My eyes went instantly to my husband. His eyes had widened a bit before he turned cold and hard.
My mind ordered my body, and I practically flew. I tackled her, and we both went down to the floor.
Lies.
She told nothing but lies.
And the way she’d spoken to me?
NO.
“Rocco!” she was screeching, keeping her hands up to protect her face from my fists. I wasn’t a slapper. If things were going togo down this way, I was using all the strength I had, and it was going to come out through my fists.
I was about to hit her again when I caught air, my husband’s arm around my waist the only force keeping me from making contact again. I wasn’t all that wild with fury, punching the air and kicking my feet like a kid, but I was breathing heavy. My husband set me on the bed, then stood in front of me, like he was going to protect me from her.
The woman was still on the floor, sitting up, wiping her lip. The blood-red color of her lips merged with the blood on her lip. I had split it open. Let her speak lies again about my husband being married to her. I’d have her tongue. As simple as that. I crossed my arms over my chest and stuck my chin up, refusing to stop staring at her.
She stared back, then looked at Rocco.
“Tell her to leave, Rocco,” she whispered.
He told her to get up in Italian. The cold tone of his voice had her blinking at him before she used her hands to rise. Her eyes were wider, shock clearly written on her face. It was probably written on mine too. I recognized her in that moment.
Monica Attigliano.
She was considered, beyond Hollywood standards, to be one of the most beautiful women in the world. No wonder I’d recognized the color of lipstick she wore. It was her signature shade, and she modeled it in almost every high-end store that sold the brand.
“You will leave,” he said to her. “You have disrespected my wife.”
“Ah,” she breathed out. “Your wife. I did not know.”
“You did not bother to knock.”
She looked down for a moment. “I…yes, I will leave.”
She started for the door, and he followed her, making sure she was leaving. I followed my husband, standing at the topof the stairs, looking down. I noticed that he was keeping his distance from her. The muscle in his jaw ticked. The muscles in his arms trembled.
She stopped at the door, hesitating. He opened it. She looked him in the eyes, her chin rising, her posture already taking on shape—the shape of a woman who has always known that she’s beautiful, and it made her confident.
“I have just realized that your father will never want me. I thought you and I could make each other happy. We could share what we once did. It would be enough.”
“We shared nothing but a physical relationship.”
She grinned at him, but her eyes filled up with tears. “What did I tell you, ah? All those years ago, when you married the wretched Caffi? You needed to be ruined. You needed a woman who ran hotter than the sun, with eyes different from mine, to ruin the heart in your chest. Ruin it for all others. Reduce it to her size—the size that fit her perfectly. And when you think of me, and think of the times we shared, you will go—who was that woman again?Then you will remember, because I am nother, and you will go…I know the difference.I know now!
“A body is a body, but the heart ofyourlover…it will beat only for her. You deserve a woman who would cut your balls off for even thinking about my bed again. You deserve a woman who would tear another woman’s hair out if she dared to touch you.” She touched her lip, then smiled. “And you? You would kill in her honor. Live in her honor. Never touch another in her honor. You deserve that, Rocco. I see you have found it.” She lifted her hand, about to rest it against his cheek, then thought better of it when he took a step out of her reach. She looked up at me. “You are no longer homeless, Rocco Fausti.” She brought her hand to her heart. “My heart is full for you. I do not believe I will even see you in dreams any longer.”
With those words, she left in a black flurry of sheer clothes, raven silk hair, and a perfume that I knew would probably linger for days. Rocco closed the door after her, locking it, and then turned around and looked up at me.
I sighed, because I knew. She was the first of many I’d have to fight. I didn’t have it in me to ask any questions—I only knew that Rosaria Caffi might’ve not graced this property, but other women had, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
No.
The truth cut through the fog.
I felt I needed a new home with my husband, where only the memories of him and I would remain. Maybe my husband was reading my mind, or the look on my face, but he waited downstairs, his eyes on mine. His lids were naturally downturned a bit, and the look in his eyes seemed…pained. It broke my heart. He had no idea what kind of hell I was going to put him through for this. I sighed again, though it released no pressure. But no past lover would come between my husband and me. I refused to allow a ghost to. Hot-blooded women were no issue for me. Not unless they crossed a line.
“Rocco,” I whispered. “Let’s get back to bed.”
