Always (6 page)

His brows edged together. Part of him wanted to laugh, another part wanted to swat her ass again for being so childish. He loved her for being sexy. He swallowed. Love? Hell, no. Now his impulse was to jump up and retreat downstairs, or into the shower. But damned if he couldn’t leave her—her arms still wrapped around him, her naked, soft curves pressed into him, her need to be comforted, even though clearly it irritated the hell out of her.

She lifted her head for a moment, then plopped it back on his chest. Too bad her orgasmic relaxation didn’t last longer. And making a woman cry after—not a good sign. But she wanted him, enjoyed him, or at least his body. He frowned. That was it. She was just using him for the sex. He shifted. Twisting a wave of her hair around his finger, he resisted the urge to tug it.

“I should go,” she said. Yet she didn’t move even a finger.

“You can’t.”

She propped her chin on his chest and glanced up at him. He grinned.

“Why not?” Gina ran a fingernail through his chest hair.

Her touch shot straight through him, to the dangerous, irrational place that he’d kept in a carefully constructed, well-ordered fortress—his heart. “I’m not done keeping my promise.”

Her lips curved in a lopsided smile. “You already filled it.”

“Clearly you’re a skeptic. You need more proof.”

Her expression fought between laughter and frowning. She shrugged. “I’m not a believer.”

“Why?”

She rested her head on his chest. “I guess I owe you some explanation for crying all over you.” She tried to roll away from him, but he pulled his arm tighter, keeping her at his side. She relaxed back into him. “I’ve made a lot of bad choices, with men.”

He touched her hair. He shifted his legs and focused on his breathing for a minute. He didn’t like to think about her with other men. “I’ve made choices I’m not proud of. But your choices have made you who you are.”

“Sometimes I don’t like who I am. I don’t want to make the same mistakes.”

“I like you. When I don’t like something, I change it.” He stroked her hair. “I didn’t mean it, what I said earlier. I don’t feel like this is a mistake.”

“Then what is it?”

“Two consenting adults.” It was a lot more complicated than that. He shifted. He liked things simple, orderly.

“Adults.” She let out a breath and kissed his chest.

Heat expanded him again. This time, he’d forget about the complications. He didn’t know what was happening between them, but he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to know more about her, about what had hurt her so much, and if he could help. First, he had a night of promises to keep. He intended to make the most out of each one.

Chapter Five

Gina stretched awake, her body pleasantly achy from her night with Vincente. Her hands brushed across his hard chest. The hairs scattered across its solid planes tickled her fingers. He tweaked her nipple and she jolted.

“Good morning,” he said in his low, sexy voice. “Still hate me?” He grinned.

“No. But I need to go.” Maybe Vincente wasn’t involved in his family’s schemes, but she was still doing what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t jump right to sex when she met a man she was attracted to. People broke promises, and she was an offender.

She slid from the bed. Her disappointment was a heavy weight. Plodding to the bathroom, she stepped in, flipped on the light, and shut the door, locking it behind her. Crap, what time was it? Probably morning, if the low, grey light in the bedroom had been any indication. She looked up. There was a skylight in the ceiling. It was a hazy day, but the sun was somewhere behind those clouds. Like the truth about the DeGrazias was—hidden somewhere, obscured. She’d find it, but first she had to stop this crazy thing with Vincente. It was destroying her focus—and all her plans.

She went to the shower and turned on the hot and cold, leaving her hand in the spray until it was the right temperature. Her stomach dipped, and not just from early-morning hunger pains. She was being pretty rude. Vincente seemed sincere. But all the DeGrazias were known for their irresistible, but poisonous, charm.

Though the worst offenders lately—or the least discreet—were Lorenzo Calabra and his father. Lorenzo’s mom had been a DeGrazia, so he was one too. They were all close, and she’d heard the rest of the DeGrazias were as bad as the Calabras, only better at hiding their corruption: broken hearts—and bones—shady business deals, fixing local elections, probably money laundering and extortion. All Gina lacked was proof. Rumors, old family stories, dead-end money trails, and unexplained dead bodies weren’t enough.

She stepped into the water and slid shut the door. Leaning back, she tried to let the warm water wash away her concerns, but Vincente’s hot touch had been more effective. Here she was using the man’s body, his shower, his hospitality, and she was the one mentally accusing him of using her and her family, of being dishonest and scheming. Maybe she couldn’t find proof because there was nothing to prove.

