The Fabrizio Bride Read online

  She placed a hesitant hand against his chest, peered up at him through her lashes. "You still want me." It was a statement not a question.

  "Yes."

  "After everything you think I've done?"

  "Yes." He forced out the word through clenched teeth, and she leaned back to glower at him, causing his gaze to drop to her damp breasts outlined against her light-colored T-shirt. Her nipples jutted up at him insistently. An arousing sight, but more than that, he felt possessive, angry...jealous.

  "Damn it, Sarika. You're not wearing a bra." He caught her chin with his fingers. "You were running off in the middle of the night, barely dressed, with nowhere to go. How am I supposed to protect you? Anyone could have seen you like this."

  "For starters, I don't need your protection. And I can go topless if I want to, let alone braless. It's no longer your concern who sees me like this."

  Denial beat hard in his chest and his hand swept down her body to clench her hip. Their eyes clashed, full of the turbulence that had so defined their relationship.

  "Rafe, this is–"

  "I know." He could feel the passion pounding through her body – the same pounded through his. "Were you running to him?"

  "Who?"

  "Berrucci."

  "No, I wasn't running to Lorenzo. I wasn't running to anyone. In case you didn't notice, I was running away from you."

  "Well, you didn't get very far, did you?" His tone rang with a perverse kind of satisfaction.

  She dropped her eyes from the intensity of his gaze. They sat in silence for a minute before she said quietly, "You have to let me go."

  He released her hip and slid his hand down her leg to rest on her knee. "I'm not holding you here."

  "You don't have to. Damn it, I can't do it on my own."

  God, she was right. Why in hell was he fighting to keep her close? His hand tightened momentarily before his brain caught up, and he forced himself to slide his arm under her legs, rise from the couch and carry her over the colorful, braided rug to the opposite corner of the room. After depositing her on a leather wing-back chair, he stalked toward the liquor cabinet and poured himself a slug of whisky. Downing it in one gulp, he poured himself another then walked to the tall windows that overlooked Big Bear Lake. The full moon hung low in the sky and illuminated the water as it spread out beyond the cliff like a swathe of black velvet streaked with diamonds.

  A stunning sight...but it didn't hold a candle to the woman curled up on the chair behind him.

  Nothing, and no one, ever did.

  He fought to stay facing forward – back stiff, shoulders tight – when all he wanted to do was turn and stare at her. He realized then how much he'd missed her this past year. Even before they were lovers they'd seen each other often. Every school break and holiday when they were younger. And once she'd finished at Wellesley and started working in New York, he'd made an effort to visit her as often as he could.

  He heard the distinctive sound of a tissue being pulled from a box before she said, "Tell me, please, about Ana Lisa." Her tone was formal, polite, and it irritated him. They weren't formal, they could never be formal. But he couldn't have it both ways.

  He strode to the desk, pulled out a hard-backed, leather chair and sat down, folding his hands in a disciplined manner on the tabletop as if to fortify himself against her. "She's been diagnosed with a condition called aortic regurgitation. It has to do with the aortic valve which regulates blood flow from the left ventricle of the heart into the aorta. They think it's a congenital condition that never affected her until now."

  Her eyes glazed over and he knew what she was thinking, he'd thought it, too. If Ana Lisa died, she wouldn't have any family left. His grandmother had loved her like a daughter when Sarika's mom had passed on.

  "She's going to be fine," he said. "The condition is treatable. She's in stable condition right now. They're running tests and regulating her medication. She should be home in a week or two."

  She cleared her throat. "That's good news."

  "Yes, it's very good news."

  Uncurling from the chair, she crossed the room to take his place at the window and looked out. The moon left a romantic glow across the lake. A setting for lovers, which put him even more on edge.

  A sigh escaped her lips. "Ana Lisa would be so disappointed in us."

  He tensed again. "What do you mean?" But he knew what she was going to say.

  "Sneaking around behind her back, lying to her."

