms on the side, staring out over Lake Como as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, robbing it of blue and replacing it with streaks of peach and purple.

He could have stayed longer but he was hiding and Dante wasn't a man to indulge in such stupid, childish games. He pulled out of the pool, his powerful body making it an easy feat, and strode to the cabinet in which towels were stored, removing one and wrapping it around his neck.

Now, if he could just make it to his room without seeing Georgia, he'd consider the situation had been salvaged.

What had Georgia called it? Fate? Well, if fate had a hand in any of this, it apparently had decided not to smile on Dante's plan to get to the solitude of his bedroom without incident. No sooner had his foot pressed into the landing on the level his bedroom was on, did Georgia emerge from her bedroom, wearing only an over-sized t-shirt. It was more of a nightgown, by virtue of the size, but it reminded him so forcefully of how she'd looked that morning in his clothes, so big he'd wanted to bunch his hands into them and undress her, feeling her flesh beneath the cotton. And then, he noticed the way her cheeks were flaming pink, and realized the source of her embarrassment.

"It's yours," she blurted out. "I hope you don't mind that I kept it. At first I just didn't know how to return it, and now, most of my clothes aren't comfortable enough to sleep in." She sucked in a breath, grimacing. "I really need to go shopping for maternity clothes at some point."

"Mind?" He repeated, and to hell with good intentions. If she could blame fate, then so could he. Fate had put her in his path, looking so delicious. Fate had brought her here, had made him want her, and to hell with it, he did want her.

"That I kept your shirt," she prompted, as though he had misunderstood.

"Georgia, if I had my way, that's all you'd wear from here on out."

She expelled a soft breath, her eyes lifting to his, warm with desire, reflecting everything he wanted back at him.

"If I get much bigger, it's all I'll be able to wear," she said softly, without looking away from him.

"You are beautiful," he said, simply, hoping she understood the truth of that statement. "Utterly, heart-stoppingly beautiful."

"Don't," she whispered, eyes widening, lips parting.

"Don't tell you the truth?" He asked, stepping forward, until they were toe to toe.

"Don't say things that make me like you. I don't want to like you."

"Isn't it easier if we like each other?" He was surprised to hear himself ask.

"I don't know about that." He brow furrowed and she lifted a hand to his chest. To push him away or draw him closer? He'd never know, because the sensation of skin on skin was so incendiary, it was like an enormous Molotov cocktail had been thrown between them. One touch and they were both lost, moving frantically to close every tiny piece of distance between them, their bodies melded completely, so someone moaned but he didn't even know which of them it was. There was no beginning nor end to them, they were utterly bound together, legs entwined, arms, lips enmeshed. He felt her breaths, her cries, her moans, and when he lifted her, and wrapped her legs around his waist, he felt happier than he had in a long time—and it didn't occur to him, in that moment, to mind.

Georgia couldn't catch her breath. Wave after wave of pleasure had washed over her, almost like an assault, but of the best possible kind. She was radiating delight and warmth and glowing from the inside out. Her whole body was satiated and heavy, her eyes could barely stay open. She was aware of Dante, beside her, moving from the bed, but she reached for him, grabbing hold of his fingers before he could move too far.

"Don't go," she said, voice groggy from euphoria and release. "Not yet."

She couldn't keep her eyes open to know how he was reacting but their fingers stayed wrapped together. "You're tired."

"Just stay until I'm asleep," she yawned. "Then you can go." She said it without thinking, but as the words left her lips, she sobered. As delightful as that had been—and it had been, exactly what her heart had been yearning for—she knew what it meant to him.

Betrayal.

Her pleasure and delight had an answering pain and guilt for Dante. Would it always be this way?

And what was ‘always'? It wasn't as though she had any reason to suspect this would continue for long. Maybe once the baby was born, she'd be so bogged down in motherhood and milk and diapers and unable to dredge up the energy for anything. Or maybe he'd have moved on, reawakened to his sexual side and happy to start dating again.

All of these thoughts left an unpleasant taste in Georgia's mouth and filled her throat with a strange lump. She dropped her hand back to the bed and rolled over, facing the wall, feigning sleep, just so he'd feel okay to leave.

He pulled on some shorts and went down to the kitchen to begin chopping vegetables for their dinner, her sweet, intoxicating smell lingering on his skin so he felt her with him as he began to sauté celery and carrots together with onion and garlic. He added white wine and parsley and then some rice, the simple risotto recipe his grandmother had taught him as a young boy.

It was the perfect meal because it could sit on the stove for a long time without the quality suffering, so even though Georgia didn't surface until close to midnight, bleary-eyed and wearing that same shirt, the food was still perfect, just in need of a little reheating.

"You cooked?" She asked, obviously surprised, her eyes sweeping over him.

"You're always hungry, remember," he murmured, pulling two shallow bowls from a drawer and heaping risotto into each.

"It smells amazing."

He didn't contradict her, but inwardly, he reflected on it being Georgia that smelled amazing. Georgia's sweet, delicious fragrance that had been distracting him all day.

"I get so tired these days."

"I believe that's normal for pregnancy."

"I'm not usually like this. But the sun and the swim today, and then—you and me?—,"

"Yes," his eyes flashed to hers. "That will do it."

