The smooth handle of the cane in my palm is so tempting. One good thwack. He’d never see it coming. I harden my voice. “Confusing theTabula Amalphitanawith theConsulat de la Meris a mistake only an undergrad skimming his coursework would make. Amalfi wrote their code first. Catalonia came centuries after.”
I smile brightly. “Also, since we’re discussing the importance of understanding languages,Leck mich am Arsch, which translates literally to ‘Lick me on the ass,’ but which you can take”—I narrow my eyes—“as an invitation tobite me.”
His face darkens to the shade of a pomegranate. “Feisty Francesca.”
“You may refer to me as Dr. McRae. Early. Modern. Mediterranean history.” I don’t throw around my newly minted title or correct people unless I’m in a professional setting, but this wanker deserves it.
He tugs his tie at the collar and looks away, only to freeze at the sight of Henry staring him down from the other side of the altar. People usually assume from his looks alone that Henry is a man who’d go out of his way to avoid trouble, not start it.
Until he takes that mask off. Then no one with a brain wants to be on the receiving end of what comes next.
Henry rarely reveals his fury. If anything, his face goes cold and bored looking. Today, his jaw flexes with the force of gritted teeth and his glare is lit with rage.
I meet Henry’s eyes and give a small shake of my head. Our job is to prevent an altercation, not get caught up in one ourselves. Yes, I failed my first test with Elliot. But everything is fine now.
I don’t need a guard dog here, and if I did, I have a literal bodyguard on the perimeter.
I wrap my arm around Elliot’s elbow. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to work very hard to behave yourself like the polite young man I know you can be. And I’m going to prevent my husband from causing you permanent bodily injury.Capisce?”
He glances back at Henry and gulps. “Capisce.”
I pat his arm. “Good boy. You do know some Italian. Now smile.”
He shows me his teeth.
The officiant raises his arm. “Once more. We begin at the beginning.”
Releasing Elliot, I turn back to the happy couple.
Noah bites his lip, his expression concerned.
“We just got a little excited about Mediterranean history,” I say.
His shoulders drop in relief. “Thank you,” he whispers.
The rehearsal continues, tense but uneventful. When the officiant releases us, the crowd dissolves into quiet murmurs. Dante shoots a wary glance at Henry, clearly assesses an impending situation, and hustles his groom away from the terrazzo in record time.
Henry heads straight for Elliot, his gait smooth and predatory.
I probably shouldn’t think that’s sexy.
I don’t. I definitely don’t. Bad Franki.
Who am I kidding? It’s so sexy.
Henry reaches Elliot and his tone drops into the cold, silky register he uses when someone has gone way too far. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to.
Elliot’s spine locks even tighter. Then he raises his voice an octave higher than usual, perfectly pitched to carry. “You, sir, should control your wife, not come afterme.”
Does this guy have a death wish?
The remaining people on the terrazzo go silent. Across the way, Phyllis narrows her blue eyes and zeroes in on Noah’s brother like an eagle eyeing up a chihuahua.
I stare, my brain scrambling to keep up as Elliot continues hotly. “I’m shocked you’re not embarrassed by the way she flirted in public next to”—he stretches out his arm to indicate the marble monolith—“a religious artifact. I’m the innocent victim of a woman on the prowl.”
For the second time in half an hour, my mouth falls open. The winking.That damn winking.He thought—“I wasn’tflirting,” I screech.
“I know when a womanwants me.” He lowers his voice by at least an octave on the last two words.
