The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding(78)

By: Jennifer Blake

He looked up as she entered, his brows raised in surprise. She had not been in the room since the afternoon he asked her to marry him, had never interrupted him at his work. She did so now without compunction. Closing the door behind her, she walked toward him.

“Is something wrong, cara mia?”

“Everything is fine,” she said with a wry smile for the truth of the words.

“I left you planning a wedding. Is there a problem? Carita is well, and Carisa?”

“They are fine.”

“And you, carissima? Was there something you required?”

She rounded the desk, reached to take the pen he held from his hand and toss it aside. Lifting his arm, she put it around her waist. “Si,” she said, “You once said I should learn Italian. I believe I require a lesson now.”

A wary light appeared in his eyes. “Davvero?”

“Davvero,” she said firmly. “Though I believe it would be better to have it after I have climbed into your lap.”

“Ah,” he said. “I seem to remember that you threatened that once.”

“I did, and now the time has come.”

“Dio, I thought never to see it,” he breathed, his eyes turning dark. Rolling back in his office chair, he drew her across his knees, within the steady circle of his arms. “Now,” he said, his voice gruff. “This lesson?”

She settled herself, something not easily done when the place where she was sitting seemed to have a growing, too firm ridge at its center. Sliding one arm around his neck she toyed with the buttons of his shirt. “Translate a few words for me, if you please.”

“With pleasure.”

“First, carissima.”

“Dearest one.”

“And tesoro mio?”

“My treasure.”

“Nice,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I’m happy you approve.”

“Yes. Then — then ti amo.”

“I love you,” he repeated in English, his voice as soft and uneven as crushed velvet. “And next, innamorato?”

“Innamorato?” she asked. He had said that one to her many times as well.

“You’re the one with whom I am in love, mi sono innamorato di te. There is no single word in English.”

“Is that really what they mean, all these things?”

“Do you doubt me?”

Her smile was shaky at the edges and moisture blurred her vision. “No, never.”

“Bene. So?”

“So,” she said, drawing a deep sustaining breath, I can now say ti amo, innamorato.”

His face turned grave, though the light in his eyes was incredibly tender. “Innamorata,” he corrected, emphasizing the final vowel. “A small change as you are a woman but I am a man.”


“And — and you will marry me, Tesoro mio?”

“Si, si, certo. Ti amo, Nico, sono innamorata. Bene?”

“Molto, molto bene,” he whispered against her lips. “Perfetto.”

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