Page 37 of Captured Fantasy

My father’s headstone rose in the darkness, at the far end of the fence.Roberto Bova, Loving Father. That was how I wanted him remembered so those were the words I’d chosen to carve into his last resting place.

My fingers clenched at my sides as I stood before his stone and my heart beat like a wounded creature in my chest.

“Is this what you wanted for me?” I whispered, tears streaming anew down my face. “I know you thought you were protecting me by making me into the perfect wife for Gino, but he’s gone. I have nothing, no future, no education. I have nothing that…that a man hasn’t given me. Was that what you wanted?”

The world was silent and I thought I felt the rain ease. Perhaps I was just going numb. I needed warmth, I needed someone to hold me the way I’d held Amadeo.

I needed the heat of another body against mine.

Stepping through the slippery grass, I curled up against my father’s headstone and closed my eyes. The little overhang at the top of his stone provided enough cover to keep the rain from my face. It wasn’t a warm embrace, but it was shelter and I craved it more than anything in the world. In the cold darkness, I let my body rest and I sank into welcome oblivion.

I dreamed of sinking through water with light glittering above me. It felt good to be drowning at first, but then my body hit the ground and panic set in. I wanted to live. Thrashing out, I caught onto something as it passed by. A warm hand, big fingers gripping my wrist.

I woke with a start, rolling onto wet earth. Someone caught me—a broad forearm. My lids peeled open and I blinked, focusing on the person crouched above me. A dark gaze, a sensitive, male mouth, an aquiline nose, and an expression of deep concern.

Cosimo Barone.

My chest tightened. He slid his hands up my sides and pulled me up into a sitting position. The fingers that skimmed over my forehead, brushing back my hair, were warm and lean. I wanted to bury my face in his palm. Crawl into his lap and curl up against his chest. My eyes dropped to the outline of his torso beneath his t-shirt. He looked so solid, like a rock in the middle of turbulent seas.

“Mrs. Russo, are you hurt?” he said urgently.

Hurt? I looked down at my body and realized abruptly that I was almost naked. I’d left the house with nothing but a thin slip. Now it was soaked, clinging to me like a second skin. We could both see my body as clearly as if I was naked, but somehow I didn’t feel ashamed.

“Amadeo,” I whispered.

The corner of his mouth went down. “I know.”

I took a shuddering breath. “About Carolina?”

He nodded. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head.

“When you fell, I saw blood on your leg,” he said. His dark eyes were tempered, almost like a doctor examining a patient. “Will you let me carry you to my truck so I can look at you?”

I nodded, looking down to locate the blood he spoke of, but he gathered me up in one swift movement. I fell against his chest and his strong arms slid under my back and my knees. He stood effortlessly, all six feet of him unfurling. A wave of unsteadiness moved over me and I clung to him, digging my fingers in his shirt.

He carried me across the graveyard to the gate. His truck idled in the gravel road, the side door open. He placed me in the passenger side and his hands moved to my lap and hesitated. I swallowed and for the first time in hours, a little scrap of heat blossomed inside me.

I didn’t move. His hand hovered over my thigh for a second before peeling back the wet fabric. He was being careful to keep my sex covered, but my skirt was short and he was struggling. As he bent my leg out to inspect my inner thigh, the fabric tugged back. His eyes snapped away.

“Would you mind to cover yourself with your hand?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It’s fine.”

His jaw worked and his dark eyes fixed on mine. “I’m trying not to be an asshole, Mrs. Russo.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to ensure that you’re safe,” he said, looking pained. His breathing was faster now. “If you open your legs without covering yourself, I’m not going to be able to keep from getting hard.”

I looked down. There was a hard ridge beneath the front of his pants. When I dragged my eyes back up, I relented at the expression on his face. Yes, his hands on me had made my body warm and my nipples harden, but he really was trying to be professional. I slid my hand down and cupped my pussy, covering it.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

He pulled my thighs apart to reveal a bright red scrape on my inner thigh. I heard him swear under his breath. He leaned across me and took a handful of napkins from the console. Now that I had eyes on my injury, it was beginning to sting.

He held a napkin out. “Spit.”

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