  He exhaled noisily, rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck. "She's a different generation than us, Sarika. She still has the old-fashioned values she grew up with in Italy and doesn't understand how the world works today or the different ways that men and women live their lives. If we had married, she would have expected you to be a virgin, and me not to be, so I could teach you what to do in bed. How's that for a double standard?"

  "Well, that's exactly what happened, isn't it? I was a virgin, and you taught me what to do. Except you didn't do me the honor of marrying me first."

  She sounded bitter, and he opened his mouth to refute her, but she cut him off.

  "I'm not blaming you, Rafe. I allowed it to happen. I wanted it to happen. Obviously, I didn't respect myself enough either."

  "It wasn't a matter of respect, Sarika, it was a matter of..." He struggled for the words. "We're both passionate people, and the physical aspect of our relationship was very strong. Look, I appreciate you didn't like keeping things from Ana Lisa. I didn't either. But believe me when I tell you we didn't have a choice. She's a formidable person when it comes to getting her own way."

  An empty laugh escaped her lips. "And her way would've been for you to marry me and provide her with great-grandchildren. We both know how much you would have hated that."

  "That's not true."

  "Oh, right. That's why you barely spent a night with me before rushing off to catch a plane somewhere else. Anywhere else."

  "I had commitments. A business to run." He shoved away from the desk and stood up. "No one else could do it for me."

  "Poor Rafael, so over-worked. Wasn't it romantic you found time to fit me in whenever you could."

  "Sarika—"

  She rounded on him. "You never took me with you on your overseas trips, and you never wanted me to move back to Santa Barbara. It took me a while to realize that romance had nothing to do with it, you just wanted to get to New York, get laid, and get out as soon as possible."

  He threw his hands in the air. "I traveled thousands of miles to see you, put off important meetings, jeopardized the business, so I could sleep in your bed. I made sacrifices to be with you."

  "Yeah? Well I made sacrifices, too. I put my life on hold, waited for you to acknowledge me, but you never did. And don't you dare tell me it was because I was with another man, you know that's not true, you just don't want to admit it. The truth is you were happy to have some excuse to get rid of me!"

  She turned back to stare out the window, breathing hard.

  When he laid a hand on her shoulder, she jumped away from him.

  "For God's sake, I'm not going to hurt you."

  She met his gaze disbelievingly, then shook her head as if he didn't have a clue. "I'm moving back to Santa Barbara, Rafe, whether you like it or not. Ana Lisa will obviously want us together for family functions, but other than that, I want you to keep your distance. We're no longer lovers and whatever friendship was once between us is long gone."

  His hands fisted, turning his knuckles white. "Keep my distance?"

  "Yes. Like I said before, don't call, don't ask how I am, don't offer me a ride anywhere. If you see me across the street, keep walking."

  A muscle jumped in his cheek. "That's not acceptable."

  "You found it more than acceptable this past year."

  "We were in different cities. Look, you're upset. I understand that. Things will look better in the morning."

  "No, they won't. In case you haven't noticed, they've been bad for a wh
ile."

  "I can fix it."

  She laughed but he could hear the frustration underlying it. "How can you possibly fix it? Whatever this is between us is broken beyond repair. I want my life back – a job I love, marriage and children. I won't have you in the background while I get on with that. Or watch you get on with it either. We have to sever this thing between us for good."

  "We're not severing anything. I said I'll fix it."

  "How?" she repeated, voice rising. "How can you possibly fix it?"

  "Like this!"

  He backed her against the glass, their chests and toes touching, and wrapped his hands around the sides of her face. Holding her still for just a second he stared into those stormy, green eyes, before capturing her mouth with his. The kiss demanded her response, her acquiescence. She stiffened for an instant, hands wedged between them as if to push him away, but then she melted into his body, her lips softened and she let him in.

  The past year slipped away. This woman, who had once filled his every waking thought, kissed him with a passion that rocked his world, and he desperately kissed her back.

