The Marcelli Bride

“She will be completely covered and unrecognizable,” Paige said more calmly. “I will be with her every second. You can have agents in the church. But she’s going to that funeral.”

“Fine,” he said curtly. “Straight to the church and straight back. Nothing graveside, and I’ll post agents on the stairs so no one gets up to her floor during the wake.”

The victory surprised Paige. What had caused Alex to give in? She’d thought they’d have to fight a lot longer and she would have to threaten him with Darcy calling her father.

As it was, she was all charged up for a fight that had ended too soon. Lucky for her—there was still one more thing.

She moved in close again and glared at him. “Just so we’re all clear on this—don’t start something with me unless you intend to finish it. I’m not a toy, and this is not a game.”

Under other circumstances his bewilderment would have been amusing. Right now it just pissed her off.

“What on earth are you talking about?” he asked.

“Figure it out,” she told him, then stalked away.

The Catholic church closest to the Marcelli vineyards usually held three hundred. On a foggy, cool, Friday morning, nearly twice that many squeezed inside. Colleen had given Joe an idea of whom to expect. Even so, he was surprised to see so many unfamiliar faces.

Some were old—contemporaries of Lorenzo’s. Others were much younger. Distant relatives, employees, fellow vintners. A half a dozen politicians sat in the pews.

There had been over two hundred requests to speak at the funeral. Last night Colleen and her daughters had gone through them and picked thirty. Twenty would speak in the church, the other ten by the graveside.

Joe listened to the religious service, then to the first few mourners. He heard stories about a Lorenzo he had never known. In some ways the tales made the old man seem alive again.

Tessa sat next to him, with Marco beside her. She cried through the service, seeming to shrink with every minute that passed. Unable to stand her quiet tears, he put an arm around her and pulled her close.

She looked up at him. “Your grandfather was so proud of you,” she whispered from beneath her veil. “So proud.”

His grandfather. He’d never claimed that relationship with Lorenzo. Joe had been careful to avoid calling him by name, much as he did with Marco and Colleen and Tessa. Grammy M had escaped the name stigma because her title didn’t seem to be about any familial relationship.

There were too many people, Joe thought, wanting to bolt. He forced himself to stay in place, trying to think about other things. He felt Darcy’s presence in the church. She sat in the back, on the side, where she would be whisked away before the service ended. She’d insisted on coming, saying she wanted to be there for the family and for herself.

He knew in his head funerals were supposed to help. That the ceremony clarified the moment of death and allowed those still living to move on. It had never worked that way for Joe. He’d been to funerals of guys he’d worked with, and the pomp and circumstance had only pissed him off, as it did now.

Nic stood and walked to the front of the church. He nodded at Tessa and Marco, then introduced himself.

“I first met Lorenzo when I was ten. I’d walked over from Wild Sea to taste some of his grapes. I was a kid—what did I know?” Nic smiled sadly. “Lorenzo found me snooping and took me back to the winery, where we did some barrel tasting. He listened to my opinion and told me his. I was terrified, of course. He was a Marcelli and we weren’t supposed to get along, but he was kind that day and made me wish I could be a part of his family.”

Nic paused and stared into the crowded church. “Years later, I met and fell in love with his granddaughter Brenna. After a little complaining because I was a Giovanni, Lorenzo welcomed me into the family. And there I’ve stayed, grateful to have known him. He was a man bound by tradition, yet farsighted enough to see what the future would require of those around him. He has given us all room to succeed, while offering us a haven of support and caring.”

Joe let the words wash over him. Speaker after speaker spoke of a man Joe had barely allowed himself to know. He thought of all the times Lorenzo had pressed him to be part of the family, and of all the times Joe had refused. Lorenzo had wanted little more than a chance to get to know his grandson, but Joe had been determined to make sure that never happened.

Why? What was the point of disappointing an old man? What had he gained by resisting?

And now it was too late. He couldn’t go to Lorenzo and say he understood why he, Joe, had been sent away all those years ago. He couldn’t acknowledge that whatever his last name might be, Marcelli blood flowed in his veins. He couldn’t stop rejecting what had been offered because the man who refused to give up was finally gone.

Several hours later Joe moved through the crowded kitchen. The guests were being kept outside by a combination of family and Secret Service agents gently ushering them in that direction. Tessa held court over the stove, accepting the condolences of those who stopped by to see her and share stories. Colleen and Grammy M stayed close, while Marco, Francesca, Katie, and Mia circulated with the guests. Nic had taken Brenna home. She’d been inconsolable after the funeral, and with her due date so close, everyone had agreed she needed to rest.

For the first time, Joe felt out of place. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. Several family friends had spoken with him about his grandfather, but he hadn’t known what he should say in return. He had no stories to share, no fond memories. He’d spent the last three years resisting.

Finally he made his way to the back of the house and went upstairs. The agent on the landing nodded, then stepped aside to let Joe pass. He walked to Darcy’s room, knocked once, and entered when she called for him to come in.

