“No!”
I winced. Her mouth was in my ear. “Not even when you were fighting him for me? And I can hear you fine. Your mouth is next to my ear.”
“No,” she whispered.
“Am I beneath him then?” I said in Italian. She was afraid for Scarlett. Afraid of what I’d do. Her heart beat against my back in a frantic rhythm.
Maggie Beautiful slid off, a burden off my back, but the pressure hadn’t lightened.
“She's not herself.” She spoke to my back.
Something in her voice hollowed me out even more than I had been. She had hit something else that felt just as vital as whatever my wife had nicked.
“Tell me.”
“No. It’s—she wanted to save you from him!”
“Has she elected to use you as a mouthpiece?”
“No!” Her voice was furious, trembling with suppressed anger.
“Go home, Maggie Beautiful. Now.”
“Brando! I refuse to let you make her feel guilty! I love her!”
“Guilty.” I almost barked out a laugh. “I know you love her, but not like I do. I love her.La amo.” I touched my heart. “That's why she can slay me without putting a fucking hand on me.”
After waiting to hear the door shut behind Maggie Beautiful, I found Scarlett where Vincenzo said she’d be. She was inside of our room, the long lounge chair pulled close to the terrace so no one could see her, so she could sunbathe naked. It was one of her favorite things to do.
It was evening, and the room drowned in gold from the setting sun. She was on her side, facing the window, her form haloed by the soft light. Her auburn hair was a mess, the darkest thing about her. A thin silk robe fanned out behind her body— her bare front to the sun. She was asleep.
Her sweet scent consumed the air, made more prominent by the warmth of the day. Lemon and mint floated beneath the surface, along with freshly turned earth. Soft Italian music played in the background, and a breeze made the curtains billow out every so often.
How could one woman, so fucking small, be the death of me?
She was my life and my death.
I had the sudden urge to seize her, to take her from her comfortable place and fucking flip her world upside down, and then somehow make her melt into my veins so the vital part of me that she carried couldn’t be taken from me in another blink of an eye.
Irrational? I was never rational when it came to her.
Her hand came over her forehead, shielding her eyes. “Brando?”
“You remember me.Tuo marito.”
“Oh, I remember.” She blew out a soft breath. “I—”
“At least have enough respect to meet my eyes,” I said, “before you give me pathetic fucking excuses.”
Hesitation, she showed extreme hesitation. Then she wrapped the robe around her before sitting up to face me. She had been crying, eyes and nose red, and her hair was wild.
“Excuses?” She stood up, but before she went on, she paused. Our eyes met. Time ticked. Then she shook her head. “You have no idea!”
“I have a fucking clue.” I rolled my shoulders.
Her chin lifted. “Let’s hear it then, Sherlock Holmes!”
Smart-ass remarks were not what I wanted to hear. I advanced on her, but she refused to move. We ended up colliding. I forced her to move with the strength of my body, pinning her against the brick wall, looking down on her as she looked up.