She bit down into her lip. "Are you okay?"

He arched a brow, waiting for her to continue.

"I get that it's complicated for you. That you can't just enjoy that, that it brings a heap of other emotions to the fore. I guess I'm just saying…if you want to talk, I'm here."

Only Dante didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about Bianca and how utterly he'd loved her, nor how beautiful their daughter was, nor how he'd promised himself he would honour them always. He didn't want to talk about the guilt he felt for having slept with Georgia again because, when he looked inside his soul, he didn't see anywhere near the guilt he should have felt. It was as if the frequency of their coming together was eroding his anger about it.

Bianca and Livvie were a part of him. A huge part. He would never love again, because of the pain of that loss and the absence they'd left in his life.

But that didn't mean Georgia still couldn't be his, in some way, so long as she was okay with that—so long as she accepted the limitations of what he could offer.

He knew his family meant well, but as soon as he and Georgia stepped out onto the terrace, Dante was second guessing the wisdom of this plan. Georgia was like a deer in headlights as the entirety of the Santoro family descended upon her, reaching for her and drawing her away from Dante and into hugs, touching her stomach without asking if that was okay, grabbing her cheeks, asking her a thousand questions they had no right to voice. He groaned, but nobody heard him. Nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention, anyway. It was all about Georgia. His lips formed a grim line as he watched. Georgia though seemed to take it in her stride, laughing at something his cousin Rocco had said, then turning to face Portia, who was at least standing a respectful distance back and smiling like a normal person.

Marco said something, Georgia nodded, then his mother moved in, and it was here that Dante decided he had to save Georgia. He cut through the crowd of extended family and put a hand to Georgia's lower back. "Come and sit down," he murmured.

She glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed. She was hating this, and for some reason, that really bothered Dante. It wasn't until he followed that thought through that he realized he'd been holding out hope that she'd like his family. Why? Why did it matter? Because he wanted her to come to Italy with him?

That made sense. They were going to have a child together. Of course he wanted her to be a part of his family. Everything would be easier if that were the case.

He guided her away from the crowd, towards a seat at the table, but the crowd followed after her, as a swarm of bees might their Queen.

"How have you been feeling?" Maria asked, pouring Georgia a glass of lemon water.

She sipped it gratefully. "Other than constantly hungry, I've been fine."

"Hungry is good. We like hungry," Marco's father Gianni responded. "We have all the food."

"Not pizza," Sofia, their parents' goddaughter, more like a sister than anything else, groaned, pressing her hands together in a gesture of silent prayer.

Gianni stared at her with mock offence. "Are you telling me you don't like my pizza?" He demanded, eyeing Sofia first then looking across the table.

"No," everyone cried in unison, which made Gianni laugh until his eyes were crinkled at the corners and his voice was hoarse.

"It's not pizza," he said, when he could speak again. "Not for today. Today is special." His eyes returned to Georgia. "Today we are welcoming someone to the family." He braced his hands on the back of the chair. "I know it is not about the two of you," Gianni said, looking from Dante to Georgia. "I understand, these things happen. But you are both nice and reasonable, and you are having a baby together. This makes us family, and we couldn't be happier. Georgia, you will always be welcome here. Please come often."

Dante turned to look at Georgia, surprised to see tears sparkling on her lashes. She nodded, not speaking. To her right, Portia put a hand on Georgia's and squeezed it, and he felt a rush of gratitude and affection for his assistant and sister in law.

The ‘special' meal Gianni had organized was a whole suckling pig cooked for hours on a on a spit, with all of the sides—roasted vegetables, bread, salads and wine for all but Georgia, and Dante, who didn't feel like dulling his senses, even a little.

He'd wanted Georgia to like his family. He'd wanted her to feel settled and accepted. But the longer lunch went on and the more his family seemed to lovingly throw open their arms to her, the more profoundly he missed Bianca. Once upon a time, she'd sat beside him at these lunches, a hand casually on his knee, or pressing her body to his when she grew tired. She'd been the one to make his mother laugh, to offer to carry plates inside, to sit cross-legged and chat to Gianni for hours about the restaurants they wanted to try, because they both loved food.

Everyone was acting now as though Bianca had never existed. It was like she'd been a phantom, a construct of Dante's imagination. No one seemed to remember that he'd been married, had loved and lost, that he'd had a child before. It was all about Georgia, and the son they were expecting. And on one level, he was relieved that things were going so well, on another, he felt a rush of despair so profound it almost felled him.

Gianni had taken up his place at the piano and was beginning to sing his favourite war time tunes when Dante started to feel it was beyond him.

He wanted to leave.

To be away from everyone—even Georgia. Especially Georgia?

Georgia was complicated.

Georgia made things difficult.

One minute he thought they could make this work, the next he wanted to contact his lawyer and have a straightforward custody agreement drawn up, freeing him of the need to have her in his life at all.

He knew it was akin to running away, but he didn't care.

In that moment, he wanted Bianca with a yearning that he almost couldn't live with.

He scraped back his chair abruptly, barely glancing at Georgia. "I'll be back in a moment. Excuse me." He strode from his family without a backwards glance.