Chapter 28

28

Jeanne

He believed me when I said the money was not enough. He thought I would go through with this farce of a marriage, and then the separation, for the money. And when I asked him to up the figure he'd pay me monthly, he didn't hesitate.

I saw the certainty in his gaze and a kind of satisfaction that he was proven right. He was expecting me to pull this money-based negotiation on him all along. In fact, he's surprised I didn't bring this up with him earlier. Now, he has the gall to throw his money in my face and tag on a condition with it. I almost jump up and leave, but curiosity keeps me rooted. What could he possibly want? What does he think a million dollars a month could buy him?

"What is it?" I ask in a voice that sounds polite, and even a little distant, with just a hint of curiosity. Damn. Elle Woods has nothing on me when it comes to putting on a front.

"We get married tonight?—"

"What?" I gasp.

"Then you'll beg me to take your pussy and your ass and your mouth all in one go on our wedding night."

The blood drains from my face. My stomach flip flops. The wine glass I'm holding tips, and I place it back on the table. Jerk. Does he really think I can be bought? Does he think I'll give in to his demands so easily? Does he think I'm an idiot with a pretty face, who'll be so overcome by his money, I'll let him have me every way he wants?

A pulse thuds between my legs. My thighs quiver. My breasts feel too heavy for my body and my nipples tighten. How dare he take me for granted. How dare I find his filthy words a turn on. How dare my body betray me again where he's concerned.

"You know what?" I lean forward. "I have no choice but to…"

"To?" His smile widens.

"To refuse you, you smug, conceited, horrible man." I jump up to my feet, throw the remainder of my wine in his face, then grab my bag and pivot so fast, I knock my chair over. I race past the startled diners toward the exit. There, almost there. A breath of relief escapes me, then a heavy hand descends on my shoulder. I yelp as I'm turned around and slammed into his very hard chest. Tremors of heat ignite all over my skin. Lust pools low in my belly. I tip up my chin and his blue gaze is ablaze with the anger of a thousand exploding suns. I gasp. The hair on the back of my neck rises. I've never seen him this overcome by emotion. His features wear a confluence of surprise and relief and something else. Something smoldering, something so intense that it slices me to my core. My guts churn. My heart overturns in my chest. He twists my arm around me, notches his knuckle under my chin and glares into my eyes.

"Say that again," he growls.

"What?"

"Say you refuse my offer. Say you don't want my money."

"I don't want your money, you self-absorbed, egotistical, full-of-yourself, pompous?—"

He closes his mouth over mine. He absorbs the rest of my words, and sucks on my lips, and kisses me with such fierceness that my heart seems to be pulled up into my throat. I forget to breathe. My knees turn to jelly. I slump against him, but he doesn't let go. He absorbs what little oxygen I have left in my lungs, and flickers of darkness spark behind my eyes. He tears his mouth away from mine, and I draw in a shuddering breath. My lungs inflate and my head spins. He bends, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder.

"What the?—"

My hair falls over my eyes so I can't see what's happening. There's a flurry of activity around us as if the diners have suddenly noticed us. I hear him rumble something, the vibrations shivering up my thighs and coiling in my belly. The heavy weight of his arm across the back of my thighs pulses a steady heat up my body. I shove the hair from out of my face and am presented with his perfectly-sculpted, superbly-tight ass. I bounce against his hard back as he stalks out of the door. There are more raised voices in Italian, his answering response, which I don't catch, then we are out of the restaurant. The cool air assails me and goosebumps pepper my skin. It cuts the jumble of thoughts in my head and I begin to struggle.

"Let me go."

"No," he snaps.

He prowls toward what I assume is the curb, and the screech of brakes being applied reaches me.

Oh, no. I am not getting into the car with him.

I wriggle in his grasp. "I'm not leaving with you."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not." I dig my knee into his stomach. His very hard, unforgiving stomach. "Let me down," I snarl.

"Not a chance."

I join my fingers and bring my fists down into his back. His breathing doesn't even change. A sudden burn of heat flashes across my butt. I jump. What the ? —?

"Did you just spank me?"

"Just getting started, baby."

Another exchange of voices in Italian, then he lowers me into my seat. I instantly charge forward, but he shoves his head into mine and kisses me again. The kiss is hard and firm and has this sense of assurance threaded into it that indicates he knows what he's doing. It holds the promise he intends to not stop until he's had his way with me. It has an erotic need underlying it, a desperation, a vulnerability I've seen in his eyes before, which I only now taste. An unguarded sentimentality that makes me blink.

He leans back and holds my gaze and must read my confusion for he nods. "I won't hurt you..." His lips twist, and once more, he's the mean, dominant alphahole carrying me off to his lair. The confident, forceful Capo who always gets his way. "Not unless you want me to."

I swallow.

"Does the thought of what I could do to your body turn you on, Angel?"

Yes.

Yes.

I shake my head.

"Liar." He chuckles, then kisses me again. When he straightens, I realize the seatbelt has been drawn over my chest. He slams my door, walks around the car, and slides into the driver's seat. Before I can think of trying to undo my belt, he locks the doors, fastens his own seatbelt, and maneuvers the car onto the road.

