AS THE ROLLS-ROYCE drove from the private airport into the crowded and winding streets of Rome, Hallie’s head was twisting right and left. She knew she was gaping like a fish, but she didn’t care.
After five years in New York, she’d thought no city could easily impress her; yet she’d never seen anything so beautiful, so decadent, so ancient, as the Eternal City.
She looked out the window at a red sports car zipping by, at a young girl in a scarf clinging to a smiling boy on the back of a cherry-colored moped. Down the street, she saw a passionate young couple gesticulating angrily at each other in front of a sidewalk café, before the man swept the woman up into a hungry kiss.
Roma. Hallie felt the city like a thunderbolt. It was like, she thought, a huge, sexy party, with food, wine and dancing—all on top of an ancient tomb. The city itself seemed to cry out: Take every bit of joy today, for someday you will not be at the party, but below it.
“What do you think?” Cristiano looked at her over the baby’s seat in the back of the limo.
She shivered at the frank sensuality of his gaze. She could hardly believe that she was his wife. Cristiano was her husband. Good thing, too. What he’d done to her last night...
After their passionate interlude at the penthouse, they’d made good use of that bedroom on his private jet. Any time the baby slept, he drew her into his bed, into shockingly sensual delights so new she still shook at the memory.
He smiled, his eyes amused, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking about.
Blushing, she turned back toward her window, marveling as their Rolls-Royce sped down slender, crowded roads, following traffic laws she didn’t understand. They’d been met at the airport that morning by their new Italian driver, who was called Marco, and new bodyguard, Salvatore. She gaped as they drove past one incredible ancient monument and cathedral after another. Finally, they arrived at the Campania Hotel Rome, a magnificent Mediterranean-style edifice near the top of the Spanish Steps.
Tilting back her head, she gaped when she got out of the Rolls, staring up at the glamorous hotel. She held her breath as she turned to see the view. All of Rome was at their feet.
“Like it?” Cristiano murmured lazily.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Of course you have not.” He grinned, looking pleased. “Campania is the best luxury hotel brand in the world. And the Campania Roma is the best of them all.”
As Marco and Salvatore collected their bags, Hallie and Cristiano strolled hand in hand. Baby Jack, pushed by his father in the stroller, didn’t seem nearly as impressed by their surroundings. He chewed on the stuffed giraffe clipped to his shirt.
Hallie looked down at the letters imprinted on a manhole cover near the sidewalk. “What is SPQR?”
“It’s Latin. Senatus populusque Romanus—the Senate and People of Rome. You’ll see the emblem everywhere in the city.”
“Wow. This city is really old,” she said in awe, and flashed him a grin. “Almost as old as you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Am I old?”
She liked teasing him about the eleven-year difference between them. She countered, “You’re teaching me Latin now?”
His dark eyes simmered. “Let me take you to our room, cara. And I’ll teach you other things. All night long.”
Her cheeks burned as a smiling, dark-eyed doorman held open the hotel door. Pushing the stroller ahead of them, they walked into the soaring lobby.
Hallie sucked in her breath. The opulence was unbelievable. Gilded Corinthian columns stretched up toward the Murano glass chandeliers high above.
“I didn’t think it possible,” she breathed. “This place is even more amazing than your hotel in New York.”
He smiled at her. “Grazie.”
She turned to stare as a chic fortysomething woman passed by, dressed to the nines in six-inch heels and a velvet skirt suit so well crafted the jacket was like a corset, and perfect scarlet lips. At the woman’s side was a man in a well-cut suit who paused to let his eyes caress Hallie before he continued past. Hallie blinked in amazement, staring after them. “And the people...”
“What about them?”
“All the women look like movie stars. And the men like James Bond. Everyone dresses as if they’re about to meet the love of their lives. What is this place?”
Cristiano gave her a sudden wicked grin. “Roma.”
She shook her head in awe at a city where everyone, from teenagers to octogenarians, seemed to claim eternal sensuality as both a privilege and a duty. “You grew up here?”
“I lived here briefly.”
She knew so little about his past. “You were born in Rome?”
His gaze shuttered, as if he could sense her probing.
“Naples,” he said flatly. Clearly he wasn’t interested in saying anything more.
Mr. Moretti was a brawler, back when he was young. He fought his way out of the streets of Naples.
His driver’s words came back to her. Not for the first time, she wondered how a fatherless, penniless boy, neglected then orphaned by his mother, had made his fortune, turning himself into an international hotel tycoon.
“Look.” Cristiano pointed at the lobby ceiling. She gasped, tilting back her head to look up.
On the ceiling, gold-painted stars decorated a midnight sky. Across the lobby, she saw huge vases filled with red flowers beside marble fireplaces carved with cherubs. The enormous sweeping staircase had an actual red carpet.