Lathering up her hair and body, she scrubbed over legs, arms and belly with a washcloth. But it didn’t wash away the doubt. She rinsed out the cloth. Turning, she watched the white soap suds swirl down the drain. She closed her eyes. When was the last time she’d felt sure? She placed a hand over her mouth and plopped into a crouch.

When Vincente had gazed into her eyes last night while they’d had sex—that was the last time she’d felt sure. She grimaced, her mouth open, the impulse to laugh squashed by the whirl of feelings churning in her. What was wrong with her? How could she feel sure of herself, of her choices, with some guy she barely knew, when that kind of behavior was part of what had added up over the years to make her feel confused? The water stung her eyes as she leaned forward. She placed a hand on the wall and rose. And how could a corrupt thug make her feel sure…unless she was mistaken about Vincente—maybe he was a gentleman, honest and true.

She turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the bar. Its soft folds snugged around her, like the blanket in Vincente’s bed had. Couldn’t she just climb back in there? It’d be better than going home, where no doubt her parents would grill her on where she’d been last night and why she hadn’t called. Had she been thinking at all, she would’ve called and made up some story about where she was. But she hadn’t been thinking, not clearly, anyway.

She wrapped herself in the towel and found a comb. She ran it through her hair. Slowly, she opened the door to the bedroom. Vincente sat up in the bed, pillows propped behind him. She held the towel around her, gripped tightly in her hand. A tray with coffee cups, fruit, and toast was also on the bed.

“How’d you get that so fast?” she said, walking to the edge of the bed.

“I didn’t. We have a couple who works for us—Marcella and Rudy.”

Of course they did. Growing up, everyone in the neighborhood knew the DeGrazias had made their fortune illegally—they’d just been too clever to get caught. Like clichés, rumors invariably had a core of truth.

Gina glanced around, looking for where her clothes had landed. Vincente—or the maid—must have picked them up, because they were now folded neatly on the armchair. The clock shone six-thirty.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” she said.

“Nice of you to be concerned about my schedule.” His deadpan expression was overridden by the sarcastic acid in his tone. “Let’s eat something and then we can figure out what you’re going to tell your parents.”

“We? There is no we.” Gina walked to the chair and picked up her clothes. When she turned to go back into the bathroom, Vincente slid from the bed and intercepted her. He blocked her way. She stepped to the side, but he was quicker. He grabbed her arm.

“I know you can handle things yourself. But you don’t have to. Let’s not get into a stubborn contest, because I’ll win.”

His touch burned through her. His words cut to her core. He knew she could handle things, but offered help. Acceptance, of herself, and of help, tested her. She wanted to be softer, strong but tender, but she remained stiff, stuck.

Pinning her against him, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. He was strong, his muscles flexed as he walked, carrying her like she’d heft a bag of flour. He set her on the bed. He’d moved her, not just physically.

She flopped backward onto the bed and pressed her palms into her eyes. No crying.

Vincente pulled her up and held her against his bare chest. His breathing was steady. After a few minutes, her thoughts fled, leaving her free to be in the moment. She wrapped her arms around his waist. She took in a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale. His scent—sex and sweat and man—made her tingle again. She rolled her eyes. Hadn’t she had enough last night? She closed her eyes. What she really wanted right now was to be held. And Vincente was giving that to her. He smoothed her hair.

“Sit up there and we’ll eat,” he said.

Gina scooted back and leaned against the propped-up pillows. She kept her eyes off Vincente. His nakedness was too enticing. She caught a flash of his hard body as he hopped back in the bed. If only he was truly as kind as he was hot. But he couldn’t be. No man could live up to that, not in her experience.

“How do you like your coffee?”

“Black,” Gina said.

“Me too.” He handed her a mug and a plate of toast and fruit.

Gina bit into the toast—cold. That’s what she got for her hot head—cold toast. She dropped it to the plate and chuckled.

“What’s funny?” He glanced at her and popped a slice of strawberry into his mouth.

“Me.” She shrugged.

“I didn’t want to say anything…” He smiled.

Cold toast was unimportant next to the warmth of his smile. She pushed at his shoulder, this time gently, not in anger, as she had before.

“What’d I tell you about that?” He sipped his coffee.

“You gonna do something about it?” Gina chewed a few grapes.