She sat on her bed. The plain black dress was still in place, but she’d kicked off her shoes and removed the veil. Her skin was pale, her eyes large and filled with pain.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“That’s my question for you,” she told him as she stood and stepped toward him. “Are you okay?”

She wasn’t mad. Typical Darcy. She liked to act tough, but she was all heart.

“I’m getting through it.”

She studied his face, then touched her fingers to his cheeks. “I don’t think so.”

He swallowed. “I never told him it was okay. A couple of days before he died, he apologized to me for forcing Colleen and Marco to give me up for adoption. I never said I forgave him. He thinks I’m still mad at him for that.”

She pressed herself against him. “No, he doesn’t. He knows what’s in your heart, Joe.”

If only that were true. But in his book, it was a bunch of crap. “I never said I cared. I never admitted that I was one of them. A Marcelli. I wouldn’t say it. I wouldn’t even call him my grandfather.”

Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. He touched the moisture. “Hey, I’m the one who screwed up. Why are you crying?”

“Because you can’t.”

16

J oe couldn’t remember anyone ever crying for him. He didn’t know what to say, so instead of trying to speak, he bent down and kissed her.

The gesture was supposed to offer comfort and thanks, but the second his mouth brushed hers, heat exploded inside of him. The wanting was as instant as it was powerful. Need took over, making him grab her and pull her close.

Darcy responded by clinging to him, urging him on. She parted her lips, and when he slipped his tongue inside, she welcomed him.

Blood raced south, making him hard in a heartbeat. He reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. One long pull had it free. A quick tug at her shoulders and it fell down her arms, exposing her black lacy bra.

He pulled back enough to get a good look. Soft, pale skin, black lace, tight nipples. If he’d had thoughts about turning back, one eyeful took care of that. Still, there was enough sanity left for him to remember where he was and what was happening.

“What the hell am I thinking?” he asked, more of himself than of her.

“Don’t think,” she said. She lowered her arms and stepped out of the dress. Underneath she wore a pair of tiny, black panties, her bra, and nothing else. How was he supposed to resist that?

As he watched, she crossed to the door and turned the old-fashioned lock. Then she drew the curtains so the room was in semidarkness. She moved back in front of him and gently pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders.

“Allow me,” she whispered.

“Darcy,” he began, but she shook her head.

“No talking,” she told him. “No thinking. No analyzing. Just feel my touch. What I’m doing to you. Nothing else. Clear your mind.”

She loosened his tie and pulled it off, then went to work on his shirt buttons. He stood there, feeling strange and awkward, not sure what was going on. Oh, he understood they were both about to be naked, but this was different from his usual lovemaking, although he couldn’t say why.

There was something in her eyes, something in the way she seemed so solemn, yet determined. Something in her touch that kept him quiet and immobile.

When she’d tossed his shirt on the chair, she walked behind him and pressed her mouth to his back. He felt her tongue slip across an old scar.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Knife fight. I rolled when I should have ducked.”

She nipped the area, sending a jolt of fire right down to his crotch. She moved her hands to his waist, then to his chest, where she stroked him from shoulder to belly, getting close to his erection, but never touching him.

“And this one?” she asked before tonguing another spot on his back.

“Not a clue.” He picked up one of her hands and brought it to his mouth, where he bit down on the swell of flesh below her thumb and licked her palm.

“You can’t remember?” she asked, her voice breathless.

“I have a lot of scars.”

“So I see. Sit down and take off your shoes and socks.”

He stepped away and did as she requested. Then he stood again and removed his slacks and briefs. When he was naked, he turned toward her, waiting for more instructions.

Her gaze swept his body, pausing on his erection.

“Nice,” she said with a smile. “Lie down on your stomach.”

He did and watched as she slipped off her bra and panties. He had about two seconds to enjoy the view before she moved onto the bed, then straddled him just below his butt.

She leaned forward so the very tips of her breasts brushed across his back. The light touch drove him crazy, especially as she rocked her hips slightly, grinding his dick into the bed. It was just enough friction to be dangerous.

But he didn’t tell her to stop. Not when she kissed and nibbled her way across his shoulders.

“You’re so strong,” she whispered. “You carry so much weight and worry. You can let it go, just for a few minutes. Just for now.”

Under any other circumstances, he probably would have told her to keep her emotional mumbo jumbo to herself, but right then, the words made sense. He did want to give up the burden for a little while. To not think about anything except how she made him feel. But kisses on his shoulders and back weren’t going to get it done, despite how nice they were.

In one quick move, he flipped over. He grabbed her around the waist, keeping her in place. Only now her hot, wet center was directly on his.

She sighed. “That’s what I get for playing with an expert, huh?”

“Exactly.”

He could have pushed inside of her. A large part of his body wanted just that. To bury himself inside and let the feelings take him away. But not just yet, he thought, thinking about things he could do to her and how good they would feel.

So he stayed in place, and when she moved up his body so she could kiss him, he didn’t stop her.