Page 74 of The Proposal

Me: Lucia!!! What a dreadful thing to say.

Lucia: Don’t act like you don’t wish for the same thing. I remember how you used to end your nighttime prayers when we were younger.

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Lucia: Really, Bell-Bell? If I remember correctly, it went something like this … Please watch over me and my little sister Lucia and keep us safe. We will be fine if you decide it’s time to bring Papa home to you. Amen.

Ugh. I can’t believe she remembers that. It was my subtle way of asking God to take him away, but even heaven didn’t want him. Not that I think it’s where he’ll go when the time eventually comes. God only takes the good people, like Mamma.

I cross my legs and squirm a little in my seat as I flip the page. I’m so glad I asked Lucia to leave one of her books behind. Specifically, the one she was reading before she left.

Meeting that beautiful, tall, busty blonde, Bianca, from my husband’s past, only reiterated that I need to improve in the bedroom if I want to keep this man all to myself. That woman was confident and exuded prowess … until I threatened to cut her throat.

My point is that Dante is used to being with experienced women, ones who know how to please. I want to be thatwoman for him. I want to give him the kind of pleasure he gives me.

I don’t have time to read the entire book; I have things to do inside, so for now, I’m flipping to all the good parts. Specifically, the blow jobs. Tonight, I’m going to surprise my husband and go down on him without nearly choking myself in the process.

When I get to the end of the scene, I close the book and rise from the sun lounge by the pool, where I’ve been lying for the past half an hour. I need to get a start on dinner.

I love being out here, and it was the perfect place to come. I don’t want Dante to know what I’m doing. I want to see the look of surprise on his face when I give him the best blow job he’s ever had. If I manage to pull it off, that is.

I almost feel guilty about being by the pool, considering the travesties Dante and his father faced in this very spot. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to come out here. I got chills down my spine whenever I passed the spot where my mother was murdered.

My bare feet pad against the pavers as I head towards the glass-panelled fence where I placed my towel, only to drop it to the ground and let out a blood-curdling scream when a spider the size of my hand runs up my arm.

I flick it off, releasing another high-pitched squeal as I watch it scurry underneath the chair I’d just been sitting on—one I doubt I’ll ever sit in again.

Pepi, my driver back in Italy, warned me about the giant spiders in Australia. I thought he was exaggerating their size. Obviously, he wasn’t.

Two guards come running around the side of the house. I’m not sure what terrifies me the most, the spider or the fact that their guns are drawn. A moment later, Dante comes flying out the back sliding doors; he also has a gun in hand.

“Mrs Mancini,” the first guard says breathlessly when he reaches me. “Is everything okay?”

I feel my face heat as I try to think what to tell him without sounding utterly ridiculous. These men kill for a living, so I doubt a spider would frighten them, no matter how big.

I open my mouth to speak just as Dante comes flying through the pool gate.“Bellezza,” he pants as his eyes scan my face. His complexion is pale, and now I hate myself for drawing him out here. “What happened? Are you okay? I heard your scream from my office.”

I wince. “A spider the size of a small mammal ran up my arm.”

He rears back. “A spider?”

“Dante, it was huge … like the size of my head.” I know I said it was the size of my hand a few minutes ago, but a little exaggeration might help my plight.

“The size of your head?” he counters.

When I hear one of the guards nearby laugh, I turn my face in that direction and narrow my eyes. “It was,” I lie.

Dante’s eyes flicker down, and when he notices I’m only dressed in a skimpy bikini, he too faces his men. “Leave us,” he growls.

They immediately turn, heading back the way they came, as my husband shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around my upper body.

“What are you doing?”

“Covering you up. I don’t want my men to see you dressed so … scantily.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s a bikini.”

“I can see that,” he says, grasping the lapels and tugging me closer. “This sexy body of yours, Arabella, is for my eyes only.”

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