“Rocco?” I repeated, almost dumbly, stopping short.
Brando put two hands on my back when I did.
She laughed, leaning against one of the columns. “Sì.” She nodded at Brando. “Fratello di tuo marito.”Your husband’s brother.
It took me a moment to catch on, but the tone of her voice had softened at his name. That was when I knew. I felt the change. Her entire body went slack and supple at the thought of him.
“He is still married to the songbird?” She quirked up an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said. “Both of them are doing fine.”
“Pity, that.” She waved a hand. “Not the fine, but the marriage. Their souls are not aligned. I did not agree with it from the start. He came to me for advice. I was honest. He did not listen. Rocco needs a different woman. A woman like you.”
Brando never moved, but I felt him stiffen beside me.
“Do not take offense to this.” She nodded at Brando. “I did not imply that he neededyourwife, only a woman like her.Molto bello, voi due.”Very beautiful, the two of you.“As a couple. Rocco bears a strong resemblance to you. He would. Luca is just as gorgeous.”
Luca’s name caused Brando to bristle. And I wondered…
“Are you well-acquainted with Rocco?” I asked. “You know, small world and all of that.”
She gave me an impish smile. If that term could ever be used for a woman, that woman was Monica Attigliano. “Intimately. I, ah, encouraged his virility.Il primo.”The first.
If a drink had been in hand, I would have downed it. Or spit it out. “I see.”
Actually, I saw too much. She was more than double his age, if she was close to my mother’s age. She had been his first lover.
And Brando didn’t see the resemblance?Not between Monica and me, but between him and his brother.
Hmph!The thought of Rocco and Monica together mademebristle. Not because of their relationship, but oddly enough, because of Brando. He and his brother were a lot alike, and apparently had similar first experiences.
The night after we had first made love, we lay in bed, our hands constantly touching, our feet entwined, high on love. Our laugher had tapered, but our eyes were still connected.
We had never really discussed his history. It was not something that was a secret—his reputation preceded him—but it had never occurred to me to ask for details. Up until that moment. Curiosity called to me. It was like a thin scarlet ribbon undulating toward the mysterious sex life of Brando Fausti, beckoning me to follow the trail.
“Who was your first?” I had asked, kissing his fingertips.
“I refuse to speak of another woman in our bed, or another man, for that matter. It’s only the two of us here.”
“All right,” I had said, sitting up and taking a step away from the bed. “You do the same.”
“You’re being serious.”
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He stood, taking a spot across the room from me. He opened his arms and let the experience spill from his lips. Brutal honesty. He had been sixteen—no, maybe fifteen? She had been somewhere around thirty-eight, he thought.
“Who?” I had asked, trying to hide the balling of my fists, but failing. “Who is thewoman?”
I expected the sting of it, but not for it to hurtthatmuch. His past sexual exploits were a mere thought, a constant cautious idea circling in my mind, but hearing the truth was worse than feared. I should’ve never asked, not if I couldn’t deal with the truth. However, I had, and then found myself stuck in the middle with no escape.
The woman’s name caused my mouth to fall open in shock, and my eyes to narrow into daggers. The woman, Elin (Ay-Lin), had moved to the small Louisiana town from Switzerland. I remembered her in vivid detail. She had opened up a chocolate patisserie, and occasionally I was allowed to pick out something from her shop as a reward for a stellar dance week. She was tall, blonde, and had a heavy accent—the exact opposite of me. She also spoke French. She and I would converse in the language from time to time.
She didn’t look thirty-eight. Nowhere near it. If she had, I didn’t notice. She seemed worldly, sophisticated, and somehow her sex appeal had been enhanced by the residual chocolate on her skin. She wore it like an effing perfume.
“Did you have sex with her more than once?”
“Yeah.”
