“Then I’ll marry you. As many times as you like.”
He kissed her awhile before she drew back. “This baby’s the last one, I swear. I’m getting my tubes tied.”
“If you want to keep having babies, it’s okay with me. We can afford a few more.”
“Five’s gonna do me. I always wanted five.” She nibbled at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you’re not mad about this baby.”
“It was never the baby. You know that now.” He touched her face. “I hate being so insecure.”
“I thought I’d driven you away.”
He followed the line of her jaw with his thumb. Her lips were puffy from their kisses, and he suspected his were, too. “We’re not taking any more chances, okay? Marriage counseling every six months, whether we need it or not. And I still think we should let Isabel know that we refuse to work with any shrink but her.”
“She’ll figure it out when we show up on her doorstep twice a year.”
They’d reached the bedroom, and they were ready to get down to the serious business of making out. At first they kept their mouths closed, but that didn’t last for long. When her lips went slack, he pressed his advantage, slipping his tongue into the honey-sweet recess of her mouth. They played that way for a while, but it wasn’t enough. His hand grew greedy, and he curled his palm around her breast. “From the waist up,” he whispered.
“Waist up is fair.”
He slipped her top over her head. She was studying his face as he unclasped her bra. She’d told him she never got tired of looking at him.
Her breasts fell free, and his mouth went dry as he gazed down at her swollen nipples. He knew they were tender, just as he knew she liked having them touched anyway. He remembered her shock when she saw how high her pregnancy breasts ranked on his turn-on list. It had never occurred to him to tell her. He’d assumed she would have figured it out from the way he couldn’t keep his hands off them.
She made a throaty exclamation as he dropped his head to suckle. Then she slipped her hand between his legs. “Oops. I lose.”
His control broke, and their clothing flew. She gave him a hard shove, and he fell back on the bed. Her hair tumbled in an inky cloud over one shoulder as she mounted him, and then she lifted a bit so he could have the access she knew he craved. He stroked her with his fingers, moving up and down the wet, musky valley before he delved inside.
The memory of what they’d almost lost made them fierce. He touched her everywhere, and she did the same to him. They gazed into each other’s eyes, treasuring what they saw.
“I love you forever,” he whispered.
“And ever,” she whispered back.
Then their bodies found a perfect rhythm, and speech became impossible. Together they tumbled into the beautiful darkness.
20
The villa’s two-hundred-year-old dining room table groaned with food. Ornate oval platters offered up a roast leg of lamb as well as guinea hens stuffed with garlic and sage. Escarole leaves fried a golden brown held a pungent cargo of pine nuts, olives, anchovies, and raisins, while slivers of pancetta flavored a simple bowl of green beans. Fresh loaves of pane toscano spilled from a basket lined with antique linen towels bearing the family crest.
Despite the room’s grand arches and religious frescoes, the atmosphere was informal. The Briggs children chased tiny meat ravioli around their plates and stuffed themselves with wedges of homemade pizza. Ren demanded a second helping of the chestnut pasta, and Isabel indulged in an extra slice of polenta, grilled crisp on the outside but soft and steaming inside. There were creamy wedges of pecorino, chocolate-dipped figs, and wine-a lively red from their own vineyard and a fruity white Cinque Terre.
Ren was inherently Italian, therefore a man who enjoyed a good party, and he’d used the Briggs family’s impending departure the next morning as an excuse to invite company for dinner. Vittorio and Giulia sat at the table, along with the various members of Massimo and Anna’s family. Dr. Andrea Chiara was noticeably absent, even though Isabel had suggested he be invited.
Massimo talked about the vendemmia, the grape harvest that would begin in two days, while Anna and Marta jumped up and down to bring more food to the table. No one spoke of the statue. They’d finished searching the olive grove with the metal detectors and turned up nothing.
“You are always so nice to her,” Giulia said quietly to Isabel, so that Tracy, who was at the other end of the table, wouldn’t overhear. “If she had been Vittorio’s wife before me, I would hate her.”
“Not if Vittorio had tried to get rid of her as hard as Ren did,” Isabel replied.
“Even so…” Giulia flicked her hand. “Ah, I am not fooling you, I know. It is my jealousy that makes me not like her. Some women, they get pregnant just by looking at a man. Even Paolo’s granddaughter Josie is pregnant again.”
“I was with the children when you told Ren you’d spoken with her. What did she say?”
Giulia picked at a bread crust. “That she’s pregnant. Her second.” She gave Isabel a watery smile. “Sometimes I think everybody else in the world is pregnant. It makes me feel sorry for myself, which is not a good thing.”
“She didn’t know anything about the statue?”
“Very little. It wasn’t so easy for Josie to talk with Paolo after her mother died, because her Italian is not very good. But they still kept in touch, and he always sent her gifts.”
“Gifts? Do you think-”
“No statue. I asked, especially after she said she had a hard time getting pregnant with her first baby.”
“It might be good to have a list of everything he sent. There could be a clue somewhere. A map tucked in a book, a key-something.”
“I did not think of that. I will call her back tonight.”
“Potty!” Connor shrieked from his booster seat at the bottom of the table just as an apple cake appeared.
Harry and Tracy jumped up at once.
“I want man!” He jabbed his finger at Ren, who grimaced.
“Gimme a break, dude. Go with your dad.”
“Want you!”
Tracy flapped her arms like a frantic chicken. “Don’t argue with him. He’ll have an A-C-I-D-E-N-T.”
“He wouldn’t dare.” Ren gave the toddler his death glare.
Connor plopped his finger in his mouth and chuckled.
Ren sighed and gave in to the inevitable.
“It took him a while to get the idea, but he potty-trained in a day,” Tracy bragged to Fabiola as Ren carried Connor from the table. “I guess after four kids you finally figure out how to get the job done.”
Ren snorted from the next room.
One hour slipped into the next. A throat-searing grappa appeared along with a sweeter vinsanto for dipping the hazelnut-studded cantucci. The breeze coming in through the open doors had turned chilly, but Isabel had left her sweater at the farmhouse when she’d moved her things back that morning. She rose and touched Ren’s shoulder, briefly interrupting his discussion with Vittorio about Italian politics. “I’m going upstairs to borrow one of your sweaters.”
He nodded absentmindedly and returned to the conversation.
The villa’s master bedroom held dark, heavy furnishings, including a hand-carved wardrobe, gilded mirrors, and a bed with four fat posts. Yesterday afternoon she and Ren had stolen an hour between those posts while the Briggs family had gone sight-seeing. As a little shiver passed through her, she considered the possibility that she might be turning into a sex addict. But she knew that it was more likely an addiction to Lorenzo Gage.
She headed for the dresser, only to stop short as she spotted something on the bed. She moved closer to see what it was.
Ren had drunk more than enough wine, so he passed on the grappa. He intended to be sober tonight when he got down and dirty with Dr. Isabel. He felt as if a giant clock had begun ticking over their heads, counting off the time they had left. In less than a week he had to leave for his meetings in Rome, and not long after, he’d be going for good. He looked around for her, then remembered that she’d gone to his bedroom to borrow one of his sweaters.