Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
I start up again, but falter, embarrassed. But Antonio remains apparently entranced, so I find my way back to the song. I close my eyes because it’s too intense to look at him when I sing, and I think of the romantic story of Mimi and Rodolfo–their bohemian love at first sight.
As I sing, I wonder what it would’ve been like if I’d met Antonio that way–as a poor seamstress, free to fall in love with another artist. Free to follow my own desires and direction. To express myself creatively. With abandon.
When the aria ends, I open my balled fists and my eyes. Antonio surges to his feet, applauding.
“Bravo!” he practically shouts his praise. “Bravo, amore. Nobody told me.” He shakes his head, wonder lighting his whiskey-colored eyes.
My foolish heart beats as fast as a hummingbird’s. “Told you what?”
“You’re incredible.” He reaches for both my hands. “How did I not know? I learned everything about you.”
A hot flush of pleasure washes over me. I know it’s foolish. There’s no reason at all to feel flattered–he learned about me to best my father and steal me from my fiance. But I like hearing it, just the same. Or maybe I like having his large hands engulfing my smaller ones. His skin is even warmer than his gaze.
“My mother doesn’t like people to know. She thinks it’s too bohemian to be an artist. The Kings are supposed to be the patrons of the arts.”
Antonio cocks his head. “Why would anyone hide a talent so great from the world? It's a travesty.”
“Well, I don't know about that.” My gaze trips around the room, unsure where to land.
“Don't be modest.” He tips my chin up. His look is intent, as if his new mission in life is to champion my singing.
I don't hate it. I know this man tackles everything in life with a ferocity that can't be denied. Knowing he's behind me on something that means so much to me is a gift. It gives me wings.
Not that I plan to pursue a singing career. But just feeling Antonio's support shifts something that was locked inside me. A compartment there was never allowed to be opened has now had its lock sprung and the drawer drawn out.
“Dahlia, you were born to sing. God gave you a gift that can't be denied.”
I'm trembling now. Close to tears although I don't know why. It's like Antonio's prying open the recesses of my heart. I feel exposed and raw and vulnerable and yet terribly, painfully hopeful. Like the candle that was extinguished when I was a young girl has just been relit.
“I can't–I can't pursue singing or sing in public…”
“You’re a Beretta now. You’ll do as you please.”
More liquid warmth pours into my chest, spreading down my arms and legs.
But I reel myself in. I can't forget that I'm a prisoner on this yacht. This man may be my husband, but he's also my keeper.
I take a step back. “Do as I please? I hardly think so. Am I not your prisoner here?”
I regret the attack because something shutters behind Antonio's eyes.
“You must bend to my will, yes. But no one else’s.” There's a ring of honoring in the last sentence that again causes my candle wick to relight. As if Antonio would defend me against anyone who tried to stop me from doing something I wanted to do.
For a moment, I have a glimpse of what it’s like to have someone in my court–something I've never had before. It makes my knees weak with wonder.
“Come here, bella.” Antonio grips the edges of my towel and tugs me toward him. The edges come open, and he uses them to pull my body flush against his. He lowers his head slowly, as if giving me time to pull away, but I’m caught in his golden stare, unable to look away, greedy as always for whatever it is he’s about to offer.
He slants his lips across mine in a slow, deliberate kiss. His lips are soft. He tastes of expensive champagne.
I open my mouth to him, slide my tongue between his lips. My timid attempt awakens him, and he drops the towel, cradling the back of my head to kiss me deeply. He gives me teeth and tongue and bruising force. Flames lick between my legs, up my center, burning down my resistance. My resolve.
Antonio eases away. “Will you sing for me, beautiful?” His voice is a coaxing soft rumble. It’s a tone I haven’t heard from him before, and it makes me feel safe and special. Held.
“Yes.” The syllable comes easily.
I don’t sing for people because my mother didn’t like it, but I do know I’m decent. My college professors often gave me the solos in chorus, and I even got the lead in the musical Gigi once. I didn’t even tell my parents I was performing, and I used my middle name for the program, so it wouldn’t get back to the society pages in New York.