Page 42 of Till Death Do Us Part

A suspicious sounding cough comes down the line, and an awkward silence takes its place for a long moment before he answers, “I have all the men’s numbers. You know I worry about your safety, Pippa.”

“You worry too much,” I tell him, taking a deep breath before answering his earlier question. It’s only going to make him even more cautious. “I don’t actually have my phone at the moment.”

“Why?” he asks slowly, and without even seeing him, I know his brow is furrowed in concern. My mouth turns into a frown, not wanting to worry him further, but knowing if I don’t tell him and he discovers through someone else, it will only make things worse.

“The mansion got bombed. But it’s okay, Papá. I wasn’t inside at the time, and I’m not injured or hurt in any way.”

A harsh breath comes down the line, followed by a handful of Italian curse words. Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling with a sigh, waiting until he’s finished. It’s another minute or two before he addresses me again.

“You’re safe? Right now?” he asks me.

“Yes, Papá.”

“That’s good.” He breathes out in relief. “I’m going to speak to Antonio about coming for a visit soon.”

“Papá—”

“No arguments, bambina. Anyway, it’s been far too long since I’ve hugged my little girl, and I’m in need of my Pippa cuddles. Plus, your sisters are dying to see you, so I’ll bring them with me, and we can spend a week together, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree. I may not want my family to worry for me, especially from thousands of miles away, but I can’t deny how happy the idea of seeing them makes me. I’ve never been away from them for longer than a single night before I married Antonio and moved to New York, and my heart aches from missing them.

We spend another hour on the phone, not talking about much, just basking in the company before he must leave. With a final “I love you,” the line goes dead, and I’m left with only my thoughts in this bedroom.

When Leonardo comes in a little while later, a plate with bacon and eggs in his hand, he takes one look at my forlorn expression and drops onto the bed beside me. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” I answer earnestly. The fact is, from the moment I walked into that church over a month ago, everything changed. In more ways than I can even comprehend. “It’s a lot, you know? Between Antonio, the Russians wanting me, and you? I’m a little lost and a lot confused.”

He nods but says nothing as he rolls onto his side and flicks his gaze to mine. My breath comes out shakily, my eyes staying locked on the ceiling.

“Why am I here?”

“Here in my penthouse?” he asks, reaching out and tugging on a lock of my hair.

“Just here. In New York. I miss my home, my family, my life.”

“Those are questions I can’t answer, Princess,” he tells me, moving his hand to fist my hair and pulling me so we’re face-to-face. My breath catches at the closeness, my heart racing when his other hand cups my face. “You’re just going to have to trust that maybe it’s all for a good reason.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Do you trust me?” He leans in, his mouth hovering over mine when he asks the question.

“Absolutely not,” I breathe out with a dry laugh. “You’re the last person I should trust. You’re far too dangerous.”

He laughs, the sound a deep rumble that travels straight to my centre and sends a pulse of pleasure to my clit. “Correct answer.”

He closes the distance between us, claiming my mouth in a heated kiss. Fighting seems futile. Honestly, it’s impossible when he touches me to remember the reasons I shouldn’t let him. So instead, I fall into his kiss, telling myself that this once it’s okay to give in to the connection I feel with him.

We stay there, losing ourselves in each other, though we don’t take it further. His kiss is devouring; sweet and sensual too. No matter how much I want to touch him, to trace his skin with my hands, to feel him while he drives himself inside me, I don’t.

This may not be appropriate with a man who isn’t my husband, but I can at least convince myself I’m not doing too much wrong if it stays like this.

After several long, heated minutes, his phone rings, and he pulls away from me with a growl. His stare is hungry as he watches me, answering the call without taking his eyes off me.

“Duty calls,” he tells me, peeling himself from the bed and walking over to the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe opposite the bed. When he slides the mirrored doors open, a line of suits fill one side, though it’s the other that catches my eyes.

Women’s clothing fill the space, an array of dresses in different colours and jumpers, jeans and t-shirts too. He chucks a pair of dark denim jeans at me, followed by a peach cashmere sweater with the order to get dressed.

My heart sinks at the sight despite the fact I’m a married woman—he told me he wasn’t married, and I'd stupidly convinced myself that meant there was no woman in his life at all.

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