A rescue swimmer in the Coast Guard,in Alaska, in the Bering Sea.They were elite for a reason.Because they jump into waters no one else dares to!A shrill voice in my head screamed.He could have—
“You did it for fun!” I shouted, rather like a child.
Remembering, in a sudden rush, Maggie Beautiful mentioning that his father, Luca Fausti, had become a racecar driver for the hell of it. Sure, he loved it, but he also thrived on the speed, on the danger associated with the sport. Men like Brando Fausti, and apparently his father, needed that sort of thrill. Extreme virility seemed to run in the blood.
With a calmness that seemed to grate on my already frazzled nerves, he set the bike next to a building and took me by both arms, turning me toward the brick, setting me against it. His hands moved; his newfound grip on my wrists was tight. I tried to squirm, but he refused to let me move an inch.
“You’re taking this better than expected.”
“Ha!” I shouted in his face. “You’re right to keep my hands pinned.” I wiggled my fingers in demonstration. The need to tear him apart was a visceral thing.
“You have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Hindsight is 20/20, is that it, Fausti? Oh, that makes me feelsomuch better! This could’ve happened. Or that. But now—” I shrugged “—all good!”
“Yeah,” he said. “It should. I’m still here.”
“You could’ve been killed! And I had no idea. No idea!”
“I could’ve been killed walking down the street.”
“That’s not the same thing and we both know it.”
“It’s not. But the point still applies, baby. I didn’t want you to worry.”
Oh yes, a sarcastic voice whispered in my head, rolling her figurative eyes,you drowning in ice cold watermight have distracted me from dancing.Oh, the inconvenience!What an effing man thing to say and do!
Before I could parrot the sarcastic voice, something in his tone made me pause; made me catch my breath and try to rationalize this. I stood, locked in his rough embrace, my chest pumping up and down, my eyes glazed over with stinging tears. I hadn’t had a chance to take a shower after practice. Sweat made my eyes burn even more.
“Brando,” I whispered. “I—this is. Such a shock.” I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat. “You. You’re all I have. All I’ll ever want.”
He leaned closer, setting his forehead against mine, his lips against the tears running against my skin. “I did it for the both of us,” he said, his voice quiet. “If it was just for this one thing. You’d be proud of me. Or I’d die trying.”
“Oh.” I held back a sob. He needed me to recognize him. What he had done. “I am. I am so proud of you. I just wish—I could’ve been there. During the most important times.”
“You were,” he said, letting me go, but pulling me against his chest so hard that I gasped. “I earned the right to stand where I am.”
“You did,” I said. “You are the bravest man I know, Brando Fausti. I am—” a trembling breath escaped my lips “—I am in love with a hero.Sono innamorato di un eroe.”
“It was mine to give,” he repeated. “Now it’s yours. You’ll always keep it close, as a reminder.”
“E tutte le mie danze sono per te.”I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.“Sempre.”
And all of my dances are for you. Always.
Chapter Eighteen
Scarlett
The eve of departure was upon us, and as much as I’d have loved to claim that I handled it well, the truth was plain to see.
I had planned an intimate party for Brando, Mick, Violet, and my family. This was the first one in the history of the apartment. Colette decorated. Emilia filled the empty spaces with flowers. I cooked.
During this time, I slammed the oven door, cursed like a sailor when I burnt myself, threw cooking apparatus into the sink, and was generally the sour element in the kitchen.
Sourness seemed catching, so Colette and Emilia begged off with the excuse that we needed more wine. Then we were all alone.
Brando stood with his back to the counter, arms and legs crossed. He grinned when my temper would flair, irritating me even further.
