Page 8 of The Moon & His Tides
“Breathtaking.”
“Oh,” she muttered adorably.
I grinned down at her, noting the fluttering, pale blue vein in her neck. I wanted to bite it and feel the pulse between my teeth.
“I think you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” she whispered, my arms her confessional, and I, her priest.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that; there was a reason my twin sister and I were in the entertainment business, our beauty had rocketed us out of the mire we’d been born into. Still, her words wrapped a bow around my pounding heart, and I wondered vaguely if it was a gift someone like her would accept.
The heart of a poor Italian man with no formal education and very little money.
She blinked up at me owlishly, and I didn’t bother to beat back my deep chuckle even as unease tightened my chest. I gave her a squeeze before releasing her to open the back door. “As much as I like holding you, I would hate to see you embarrassed if anyone saw the lady cavorting with the tramp.”
She rolled her eyes at me as she slid into the back seat, and then shocked by her less-than-perfect demeanor, she covered her eyes with a hand. “Oh Lord, I must have had more champagne than was prudent. That was incredibly rude of me.”
I shook my head as I closed her in, then moved to the front seat to get behind the wheel. When I looked in the rearview mirror at her, a blush stained the skin above the collar of her dress like a wine spill.
“I’m inebriated,” she told me soberly.
“I’m assuming that isn’t something you do a lot of,” I teased her as I pulled into traffic.
“I don’t like to be inebriated. It’s… uncouth.”
Our eyes caught in the reflection of the mirror and fused as though attached by electric cables. I felt the currents race along my skin, and my voice was deeper, dangerously dark, when I said, “Well,duchessa, I prefer you like this.”
“Drunk?”
“Intoxicating,” I corrected as the swell of Bach’s movement undulated throughout the Rolls. “As intoxicated as I feel, being near you.”
“You are either the cheesiest man I’ve ever met or…” She laughed softly, an edge to the musicality of it.
“Or?” I asked over the snap, crackle, and electric pop of chemistry between us.
Her wide eyes found mine in the mirror, utterly guileless and slightly confused. “Or you’re too good to be true.”
“Trust me, I’m not that.” I barked with laughter at the very thought of it.
She scowled at me, adorable in her irritation. Not for the first time, I wondered how old she could be. Something was wonderfully childlike about her, yet she was clearly mature, refined, and elegant in the way of money and years spent living idly.
“You look like something out of Michelangelo’s studio,” she retorted with a haughty tip of her chin.
I winced. “Have you seen the size of the dicks on his statues? No,duchessa, I can assure you, I’m built much more proportionally than that.”
She covered her sharp exclamation of laughter with her hand and then reclined in her seat with a little contented sigh. “I like spending time with you.”
“Most women do.” I laughed at her immediate frown and shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the truth.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” she sniffed. “I’m sure you’re a very popular chauffeur.”
It was my turn to frown. “What exactly are you implying?”
“Oh, I know the women in my sect, all bored housewives or stressed financiers and CEOs. Faced with the temptation of you in that spiffy uniform, I’m certain they are only too thrilled to tip yougenerouslyfor your services.”
“Cazzo, I am not a gigolo,” I cursed, surprised at how much her insinuation stung.
She pursed her lips and cocked her head. “No?”
“No.”
