A woman bounced by then, her top gone, and I made a disgusted noise in my throat.
Brando yanked me to the side, pinning me against the wall. “Look at me, Scarlett.”
“You don’t have to prove—”
“I don’t,” he said. “But I said look at me.”
Our eyes connected.
“Touch me,” he said.
I placed both of my hands under his shirt, caressing his skin. His breath picked up, his eyes became even more heated, staring at my lips. That wasn’t where he wanted my hand, though. He placed it against him, and he was as hard as stone.
He came in closer. “Solo tu, mia moglie,” he whispered.Only you, my wife.
I chanced a glance at our group; they hovered, waiting.
“I don’t want…anyone to see you.” I looked down, then back up at him. “Like that.”
He grinned. “Close your eyes and stop touching me.”
I felt like a jealous child, but I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. A few minutes later, we were able to move on. Violet stuck her tongue at me, laughing almost to death at what I assumed she thought was immature behavior.
Perhaps it was, but naked women staring at my husband in that way didn’t sit right with me. All of my insecurities had come out to play. In fact, the entire place held an air of sinister intent to it that I couldn’t quite get past. I kept having visions of a different life for Brando, one that would have brought him here without me.
Relief washed over me when we were led to one of the private bungalows over the water, Violet and Mick to another. I assumed Rocco and the other men were staying nearby.
It seemed like a typical beach resort—white linen bedding, glass tubs, and exquisite views from every angle. The sea rushed into shore with a melodic whoosh, replaying over and over, like a favorite rhapsody.
We had time to burn before dinner, but all we wanted to do was rest. Knowing this was not a vacation, knowing we had no idea what we were up against, we mostly stared at each other, trying to figure out where to go from here.
“Brando?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“I feel so far from home.”
As many places as I had been to over the years, all throughout my travels, I had never felt so far from the place that we called home. I missed his truck, the back roads, my parents’ little dance studio on Front Street, Maggie Beautiful’s place, our home on Snow, with a longing so fierce that it made me physically ill.
He didn’t respond with words, only held me closer. When it was time to prepare for dinner, I dressed in a long-sleeve, floor-grazing, pure-white dress with a back scooped low, ending right above my derrière. The fabric clung, the hem swished romantically, and bright red lips seemed to complete the package.
Brando suited up after me, and I watched him through the mirror, getting ready to slick back his hair.
“Sit,” I pointed to a chair in the bathroom.
Taking the comb from his fingers, I pointed again, this time using a sterner look. He hesitated.
“I’m not going to bite you.” I snapped my jaws at him and was rewarded with a hint of a smile.
“I’d prefer if you did.” He took a seat. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Ballerina Girl.”
“You’ll see.”
I set the comb on the counter, took some of the pomade he used and rubbed it between my palms, coating my hands. His hair was still damp from the shower, and it was slick; my fingers glided easily through the line of hair from top to nape. The hair on each side of his head was shorter, an undercut, only a tickle against my skin.
His hands wrapped around my wrists, stopping me.
“What?” I whispered.
