Dante's Marriage Pact (12 page)

“Eventually they'll notice we're gone,” he assured her. “And then they'll all smile knowingly before continuing with the celebration.”

It only took a few minutes to make the short drive from Primo's to home. Once there, Draco helped Shayla inside and up the steps. Swinging her into his arms he carried her into his bedroom, with her protesting all the way.

“This is our wedding night,” he informed her implacably before setting her on her feet. “We may have an arrangement to live separate lives a month or so from now. But tonight we sleep as husband and wife.”

“It's because of The Inferno stories everyone told,” she argued. “You're hoping we'll end up like them.”

“I think we'll find our own way, either together or apart.”

“Regardless of The Inferno?”

He turned her so she faced away from him. “I think we have more important considerations than that damn Inferno.” He made short work of the laces holding her dress in place. The bodice sagged and she held it protectively against her breasts. “We have a baby due any day. Why don't we agree to focus on that and let The Inferno take care of itself?”

She turned and he didn't think he'd ever seen a more beautiful sight. Her shoulders and the upper curves of her
breasts were bared, the veil she still wore framing them. More than anything he wanted to see her in that veil…and nothing else. He backed her toward the bed until she had no choice but to sit on the edge. Reaching beneath the voluminous skirts of her gown, he removed her shoes, followed by her thigh-high stockings. It amused him to no end to discover that she also wore a pretty little garter decorated in lace, seed pearls and tied with a sassy red bow. She acknowledged his raised eyebrow with a smile every bit as sassy.

Next, he coaxed her out of her gown, leaving her bared to his gaze except for two small scraps of ivory. He waited, waited for the hesitation, for the reluctance for him to proceed any further. But it never came. Taking it as tacit permission, he removed her bra and panties. Then, he rocked back on his heels, studying her with a warm smile.

“You are a picture,
mia adorata.
But I have to say the veil is the perfect touch.”

For some reason, either his use of the Italian endearment or his gentle humor, she relaxed. She even managed a flirtatious expression. “Do you want me to wear it to bed?”

The fact that she'd accepted that they would be sleeping together caused something deep and powerful to seize him by the throat. “Not tonight,” he replied gruffly.

Draco removed the veil and set it safely aside. Then, one by one he plucked the pearl-tipped pins from her hair so that the curls tumbled down across her shoulders and back. He eased her against the pillows, while gardenia petals scattered across the crisp cotton linens, releasing their sweet scent into the air.

His woman. His wife. Mother of his child. He leaned in and stole a kiss, a soft, easy caress. Then he took another, a more passionate one this time. She returned the first. But she dove into the second, nipping at his lower lip. Tugging at it.
Then her tongue mated with his in a dance he hoped would never end.

Unable to resist, he cupped her breast, tracing the sensitive nipple and swallowing her moan of pleasure. He lowered his head and caressed the tip of one with tongue and teeth, then the other, pleased when they swelled and peaked, signaling the desperate want that flowed through her.

“Draco,” she moaned. “We shouldn't.”

But he didn't stop, couldn't stop, and her protest drifted into a sigh of pure bliss. Lifting toward his seeking mouth, she offered herself to him. He dined on her as though she were the most succulent of morsels, a banquet of delicious textures and flavors. He found his way to the taut mound of her belly and tickled the baby, getting a rapid series of kicks in response. He drew back in surprise, unable to conceal his delight.

“He's feisty,” Draco said.

“You should have seen what happened when I rested my teacup and saucer on my belly. He must have thought it was too hot because he kicked it right off.”

Draco covered his child with a widespread hand before kissing his wife again, allowing her to taste his joy. It felt like three hearts linked into one thundering beat. Perhaps they weren't quite in synch. Not yet, anyway. But their rhythm would join together before much longer and the song would be beyond compare.

He deepened their kiss and Shayla shifted beneath him, her breath quickening, filling the air with the sweetest of moans. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough, but he didn't dare make love to her the way he longed to, even though the doctor had given them permission. Despite that, he was determined to make the night as romantic as possible.

