Isabel and Ren lay naked together outside on the thick comforter, where they kept each other warm in the chilly night air. She gazed up at the sputtering candles in the chandelier that hung from the magnolia tree. He brushed her hair with his lips. “Too heavy for you?”

“Mmm . . . In a minute.” Funny, but lying beneath him didn’t bother her at all. Odd to feel so safe with such a dangerous man.

“Just for the record—that one sexual hang-up you used to have? I think we can safely say it’s a thing of the past.”

She smiled into his hair. “I was just trying to be polite.”

“Do unto others?”

“A philosophy I try to live by.”

He chuckled.

She trailed her fingers along his spine. He turned his lips into the pulse at her wrist, then nudged her bangle. “You always wear this.”

“It’s a reminder.” She yawned and traced the outline of his ear with her index finger. “ ‘Breathe’ is engraved inside.”

“A reminder to stay centered, I remember. I still think it sounds boring.”

“Our lives are so hectic that it’s easy to lose our serenity. Touching the bangle keeps me calm.”

“It would have taken a lot more than a bracelet to keep me calm tonight. And I’m not just talking about the last hour on this blanket.”

She smiled. “The porcini weren’t completely ruined.”

“Just about.”

He eased off her. She propped herself on an elbow and trailed her fingers across the hard landscape of his chest. “Your spaghetti al porcino was the best thing I ever tasted.”

“It would have been even better an hour earlier. They’ve been fighting for months. I don’t know why they decided they had to go into marriage counseling tonight.”

“They needed some emergency triage. I’m not really a marriage counselor.”

“You’re sure not. You made them swear on their children’s lives not to have sex.”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“Pretty hard to go deaf when you’re in the next room and everybody keeps telling you not to leave.”

“We were hungry, and we were afraid you’d take our dinner with you. Physical communication is easy for them. It’s the verbal that’s causing them trouble, and they need to concentrate on that right now. They looked happy during dinner, didn’t they?”

“As happy as two people can look who know they aren’t going to get any for a while. And aren’t you afraid those lists you told them to make will only stir things up again?”

“We’ll see. One thing I didn’t have a chance to mention to you—and I think you’ll be happy about this . . .” She nibbled on his shoulder, not just to be manipulative, although that was part of it, but because it was right there in front of her and looked particularly tasty. “We’re going to live together for a while.”

He lifted his head far enough to regard her suspiciously. “Before I start dancing the tango, let me hear the rest of it.”

The chandelier above their heads swayed in the night breeze. She used the tip of her finger to trace a ripple of shadow that meandered across his chest. “I’m moving into the villa tomorrow morning. Just for a few days.”

“I’ve got a better idea. I’ll move down here.”

“Actually . . .”

“You didn’t!” He sat up so fast he nearly knocked her over. “Tell me you didn’t invite those two neurotics to stay in this farmhouse.”

“Only for a few days. They need privacy.”

“I need privacy. We need privacy.” He fell back onto the comforter. “I’m going to kill you. Really. This time I’m going to do it. Do you have any idea how many ways I know to take a human life?”

“Quite a few, I’m sure.” She slid her hand down over his stomach. “But I’m hoping you’ll find something more productive to do.”

“I’m cheap, but I’m not that easy.” His breath caught.

“You sound easy.” She let her fingers move lower, until they located a particularly sensitive region.

He groaned. “Okay, I’m cheap and easy. But let’s try it on a bed this time?” He caught her head as she pressed her lips to his stomach. “We definitely need a bed.” He moaned.

She nuzzled his navel. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“You’re killing me, Doc. You know that, don’t you?”

“And I haven’t even shown you my vicious streak.”

 

Ren spent the next day trying to talk Harry and Tracy out of staying at the farmhouse, but he had no luck. His only satisfaction lay in the last-minute lecture he inadvertently witnessed Isabel giving them.

“Remember,” she said, just as he walked into the room at the villa that was supposed to be his office, “no sex. The two of you have a lot of work to do first. That’s why I’m offering you the farmhouse. So you have time alone every evening to talk without any interruptions.”