She’d never seen anything so incredible, not even in a movie. She stopped, feeling she was in a dream. “It’s—it’s—”
“I know,” Cristiano replied. “The building was once a palazzo gone to ruin. I was only twenty-two when I convinced the contessa to sell it. It took two years to rebuild and restore it. I gambled everything I had—my reputation, my future. This place,” he said softly, looking around them, “was the making of me.”
His voice was deep with emotion. Hallie looked at him, her heart in her throat.
Coming back to himself, he smiled at her. “Come.”
As they walked through the hotel lobby, everyone beamed at Cristiano, and not only him.
Somehow, weirdly, everyone in the hotel seemed to already know Hallie. As if, simply by marrying Cristiano Moretti, she’d suddenly become a celebrity in her own right—famous, beautiful and adored. They all beamed at her.
“Buongiorno.”
“Buongiorno, signor e signora.”
“Benvenuto, Signora Moretti.”
After three different people of different ages greeted them, Hallie turned to Cristiano in bewilderment. “They know who I am?”
He gave her a crooked grin. “Of course they do. We were married yesterday. By now everyone in Rome knows you are my wife. You’re a celebrity here, cara.”
“Why would I be a celebrity?” Then, looking at his face, she gave him a sheepish grin. “You’re teasing me.”
“I don’t tease,” Cristiano said. Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips for a brief, hot kiss, then whispered, “At least not that way.”
She shivered until he released her hand.
“Be serious,” she pleaded. She saw several people in the lobby covertly lifting cameras to take her picture. Why? Was something wrong with her? She looked down at the simple outfit that Cristiano’s concierge had packed for her in New York. It was sleek and severe, less comfortable than her beloved sundresses: a black dress with a sweetheart neckline and black high heels.
Cristiano had assured her that the outfit would be appropriate in Rome. Now, her heart pounded at all the curious eyes staring at her. “Why is everyone looking at me?”
“Because many Italian women want to know your secret.”
“What secret?”
His dark eyes flickered. “Of how you hooked me into marriage.”
“Um, by letting you accidentally knock me up?”
With a snort, he said mildly, “In New York, I am not that unusual. There’s a Sicilian tycoon in my hotel who is a well-known playboy, in addition to being a cold bastard. Even Ares Kourakis, my best man at the wedding, was called uncatchable before he fell for some little waitress from the West last year. But here, in Rome and Naples, everywhere in southern Italy, I am famous.” He looked down at her, caressing her with his eyes. “And now, so are you.”
Butterflies skimmed through Hallie. As he led her to the extravagantly gilded elevator, and they rode it to the top floor, the butterflies only increased. Marco and Salvatore went ahead of them, carrying their luggage.
Cristiano stopped at the penthouse door with the stroller. “Welcome to our home.”
“Our home?”
He smiled. “For now.”
Following him inside, Hallie saw a large suite of rooms, all decorated as lavishly as the lobby. The baby’s blue-walled room was furnished with every luxury and comfort, with books and lavish toys. Next to that, she saw the enormous master bedroom, with a huge bed and walk-in closet.
Through sliding doors, she walked out onto a terrace. Purple flowers laced the edge of the railing and she felt the hot Italian sun beating down from the blue summer sky. Looking out, she gasped at the panoramic view, gaping in wonder at the old buildings, domed churches and Roman temples spread out across the seven hills.
Coming from behind, Cristiano wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest, nuzzling her neck.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, and turned around in his arms, feeling she was in a dream.
He smiled. “You’re beautiful, cara mia,” he said huskily, lowering his head to hers. “And now that you’re my wife, I intend to give you the world...”
* * *
For the next two weeks, whenever Cristiano wasn’t working, checking every detail of this hotel—which had prepared strenuously for his inspection—he took Hallie and the baby to explore the city.
First, he insisted on taking Hallie shopping. With the new burly bodyguard at their side, they visited all the grand shopping streets of Rome, starting with the expensive boutiques near the Spanish Steps.
“More shopping?” she’d protested in dismay. “Is that really necessary?”
“One must be conscious of la bella figura in Rome. Even more than in New York. And it will help you relax, knowing you fit in.”
“How would you know?” she grumbled. “You fit in everywhere.”
Looking at her, he said quietly, “I came to Rome as a young Napolitano. I changed my clothes and changed my fate.”
Hallie waited breathlessly for him to continue, to tell her more of his hard childhood and how he’d made his fortune. But he did not.
Sighing, she gave in, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Take me shopping.”
She was relieved when the clothes were purchased and they could do what she really wanted—explore the city. They bought Jack a wooden sword and shield at the Colosseum and laughingly tossed coins in the Trevi Fountain. They drove past an enormous white-columned building that looked like a wedding cake, and the endless Roman ruins scattered around the city as casually as food carts in New York.