“Might.”

“You should’ve asked for a bigger breakfast, then.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I thought you had to go to work.”

“I’m the boss. I can take the day off. You need more attention than our current project.”

“And what would that be?” She wanted him to show he wasn’t who she’d thought he was, that his family was in a legitimate business.

“Don’t start that again.”

Gina crossed her arms. She cut her eyes at Vincente. He gulped some coffee, hopped up, slid on dark blue boxer briefs, and stood in front of her. Gina blinked. Thank goodness her arms were covering her boobs, or he’d see how excited he was making her. He was quite a sight—muscular, tall, but well-filled out. She liked bigger men—she wasn’t tiny herself—because they made her feel more feminine, sheltered somehow. And she wanted shelter, from the world she’d made for herself.

Vincente stared at her. He rubbed the side of his face. He strode to the door and pressed a button. She hadn’t noticed an intercom there.

“Marcella,” he said in response to a crackly hello, “can you please make some eggs?”

“The scramble you like?” the voice, heavily accented, said.

“Yes, thanks. And orange juice.” He released the button. Then he picked up his cell from the night stand and dialed. “Hey, Juan, it’s Vincente. How’s it going?”

He was a manager, that much was certain from the quick way he made decisions and gave orders. She picked at the blanket.

“Great. I’ll be in later, after lunch. Call me if there’re any problems.” He ended the call and set the phone down. He brought over her purse. “You might want to check your phone.”

Gina grabbed her clutch and reached for her cell. There were three messages, all from home. Her stomach flip-flopped as she checked the messages. All her dad, asking where she was, why wasn’t she answering, they were going to call her cousin Joey or Jim or Uncle Max—all cops—if she didn’t call by eight that morning.

She blew out a breath and punched the end button on her phone, letting it slide from her hand. She had been gone almost twelve hours with no word. They had reason to be upset. Still, what about those times she was in high school and her dad would disappear for the day, or the night, with no word, leaving her mom frantic and short-handed at the store? And then, he’d left, for over a month. That’s when she’d seen him, followed him one day after spotting him downtown. His bullshit excuses played through her mind—“I had to be alone, my dad just died,” or “I need time,” or “I’m the father. What I do isn’t your business.” As if he was the only one affected by Grandpa Frank’s death? They’d all been grieving, Grandma Celeste most of all, and where had her dad been? Off screwing Carolina DeGrazia, that’s where.

Gina pulled her knees into her chest and nestled her head on her arms.

“You have a lot on your mind.” Vincente said. Gina couldn’t tell if he was asking her or just stating his observation. He sat on the bed near her and placed his hand on her arm. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“I can’t. You can’t.” Gina’s voice was muffled by her arm.

“You won’t.” The exasperation in his tone was obvious.

Gina faced him. “No, I can’t. Your bitch of an aunt…” Gina sucked in a breath. What the hell was she doing? She was going to get herself and her family thrown from the proofing oven to a five-hundred-degree pizza hearth if she said anything.

Vincente’s hand dropped onto the bed. “What does my Aunt Carolina have to do with anything? She and her husband moved to D.C. years ago. I haven’t seen her since I was in high school.”

Gina shook her head. “Forget it.” Maybe Vincente didn’t know. He’d been gone, back east, by the time she’d been in high school.

“No. You obviously have some serious problems with my family. I want to know why.”

“It doesn’t matter. You said what happens here is between us. So let’s keep it that way.” She was afraid if she asked about his family’s business now, when she felt so close to him, that she’d spill what’d happened with Carolina those years ago.

Vincente shook his head and stood. He paced the room a couple of times.

Get up and leave.
Her body seemed to weigh too much to move. “You act like I shouldn’t be suspicious of your family. But your father left. You left. But you went to high school here. You must’ve heard the rumors, same as I did.”

“That was a long time ago. You better call home.” Vincente’s heat radiated next to her. He reached over her and placed the phone next to her.

He’d avoided her question. He’d asked her what the problem was and then wouldn’t answer her. She pushed out a breath. She’d deal with that later. She needed help with what to tell her parents first. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Tell them you’re at a friend’s.”

“They know none of my friends live here anymore.” Just family, and Paolo. She really needed to call him. He’d been a good friend, and she’d been lax about keeping in touch.

“Do you have a key to your Uncle Carlo’s?”