  Chapter Three

  Rafe's hands stroked Sarika everywhere - shoulders, face, hips, hair - as if trying to remember every inch of her. She closed her eyes and bathed in a sensual haze of his distinct scent, his taste, the sound of their ragged breaths and soft moans. He stole her will with kisses that nibbled and licked, kisses that left her knees weak, kisses that mimicked the grinding, unconscious thrust of their hips.

  It was so familiar, so erotic, and so very, very good.

  She welcomed the invasion of his tongue. Sucked it deeper. Wove her fingers into his hair and grasped the back of his head. His hands dipped down around the curve of her ass and pulled her higher against him, locking them together and pushing her back against the window. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she groaned as his heat and hardness thrust against her in just the right spot.

  "God, what you do to me," he said roughly, planting kisses along her cheekbone to her ear. He drew the lobe into his mouth, and she was filled with a rush of sensation that left her moaning. "That sound. Do it again."

  She couldn't help but obey and moaned again when he slid his hands beneath her T-shirt and claimed her breasts, brushing his thumbs back and forth over stiff nipples then rolling them between his fingers with just the right amount of pressure. She buried her face in the crook of his neck to muffle the whimpers coming from her throat.

  She couldn't stand it any longer. "Rafe, please!"

  "Please what, Princess? How can I please you?"

  "I need you."

  Releasing her breasts, he cupped her head again, and kissed her deeply. She was lost to everything but the feel of him against her, the touch of his lips and tongue, the rhythm of his fingers in her hair.

  "I need you, too. I need to be inside you." He held her tight and strode toward the sofa.

  Excitement shafted through her like an electrical current. In moments he would lay her down, pull off her jeans. It had been so long since she'd felt the weight of him between her legs. The moist heat of his mouth and tongue on her body.

  They were almost there when the phone on the desk rang. He paused with one knee on the couch.

  "Don't answer," she said, afraid to lose him all over again.

  "What if it's about Ana Lisa?"

  She groaned and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. "You're right, of course."

  He changed direction toward the desk, and she inhaled deeply, loving the smell of him – the musky scent of his arousal mixed with his expensive aftershave. She ran her tongue in circles over his collarbone, making him shudder and quicken his step.

  Using her teeth, she loosened a button on his shirt before dragging her fingers through his crisp chest hair, kissing each nipple and capturing one between her lips. Then she sucked. Hard.

  * * *

  The breath whooshed from Rafe's lungs at Sarika's onslaught - mouth, teeth, tongue, lips - and his legs suddenly felt hollow. He sat her on the desk and almost tore down her pants. No one else made him feel this way. Ever. He should turn around now and head for the nearest bedroom.

  Instead, he grasped for whatever control he had left and reached for the phone. "Hello?"

  "It's me," Santo said. "I have that--"

  "Is this about Ana Lisa?"

  "No, it's about—"

  "Hold on." Rafe cut his friend off for a second time and pressed the receiver to his shoulder. "She's fine, Princess. Nothing to worry about."

  Sarika sighed against his neck in relief, then kissed across to his other nipple, making his blood surge hot and hard. "Hang up," she ordered.

  He nodded, only too happy to oblige. Returning the phone to his ear, he said, "Whatever it is, it can wait."

  "No, listen..."

  He tried to, he really did, but her eager lips and hands scattered his thoughts. A predatory hunger rose, and he pushed her onto the desk, her breasts swaying in sweet temptation against the soft, white cotton of her shirt. Santo continued to talk into Rafe's ear, but the pulse beating frantically at Sarika's neck and the excited flush on her chest held his attention. He trailed his hand over her shirt and pushed the damp strands of hair out of the way.

  He was about to lean forward, push the scoop neck to the side, and capture one ripened nipple in his mouth, when something Santo said broke through. Rafe stilled his descent. "What was that?"

  "I said Lorenzo Berrucci arrived back in L.A. tonight. You asked me to check."

  Jealousy flamed through Rafe's body like fire through kindling. He tried to control the monstrous response, to tamp it down. So what if Berrucci was in California? He had business on the west coast and a home in Santa Barbara just like Rafe did. He probably had a lover waiting for him at the airport, too.