In the evenings, they had room service sent up to their penthouse for dinner, but once Cristiano took them out, to a simple outdoor trattoria with a private courtyard near the Piazza Navona. As the sun set, with flowers everywhere and fountains burbling, Hallie wistfully watched musicians sing and play guitar, remembering her old dream of a singing career. Cristiano had observed her, then had a quiet word with the trattoria’s owner.
A moment later, the musicians spoke into the microphone and invited Hallie to come up on stage and sing. Embarrassed, she’d tried to refuse until Cristiano had said, “Please, do it for me.”
Staring at his handsome face, she couldn’t deny anything he asked of her. She’d gone up on stage and sung an old Appalachian folk song a capella.
Applause rang in her ears as she returned to their table. As she passed by, an American man claiming to be a record executive even gave her his card. Laughing, she showed it to Cristiano when she sat back down at the table.
“I told him thanks, but no thanks. My days of trying to get singing gigs are over.”
“Are you sure?”
Remembering all the painful years of rejection, she nodded fervently.
“Good,” he said huskily. “You’ll sing only for me.”
For the rest of the evening, Hallie ate pasta and drank wine and watched her new husband learn to be comfortable holding their baby. Seeing Jack tucked gently and tenderly in Cristiano’s arms, she felt a rush of happiness, like everything was right with the world.
But once they left the trattoria’s private courtyard, Salvatore had to hold back the rush of onlookers and paparazzi eager to take pictures of their family. It made her scared to go out on the street with the baby.
Each night, she sang lullabies to Jack, the same lullabies her mother had once sung to her, passed down from her grandmother and great-grandmother before. That night, when her baby finally slept, with his plump arms over his head, she turned and saw Cristiano silhouetted in the doorway, his face in shadow.
“Those songs you sing,” he said in a low voice. “They break my heart.”
Drawing her out of the nursery, he kissed her and pulled her to their bed. Then he made her heart break, too, with the purest happiness she’d ever known.
However, after living in a hotel for two weeks, she’d started to feel trapped, unable to leave the penthouse without Cristiano and the bodyguard.
One afternoon while he was working, Hallie took her baby out onto the penthouse terrace to enjoy the warm summer sun. Watering the purple flowers that decorated the terrace railing, she tried to pretend she was back in West Virginia, in their old garden. Her mother had loved to spend hours taking care of their plants. As she watered the flowers, she would sing.
“Why did you never leave, Mama?” Hallie had asked her once in the garden, the year before she’d died. Hallie had just graduated from high school, and what the world was telling her she should want and what she actually wanted seemed to be two different things. “Why did you never go to New York and become a famous singer?”
“Oh, my dear.” Turning to Hallie, her mother had caressed her cheek tenderly. “I did think of it once. Then I met your father and traded that dream for a better one.”
“What?”
“Our family.” Her mother’s eyes had glowed with love. “Your whole life is ahead of you, Hallie. I know whatever you decide to do, you’ll make us proud.”
And so, after she’d lost everything—her mother and father and brother and home—Hallie had taken her father’s meager life insurance and gone to New York. To try to make her family proud.
“Hallie?”
Lost in thought, standing on the terrace watering the flowers, Hallie jumped when she heard Cristiano’s voice behind her.
Turning, she saw him, devastatingly handsome as always in a sleek suit. He wasn’t alone. Behind Cristiano was an older woman, plump, white-haired and simply but perfectly dressed.
“Cara, I have someone I’d like you to meet.” He looked over Hallie’s tank top and capri pants as she stood holding a glass pitcher from the kitchen. “Are you watering the flowers?”
She could hardly deny it, since he’d caught her red-handed. “Um, yes?”
“You must not. We have hotel staff who are paid very well to do it and who are supporting families. You would not wish them to be out of a job?”
“I suppose not,” she said, crestfallen. With a sigh, she set down the glass pitcher on a nearby table. “I can’t wait until we have a house of our own.”
He frowned. “A house?”
“When we go back to New York.”
“I thought you liked Rome.”
“I do, but...” She thought of her friends with a pang. “Tess sent me a text that Lola had her baby yesterday. I miss my friends. I’m looking forward to when we can settle down and have a proper home.”
A strange expression crossed Cristiano’s face. “Well, we’ll talk about that later.” Clearing his throat, he motioned to the white-haired woman behind him. “I’d like you to meet Agata Manganiello. She lives in Rome and used to work for me. She was my first secretary, long ago.”
“Hello...um...buongiorno,” Hallie said.
Smiling shyly, the woman said in careful English, “Hello, Mrs. Moretti. I am pleased to meet you.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Hallie said, then turned inquisitively to Cristiano.
