He let me cry it out until there were no tears left. I pulled away from him when he went to wipe my nose with his shirt.
“I need a bath, Brando.”
I stood all of a sudden, feeling guilty for reacting the way I had. I could never figure out the reason behind it, but there were times after crying that guilt flowed freely afterward, like I had inconvenienced myself or someone else.
Brando watched me collect a few things to take with me, his eyes narrowed. “You tell me that I don’t feel enough. Or express myself enough. Youdon’t cry enough. When you do, you feel guilty after. God gives a woman tears to cry so that her husband can dry them.”
This stopped me. “Did you get that off of a greeting card?”
He put a hand to his heart. “That fucking stings.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“At the drugstore,” he said. “It was painted on a rock for the garden.”
I wiped my eyes once more and smiled. He smiled back at me and I almost went to pieces again.
He followed me into the bathroom, watching as I ran the water in the old clawfoot tub, adding rose-scented oil and then undressing. The hotter the water, the better to feel cooler afterward.
Putting one foot in, I avoided his intense gaze. “You’re not going to make a thing of what happened out there with Travis, are you? Because it wasn’t—a thing, I mean. He was only being nice.”
Even in the hot weather, the water felt good against my skin, relaxing all of my tense muscles. I had been stretched to the limits the night before—there wasn’t a spot on me that hadn’t been claimed by Brando Fausti—and the burn of the water soothed all of the deep aches.
Brando stood with his back to the counter, arms and legs crossed, watching me. “It amazes me,” he said, almost slowly, “how you feel so damn much, but when a man is interested in you, you claim to have no idea.”
The sponge dropped out of my hands. “What do you mean—claim?”
The truth of the matter was that I could never feel when a man “wanted me,” and I had explained the matter to Brando before. He had smiled in a smug fashion when I told him the only man I felt was my husband. The connection we shared branded me deep. He had ruined me for everyone else. Brando Fausti was a high standard to compare other men to.
He shrugged. “He was staring at your breasts.” As if it was the nightgown’s fault, he picked it up off the floor and flung it at the wall. If it would’ve been solid, it would have gone clean through.
“He’s my sister’s husband, Brando!”
He stalked toward the tub, eyes aflame, temper flaring. His hands came down on the rim of the tub and he leaned in close. “He’s still a man,” he said, his tone the polar opposite of the water. Ice cold. “He wanted you before.”
I flicked some soapy foam at his face, and it hit him in the dead center of his forehead, running down his sharp nose, dripping back into the tub.
“Are you sore, Scarlett?”
“No.” I swallowed the nervousness down, blinking furiously at him.
“Bugiardo,” he whispered.
Liar.He calledmea liar! Then I had to reel it in; I had lied.
“So what if I am?” I challenged back.
“The bath will help,” he said, his eyes roaming to my breasts floating above the water, mostly covered by suds. He licked his lips and then met my eyes. “You’ll need the relief.”
I was playing with fire. He had put aside his rage to comfort me, and anytime he held it in, it came out one of two ways—with exercise or me. I preferred me. Though not at that moment. My legs were like jellyfish tentacles.
“What’s going on between you and my father?” I asked to change the subject.
He refused to move. He stared at me until I was forced to meet his eyes. I put a wet hand to the side of his face. Below his sharp cheekbone, his cheek was concave, where my hand could rest. He was all prominent, strong bone, creating high cheekbones and one hell of a sharp, powerful jaw. “All right,” I whispered. “I heard you.”
He nodded once, gave me an Italian smooch on the lips, and then stood. He sighed, looking down at me. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Bugiardo,”I said, really low. “Kind of.”
