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“Yes?”
“Well,” she bit down on her lip then laughed softly. “Just a bit of…you know. Just into the good things in life. Lazy. Indulged. Superficial.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, as though wounded. “And yet you slept with me.”
“For all those reasons,” she said on another soft giggle. “I thought you’d be the perfect, hot distraction I needed. And you were. You are. But you’re…so much more than that, Marco. I’m sorry I was so wrong about you.”
“Why should you apologise? You had seen only those sides of me. Naturally you drew those conclusions. Just as I presumed you were cold and prim because I had only ever seen you acting in a very professional sense. And I was also very, very wrong.” He reached across, caught her hand, brought it to his lips, so the fire that arced between them served to thaw some of the ice his words had spread through her veins.
He was thawing all parts of her, in fact. All the parts that Jack’s betrayal had frozen, all the hurts she’d known and lived with were being gradually eased because of Marco. She’d always be grateful to him for that.
Nine
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Marco woke Portia with an expression on his face that could best be described as exuberant. “Come with me.”
She blinked at him blearily. “What time is it?”
“Five thirty.”
“Ugh.” She fell back against the pillows. “What kind of sadist are you?” After all, they’d returned from dinner after midnight, and made love for…hours, she remembered with heat stirring through her body. Pleasures she’d never known could be felt had been lavished upon her, by his hands, his mouth, his whole body, until she’d been feverish and so exhausted she could hardly breathe.
Yet here he was, full of energy, as though he’d had twelve hours of undisturbed sleep.
“Ugh,” she said, again, but she pushed the sheet off her chest.
He brought his body over hers, kissing her softly. “I promise we will come back to bed soon.”
Portia’s eyes opened, met his, and something tightened in her chest, like a stitch, right near her heart. “To sleep?” She couldn’t help responding.
His eyes were loaded with mirth. “If you’d like. It’s your choice.” He kissed her again, this time in parting. “Come on,cara.”
With another groan of complaint, she pushed out of bed, yawned, focused on the still dark sky beyond and briefly contemplated throttling Marco. But his excitement was contagious. Or at least, it encouraged her to make allowances.
She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweater, as well as some thick, warm socks and a scarf, for the morning was still crisp, even though the day was forecast to be sunny and relatively warm.
At the door to the house, he met her with a coffee in a travel mug. She took it, shooting him a look of mock annoyance. “This had better be worth it.”
A grin was his only response.
Outside, the air was clear, some stars still visible in the sky, the clarity of the atmosphere so startling that Portia had to stop and just look, take it all in. But as she looked, she realized the sun had begun to bleed through the night, casting a hint of light from the ocean to the vines, making the sea look almost golden, shimmering with secrets of the past.
“Oh,” she said quietly. He made a groaning noise of agreement, linked their fingers together and coaxed her down a path, away from the house. It was made of compressed gravel, and wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast, or even for a small car to drive down. There were little lights on the sides of the path, again reinforcing to Portia that while the house itself was rustic in style, Marco had spent a lot of time and money bringing the whole vineyard into the twenty first century. The path took them past a heap of vines, and Portia stopped to point out the rose bushes growing at the end of each row.
“To combat pests,” he said.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Are they?”
She blinked up at him, not sure if he was teasing or not. “You know how I know you agree with me?” She said, deciding he was teasing her after all.
“How?”
“Your art collection. You like beautiful things.”
“It’s a good investment.”
She rolled her eyes. “Millions of things are. But you’ve chosen art. Degas, and other impressionists. You haven’t got them stored in a secure facility to preserve their value, you have them in your home—,”