“I have known Agata for almost fifteen years,” he said. “She is careful, responsible. She’s very good with children.”
“I raised six of my own,” Agata said proudly, “while working for Cristiano.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I think caring for you was harder than the other six put together.”
Cristiano gave a good-natured laugh. “You were a miracle worker,” he said affectionately.
Hallie looked at him in amazement. He sounded so relaxed. And the Italian woman had called Cristiano by his first name. She’d never heard any of his other employees do that, not even Mr. Loggia, the manager.
Cristiano was treating this woman like...family.
“You’re thinking of hiring her to watch Jack,” Hallie said slowly. “Aren’t you?”
His gaze met hers. “I’d like you to consider it.”
“But I don’t want a nanny.”
“Not a nanny. A babysitter. Occasionally, I’d like to take you to dinner, just the two of us. And once my new hotel opens on the Amalfi Coast, there will be a grand ball to celebrate. We will sometimes need help. And I’d trust Agata with my life.”
He waited, watching her. Biting her lip, Hallie considered. It felt very different from when he’d tried to force that last awful nanny on her by surprise.
Reluctantly she turned to the older woman. “You raised six children?”
Agata nodded. “And now I have five grandchildren.”
She has kind eyes, Hallie thought. Cristiano said he trusted her with his life.
Slowly she asked, “Would you like to hold Jack?”
The woman smiled. “Sì, naturalmente.”
Picking up the baby from the thick quilt on the terrace, Hallie placed him in the woman’s capable arms and waited for him to fuss. He simply gurgled happily, reaching a flailing arm toward Agata’s nose.
“I was thinking Agata and the baby could get to know each other this afternoon,” Cristiano said. “If it goes well, I’ll take you out to dinner tonight. Just the two of us.”
Hallie opened her mouth to argue. Then she heard Agata crooning some Italian song as she snuggled Jack in her plump arms, to the baby’s delight. She looked at them. Jack seemed happy and content.
“I’ll think about it,” she said grudgingly.
“Va bene.” Cristiano kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I will be back in a few hours to spend time with Jack, then you and I will have dinner. As per your rules. Speaking of which—” he angled his head “—I’ve been thinking about making some new rules of my own.”
She frowned. “What rules?”
His smile transformed into a grin. “Wait and see.”
Hallie watched the Italian grandmother carefully that afternoon, telling herself she’d send Agata away the instant Jack seemed unhappy. But the baby seemed to love her, and Agata was easy to have in the penthouse, kindly and unobtrusive. It was almost, Hallie realized, like having...no, not her mother, but some kindly great-aunt come to watch the baby. Maybe it was the fact that Cristiano—who didn’t trust anyone—seemed to trust her, for it made Hallie trust her, too.
Later that evening, with the baby safely fed and sleeping in his crib, she left capable Agata in charge and went out on a dinner date with her husband for the first time.
Hallie dressed carefully in a new, sexy black dress with a bare back that he’d bought her. Trying to match the drama of the dress, she pulled her long, dark hair into a high ponytail that hung down over her naked back. Going to the internet for makeup tips, she lined her eyes with black kohl and mascara to make them smoky and dramatic, then put on scarlet lipstick.
As she came out of the bedroom, she was nervous that Cristiano wouldn’t like her new look.
But, when he saw her, his jaw dropped.
“You make me want to stay home,” he growled, coming closer. In his own well-cut black button-down shirt and trousers, his dark hair rumpled and sexy, he looked amazing to her, as always.
“Please, take me out,” she whispered.
“As you wish.” Catching her hand in his own, he lifted it to his lips. His breath against her skin made her shiver all over. “I’ll take you out.” He gave her a sensual smile. “Then I’ll take you in.”
He never let go of her hand as they descended the elevator into the lobby. Past the crowds, she saw a bright red Ferrari waiting for them in front of the hotel.
“What about Salvatore?” she asked, looking at the two-seater car.
“I want to be alone with you tonight,” he said, opening her door.
As Cristiano drove her through the streets in the fast sports car, she looked out her window at the sensuality of Rome at night. So mysterious and dangerous, the city seemed to whisper two words: sex and death. She felt his hot gaze on her. Then he punched down hard on the gas, racing over the hills of the city.
Eventually he parked in front of a nineteenth-century brick building tucked back on a quiet street. There was no sign it was a restaurant except for two valets standing mysteriously in front.
“What’s this?” she asked as he helped her out of the car.
Cristiano smiled. “It’s by invitation only.”
Once inside, a maître d’ escorted them through the building and out into a lush garden courtyard. Scattered at ten small tables, she saw people she recognized—famous performers, politicians and athletes. Her eyes widened as they walked past someone that Hallie knew had millions of social-media followers.
