Is that what had driven him to let her go on thinking there was the most minute possibility that his papa and nonno might show up when he knew full well they wouldn’t? They were already headed home when he’d gone off the main road in search of her.
That thrill. That she would still give herself to him so long as he wanted her to because she wanted to that badly—so badly she would risk being exposed, naked, vulnerable. For him.
That surge. That surge of power when she’d held on to him. She must have known she could. She must have known she could trust him.
That surge that coursed through his breath and blood.
Was it possible it was greater than any he’d felt behind the wheel on a racetrack? He didn’t know. He only knew he’d never felt it before with a woman. And he wanted to feel it again.
Nico stared at the table—the big bowl of pasta, the basket of crusty bread, the colorful peppers, gleaming in olive oil, the decanter of red wine.
Focus on the table—the food, all of it, even the cutlery. Just don’t look up.
Every time she did and saw Rocco gazing back at her, she felt as though she might need a defibrillator.
If only she could send her brain to Brainerd and soak it clean of any thought of Rocco Vittori, at least while she sat around the dinner table with his family. Then again, she couldn’t be certain the rest of her would be clean.
She didn’t feel clean.
She felt dirty.
Really dirty.
Filthy. Filthy. Filthy.
Dirty.
“Rocco Vittori,” she heard his mother cry, “did you wash your hands?”
Nico looked up. He was grinning at her. She stared at his hands, thinking about where they had been. And the minute she had thatthought, it was as though the thought had placed his hands there again. On her breasts, on her thighs, in between her thighs.
Yes, please, in between my thighs.
That grin made her want to mount him and kick him under the table at the same time. When they were preparing to head back home and he was putting on her helmet, he had confessed that his father and grandfather had met up with him on the main road and told him they’d head for home while he went looking for her. She’d figured as much. Rocco never would have done what he’d done otherwise. Still, there had been the tiniest bit of fear in her. And yet she couldn’t stop him. That had never happened before. She’d never lost control like that. And she couldn’t even say she’d given that control to him. She felt as though he’d had it from the start.
She flinched when Beatrice nudged her, handing her the basket of crusty bread.
She was grateful Sofia and Beatrice were sitting on either side of her because they kept demanding her attention. As long as she could focus on one of them, she felt as though she could manage to make it through dinner without self-combusting.
Hopefully without self-combusting.
Please don’t self-combust.
Charles told her phosphorus and coal could self-combust. He’d read it somewhere. One of the elements that made up the human body was phosphorus. Then too there was carbon. And coal was mostly carbon.
If she did self-combust, would she disintegrate into ash? Or would she set fire to anything and anyone nearby, she wondered, eyeing Sofia and Beatrice warily.
“Did you enjoy the ride, Nico?” Rocco’s father asked.
Her heart. That defibrillator.
“What?” she cried.
They were all staring at her.
Rocco grinned. “I think she did, Papa,” he said, rubbing his foot up her leg under the table.
“Yes,” she said, trying to kick his foot away. “It’s such beautiful country here.”
