It gave my heart a pang tofeelit again—like it was a memory, something from the past.
I sighed and he leaned down, singing the song against my lips, and I all but melted in his arms. His voice…it was soft and rough at the same time. I wanted to drown in it. He picked me up, and I stared up at him as he carried me into the bedroom. He set me down gently on the bed, and after removing his shoes and suit jacket, he slipped in beside me. We stared at each other before our hands seemed to reach out at the same time, and so did our lips.
“Oh God,” I moaned just from the kiss alone.
He was making noises that seemed to echo from deep inside his chest. Satisfied noises. The same noises he made while he’d been eating. My trembling hand caressed down the side of his face, tracing every one of his strong bones, down to his throat, past his clavicle, unbuttoning his shirt. His skin was cool and taut, and every pass over it seemed to pucker at my touch. He groaned like I’d stuck my hand down his pants and fisted his cock. He pushed closer to me, like our bodies were too far from each other, even though we were chest to chest. His skin was cool until I got to the area around his heart. It wasn’t hot, but much warmer, and even in the darkness, I traced a lengthy scar that was still raised.
Still fresh.
I broke the kiss and moved back, attempting to see in the darkness. He didn’t try to bring me closer, hide it, but he turned on his back, sighing.
“Rocco,” I whispered, “I’m turning the light on.”
He didn’t answer me, and I reached over to the pull the chain that would turn the lamp on. A soft glow came from the bedside table. Enough to see by. When I turned to him, his eyes were narrowed on my suitcase, but my eyes went straight to his chest.
“Oh my God,” I barely got out. I went to reach for him, but then pulled my hand back, covering my mouth. The scar on his chestwasstill fresh. It was clear to see it was from a slash. Someone had cut him from shoulder to rib. He had another one,but it had turned white from time, and the old one seemed to connect with the new one, almost making an X.
“Rocco,” I barely got out, my hand reaching out and barely touching the newly sealed skin. He’d been torn apart, and not that long ago. “How did this happen?”
His eyes were fixated on the suitcase, but his hand caressed my back, making soft strokes. He lifted it, then let it fall as he whispered, “Rosaria.”
I shivered when his hand barely touched the ends of my hair. The rage suddenly inside of me made the contrast of his touch and my temper clash. I could feel that about her—that night. How mean she could be. Mean enough to slice this man from shoulder to ribs, like she was going after his heart.
I sucked up a trembling breath. There was another side of this that I was trying to keep contained in my heart. “Is this why she was running from you that night?” I whispered.
“No,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “She was running because I told her no.”
A temper tantrum then. I could sense that about her too. She would get her way, or the world would have hell to pay.
My touch was as soft as his as I forced myself to run my fingers along the raised skin. I wanted his skin to feel how much I adored it. I wanted my touch to linger, erasing all the pain she had caused. This man might have been part beast, but he was still subject to hurt. And I could sense that about this family, how ruthless they could be too. I’d seen it on the bodies of the men who came to the citrus stall. How scarred some of them were. I felt it—how immune they were to violence. That was why Nonna had wanted me to stay away. I was the opposite of Rosaria. Soft. But where it counted, I was strong.
For this man, I could turn vicious. I felt the stirrings of it already. A protectiveness I reserved for those I loved. This man would never have to ride alone, if I was around. I’d have his back, his front, whichever side he needed me on. I’d have his heart.
“I’m sorry, Rocco,” I whispered, running myfingers up and down the scar in gentle strokes. “I’m so sorry.” I sucked up a breath. “At least—atl-l-least UncleTito did agood jobs-s-stitching you up.” I broke, and tears streamed down my cheeks, falling on his chest.
He turned to me abruptly, giving me a lost look before his arms came around me, pulling me in. He kissed my face, big smooches that seemed to absorb my tears. But I could tell I’d thrown him for a loop. He was used to dealing with a raging woman, but not a weeping one. I couldn’t help it. Nonna always said that God gave us a variety of emotions to experience for free. Yeah, I cried. I could rage, maybe not to that bi—Rosaria’s extent, but I could. I could be jealous. I could be happy and sad too. Life was all about balance. And there were plenty of times to be happy. This was not one of them. This was a sadness I felt bone deep. In hurting him, Rosaria had hurt me.
“Do not cry, Amora,” he whispered. “Do not waste your tears on me. My skin is not worth it.”
This made me cry harder, cling to him harder, while telling him he—and his skin—was.Allof him was worth it to me.
He hushed me. “You were going to become a doctor, no?”
I lifted some, staring into his hypnotizing sea-green eyes. He had been paying attention to my conversation with Uncle Tito during lunch then. Or…he’d found out on his own. It didn’t seem like he’d allow much to get past him.
“Yes, I was in medical school,” I whispered. “During that time, for extra money, I wrote a book, a criminal thriller. It did well, at first. But then my grandmother got sick, and…I decided not to go back to school. I’ve always thought Uncle Tito’s job is a commendable one, and it fit my personality. It takes a caring cruelty to help heal someone, sometimes. To cut someone open, then to care enough to heal them. But after Nonna…I don’t know. Her death hit me hard. It’s so hard to even use that word in the same sentence with her name.Death.And that’s when I knew it wasn’t my life’s calling. I have the bravery to heal the humanbody, but I don’t have it in me to keep losing lives—lives that mean a great deal to someone else.”
“Your writing.” He pulled me back down, setting me in his arms, kissing my face again.
I held him even tighter, my arm stretched protectively over his body. I sighed. “After the first book, I had no more stories left to tell. Nonna said that was because I wasn’t meant to write that kind of stuff anymore.” I smiled at the memory of her. “She wanted me to write romance, but at the time, I thought my muse had left. Until I arrived on this island. Have you…gone through my things?”
Silence stretched between us for a minute.
“All but your writings.”
“I figured.” I smiled, not caring. My life was not a big secret. I didn’t live it loudly, but I didn’t tiptoe around either. “But why not those?”
He shrugged. “Those are reflections of your heart, Amora. I would rather you share them with me instead of me having to steal them.”