“What is this place?” Hallie whispered to Cristiano. His hand tightened on her arm as other patrons turned to look at them with similar interest.
“A Michelin-starred chef runs the restaurant as a hobby. He invites only friends, or friends of friends.”
She looked at the ruined walls on the other side of the courtyard. They looked ancient. “How old are those?”
Cristiano glanced casually at the ruins. “Fifth century, I’d imagine.”
They were escorted to the best table, beside an old stone fountain. She looked up. The only ceiling was the dark velvet of the Italian sky, twinkling with stars. Fairy lights were strewn against the rough, ruined walls, illuminating red flowers and greenery proliferating amid the cracks.
“Incredible,” she breathed.
Cristiano reached for her hand over the table. His gaze was hungry. “You’re incredible.”
After fully enjoying each other every night over the last two weeks, she felt deliciously sore all over. And aware. So aware. Just his hand on hers made her body tighten and shiver. When the tattooed waiter spoke to Cristiano in Italian, she thought again how easy it would be to love her husband.
But she couldn’t. It would be a horrible mistake. Because he would never love her back, and, eventually, that would make her love turn to hate.
Their meal started with a cocktail, the ubiquitous Aperol spritz, a light bubbly drink blending Prosecco, soda water and orange liqueur over ice and orange slices, but with an added twist of rosemary. Sipping the drink, Hallie felt the other celebrities staring at them. She glanced down at herself self-consciously. She whispered, “What’s wrong with me?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Why would they—” she waved her arm toward the powerful, fascinating people at the other tables “—stare at me?” She bit her lip. “It’s my makeup, isn’t it? The bare back of my dress? I look weird, don’t I?”
He leaned forward. “You are,” he said huskily, “the sexiest woman in Rome.”
She felt the weight of that compliment and saw, from the expression in his eyes, that he meant every word.
As their eyes locked, a pulse of heat rushed through her. Turning away, she took a sip of the light, bubbly cocktail to try to cool down. She cleared her throat. “But there are so many beautiful people here. Famous people. Why would they bother looking at me?”
“You’re famous now, too. And unlike all of them—” he dismissed his fellow patrons with a glance “—no one knows anything about you.”
Hallie gave an incredulous snort. “I’m just a regular girl from rural West Virginia.”
Wordlessly Cristiano drew his phone from his pocket. Pressing a few buttons, he handed it to her.
Hallie stared down at the screen in amazement.
“See? You’re a star,” he said softly.
Looking at his phone, she realized it was true. Pictures and stories about her had exploded all over the internet. She was on news websites. Celebrity gossip pages. Someone had started a fashion blog in Italian, with a photo of her every time she’d come out of the hotel over the past two weeks, with a listing of each day’s clothes, who’d designed them and where to buy them. There was even a page devoted to Jack’s clothes. Her baby had somehow become a fashion icon.
It was jarring to see pictures of herself, taken without her knowledge, and pictures of her baby, too, all now online for the world to see.
She sucked in her breath when she saw a video of herself singing at the trattoria, posted on YouTube a few days before. It had already gotten over a hundred thousand hits. A hundred thousand.
Her mind boggled.
But not all the attention was positive. Some of the posts were downright mean. Strangers were calling her a gold-digger. And, apparently, Hallie’s family tragedy made excellent news fodder. Many news stories breathlessly reported that Hallie was a failed folk singer from a poor Appalachian family who’d all died tragically in a flash flood, but then she’d gotten pregnant and was now married to an Italian billionaire, so wasn’t she the luckiest girl in the world?
The words and pictures swam before Hallie’s eyes. Her stomach clenched. Abruptly she gave him back his phone.
“You see why,” he said quietly, “I want you always to take Salvatore with you when you’re out on the street.”
Hallie shivered. As a girl, she’d wistfully dreamed of growing up to be somehow special. Hadn’t she even gone to New York hoping to become a star?
Now she found that being the center of attention just made her uncomfortable. Feeling the warm night breeze against the bare skin of her back, she tried to smile. “You didn’t bring Salvatore with us tonight.”
“This restaurant is exclusive. The patrons are mostly famous themselves.” His eyebrow lifted. “Besides, I can protect you.”
Remembering the night he’d forced her landlord to return her precious possessions, Hallie could well believe it. Biting her lip, she ventured, “Matthews said that you were a street fighter in Naples when you were young.”
His expression closed up. “That is one way of saying it. I had no money. So I fought.”
“And now you are a billionaire, with the most luxurious hotel chain in the world.”
“So?”
“How did it happen? How did you build your fortune?”
Cristiano stared at her, his handsome face shadowed against the soft lighting of the garden.
