Page 41 of The Convenient Cosentino Wife

She didn’t want to make love again without him knowing. She didn’t want the pleasure to be just a physical thing. He should know how she felt in her heart, in her mind, in her body and soul. “I love you,” she whispered, lightly stroking his cheekbone, where he was scarred, where he’d once hurt so much. “You are our knight in shining armor, our hero and our heart.”

He looked at her in the dim light of the bedroom and his jaw worked. “I don’t deserve that,” he said unsteadily, his deep voice a rumble.

“But you do,” she said, kissing his lips, and then again. “You have made us all so very happy. I am beyond grateful. I am yours forever.”

I am yours forever.

The words stayed with Rocco, echoing in his head long after Clare had fallen asleep in his arms. They were there as he slept, mocking him in his dreams. They were there as he woke, exhausted and tortured by guilt.

He wasn’t who she thought he was.

He wasn’t the hero or a knight in shining armor.

And because of the guilt, he couldn’t tell her he loved her, not because he didn’t love her—my God, she was his world—but because he knew he didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve this perfect little family of his.

For the next week he was in a fog, tormented by the truth and the realization that he’d deceived Clare in the worst sort of way.

Every day he determined to come clean, but then at night, when it was just them, he couldn’t bring himself to speak, instead he just wanted her, to be with her, no words, just touch. He let his body tell her what he couldn’t—that she was everything to him, and that he’d never loved anyone the way he loved her. He hadn’t believed in love at first sight, but from the moment he laid eyes on her, he wanted her, needed her, loved her.

At night he made love to her as if it was their last night, a desperation filling him, as he filled her. He wanted to escape and forget, and as they made love, he could almost forget, but in the morning it all came back.

She didn’t know the truth. He should have told her the truth before marrying her.

“What’s wrong?” Clare asked at breakfast the next morning. She’d been watching him with a troubled expression for days and he knew she was concerned, but how did he tell her?

What did he say?

“It’s nothing,” he said, finishing his coffee and rising. He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She caught his hand, held it tightly. “You can talk to me, Rocco.”

He squeezed her hand in his. “I know.”

But as he drove to work he tried to figure out how he’d tell her what weighed so heavily on his conscience. How to tell her something that would hurt her, and potentially tear them apart?

Again that night, after dinner, while lying in bed, Clare stroked his arm lightly, gently. “I can feel your worry,” she whispered, her own voice filled with dread. “If there is something you must tell me, please, just tell me. I hate to see you so troubled.”

Rocco closed his eyes, his arms closing protectively around her. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to ruin what they had. They were all so happy together, the three of them, it was a good marriage, a deeply satisfying marriage.

But he’d married her under false pretenses.

He’d married her not for Adriano or even for her needs. He’d married her for himself.

Clare eventually slept, but he couldn’t, his mind at war with himself. The easy thing would be to let the entire issue go. To pretend he’d been completely honorable in his intentions. To continue on as if he were a good, true, altruistic man. That would be an easy thing, and it would allow them to move forward happily, no bumps, no anger, no drama. But Rocco hated the guilt, and how it made his love feel mean and small.

How it took the beautiful world they’d created and made it dirty. Shameful.

The guilt was eating him alive, and the guilt threatened to destroy the future.

But how did he tell Clare that he’d had ulterior motives in marrying her? How did he say he’d been selfish and determined to make her his? That he’d always wanted her, even when she was engaged to Marius?

He couldn’t do that. Only a fool would tell her such a thing. But he must be a fool because he was considering confronting Clare with the truth, all of it. Not because he believed it would make things better, but because he couldn’t live with himself like this. He couldn’t hide the truth from her. He wanted her. He’d always wanted her. And he couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t want her, but if there were to be more children, those children should be conceived in love, and truth, and raised in truth, love and honesty. Integrity. Which is how a Cosentino was supposed to be.

Rocco resolved that after dinner, after Adriano was in bed, he’d tell her all of it, and he prayed she would be able to forgive him.

Clare sat at one end of the leather sofa in the library trying to process what Rocco was saying. She finally put a hand up to stop him. “You’re not making sense. Please say that last part again.”

Rocco’s jaw tightened, his silver gaze shuttered. “Which part?” he gritted.

---