Page 19 of On His Bride's Terms

Primo took her glass out of her hand and put it down, then said, ‘Give me your hands.’

Faye did so, bemused. Primo tugged off the gloves that matched the dress. Silly to feel so exposed when it was only her hands. Primo put the gloves aside and then took the hand upon which her engagement and wedding ring sat and lifted it.

He arched a brow. ‘You’re a married woman?’

Faye scowled at him and he let her hand go, putting his hands up. ‘You’re the one still hiding behind a mask.’

Reluctant to let go of the last shred of illusion, but knowing it was silly to keep it up, she turned around and presented Primo with her back. For a long moment Primo did nothing, and Faye almost turned around again, but then she felt his hands at the back of her head, undoing the mask. It fell into her hand.

She would have turned around then, but Primo’s fingers were in her hair and he was pulling out the pins holding up her chignon. Strands of hair started to fall down around her shoulders. When all the pins were out, he speared her hair with his fingers and massaged her scalp.

Faye had not expected that. She closed her eyes at the delicious sensations of Primo’s big hands on her head. She felt like purring. She forced her eyes open and turned, dislodging his hands.

His eyes were a very bright blue. He said, ‘You’re still wearing your cape.’

Faye lifted her chin in a silent gesture for him to undo it. He did, his fingers making light work of the tie. She shivered lightly as it fell to the floor, baring her shoulders and the top of her chest.

He put out a hand and Faye looked at it for a moment before putting her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers and he led her from the living area, down a corridor to another doorway.

His bedroom.

It was a feast for the senses. Parquet flooring. A Murano glass chandelier. Hand-painted wallpaper in the Chinoiserie style. Gold trim. French doors leading directly out to a balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. A vast bed with a Rococo-style headboard trimmed with gold. Pristine white linen.

Faye couldn’t take her eyes off the bed, but then Primo said, ‘Okay?’

He was giving her permission to say no. Something about that consideration, especially now that they were married, made a piece of Faye’s defences crumble.

She nodded. She couldn’tnot. She wanted him.

But just when she thought he’d waste no time in getting her on her back, he said, ‘Look up.’

She did, a little bemused, and gasped out loud. The ceiling was an explosion of colour and clouds and cherubs, much like the ceiling in the main room, but there was a subtle difference to this one. She recognised the artist and couldn’t quite believe it.

‘Tiepolo?’ she asked, naming a famous Venetian painter known for his Rococo style. There’d been rumours that he’d worked on palazzos for private families, but she’d never seen the evidence.

‘Yes.’

‘This ceiling must be priceless,’ she breathed.

‘It is. I own this entire apartment, but I don’t own this ceiling,’ Primo revealed.

‘Art like this belongs to the world, not to one person.’

‘Indeed.’

Eventually Faye took her gaze down from the ceiling to look at Primo. The air seemed to quiver between them.

He reached out a hand and pushed a lock of hair over one shoulder. ‘Do you know how exquisite you are?’

Faye ducked her head, but he tipped up her chin with a finger. She said, ‘You don’t need to say things...like that. I’m not here to be wooed. We’re married. This is an arrangement.’

Primo’s eyes flashed with something, but Faye couldn’t decipher the emotion. He said, ‘We wouldn’t have to be married for me to have wanted you out of all the women at that party.’

Faye gulped. ‘But I’m nothing—’

Primo put a finger to her mouth, stopping her words. And then, before she could take another breath, his finger was replaced with his mouth and she was pulled tight into his body, his hands around her waist.

After a long, drugging moment he pulled back. Faye struggled to open her eyes...focus. Primo’s eyes were so hot she felt seared.

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