Ren backed into the hallway, but not before he saw Tracy give Harry a longing glance. “I guess,” he heard her say. “But you have no idea how hard this is. Don’t you think—”

“No, I don’t.” Isabel’s voice trailed after him. “Sex has allowed the two of you to mask your problems. It’s easier to get it on than talk it out.”

He winced. “Get it on.” Why did she have to put it that way? Less than two weeks ago she’d talked about sex being sacred, but she’d loosened up a lot since then. Not that he was complaining. He loved her responsiveness. He loved the way she enjoyed him, enjoyed them. At the same time, though, something about her attitude was beginning to stick in his craw.

He was being unreasonable, and he knew it. Maybe he had a guilty conscience. Not telling her about the change in the Night Kill script bothered him, and the fact that he felt guilty about it bothered him even more. Isabel had nothing to do with his career, nothing to do with him beyond the next few weeks. She was the one who’d spelled out the terms, and she’d been right, as usual. This was only about sex.

When it came right down to it, they were using each other. He was using her for companionship, for entertainment. He was using her to help him deal with Tracy and to work through his guilt over Karli. And, God knew, he was using her for sex, but that didn’t qualify as a sin in the Book of Isabel.

Damn it, he didn’t want to hurt her, not when he already had more sins on his soul than she could imagine—the drugs, the women he’d treated so callously, all the debris of his early years that still left a slimy trail behind him wherever he went. Sometimes when she gazed at him with those innocent eyes, he wanted to remind her that he didn’t know how to play the good guy, but he never said a word, because he was a selfish son of a bitch and he didn’t want her to walk away. Not yet. Not until he’d gotten what he needed and was ready to let her go.

One thing was certain: As soon as she found out about the new script and Kaspar Street’s twisted desire for little girls, she’d be on her way out the door, and right before she got there, Ren had a feeling all four of those Cornerstones were going to be dropped on his head.

After dinner Tracy told the kids that she and Harry would be back in time for breakfast and that Marta would take care of them if they needed anything during the night. Ren spent the rest of the evening feeling resentful. He wanted Isabel in a bedroom that didn’t have half a dozen people lurking outside the door. Instead, she’d excused herself and gone off to make notes on her book.

He headed for his office and tried to work on a character study of Street, but he couldn’t concentrate. He lifted some weights and played with Jeremy’s GameBoy for a while. Then he took a walk that didn’t do a damn thing to work off his sexual frustration. Finally he gave up and went to bed, only to end up punching his pillow and cursing the senior Briggses, who were curled up in the farmhouse bedroom where he and Isabel should be.

Eventually he drifted off, but he hadn’t been asleep for long before something warm cuddled next to him. It was about time. He loved to touch Isabel’s bare skin while she slept. He smiled and drew her close— But something was very wrong. His eyes flew open, and he sat upright with a yelp.

Brittany’s face puckered. “You yelled. Why’d you yell?” She lay curled on top of the covers, naked as a jaybird.

“You cannot sleep here!” he croaked.

“I heard a noise. I’m scared.”

Not half as terrified as he was. He started to jump out of bed, then remembered she wasn’t the only one naked. He grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around his waist.

“You’re too wiggly,” she protested. “I’m sleepy.”

“Where’s your nightgown? Never mind.” He tucked the sheet around her so tightly she looked like a mummy, then picked her up.

“You’re squishing me! Where we goin’?”

“To see the good fairy.” He tripped over his blanket and almost dropped her. “Shit.”

“You said—”

“I know what I said. And if you repeat it, your tongue’ll fall out.” Somehow he managed to maneuver her through the door, down the hall, and into Tracy’s former bedroom without losing his blanket, but he made so much noise Isabel woke up.

“What . . . ?”

“She’s scared, she’s naked, and she’s all yours.” He dropped Brittany next to her.

“Who’s that?” Steffie popped up from Isabel’s other side. “Brit’ny?”

“I want Daddy!” Brittany wailed.

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” Isabel looked warm and tousle-haired. He’d never known a woman like her, one who was so unconscious of her sexual allure, although most men didn’t seem to be as aware of it as he was. Vittorio’s brother, the oily Dr. Andrea, saw it, though. He hadn’t fooled Ren one bit today when he’d shown up with that phony excuse about telling Isabel that they’d rounded up the metal detectors. Punk.