“I was lucky,” he said flatly. “I met a man who owned a small hotel chain in southern Italy. I convinced him to hire me and teach me everything he knew. Then I betrayed him.”
Shocked, Hallie stared at him. With a cold smile, he took a sip of his drink, then looked up as the waiter arrived and, in both Italian and English, listed the five choices on the evening’s menu.
Cristiano ordered the veal, Hallie the spaghetti alla vongole—pasta with clams in a light wine sauce. She added, “And could I get that with lots of Parmesan cheese, please?”
Both Cristiano and the waiter stared at her with identical horrified expressions.
“Clams...seafood...these you should not eat with cheese,” the waiter said patiently, as if explaining to a toddler she shouldn’t run into traffic.
Hallie smiled, but held her ground. “I still like them.”
“But it is not done!” The waiter looked at Cristiano for support, but he just shrugged, as if to say, Americans, what can you do?
When the pasta arrived, Hallie covered it with Parmesan and thought it was delicious. She washed it all down with a glass of red wine, causing another shocked gasp from the waiter, at the thought that she’d drink red wine with seafood, not white. Hallie decided that maybe she enjoyed shocking people, because she didn’t care.
As the evening lengthened, a pleasurable sensation seeped into her bones. Maybe it was the delicious dinner or the sensual wind against her bare skin. Maybe it was the fragrance of the flowers or sitting with Cristiano amid a fifth-century ruin beneath the starry sky. But she felt strangely like she was in a dream.
“When are we going back to New York?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.” Cristiano watched her. “After I’m done in Rome, I’ll need to go to the Amalfi Coast for a few weeks to oversee the finishing touches on the new hotel opening in Cavello. The grand opening gala is next month.”
She brightened. “I’ve always wanted to see the Amalfi Coast.”
“You and the baby will remain in Rome. I’ll commute via helicopter.”
“What? Why?” she said, dismayed. More weeks spent cooped up in the penthouse, afraid to go out alone on the streets of Rome didn’t sound appealing. A prison was a prison, no matter how luxurious. “That’s not what the rules say. What about our family time?”
“Rules are made to be broken.”
“Not my rules. You gave your word.”
He ground his teeth. “I cannot bring you with me. The Campania Cavello isn’t yet ready for guests, and I can hardly let it be known that Cristiano Moretti’s bride is staying in a rival’s hotel.”
“That would be bad,” she agreed. She looked down at her empty plate. “Still, you must find a way,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t want to be separated from you.”
“You won’t be.” His leg brushed hers beneath the table, and she looked up. The air between them changed.
Sitting across from Cristiano in the sexy black dress, defying the tattooed Italian waiter and even her own husband to enjoy her meal exactly as she pleased, Hallie realized she wasn’t the same shy girl she’d once been. She felt stronger. Braver.
Becoming Cristiano’s wife, living in Rome, wearing this sexy dress, with dark eyeliner and bright red lips, she felt bolder somehow. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt powerful. Like his equal.
Maybe that was what gave her the courage.
“I need to know when we can go back to New York and buy our own house.”
Taking a bite of veal, he frowned at her. “We have twenty-two houses.”
She blinked, taken aback. “You mean your hotels?”
“Yes.” He swirled his wineglass. “The hotels. All of them fully staffed in the most beautiful locations. The perfect way to live. We never need to settle. We’ll never get bored. And I can run my company and build my empire.”
“Your hotels are amazing, but...” How could she say it? “They’re not home.”
“A home, a home,” he repeated irritably. “I’m tired of hearing you ask about it.”
She looked at him in surprise. “I’ve barely mentioned it.”
“For days now, all the lullabies you sing to Jack have been about finding home and losing home and longing for home.”
She drew back, genuinely surprised. “Really?”
He scowled. “Plaintive, heartbreaking folk songs. Are you trying to wear me down?”
“I didn’t realize...”
“From now on, sing happy songs to our baby,” he ordered.
“Okay,” she said, biting her lip. The songs she knew were mostly old Scottish-Irish ballads, a repertoire that didn’t exactly specialize in “happy” songs. “Um... I’ll try to think of some.”
“And we don’t need to buy a house. You should be happy living all over the world in penthouse suites with spectacular views, waited on hand and foot by staff. That should be enough.”
She paused.
“It’s...nice,” she said carefully. “For a honeymoon. But we need a permanent place of our own. Maybe with a garden.”
“A garden? In Manhattan?”
“They exist,” she said defensively. “I worked once at this amazing house on Bank Street. There was a garden tucked in back.”
“By garden, do you mean a few pots on a stoop?”
“A real garden,” she said indignantly. “My employers let me go because the owners lived overseas and were never there. They were going to put it up for sale.”
“We would never be there, either,” he said. “My work requires constant travel, and I want you with me.”
“But soon Jack will go to school...”