Gently, oh, so gently, he cupped the source of her pleasure. He breached the soft folds and scraped his fingers over and
in, offering her teasing forays and tempting swirls and dips. She shuddered in reaction and her breath hitched, then gave. With each new touch the breath sobbed from her lungs and she lifted herself toward him, urging him on.

It ended all too soon. She stiffened within his hold and cried out as her release tore through her. Draco gathered her close, just holding her. He felt her tears through his dress shirt and murmured ridiculous reassurances in both English and Italian.

“Shh, now. It's all going to work out.”

She opened her eyes, and he could see the dazed satisfaction mingling with her tears. “I didn't think I wanted you to make love to me. But I did. I do. It's just been so long since…” She broke off with a shiver of pleasure.

He couldn't dispute it. In fact, he could tell her right down to the day and hour just how long it had been. But her concession gave him hope. “You're right. It has been a long time. I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner, Shayla.”

She relaxed against him and he watched as exhaustion overcame passion and sleep slipped across her face and into her body. No matter how hard she fought to hold it at bay, it waged a war she couldn't win. Little by little it stole the tension from her so she melted into his arms as though she belonged. Which, of course, she did, even if she didn't realize it yet.

Her eyes fluttered open before falling closed again. “Draco?” she murmured.

“I'm right here, sweetheart.”

“Don't leave me.”

“Never. You might disappear if I do and I don't think I could survive losing you again,” he teased, though he could hear an element of raw honesty underscoring the words.

“I don't want to leave you.”

He closed his eyes and faced facts. “But you're afraid to
stay. Afraid you'll be trapped in the dragon's lair and never be free again.”

She didn't answer.

But then, there
was
no answer, just an undeniable truth that cut him to the very core.

 

He never knew what woke him. One minute he was sound asleep and the next, painfully alert. He groped for his wife, aware on some level that it was a futile effort. She wasn't in the bed.

He shot upright. “Shayla?” Her name escaped sharp as a report.

“I'm here.” He vaguely made out her shape somewhere between the bed and the bathroom. He caught the fear in her voice, a fear mingled with some other emotion. Excitement? “Draco, I think my water just broke.”

He shot out of bed and reached her side in two running strides. “Okay, take it easy.” He gripped her arms, supporting her. “Aren't we supposed to go to the hospital when that happens?”

“No.” She broke off with a quick gasp. “Oh. Oh, my.”

He hung on tight, fighting to gather up every ounce of self-control he possessed in order to keep his voice low and even. “Labor pain?”

It took her a full half minute to answer. “Yes.”

He debated the safety of releasing her long enough to flip on the overhead light. Decided to chance it. He made it to the door and back in two seconds flat and wrapped a supportive arm around her. “Do you need help dressing?”

She blinked at him in bewilderment. “Why should I get dressed? I just need a nightie.”

Maybe labor affected normal brain processes. “You're going to wear a nightie to the hospital?” he questioned with impressive restraint.

She smiled, ridiculously tranquil given the circumstances. “Relax, Draco. It's not like the baby's going to pop out onto the bedroom floor.”

Somehow she'd read his mind, considering he'd been thinking just that. He also wanted to believe her, but… “Better safe than sorry. We should go
now
.”

“Don't you remember what Dr. Henderly said? We don't leave for the hospital until I'm in active labor.” She escaped his grasp and crossed the room. “What I plan to do is go change and then climb back into bed for another hour or two while we time the contractions. Once I'm certain I'm actually in labor, we'll call the doctor.”

He vaguely remembered Henderly saying something similar at their appointment—hell, was it only yesterday? He beat back the overwhelming urge to sweep his wife up in his arms and cart her off to the hospital, regardless of protocol. He needed to act, not laze around in bed.