Her nightgown dropped low on one shoulder, revealing the rounded top of a breast that should, at that exact moment, have been in his hand. She nodded toward his blanket. “Nice skirt.”

He mustered his dignity. “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

As he headed back to his room, he reminded himself that he’d come to Italy to get away from everything. Instead, he was throwing a frigging house party and adding another black mark to his soul.

Right before dawn it got worse. He pried open his eyelids and saw a foot stuck in his mouth. Not his.

A tiny toenail dug into his bottom lip. He winced and tried to move, only to have the other foot punch him in the chin. Then he felt the damp spot by his hip. And how could life get any better than this?

Diaper Boy cuddled closer. So much for Marta’s taking over during the night. Ren weighed his options. Waking the kid meant a hassle, something Ren had no intention of dealing with at—he checked the clock—four in the morning. Resigned, he moved to dryer territory and willed himself back to sleep.

A few hours later he got a poke in the chest. “Want my daddy!”

The light filtering through his eyelids told him it was morning, but just barely. Where the hell was Marta? “Go back to sleep,” he mumbled.

“Want my mommy now!”

Ren gave in to the inevitable, opened his eyes, and finally understood the reason parents went through this. Diaper Boy looked cute as hell. His dark curls stuck up all over the place, and his cheeks were rosy from sleep. A quick check of the mattress showed no new wet spots. Which meant . . .

Ren jumped out of bed, whipped on a pair of shorts, and grabbed him. Connor gave a startled yowl. Ren hauled him like a potato sack to the bathroom.

“Want Jer’my!”

“No more BS, kid.” He gingerly pulled off the diaper, stared at it for a moment, then threw open the shutters and tossed it out the window. “Belly-up-to-the-bar time.” He pointed down at the toilet. “That’s the bar.”

Connor thrust his lower lip and scowled, looking exactly like his mother during most of her marriage to Ren. “Potty bad.”

“Tell somebody who cares.”

Connor screwed up his face. “I want my mommy!”

He flipped up the toilet seat. “Do your business, and then we’ll talk.”

Connor stared at him.

Ren offered his most heartless sneer.

Connor walked backward to the tub and climbed in.

Ren crossed his arms and leaned against the door.

Connor poked the faucet.

Ren scratched his chest.

Connor picked up the soap.

Ren inspected his fingernails. “You might as well cut out the BS, tough guy, because I’ve got all day.”

Connor gazed at the soap for a moment, then set it down and started to pee in the tub.

“No way.” Ren grabbed him under the arms and stood him in front of the toilet. “Right here. Right now.”

Connor craned his neck to look up at him.

“You heard me. Are you a man or a girl?”

Connor took his time thinking it over. He stuffed his finger up his nose, inspected his belly button. Then he peed in the toilet.

Ren grinned. “Way to go, dude.”

Connor grinned back, then started to run for the door, only to stop in his tracks. “Poopy!”

“Aww, man . . . you sure?”

“Poopy!”

“I could do without this, you know.” Ren picked him up, flipped the seat back down, and plunked him on top.

“Poopy!”

Sure enough . . .

When the kid was done, Ren held him under the tub faucet for a while, then headed for the bedroom, where he located a big safety pin and his smallest pair of stretch bikini briefs—a pair he seemed to remember Isabel admiring. He fastened them on the kid as best he could, then gave him the hairy eyeball. “These are mine, and if you get ’em wet, you’re going to regret it. Understand?”

Connor stuck his thumb in his mouth, bent his head to inspect, then gave a deep, satisfied chortle.

The briefs stayed dry.

 

The next few days fell into a routine. Harry and Tracy appeared around breakfast time to attend to the children. Ren and Isabel spent part of the morning at the farmhouse, where they helped the others begin the laborious task of sweeping the area with metal detectors. Afterward Isabel headed off with her notebook, and Ren went to meet Massimo in the vineyard.