  And it wasn't Sarika – she'd sworn they weren't involved.

  "Where was he?" he asked gruffly.

  "New York. Something to do with the new hotel they're constructing."

  Doubt resurfaced as Rafe gazed at Sarika. She looked wanton – hair tangled around her shoulders, green eyes glittering, lids heavy with desire. He cupped her flushed cheek, the heat of it warming his hand as he ran his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. She sucked it into her mouth. She was pure sex, and while he might've initiated her into the art of lovemaking, he couldn't believe she'd given it up so easily when he'd walked away.

  He told himself it didn't matter, he'd only himself to blame for leaving, but the green-eyed monster burned. Dragging his hand roughly down her body, he squeezed between her legs in angry possession. She arched up against him and cried out his name. His name!

  "Damn it, Rafe, hang up," she said.

  He was about to do so and to hell with the consequences when Santo's voice stopped him. "There's more."

  Straightening, he pulled his hand away. Sarika glowered at him and sat up, tracing her fingers down his chest as she unbuttoned his shirt.

  He inhaled sharply, almost losing the thread of what Santo said – something about phone calls between Sarika's apartment in New York and Berrucci's home in Santa Barbara. Occasionally there were multiple calls in one day.

  The blood pounded in his ears as he slowly replaced the receiver.

  "About time," she groaned. As she sprinkled tiny kisses along his throat, she pulled his shirt free of his pants. He stopped her when she latched onto his belt.

  He was still aroused, achingly so, which sharpened his anger. "You lied to me."

  He stepped backward, but she pulled him close again, her brow creased, confusion clouding her eyes. His body quivered at her touch, shattering whatever control he had left and sending his temper into the stratosphere.

  He was no better than his father – crazed for a woman, chaos invading every inch of his mind and soul. "Aren't you going to say anything? Defend yourself? Tell me it's not true like you did before?"

  "I don't know what I'm defending myself against. Tell me what Santo said."

  "Why?
So you can tell me more lies? Use your body to blind me to the fact you're a cheat and a puttana?" He'd used the Italian word for whore. A word his mother had hurled many times at Rafe's father when talking about his lover.

  Sarika gasped, shock and hurt filling her gaze; she obviously knew what the word meant.

  "Am I at least allowed to know what I'm being accused of?"

  He turned back, his eyes raking her body. "Take a wild guess." Reaching past her, he picked up the drink he'd left sitting on the desk and downed it in one gulp.

  "It's Lorenzo, obviously. Look, Rafe, I don't know what you think you know—"

  "I don't think anything. I know. I know Berrucci came back to L.A. tonight. That's who you were running to earlier. I know you've been seeing him for the last ten months, if not longer. I know you lied to me about it."

  "You don't know anything! You just think you do. You want to believe all those hateful things you said to me because deep down you don't want to be with me."

  "If it's just a figment of my imagination then explain the phone calls. Explain the way you and Berrucci have been calling each other almost every day, and don't try telling me you're just 'friends' because a woman like you doesn't have male friends."

  * * *

  The breath caught in Sarika's throat. He'd been her friend. A long time ago when she was just a girl. "I used to."

  The tiny muscle twitched in his jaw, and she knew he understood her meaning. He opened his mouth to say something then closed it and pushed himself away from her. Moving to the window, he stared into the night.

  They stood in silence, tension and pain thick in the room. His spying irritated her, but she wasn't surprised. Santo would have accessed her credit cards and phone logs in his search for her.

  "Go on, then," he finally spoke. "Take the opportunity and clear the air – if you can."

  "No." A horrible feeling of defeat weighed her down. "I don't have to explain myself to you. I never did. Besides which, it wouldn't make a difference."

  He frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "You don't want to be with me, Rafe. If you did, you never would've walked away in the first place, you never would've kept our relationship a secret from Ana Lisa, and you wouldn't be standing there accusing me of things I haven't done. I don't know if it's something in me that turns you off, or if it's something in you, but I do know it's never going to change."