But over the next two hours, that's precisely what they did. Just when he was on the brink of insanity, Shayla agreed to call the doctor and alert her to recent events. He could have roared in relief. Then Shayla proceeded to get up and dress as though it were any other day of the week.

All through the morning he watched his wife like a hawk while going silently mad. Finally, unable to stand it for another second, he slipped out onto the deck—while Shayla mopped a perfectly clean kitchen floor—and called Sev.

He didn't bother with a greeting. “She's in labor and won't go to the hospital,” he announced.

“Have you called the doctor?”

“Of course I've called the doctor!” he snapped. “Do you think I'm an imbecile?”

Dead silence met his question, then Sev chuckled. “A subject in need of long and serious debate. But perhaps we
should save that for a more convenient time and stick to the issue at hand. How far apart are her contractions?”

“Every twenty minutes or so.”

“She's in early labor,” Sev explained. Maybe Draco would have taken it better if he hadn't heard the exact same thing from Shayla at least a dozen times over the course of the last several hours. “You never know how long that's going to last with a first baby. When she gets to four or five an hour for a couple hours straight, load her into the car whether she's ready to leave or not.”

Finally. An action plan. “Okay. Now you're talking. I can do that.”

“So is she vacuuming or dusting?”

Draco shot a hand through his hair, standing it on end. “She's mopping the damn floor! I mean, what's
with
that?”

Sev chuckled. “Yeah, I drew the line when Francesca decided to scrub the bathtub.”

“Got it. No bathtubs,” he muttered. “I'm telling you, Sev, they need manuals for this stuff. And by that I mean
man
uals.”

“Tell me about it. Francesca was the first to give birth, remember? I didn't have anyone I could call.” After filling Draco's head with that horrifying image, Sev added, “Why don't I alert the troops for you?”

He hesitated. “Are they likely to come over?”

“The women will, for sure.”

Draco shuddered. Not a chance in hell. “Wait until we leave for the hospital. I'll give you a call on the way and you can send out the alert.”

“No problem.”

Snapping closed his cell phone, Draco returned inside. He found his wife bent low over the kitchen counter, her hands fisted on the edge in a white-knuckled grip. He instantly
came up behind her and rubbed her back, gently talking her through the contraction.

The instant it eased, he asked, “How many is that in the past hour?”

She checked the notebook she'd been using to keep track. “Five.”

Son of a bitch! Five? They were at three just a short time ago. What the hell happened to four? At this rate she really would pop their son out onto the floor. Maybe that explained the mopping.

“Time to go,” he insisted. “Better to be too early than too late, and with tourists overrunning the city this time of year, traffic is always bad.”

To his relief, she didn't argue, though she tested his last shred of sanity by insisting on putting away the various and sundry cleaning products she'd pulled out. The next few hours passed in a haze. He vaguely remembered the drive to the hospital, followed by the check-in procedure. Then a nurse showed up and asked ridiculous questions in order to determine his wife's status. Couldn't she just look at Shayla and see she was in labor? Did they really need to sit there and play twenty thousand questions?

But that wasn't the worst part. Hell, no. The worst part was the endless hours of witnessing Shayla's progression from those early contractions to the ones that had her moaning in agony and clutching his hand in a bone-cracking grip while he watched on, utterly helpless. Of watching the monitors that peaked with each contraction and never came down so that he ended up flat-out lying to her, telling her it had stopped and to rest before the next one hit. By that time she was so far gone, she couldn't even tell the difference between pain and the absence of it. All the while, he told her how and when to breathe, mopped her brow with a damp washcloth
and practically drove his fist through her spine because she wanted him to massage her lower back longer and harder.

“Back pain,” the nurse murmured sympathetically.

When the doctor finally decided Shayla could start pushing, Draco wanted to fall on his knees and offer hosannas…right up until he saw firsthand the struggle it took her to push something the size of a Hummer through an opening no larger than the eye of a needle. Somehow, though, she did it. And it wasn't a Hummer that slid into the world, but his son who emerged with a squall loud enough to crack plaster.