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After what seemed an endless hesitation, John took the piece of paper.

Reina stood with her head bent, her soul in upheaval.

She heard his voice, husky and halting.

“The fact is . . . I’m in love with a Spanish woman, whose favorite piece of jewelry is a pencil. I doubt she can make a pie, but I know she could make a pie chart. She never sleeps. She hates her food to touch. Her smile is beautiful. She listens to people, even ones with quiet voices. Knowing she walks through the world with her heart wide open is more than I can bear. All I can do is watch from a distance . . . aching from the weight of too much love to carry.”

There might have been more, but that was all she needed to hear. Before John could say another word, Reina reached him in two strides and pulled his head down to hers.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Scito Quando Nudare

The page fluttered to the floor. Caught off his guard by the way Reina had launched herself at him, John closed his arms around her reflexively. She kissed him too hard for pleasure, molding herself to him as if she were trying to feel him with her whole body. Her breath was convulsive, as if she were laughing and crying at the same time.

John had never seen her so overwrought. He held her firmly and pushed back the wild locks of hair that stuck to her wet face. His palm moved over her slender back in gentle circles as he tried to calm her.

“Cariad . . . heart of my heart . . . no, don’t cry. I love you. I love the whole wretched world just because you’re in it. If I locked away a thousand poets for a thousand days, they couldn’t write the smallest part of what I feel for you.”

Reina buried her face against his shoulder and gave a shuddering sigh. In a moment, he heard her muffled voice. “The poets’ union would call a strike.”

That drew a grin from him.

Ah, hell, he was in so much trouble, and it was worsening by the second.

Not a single damn problem had been solved—in fact, a hundred new ones had just started. But it felt so good to have her in his arms. Every unsettled breath was scented of her . . . white flowers and summer and sweet female skin.

This was the first time he’d ever felt the natural shape of her body. No rigid sculpting of cording and laces and steel boning, no front busk with metal hooks and studs. She was amazingly pliant, all sensuous curves and softness. Even her breathing felt different from usual, fluid and deep. The loose waves of her hair streamed everywhere, rippling over his wrists. He wanted badly to play with it; rub gleaming handfuls of it over his chest and throat.

Reina’s face lifted, and without even thinking, John bent to cover her lips with his. Her mouth was alive and sweet, feeding raw sensation into him. His nervous system thrilled to the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. He wanted more of her, wanted deeper, harder kisses, but somehow, he managed to pull back. He used the pad of his thumb to stroke away a forgotten tear on her cheek.

“Easy, love,” he whispered. “You’ve no need to strike a fire so fast and fierce.”

“I’m afraid you’ll want to stop.”

“Never.” He nuzzled her temple. “My wish is your command. You know that by now.”

“Yes, but . . . you’re no longer my butler. I . . . suppose you never were.”

As John saw the uncertainty in her face, it wrenched his heart to realize how much his deception had shaken her. “No,” he replied, very gently. “But I’ve been yours from the start.”

Reina gave him a skeptical glance.

“Since that first evening,” he said, “when we talked until midnight.” At the lingering doubt in her expression, he asked, “You find that hard to believe?”

“I’ve always been aware that I’m something of an acquired taste,” she said.

“If so, that’s only in England. To any man in Wales, you’d be a natural preference.”

A chuckle escaped her, and she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “Don’t tease.”

“You think I’m teasing? Welsh women are admired for their unique ways. It’s why we have so many love-names besides ‘dear’ or ‘sweetheart.’ ” His fingertips followed the tender line of her neck down to her collarbone. “I could call you ehedydd—after the lark who flies straight up to the sky as it sings. Or lili’r nos—a lily that blooms in the dark. The right name for you, though, would be rhyddfryd. A free spirit . . . a woman who follows her own path.”

As he caressed her neck and jaw, he felt the movement of her swallow against the edge of his hand. How vulnerable she was, fine-boned and supple like a cat. He’d never understood before what an enormous act of trust it was for a woman to be physically intimate with a man, opening herself to the possibility of harm instead of pleasure, degradation instead of tenderness. But all he wanted was to show her his gentleness.

His past experience didn’t seem to apply to this new situation . . . he was being forced to shed it like a coat that was too heavy for the weather. All the years of hunger and dark broken nights, the bruises and bitterness, were melting in her radiance.

He brought his lips to hers, stroking and settling by degrees, absorbing the faint hum of pleasure that came from her throat. When he lifted his head again, he was nearly too aroused to think straight. “Reina,” he said thickly, “there’s nothing I want more than to take you to my bed, but—”