Massimo had been growing grapes all his life, and he didn’t need any supervision, but Ren found something satisfying about strolling through the shady rows and feeling the hard clay soil of his ancestors beneath the soles of his shoes. Besides, he needed to get away from Isabel. He liked being with her too much for his own good.

Massimo gave him a grape to crush. “Are your fingers sticking together?”

“Not yet.”

“Still not enough sugar. Maybe two more weeks, and then we will be ready for the vendemmia.”

In the late afternoon, when Ren got back to the villa, he’d invariably find Jeremy hanging around waiting for him. The kid never said anything, but it hadn’t taken Ren long to figure out that he wanted to practice his martial-arts moves. The boy was smart and well coordinated, and Ren didn’t mind. Harry and Tracy were usually sealed away with Isabel for their daily counseling, but if the session ended in time, Harry liked to join them. Ren got a kick out of watching Jeremy teach his father what he’d learned.

Sometimes Ren found himself wondering how he’d have turned out if he’d had a father like Harry Briggs. Even Ren’s success hadn’t won his father’s approval. Being an actor, especially a successful one, was too public, too vulgar—this from the man who’d been married to Ren’s playgirl, pothead mother.

Fortunately, Ren had stopped caring about his father’s opinion a long time ago. There was nothing useful about having the approval of a man he’d never respect.

Anna began pestering him about holding a festa after the harvest was in. “This was done for many years when I was a girl. Everyone who helped with the vendemmia would come to the villa on the first Sunday after the grapes were picked. There would be much food and laughter. But your Aunt Philomena decided it was too much trouble, and the tradition ended. Now that you are living here, we can begin again, yes?”

“I’m only living here temporarily.” He’d been in Italy nearly three weeks. He had to go to Rome next week to meet with Jenks for a few days, and filming would start a couple of weeks after that. He hadn’t discussed any of this with Isabel—not the meeting in Rome nor how much longer he’d be staying at the villa—and she hadn’t asked. But then, why should she? They both knew that this was short-term.

Maybe he’d invite her to come with him. Seeing familiar sights through her eyes gave him a whole new view. Except he couldn’t invite her. All the disguises in the world wouldn’t keep some sharp-eyed paparazzo from spotting them, and being seen with him would finish off what little was left of her good-girl reputation. There was also the inescapable fact that she’d refuse to go along once she discovered what Night Kill was really about.

His resentment resurfaced. She’d never understand what this role meant to him, just as she refused to understand that it wasn’t some distorted image of himself he carried around that made him want to play bad guys. He simply couldn’t identify with heroes, and that didn’t have a freakin’ thing to do with his demented childhood. Well, not much anyway. And since when did someone who hired crooked accountants and got engaged to an asshole have the right to sit in judgment?

It was a wonder their affair hadn’t already fizzled out, although it was hard to picture anything simply fizzling where Isabel was concerned. No, when this affair ended, it would go out with a bang. The idea was so depressing that it took him a moment to realize Anna was still talking to him.

“. . . but this is your home now—your family’s home—and you will keep coming back. So we will hold the festa this year to begin a new tradition, yes?”

He couldn’t imagine coming back, not when Isabel wasn’t here, but he told Anna to go ahead with her plans.

 

“You’re not one of those people who thinks pregnant women don’t need sex, are you?” Tracy regarded Isabel accusingly. “Because if you are, take a good look at this man and tell me how any woman, pregnant or not, could resist him?”

Harry managed to appear both embarrassed and happy. “I don’t know about that. . . . But really, Isabel, it’s not necessary any longer. Definitely not necessary. We’ve had more than enough time to talk, and the lists you’ve asked us to make have been very helpful. I hadn’t quite realized . . . I just didn’t know . . .” A smile melted his face. “I never imagined all the ways she loves me.”

“And I had no idea he admired so many things about me. Me!” Tracy gave a shiver of delight. “I thought I knew everything about him, but I’d only scratched the surface.”

“Let’s give it a little longer,” Isabel said.

“What kind of marriage counselor are you?” Tracy retorted.

“No kind. I’m winging it. I told you that from the beginning. You’re the ones who insisted on this, remember?”

