He looked up at me with guileless eyes made fiercer by the black of his hair. “Sit down, baby. I want to talk to you.”
I sat, my bottom against the warmth of gritty cement, my legs submerged in coolness on either side of him. His body was still hot, despite the water. He took my hands in his, his arms resting against my thighs, my dress absorbing the droplets.
“I’m your gatekeeper,” he said quietly. “Il custode di mia moglie.”
“Always.” I had told him that many times before—there was no doubt what he would do for me, had done for me.
“You’re my soul keeper. Do you understand what that means?”
“Not really.”
He grinned, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of what he was about to confide in me. “It means that I know who I am. What I’m capable of. What I was made for—except that I was made for you too. You don’t seem to understand how this works between us. You are my better half, in the true sense. There will be times when I have to become a monster, and at the end of the day, when I come home to you, I know what I’ll see when you look at me. It won’t be a monster. It’ll be the man who loves you. You’ll be my proof that I have a heart and a soul; both rest inside of you. I gave them to you long ago.
“You’ve held my life in your hands many times—when you refuse to let me go because you know I’m in danger. You hold my soul in your hands too, baby. It’syouthat protectsme.Il mio scudo.”My shield.“In this world and in another. Where you go, I follow. If you’re going to heaven, I need to be there too.” He tightened his hold on my hands, as though I held his soul between us, and he didn’t want me to let go.
“See the truth, baby. You are the good in me.”
“I don’t believe that. Never have. Youaregood.”
“You just proved my point. Without you, I’d lose the best part of me. You changed me that night out in the snow. Instead of my path leading me here, it led me to you first. No matter what I do or become, I still have you. I’m safe in your love no matter what.”
His eyes gazed at the tattoo of the ribbon, my ribbon that he had found out in the street after we connected out in the snow, on his arm for a moment. My name was in script directly below it, over the vital artery. The ending “t” of my name started the ribbon.
“A marriage without boundaries.” He shook his head. “That’s not us. I’d never allow it, and neither would you.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” I squeezed his hand. “Are you telling me that I stop you from being them?”
“You stop me from losing the man completely. A tiger doesn’t change his stripes, baby. His behavior.” He shrugged. “That can be adapted to fit his surroundings, his wilderness. Marriage isn’t about me. It’s not about you. It’s about us. Neither of us comes before what we have.”
“So you married me to keep you on the straight and narrow?”
“No, I married you because I love you and can’t live without you. I gave you my soul to hold because I know you’ll fight for it. Even when I can’t see that I should. You were given to me to teach me how to love and mean it. I realized that in the nick of time—the day we were married, when you made me wait in hell.”
He tangled his fingers in the cross around my neck. Cool water slid down my warm chest, goosebumps forming in their wake.
“You are a woman of faith. It’s a good thing you have enough for the both of us.”
I tangled my fingers with his, my eyes intense on his. “I am going to cook the hell out of that kitchen.”
He laughed. “Then we win.”
“But no matter what—”
He pulled himself up, muscles straining on either side of me, his face close to mine. “We are all we ever need.” He kissed me.
He slid back under, finishing his strokes. I watched him, thinking,Thank God he married me, because just on thoughts alone, neither of us would have made it to heaven if he hadn’t made an honest woman out of me. We’d both be two lovers lost to the ashes, consumed by the heat of Pompeii.
Chapter Nineteen
Scarlett
Raceday.
Behind the castle in Maranello, a racetrack had been built. It was hard not to imagine Luca Fausti doing laps in his car, addicted to the speed, to the thrill of the hunt. That was all it was to a man like Luca Fausti. A chase. A sport to conquer.
Before the race began, I searched the upscale garage to choose Brando’s car. The Ferraris that were closer to the castle were collector’s items. These were closer to the racetrack. This collection was meant and ready for the haul.
There was a definite difference between a street car and a racecar, even with Ferrari’s, and even apparent to a novice like me.