"So, you're kidnapping me?" I burst out.

"Want me to stop the car and let you out?"

I open my mouth to agree, then hesitate.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs.

He steps on the accelerator, and the car speeds up. I should say something, should protest and rage and cry. And try to escape. Instead, I fold my hands in my lap and gaze through the windshield. My chest feels lighter. A load seems to have rolled off of my shoulders. He was right. Now that the decision has been taken out of my hands, I feel relieved. Is that what's been holding me back? That I've been fighting with my conscience and berating myself for what I feel for him? Am I so weak, I need a man to make the decision for me and put me in a situation where I have to fall in with his plan because there's no other way out?

"Stop thinking so hard. You're beginning to give me a headache," he drawls.

I shoot him a sideways glance and take in that gorgeous profile of his.

"You have to realize this is not normal for me. I've never allowed anyone to coerce me into a situation where I'm not in control, and now I've done it not once, but twice."

"Will it help if I tell you that I'm very persuasive?"

"Not really."

"What if I tell you you need to trust me?"

"Can I trust you?" I shoot back.

"Trust me to give you what you need." His lips kick up.

"Are you twisting around the words to suit your needs?"

"Maybe," he confesses, "but I also think you'll be much happier if you allow me to lead right now."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that." We take a turn onto a road that curves away from the highway. "Where are we going?"

"You did say that you'd prefer to elope and get married."

"Umm, yeah?"

"In Italian, we have a word for it. It's called fu'itina , which means little escape. "

"Why does it sound so much better in Italian?" I muse.

"Everything's better in Italy, and in spoken Italian, and with Italian men." He smirks.

"Good to know. Clearly, being humble is not one of the known attributes of Italian men."

"Humble? What's that?" His grin widens. "I'd have loved to take you to Vegas but?—"

"Vegas," I screech. "I can't go to Vegas. I need to show up for rehearsal tomorrow, or I'll lose my role as understudy."

"Relax." The jerkface grins. "We're not going to Vegas; not exactly."

"What do you mean, ‘not exactly'?" I cry.

"I'm taking you to the Vegas of Europe."

"Which is?"

"Malta."

"We're going to Malta?"

"It's a half an hour plane ride away."

"Why are we going to Malta?"

"It was easier for me to arrange for the paperwork related to the wedding there."

"Easier than your hometown?" I frown.

"If I'd reached out to my people here, the word would have spread to my brothers, who would've invited themselves to the wedding, along with their wives. I mean, you've met them already. Do you think any of them would have missed this opportunity to turn up for the ceremony?"

I shudder. "Guess not."

"That's why—" He gestures ahead to the small airstrip that comes into view. He halts at a gate that opens inward and drives the car through. We draw up to the small private jet, where a man is standing. He's tall, broad, and seems familiar. It's his brother Massimo.

"Thought you didn't want word getting back to your brothers?" I frown.

"Massimo's more discreet than the rest. If he sticks to his word, it'll buy us enough time to be out of here and married before anyone in la famiglia finds out."

He brings the car to a stop and I unbuckle my seatbelt. For a few seconds, we sit there staring at the plane.

"You sure about this?" I finally ask.

"No," he laughs, "but I like to live dangerously."

"That's not very reassuring." I clutch my fingers together in my lap. My heart begins to gallop so fast, I can feel it in my throat. My pulse rate booms, my stomach churns, and I'm sure I'm going to be sick. That's the last thing I need, puking all over his beautiful car. I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. I try to take in a breath, but my lungs don't seem to function. Oh, god, what am I doing? Not only have I lost my role in the musical, the role that should have launched my career, but now I'm also going to marry a Mafia guy, one who says he can never love anyone. And I'm going to probably have to stay married to him forever, while he goes off and sees other women on the side. My lungs burn and my throat closes. I gasp as the world tilts.

"Easy, easy." A warm grasp over my hands draws my attention back to my body. I hear wheezing sounds and realize it's me. I try to take another breath, but bile clogs my throat. Then, I am pushed down so my face is between my knees.

His big palm rubs soothing circles over my back. "Breathe, baby, breathe."

Specks of darkness flicker at the edges of my vision. My hands and legs tremble. This is the second time I've come so close to fainting, and I've never fainted before in my entire life. I wheeze and pant and huddle into my seat, trying to draw oxygen into my starved lungs.

"Cazzo," I hear him swear, then he reaches over me, and my seatbelt loosens. He scoops me up like I weigh nothing and hauls me over the divider between the seats and onto his lap. He rocks me, and makes soothing noises that rumble up his chest and flow over me. The heat of his body cocoons me. He winds his arms about me; with one big palm, he pushes the hair back from my face and runs his fingers down the strands. With the other, he cups my cheek and presses my face into his chest.

I push my nose into the strip of skin that's bared between the lapels of his shirt. I draw in a breath, and the dark chocolate and coffee scent of his fills my lungs. It's like a signal to my brain to calm down. My pulse rate evens out. The burning in my lungs begins to subside. He continues to rock me and croon to me under his breath. I breathe in, drawing more of him into my body. Then, because I can't help myself, and because I want to see if he tastes as enticing as he smells, I flick out my tongue and lick him.