Tracy sighed. “We just don’t want to screw things up again.”

“Then let’s discuss today’s lists. Did each of you come up with twenty attributes the other one has that you wish you had yourself?”

“Twenty-one,” Tracy said. “I included his penis.”

Harry laughed, and they kissed, and the pang of envy Isabel felt made her ache. Marriage had its rewards for those who could survive the chaos.

 

“Hurry up! They’re gone.”

Isabel dropped her pen as Ren entered the villa’s rear salon, where she’d been sitting at a beautiful eighteenth-century desk writing a note to a friend in New York. Since the Briggs family had just left for dinner in Casalleone, she didn’t have to ask Ren whom he was talking about.

She reached down to pick up her pen, but he pulled her out of the chair before she could grab it. He’d been so moody lately, one minute acting as though he wanted to snap her head off, the next minute looking as he did now, full of devilry. The more she was with him, the more she sensed the battle he had going on inside him between the person he believed himself to be and the man who was no longer comfortable living inside his bad-guy skin.

He jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go. I figure we’ve got two hours before they come back.”

“Anyplace in particular?”

“The farmhouse. Too many people around here.”

They raced down the hill, through the door, and up the farmhouse stairs. As they got to the top, she pushed him toward the smaller bedroom. “Clean sheets.”

“Like that’s going to last for long.”

She pulled off her clothes while he locked the door, closed the shutters, and flipped on a lamp. Its low-wattage bulb cast the small room into shadow.

He tossed the contents of his pockets onto the nightstand and undressed. She lay on the narrow bed, then rolled to her side as he settled next to her. He nuzzled her neck and slipped off her bangle. “I want you completely naked for me.” Her nipples pebbled at the husky, possessive note in his voice. She shut her eyes as he buried his lips in the palm of her hand. He spoke against her skin. “Naked except for this . . .”

He reached toward the nightstand. Seconds later cold metal snapped around her wrist.

Her lids shot open, and she let out a squeal of alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Taking charge.” He snagged both wrists, the one that was free and the cuffed one, and drew them over her head.

“Well, stop it right now!”

“I’d rather not.” He fed the chain through one of the bars in the headboard, then clamped the free cuff to her other wrist.

“You handcuffed me to the bed!”

“I’m so rotten I even surprise myself sometimes.”

She tried to decide how upset she was, but couldn’t quite get a bead on it. “These are real handcuffs.”

“I had them FedExed.” He slid his lips along the underside of her arm, just above the armpit. As she strained against the cuffs, her skin prickled with delicious waves of response.

“Don’t you know there are rules for bondage?” She gasped as he found a nipple, drew it deep into his mouth, and sucked. “There’s a . . . protocol!”

“I’ve never paid much attention to protocol.”

He continued to abuse her poor, defenseless nipple, but she wouldn’t let herself succumb to the delicious tremors until she’d made her point. “You’re not ever supposed to use real handcuffs, only something that can be easily unfastened.” She suppressed a moan. “At the very least they should be padded. And your partner has to agree to being tied up—did I mention that?”

“I don’t believe you did.” He settled back on his heels, pushed her knees apart, and gazed down at her.

She licked her lips. “Well, I’m mentioning it now.”

His fingers played in the curls. “Duly noted.”

She caught her lip between her teeth as he opened her. “I did . . . ah . . . a research paper when I was working on my master’s.”

“I see.” The erotic timbre of his voice vibrated through her nerve endings. The motion of his thumb felt like a warm, wet feather stroking and probing. “You also need . . . a code word to use . . . ahhhh . . . if things go too far.”

“We can do that. I even have a few ideas.” He abandoned his caress too soon, moved up on her body, and whispered in her ear.

“They’re not supposed to be sexual words.” She slid her knee along his inner thigh.

“Now, what’s the fun of that?” He cradled her breasts, lifted and molded them in his hands, feasted.

She gripped the bars of the headboard. “They’re supposed to be words like ‘asparagus’ or ‘carburetor.’ I mean it, Ren. . . .” A moan slipped out before she could repress it. “If I say . . . ‘asparagus,’ it means you’ve . . . ahh . . . gone too far and you have to stop.”