“Truly you think our son is a prodigy if he needs to go to school when he has not yet learned to roll over.”
Defiantly Hallie lifted her chin. “You talk about building an empire. I want to build a family.” She hesitated. “I’d prefer New York, but I can compromise. If you want to live in Italy, I can make it work. I’ll learn Italian and try to make friends—”
“We’re not staying. After the new hotel is launched in Cavello, we’ll spend a few weeks in Tokyo, then Seoul, Sydney and Mumbai.”
“All those places,” she said faintly. Beautiful places she’d only imagined. Normally she would have been thrilled at the thought of seeing them with her own eyes. But tonight, she thought longingly of her friends. Lola’s baby, now one day old. “After that, we’ll go back to New York?”
“Briefly. Then Paris, London and Berlin.” He paused. “I have twenty-two hotels, and they all need my attention.”
Her heart sank. Circling the world, she would barely see her friends. And forget about a garden. Her eyes fell forlornly to her plate. “Oh.”
Cristiano scowled at her. “Surely you’re not complaining about traveling around the world in a private jet, staying in luxury hotels.”
But a life of luxury had never been Hallie’s dream. Licking her lips, she said, “I’m sure all those places are amazing, but...”
“But?”
“How can we ever have a home if we never stay in one place for long?” Her voice was small. “How will I make friends? How will Jack?”
“Learn all the languages, as I have. Be a citizen of the world.”
“A citizen of nowhere.”
“Everywhere,” he corrected coldly.
Angry tears lifted to Hallie’s eyes, though she didn’t want to fight, not on their first baby-free date. She tried to keep her voice calm.
“Traveling is fine, but eventually we need to stop and have a home!”
“What you call home I would describe as a prison. I’m not buying you a house, Hallie. It would be a waste of money.”
The warm summer night suddenly felt cold.
“So you’ll waste money on everything but the one thing I actually care about?” Folding her arms, she turned away stonily. By now, as the night grew late, many of the tables had emptied.
“Hallie.” His voice changed, turned gentle. “Look at me.”
Grudgingly she did and saw his dark eyes were tender.
“Tell me why a house means so much to you,” he said. “Because I truly do not understand.”
Hallie took a deep breath.
“The house I grew up in was built by my great-grandfather. By his own two hands.” She tried to smile. “The songs I sing to Jack, the songs you love so much, they were the ones my mother once sang to me. My family lived for generations on the same mountain. I had close friends. A place in the world.”
“If you loved it so much,” he said quietly, “why did you leave?”
With an intake of breath, she looked away as a rush of pain filled her heart. Even after five years, grief often still caught her like this when she wasn’t looking. “Everything was suddenly gone. My family. My home. I couldn’t stay. I felt lost.” Her hands twisted together in her lap. “My parents always said I should be a singer. Even my brother said it. So I tried. For five years.”
“That’s a long time.”
She gave a choked laugh. “So many people try to break in as singers in New York. All so talented, better than I’ll ever be.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“The harder I tried to succeed, the worse I felt.” Looking down, she said softly, “And it didn’t bring them back.”
Silence fell across their table. She heard the clank of silver against china from a few remaining patrons and the distant sound of traffic and birds crying in the night.
“So why,” Cristiano said slowly, “would you ever choose to leave yourself vulnerable to such pain? After losing so much, I’d think you’d never want a home again.”
Hallie looked at him. “Is that why you live in hotels?” she said softly. “Never stopping. Never staying.”
Cristiano’s eyes widened slightly. Then he drew back, his jaw tightening. Rising to his feet, he held out his hand. “Come. The night is growing cold.”
* * *
It was quiet in the sports car as he drove them back through the city after midnight.
How did you build your fortune?
I was lucky. I met a man who owned a small hotel chain in southern Italy. I convinced him to hire me and teach me everything he knew. Then I betrayed him.
Hallie looked at him sideways, wishing she had the courage to ask him who the man was and why Cristiano had betrayed him. She stayed silent.
Before their wedding, she’d convinced herself he was a good man, deep down. But now that they were married she was starting to see a darkness inside Cristiano she’d never glimpsed before.
She was suddenly afraid of learning things about him she didn’t want to know.
When they arrived back at the hotel, they found Jack sleeping in his crib and Agata snoozing nearby on the sofa, her knitting folded neatly in her lap. After they’d thanked her and she’d left for the night, Hallie and Cristiano tiptoed into the darkened nursery. For a moment, they just stood together looking at their slumbering child.
Then Cristiano took her hand. Wordlessly he led her to their bedroom, and even though a corner of her heart was still angry, she could no more resist him than stop breathing.
