Page 12 of The Convenient Cosentino Wife

This luxurious suite with its priceless antiques and dazzling view of the sea was nothing more than a gilded box.

Returning to the door, Rocco opened it, relieved to discover the bodyguard gone. Quickly he retraced his earlier steps along the long corridor to the formal marble staircase, down the stairs to the ground floor where he exited onto the terrace, and then from the terrace into the gardens. The winding gravel path appealed, and Rocco walked quickly, as if the devil was chasing, and maybe the devil was, because that beast, that monster wasn’t behind him, it was in him. He was the monster and there was nothing he could do about it now.

His shoes crunched the pea gravel as he skirted the rose garden for the small orchard, and once he’d entered the orchard, he slowed, appreciating the shade.

Earlier Clare had asked about his animosity, asking him for the truth, wanting him to confirm what they both knew—that he didn’t like her. She’d wanted an explanation and he’d done his best to deflect the question, not at all prepared to tell her the truth. Because he could never tell her the truth.

There was no reason for him to dislike her so much. His dislike had been immature, illogical, which only made his interactions with her more complicated.

Until Clare entered the picture, Rocco had prided himself on his self-control. His self-control had gotten him through so many difficult times, helping him manage pain and disappointment, but he wasn’t in control with regard to Clare, and he hadn’t been kind to her, or supportive of Marius and Clare’s engagement.

It had taken him a long time to understand his animosity to Clare. But it was not something he could explain to Clare. He could barely admit the truth to himself, but he’d been hard on her because she’d elicited such a strong response within him.

He’d been drawn to her immediately, and in a way he hadn’t been drawn to any other woman. Ever.

She had made him feel. She had made him want. She made him crave.

It was maddening, infuriating. How could he be so physically attracted to her, this American woman who wasn’t even his?

How could his body betray him, tightening every time she was near, stirring his senses, arousing his hunger. Testing his control.

And she, beautiful violet-eyed Clare, was his brother’s. His brother’s girlfriend, and then his brother’s fiancée, and soon to be his brother’s wife. And throughout it all, Rocco battled himself, horrified that he wanted his brother’s woman.

What kind of brother was he to desire someone that didn’t belong to him? Someone that meant so much to Marius, the brother he adored?

How could he justify fantasizing about taking Clare’s mouth, her body, filling her, owning her, making her shiver and shudder in his arms.

And yet he did.

His dreams were filled with her, his thoughts so primal and carnal he felt out of control. The fact that she elicited such strong feelings in him frustrated him, and he snapped hard on those feelings, embarrassed by the attraction. The only way he could cope when around her was to detach himself, becoming distant, even cold, but it was necessary. By freezing his emotions he could block her out, pretend she wasn’t there, pretend that she didn’t exist.

Marius had asked him several times why Rocco was so cold to Clare, especially as Clare had done nothing to warrant such frosty behavior, and Rocco had always simply replied that there was something about her he didn’t trust, that there was something he couldn’t respect, when the truth was, he couldn’t trusthimself, not when close to her.

Rocco had been married in his twenties. After his wife died, he took a mistress in Rome, but those relationships didn’t prepare him for lust, for hot, raw, desire. All-consuming desire. A need that kept him awake at night, his humming thoughts burning as he imagined all the things he’d do to Clare, with Clare, if only he could.

Indecent things with his shaft and hands, his lips and tongue and teeth.

During those long nights he’d palm himself, bringing himself to frustrated climax, but the orgasms didn’t ease the need. Or the pictures in his head. Clare made him feel animalistic. Untamed. Like a man who’d been starved because in his heart of hearts he thought she should be his.

In his heart of hearts he didn’t believe his brother deserved her.

Every time he saw Marius and Clare together, he felt a surge of frustration, frustration that grew into anger, anger that bighearted, good-natured, easygoing Marius had won Clare’s heart.

Did his brother even understand how lucky he was?

Did his brother know that there weren’t many women like Clare? In fact, there was only her, the one, and she loved Marius.

Rocco couldn’t let his brother know his feelings. Worse, they were feelings that confounded Rocco, feelings that tied him in knots, and so he did his best to avoid Clare, with or without Marius.

In all fairness, when Rocco handed Clare into the limousine after Marius’s funeral, it had been a relief. He’d never see her again. He wouldn’t feel this awful temptation, or the impossible desire, again. He’d hated feeling like such a bad brother to Marius, hated the conflicted desire—so tragic and Shakespearean, as well as plain ridiculous—so saying goodbye to Clare had been a relief. He’d have his life back. Not life as he wanted it, because God only knew that Rocco would give everything to have his brother still with him, but at least he didn’t have to struggle with guilt and remorse, and the needling voice in his head that constantly whispered that he was a terrible man. Because a good man, a man of integrity and honor, wouldn’t have coveted his brother’s soon-to-be wife, but Rocco had.

Clare dressed for dinner with care, showering and then once dry, slipping on a long feminine kaftan in a green malachite pattern, a deep purple sash tied at the waist. As she blow-dried her hair, the soft silk fabric brushed her bare legs and slid across her shoulders. She couldn’t have worn these intense colors as a blonde, but they worked with her dark hair, and the soft purple tie at her waist made her happy. It was playful and youthful and with Rocco Cosentino here, she could use the confidence booster because she found him so very intimidating.

She didn’t even know what it was about him that unsettled her, but when near him her pulse tended to race and she felt vulnerable and sensitive, which was why the long kaftan appealed for dinner—it covered her, from her shoulders to her ankles. Even the sleeves extended past her elbows, fluttering on her forearm.

Clare put on a little mascara and lip gloss, and after adding a pair of gold dangly earrings with bits of amethyst, and slipping her feet into wedge sandals, she was ready to go downstairs and entertain her guest. This was her house, she reminded herself firmly. She was the host and she wasn’t going to be dictated to by Rocco. She wasn’t going to be used by him, either.

She understood the way of the world and how powerful men had run society and civilization for thousands of years. She’d been raised by such a man which gave her a unique perspective, as well as a position of strength. Clare had money and power of her own. She didn’t need to fear Rocco, or fear anything he had to say. His opinion was simply his opinion. She was every bit as wealthy as he, every bit as educated, every bit as confident. She didn’t need his approval or his permission. In fact, she didn’t need him at all.

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