“If you say ‘asparagus,’ I’m going to want to stop, because I can’t think of a bigger turn-off.” He pulled away from her breast. “Couldn’t you say something like ‘stud’? Or ‘stallion’? Or . . .” Once again he whispered in her ear.

“That’s sexual.” She shifted her thigh ever so slightly to rub against him. He was so hard she shivered. He brushed her armpit and made another suggestion. She strained against the cuffs. “Very sexual.”

“How about this?” His whisper changed to a dark purr.

“That’s obscene.”

“Great. Let’s use it.”

Her hips arched off the bed. “I’m using ‘asparagus.’ ”

Just like that, he abandoned her. He settled back on his heels between her splayed feet so their bodies were no longer touching, and waited.

Despite the diabolic glint in his eye, it took her a moment to get the point. When was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut? She searched for a bit of dignity, not easy to do in her current, vulnerable position. “You can disregard that.”

“Are you sure?”

And wasn’t he just Mr. Smug? “I’m sure.”

“Positive? In case you haven’t quite taken it in, you’re naked, handcuffed to the bed with no chance of rescue, and about to be violated.”

“Uh-huh.” She slid her knee higher on the bed.

He traced the soft curls with his thumb, enjoying the view. She felt his desire, burning as hot as her own, and heard the dark, husky note beneath his teasing. “I don’t just make my living abusing women, you know. I threaten everybody who represents truth, justice, and the American way. And—not to put too fine a point on it—your only protection from me is a vegetable.”

She moved her legs farther apart to show him she wasn’t entirely defenseless. At the same time she promised herself that when this was over, she wouldn’t rest until she’d used those handcuffs on him. Unless she missed her guess, he wouldn’t put up much of a struggle.

“I see what you mean.” His finger slipped inside her. “Now, be quiet so I can violate you.”

Which he did. Masterfully. First with his fingers and then with his body. Moving on top of her, pushing inside. Torturing her until she heard herself beg. At the same time she’d never felt safer or more cherished than now, a prisoner to his exquisite care.

“Not yet, sweetheart.” He gave her another fierce, possessive kiss and thrust deeper. “Not till I’m ready.”

He was more than ready. His muscles strained as though he were the one in bondage. This fierce pleasure was costing him even more than it was costing her. He sank deeper into the cradle of her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him. They moved together, cried out together . . .

The shackles that held them to the earth broke free. In the end he became as much a prisoner as she.

 

While he dozed, she slipped out of bed and picked up the handcuffs that lay on the floor along with the discarded key. She gazed down at him. His thick lashes formed spiky crescents against his cheekbones, and strands of dark hair fell over his forehead. The contrast between his exotic olive skin and the white of the sheets gave him the look of a gorgeous infidel.

She made her way to the bathroom, where she stuffed the handcuffs and key under a towel. She should have hated what he did to her, but she hadn’t, not for a moment. What had happened to the woman who needed to stay in control? Instead of feeling helpless and angry, she’d given him everything she had.

Including her love.

Her fingers constricted around the edge of the sink. She’d fallen in love with him. She stared at herself in the mirror, then dropped her eyes. Who wanted to look at someone that stupid? They’d barely known each other three weeks, yet she, the most cautious of women when it came to romantic relationships, had tumbled head over heels.

She splashed her face and tried to detach so she could consider the business of male-female attraction from a biological level. Early humans were attracted to their opposites as a method of ensuring that the strongest of the species survived. Some of that instinct still remained in most people, and obviously it still remained in her.

But what about her survival as a modern woman? What about her survival as a woman who’d been determined to engage in healthy relationships, a woman who’d vowed she’d never repeat her parents’ tempestuous patterns? Her affair with Ren was supposed to have been about claiming her sexuality and liberating it. Instead, she’d liberated her heart.

She stared glumly down at the soap dish. She needed a plan.

Right. As if any of her other plans had worked.

For now she simply wouldn’t let herself think about it. She’d go into total denial. Denial wasn’t always bad. Maybe if she didn’t dwell on her feelings, they’d disappear.

And maybe not.