Page 18 of His to Hold

Antonio

The man who sold me this exclusive twenty-five-year-old Macallan whisky said its aroma was reminiscent of dried orange and raisins with a hint of ginger. He told me I’d taste rich, dark fruit and a touch of oak. I get none of that. Perhaps if I took the time to savor the whisky, I’d pick up on those subtle notes but, right now, I just want to feel the burn at the back of my throat and to calm the storm raging inside me.

I was correct when I worried it was a mistake to bring Isabella here. The moment we sat down to dinner, I remembered the first time I brought her to my family’s Connecticut retreat. We’d only just got married and Isabella seemed excited about spending time alone with me. I thought it was because she was hopeful about our future, but now I wonder if she was trying to lull me into a false sense of security. Was she setting me up from the start? It wasn’t her choice to marry me and what happened with Rico proves my wife is capable of anything when backed into a corner.

It’s unusual for me but I’m at a loss for how to handle this situation. If Isabella was a man, she’d be in one of our warehouses, stripped naked and handcuffed to a chair while my brothers and I used whatever means necessary to get information from her. If she was any other woman, she might face a similar fate. The problem is, she’s my wife. I vowed to protect her. It’s an oath I take seriously.

As much as I want to know what motivated her to betray me, I can’t bring myself to ask about that night. I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid of what she might tell me. Though I wasn’t the most attentive husband, I cared a great deal about my wife. I thought the feeling was mutual.

Whenever I could spend time with her, things were great. The sex was amazing, and we never argued. I thought we made a good couple. When she turned on me, I was totally floored. I can’t understand why she did it and I’m too much of a damned pussy to ask. Perhaps I should hand her over to Leo for interrogation. He’d find out what I want to know.

The idea of any other man, even my brother, laying his hands on Isabella makes me nauseous, so I dismiss the thought. I trudge upstairs, my body weary. That tugging pain in my shoulder returns, making me wince. It’s definitely being brought on by psychological pressure. I have to get a grip.

As I walk along the corridor, I glance at my watch. It’s been more than three hours since I sent Isabella to bed. I expect her to be sound asleep, but she isn’t. She’s not even in bed. She’s standing by the window, looking out into the night. It’s dark, so there’s nothing for her to see out there, but she appears completely transfixed. I don’t think she heard me come in.

While she remains focused on whatever she’s staring at, I can’t take my eyes off her. Her black hair tumbles over her slender shoulders. She’s wearing pink floral shorts that barely cover her ass and a white camisole. With the light shining behind her, she must be visible to anyone who looks up at the window. Annoyance surges through me.

“Isabella!”

She spins around, startled. Obviously, she didn’t hear me come in.

“What?”

“Get away from the window.”

Her forehead crumples in confusion. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Does she really not understand? “Anyone can see you. Do you want to give my men a show?”

She looks over her shoulder and then turns back to me. Her gaze drifts up toward the light on the ceiling and realization dawns. Her lips form an O-shape as she walks away from the window.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, she folds her hands on her lap as I storm across the room and shut the drapes, using such force I almost yank them off the pole.

“I’m sorry.” Isabella’s voice is quiet.

“Don’t be sorry, be more careful.” My harsh tone is unnecessary. She wasn’t deliberately flaunting her body, but I can’t tamp down a surge of annoyance. Her eyes glisten with tears, fueling my irritation. Is she trying to manipulate me?

“Don’t dare cry.”

She draws in a shuddering breath and casts an accusing glare at me. “Why did you bring me here?”

“So we could be alone.”

“Why? You won’t even talk to me.”

I step closer, invading her personal space. She tries to turn away from me, but I put a finger beneath her chin and force her to meet my gaze. “You think I brought you here to talk?”

Her expression is one of resignation as she slowly shakes her head. She draws in a deep breath and then reaches for the belt at my waist. She unbuckles it and then unfastens my pants before pulling my cock out. I’m already hard. She curls her hand around the shaft. Her fingers are cold, making me hiss. She peers up at me from beneath thick black lashes, then leans forward to wrap her soft pink lips around the head of my cock. She sucks gently and then pulls back.

“Is this why you brought me here?” she asks. “To make love?”

“Make love?” I can’t help but scoff at the hope in her voice. It’s born of naivety that I might find endearing on any other night, but not when I’m not wound so tight. “That’s not in my nature.”

Isabella leans back, bracing herself on her palms. She tilts her head to one side as she stares up at me with a hint of challenge in her pursed lips.

“So you want to use me, then? You want to hurt me, treat me like a whore?” There’s a viciousness in my wife’s tone I’ve never heard before. That makes me wary. “Go on, then, Don Volante. Use me. See if I care.”

She might act as if she doesn’t give a damn what I do to her, but I’m not buying it. Isabella’s looking to provoke me so she can play the victim when I take the bait. I study her face carefully, looking deep into those tumultuous green eyes. There’s anger, pain, and something I can’t identify.

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