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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GEORGIA PULLED HER STILL-DAMP HAIR over one shoulder as she stepped from the car. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said, focusing beyond Dante, her heart racing for a thousand reasons now. The sun was low in the sky, the late afternoon light a thing of immense beauty, but on top of that, she couldn’t flush the image of Dante from her mind, as he’d been on the shores of the Lake. He hadn’t swum with her—Georgia had been determined to go into the water despite the temperature not being as delightful as it might be in summer—but he’d taken his shirt off and sat on the shallow steps near the shoreline, watching her, and she’d found it impossible not to watch him. He was so bronzed and muscular, so perfectly sculpted, that just a glimpse of him had made her pulse throb and her body ache with need. It tormented her, even in the salty waters of Lake Como, so her whole body had felt flush with warmth despite the cool water surrounding her.
When she emerged from the water wearing the only pair of bathers she’d brought with her—a black bikini—his eyes seemed to bore into her, slowly tracing her entire body, from her feet, to her slender legs, to her more generous bottom and neatly rounded belly, to breasts that were only just contained by the lycra of her costume.
Her awareness of him was beyond anything she could have imagined, and it was amplified by the way he looked at her. Georgia’s mouth had gone dry and her knees had knocked together, and from that moment on, the pleasure of the day had been overtaken by an all-consuming desperation. To touch, to feel, to be close to.
And why shouldn’t she?
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to reach out and grab him, to kiss him, like she’d kissed him before. But that had been different. The first time had been like the breaking of a storm, desire had overtaken them both and they’d given into it, but it had been easier then. There were no strings; walking away had been easy. The second time, they’d been angry, and white hot need had made it impossible to resist.
But now? Now she didn’t hate him. She wasn’t angry with him. And there were a thousand strings wrapped around them. So what would it mean if she gave into temptation, stood onto her tiptoes and sought his lips with hers? Nothing? Something? Everything?
So she didn’t look at him as she walked away from the car. She didn’t dare. One glance and she feared she might burst into flames.
“Georgia?”
She stopped walking but didn’t turn around.
“Are you okay?” Was she imaging a richness to his voice? A husky tone that threatened to reach right inside of her and undo all her good intentions?
“Yeah, fine.” Her own voice was brittle. She forced a smile even though he couldn’t see her. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
Okay? No. He wasn’t okay. He felt as though he’d been struck by lightning. From the moment he looked at her on the boat and thought of her as his, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her as his. When they’d eaten lunch and the waiter had flirted with her, encouraging Georgia to practice her Italian on him, Dante had wanted to punch the guy in the face—and he was not, and never had been, someone who resorted to violence. When she suggested a swim, he’d almost groaned, because he hadn’t realized she’d been wearing bathers beneath her dress, but like some vixen from a fantasy, she’d slowly stripped out of the dress, running her hands over her stomach out of habit, as if to connect with the little baby growing inside her, day by day. And he had only been able to stare at her as she’d strolled towards the shoreline, letting the water lick her toes and then inch its way up her legs, so Dante had wished he was the water, his touch the caress that the Lake was giving her in his stead. He’d had to sit on the steps because if he’d stood, evidence of his desire for her would have been apparent for anyone to see. Varenna was a family friendly place, and his thoughts most definitely weren’t.
He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her as she’d swum like a siren, dipping beneath the surface despite the cool temperatures, emerging eventually, covered in water droplets he longed to slowly lick from her body. They’d barely spoken since. The easy atmosphere they’d discovered over lunch had evaporated like the remnants of Lake Como from her skin. He hadn’t known what to say. He’d half-worried that if he opened his mouth to start a conversation, he’d just proposition her instead.
So he’d brought them back to his private pontoon, and driven them home, tight-lipped, fingers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles showed white.
He needed to cool down. To get her out of his head once and for all. He needed…a swim, he thought, moving with relief into the house and taking the stairs two at a time, until he’d reached the roof. He hadn’t come up here at all when he’d first bought the property. The roof had been designed for pleasure and Dante hadn’t wanted to enjoy anything in his life, let alone the spectacular views from here. But over time, he’d allowed himself at least to spend time here, then one night in winter, he used the hot tub, and the next summer, the pool and even the outdoor kitchen.
He dove into the pool and swum hard and fast, trying to get rid of his excess energy and the electrifying sense of need coursing through his veins, but if anything, the water exacerbated his situation. It had always been a little like a sensory deprivation chamber, and with each stroke he took through the water, he saw Georgia’s face and body and smile and felt an enormous sense of frustration in not being able to control this. What the hell was wrong with him?
For five years, he’d avoided women and entanglements and now he just couldn’t get her out of his head.
He stopped swimming at the edge of the pool and braced his arms on the side, staring out over Lake Como as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, robbing it of blue and replacing it with streaks of peach and purple.
He could have stayed longer but he was hiding and Dante wasn’t a man to indulge in such stupid, childish games. He pulled out of the pool, his powerful body making it an easy feat, and strode to the cabinet in which towels were stored, removing one and wrapping it around his neck.
Now, if he could just make it to his room without seeing Georgia, he’d consider the situation had been salvaged.
What had Georgia called it? Fate? Well, if fate had a hand in any of this, it apparently had decided not to smile on Dante’s plan to get to the solitude of his bedroom without incident. No sooner had his foot pressed into the landing on the level his bedroom was on, did Georgia emerge from her bedroom, wearing only an over-sized t-shirt. It was more of a nightgown, by virtue of the size, but it reminded him so forcefully of how she’d looked that morning in his clothes, so big he’d wanted to bunch his hands into them and undress her, feeling her flesh beneath the cotton. And then, he noticed the way her cheeks were flaming pink, and realized the source of her embarrassment.
“It’s yours,” she blurted out. “I hope you don’t mind that I kept it. At first I just didn’t know how to return it, and now, most of my clothes aren’t comfortable enough to sleep in.” She sucked in a breath, grimacing. “I really need to go shopping for maternity clothes at some point.”
“Mind?” He repeated, and to hell with good intentions. If she could blame fate, then so could he. Fate had put her in his path, looking so delicious. Fate had brought her here, had made him want her, and to hell with it, he did want her.
“That I kept your shirt,” she prompted, as though he had misunderstood.
“Georgia, if I had my way, that’s all you’d wear from here on out.”
She expelled a soft breath, her eyes lifting to his, warm with desire, reflecting everything he wanted back at him.
“If I get much bigger, it’s all I’ll be able to wear,” she said softly, without looking away from him.
“You are beautiful,” he said, simply, hoping she understood the truth of that statement. “Utterly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.”
“Don’t,” she whispered, eyes widening, lips parting.
