He narrowed his eyes at me. “This night is not going to end the way I hoped, with you shattering on my cock.”
I smiled at him. “You know me too well.”
He grumbled like a child. “Loyalty!” He cursed it. “The only thing you should have been loyal to tonight is my cock!” He looked away from me, toward a server who kept staring at him, and Olivier’s eyes stared to heat at the way the man was watching him. Another late-night party goer who would have a hand full of Olivier’s balls and his cock by the time the party was over.
Shame what I would miss. My husband would only touch a man to kill him, but oh, the excitement at what was to come!
Chapter 9
Under the Roses We Go
My wife called and invited me to Paris.
“A private underground club,” she said. “It is by invite only.”
I had not seen her much, thought of her even less, but I accepted her invitation. Only time would give me the true reason for this. Rosaria was not a woman to call and invite me out unless it was going to enhance our image as the newly crowned prince and princess of the Faustifamiglia. We were required to make public appearances, at least, twice a month. It was also required that she spend time at my place in Maranello when she was not performing. All included in our arrangement.
After we’d gotten back from our honeymoon, a day before I went to Monica, I went to the lawyer and had him officially change the terms of our arrangement. We could take lovers, but neither of us would ever know about them, which meant, if Rosaria wanted aménage à trois, or a room full of fuckery, she could have them on her own, or invite me, as if I was one of the strangers on the street who wanted a room full of women instead of the one woman that I had an arrangement with.
Before I left for France, I studied all the products she had leftout on the counter in my bathroom. With a swipe of my hand, I sent all the lies to the floor and left.
When I arrived in Paris, I could not put my finger on it, but my wife looked different. Her eyes were brighter, as if she had a fever, and she was anxious to leave our place and go out for the night.
We attended the ballet at the Palais Garnier.
The woman dancing, Scarlett Rose Poésy, entranced me. I could not stop staring at her, hanging on to her every move. Her feet were magic. She was the granddaughter of the legend, Maja Resnik, who, in her prime, was one of the best. If I was not mistaken, I believed it was Maja who had ensnared Matteo Ballerini all those years ago.
Tears ran down my cheeks as I rose from my seat, giving her what I rarely did unless the artist moved me—a standing ovation at the end of the heart-changing performance. If Rosaria had put me under a spell with her voice, this woman, Scarlett Poésy, had done the same with the movement of her body.
She was art, and she deserved to be set on a plinth and adored for it.
My face seemed to be made of a different substance than my flesh. My wife’s eyes could not seem to look away from me, as if she was trying to figure out what it was. When our eyes met, she turned hers in another direction. I followed the line of her gaze, but I turned away when I realized it was another man in the audience who resembled me in build.
We took a private car to a restaurant after the ballet. I fixed my suit and gave Donato instructions to be sure this outing with my “wife” would somehow be noticed. What better place than the romantic city of light? Rosaria set her hand over mine and shook her head.
“I do not think this is a good idea,” she said. “Tomorrow night we will go out to dinner at a different place.”
I studied her face and then looked at Donato andnodded. He would forget it. Donato nodded, then opened the door for me. Reaching in, I gave Rosaria my hand. She took it, but we walked side by side, not touching, into the restaurant. She removed the rose from her long jacket and handed it to the maître d’. It was a symbol. The man nodded to us and then brought us to a room in the back. We were given masks to wear, and after being led through a series of doors, we were led into the bowels of the Parisian earth.
We were led into an underground club.
I turned to leave, but Rosaria stopped me by grabbing my suit jacket.
“This is not a sex club,” she whispered. “Unless…you want it to be.” She smiled at me.
I kept my eyes on hers until she looked away.
I decided to stay.
We were given drinks as we waited for—a show, perhaps. A crude stage had been erected in the center, mirrors surrounding it. It was not my scene, but Rosaria seemed riveted by it. Her eyes seemed to be everywhere, but her stare always stayed the longest on the stage. And when the lights went out and flames came to life, I would have thought she had turned into a flame.
Her breath picked up.
Her eyes widened.
And when a woman in a cloak, her face hidden, started to sing, a dancer appeared on the stage with mirrors. This dance was slow, sensual, and my cock hardened at the sight of the woman’s body. Rosaria narrowed her eyes, like she was trying to find something on the dancer only she could see, and when she could not find it, her face fell.
“Tell me, my wife,” I said in Italian. “Not the body you were expecting.”