Once in their bedroom, he pulled her against him. In the slanted moonlight coming through the blinds, his eyes burned through her. So did his fingertips, lightly stroking down the top of her sexy black dress, the bare skin of her back.
“I have followed all your rules, have I not?” he said in a low voice.
Confused, Hallie nodded.
“I’ve shared a meal with you both every day? Learned how to care for our son? Loved him?”
“You know you have.”
“Now it is time for you to learn some lessons, also.” Pulling her close, Cristiano nuzzled her throat, kissing the sensitive hollow at her shoulder before suckling the tender flesh of her earlobe. She shivered beneath his touch. Her heart was pounding.
“L-lessons?”
He stroked his hand along her cheek, rubbing his thumb against her lower lip. “How to truly please me.”
Hallie’s eyes went wide. “Have I not pleased you?”
He placed a single finger against her lips.
“You have, cara,” he said huskily. “But I want more. Not for me. For you.”
“There’s more?” she whispered.
He smiled. “Even after two weeks of marriage, you are still so innocent.” His hungry eyes met hers. “I will teach you how to know what you want and how to get it. I will teach you,” he whispered, cupping her cheek, “how to experience a different level of pleasure entirely.”
He kissed her, leaving her breathless and clinging to him. Reaching back, he pulled out the elastic of her ponytail, and her dark hair tumbled down her bare back. Roughly he yanked down her black sleeveless cocktail dress, dropping it to the floor. She stood shyly before him in only her tiny black lace panties, her naked breasts heavy and full.
With a low growl, he pushed her back against the window. Behind them was a vision of Rome, the sweep of cathedrals and Roman ruins spread across the hills, illuminating the darkness at their feet.
“The first rule is,” he said in a low voice, “don’t hold back.”
He pushed his knee between her bare legs, gripping her wrists against the window as he kissed down her throat. She gasped with pleasure.
This is wrong, she thought, so wrong. Anyone could look up and see them through the window. She should put a stop to this. Be modest. Be...
Sensual kisses caused swirls of pleasure to cascade down her body. She wanted more. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to feel him.
The first rule is don’t hold back.
Yanking her wrists from his grasp, she folded her arms around his shoulders, drawing him against her. She kissed him back hungrily, matching his fire. But unlike her, Cristiano was still fully clothed. It didn’t seem fair.
Grabbing the top of his shirt, she ripped it down the front, scattering buttons against the floor. She sighed in pleasure as her hands roamed the warm satin of his skin over the hard muscle of his chest, laced with dark hair. She squeezed his nipples and luxuriated in the sound of his gasp, followed by a low masculine growl.
He wrapped his hands over the back of her black lace panties, which had cost three hundred euros at a very nice lingerie shop on the Via Condotti. As she felt his hand move forward between her legs, she was wet and aching. Pulling him closer, she kissed him hard.
With a growl, he ripped off the black panties, leaving them a pile of crumpled lace on the floor.
“Please,” she whispered. Amazed at her own boldness, she reached down to unzip his black trousers.
He gave a jagged intake of breath. With a single motion, he pushed down his silk boxer briefs. Using both hands, he lifted her backside, pushing her up against the window, as her legs wrapped around his hips.
Then he pushed inside her with a single, deep thrust.
Feeling him so thick and hard inside her, she moaned, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the glass. Her hair tumbled around them as she gripped his shoulders. As he moved, she didn’t care anymore who might be watching. She didn’t even pause to wonder if the window could break. She knew only she couldn’t let him stop.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he pumped inside her, hard and fast. Her full breasts pushed against his hard muscles, the hair of his chest rubbing against her sensitive nipples. She gasped with pleasure as, with each thrust, he filled her more deeply. Her legs tightened around his hips as she built higher and higher until, with a gasp, he exploded into her the moment she screamed his name.
Screamed quietly, of course, so as not to wake the baby. Even lost and frantic with abandon, though she might have been willing to risk shattering the window to fall to her death on the streets of Rome, she wasn’t going to risk waking their sleeping infant. She was wanton, she was bold. But she wasn’t insane.
For long moments afterward, sweaty and panting for breath, they held each other, collapsing against the enormous bed, their naked bodies intertwined.
“All right,” Cristiano said in a low voice.
“What?” she said sleepily, lifting her head from his shoulder.
His expression was blank, his handsome features half-hidden in shadow. “I’ll buy you a house.”
Joy filled her heart. “You will?”
“But you must let me choose where.”
“I don’t even care where,” she lied, pushing away her longing for her friends in New York. What difference did the location make? As long as their family had their own place with a garden, and they could live in one place long enough to make friends and really settle in, what did she care?
“You won’t be sorry,” she said tearfully. “We’ll be so happy. You’ll see. You won’t regret it.”
Cristiano looked at her, his eyes glittering in the shadows. “I regret it already.”