being mistaken for friendship. But the only artist she mentioned often was TK.
For a while, Tino had been worried his mother had developed a tendre for the male artist. However, when he had mentioned his concern to his father, Rocco Grisafi had laughed until tears came to his eyes. Tino had drawn the conclusion that clearly there was nothing to worry about.
“That’s hardly my fault, Tino.”
“I did not say it was.”
“You implied it by asking why I didn’t tell you.”
What was it with her tonight and this taking apart everything that he said? “You are apparently very close to both my mother and my son and yet you never once mentioned seeing or talking to them.”
“You always discourage me from discussing your family, Tino.”
It was true, but for some reason, the reminder bothered him. Probably because everything was leaving him feeling disconcerted tonight. “I did not think they had a place in our combined life.”
“We don’t have a combined life, do we, Tino?” She was looking at him again and he almost wished she wasn’t.
There was such defeat and sadness in her eyes.
“I do not understand what has changed between us?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all has changed between us.”
“Then why are you sad?”
“Perhaps because I thought it had.”
Why had she believed this?
“You were under the impression I wanted you to come for dinner tonight,” he said, understanding beginning to dawn. Clearly she had liked the idea. Learning differently had hurt her. Even though he had not meant for this to happen, he had to take some responsibility for the outcome.
She nodded, silent, her lovely red hair swaying against her shoulders. He had the wholly inappropriate—considering the gravity of their discussion—urge to run his fingers through the familiar silky strands. Worse, he knew he did not want to stop there.
Focus, he must focus.
“It is not good for Giosue to be exposed to my lovers.”
“I understand you think that.”
“It is the truth.”
She said nothing.
He could not leave it there. The compulsion to explain—to make her understand—was too great. “When our relationship ends, he will be disappointed. Already he has expectations that cannot be fulfilled.”
“I’m his friend.”
“He wants you to be his mother.”
“And you don’t.”
“No.” It was a knee-jerk response, the result of ingrained beliefs since his wife’s death.
Shocked to realize he wasn’t sure he meant it. With that came grief—a sense of loss that made no sense and was something he was not even remotely willing to dwell on.
“Because I’m not Sicilian.”
“Because our relationship is not a love affair.” But was that true?
How could it be anything else when he could not love her? He had promised Maura that he would love her always. Her sudden death had not negated that pledge.
“I thought we were friends, too.”
“We are friends.” Friendship he could do—was necessary even.
“But not sweethearts.”
His heart twinged, making his tone come out more cynical than he meant it to. “What an old-fashioned term.”
She shrugged. “It’s one Tay used to use.” She said the dead man’s name with a wistfulness that he did not like.
“I gather he was an unusual man.”
“Yes. He was. One of the best, maybe even the best man I ever knew.”
“But he is gone.”
“Yes, just as Gio’s mother is gone.”
“Maura will never be gone from my heart.”
“No, she won’t, but are you so sure your heart has no room for anyone else?”
“That is not a discussion you and I should be having.” It was one he frankly could not handle.
A Sicilian man should be able to handle anything. Even the death of his wife and raising his child without a mother. But most definitely any conversation with his current mistress. The fact that he could not shamed him.
“Because we agreed that sex and friendship was enough?” she asked in a voice husky with emotion.
“Yes.”
“And if it isn’t any longer…for either of us?”
That could not be true. He would not allow it to be. “Do not presume to speak for me.”
“Fine. What if I am only speaking for myself?”
“Then we would need to talk about whether what we have is still working.” It was not a discussion he wanted to have. He was far from ready to let her go.
She nodded and turned from him. “I think it’s time I was going.” She was hurting, for all that she tried to hide it.
“No.” He hated the melancholy in her voice.
He hated the sense that somehow it was his fault. He hated thinking of going to bed alone after spending the whole evening in her company. Even worse, he hated feeling as if he might lose her and really hated how much that bothered him.
Perhaps he could erase her sorrow while easing his own fears. He was a big proponent of the win-win business proposition. It was even better when applied to personal relationships.
Before she could take more than a couple of steps, he reached out and caught her shoulder.
“Tino, don’t.”
“You do not mean that, carina.” He drew her back toward his body. He could not imagine doing the opposite—pushing her away.
Yet he knew he could not hold on to her forever. One day she would tire of life in Sicily—so different from her home—and would return to America. Wasn’t that what all American women did eventually?
Faith was currently the only single American woman he knew who was making a go of actually living permanently in Sicily. For all its charm, Marsala was a far cry from New York or London.
That only meant they should not waste the time they did have. “We are good together. Do not allow tonight to change that.”
“I need more, Tino.”
“Then I will give you more.” He was very good at that.
“I’m not talking about sex.”
He turned her to face him and lowered his head so his lips hovered above hers. “Let’s not talk at all.”
Then he kissed her. He would show her that they were too right together to dismiss their relationship because it wasn’t packaged in orange blossoms and meters of white tulle.
She fought her own response. He could feel the tension in her, knew she wanted to resist, but though she might want to, she was as much a slave to their mutual attraction as he. Her body knew where it belonged. In his arms.
But her brain was too active and she tore her lips from his. “No, Tino.”
“Do not say no. Say rather, ‘Make love to me, Tino.’ This is what I wish to hear.”
“We’re supposed to be exclusive.”