Passionate Calanettis. Cara Colter

wasn’t it? They were two strangers sharing a house. Naturally they would have questions.

      “Did you love your husband that much?” Connor asked. “That you are prepared to stay lonely forever? To grieve him forever?”

      “Yes,” she said. It came out sounding like a hiccup. “Where there is deep grief, there was deep love.”

      And something about the way she said that made his radar go up. He realized he didn’t believe her. It was none of his business. He ordered himself not to probe. He was, at heart, a soldier. He would always be a soldier. That’s what he did. He obeyed orders.

      So, why did he hear his own voice saying, in direct defiance of the command he had just given it, “Tell me about your husband.”

      It was not, as he would have liked himself to believe, to provide a distraction for her while he doctored her head.

      “No one, least of all not my very traditional family, understood my decision to marry him,” she said, sticking her chin up as if daring him to reach the same conclusion.

      “Why’s that?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully noncommittal.

      “He was very ill when we married. We knew he was going to die.”

      He had to work to keep his face schooled.

      “My mother was begging me, on the eve of my wedding, not to do it. She said, Life has enough heartbreak—you have to invite one by marrying a dying man?”

      It seemed to Connor her mother had a point, but he didn’t say anything. He pretended intense concentration on the small bump on her head.

      “Giorgio was part of the fabric of my life from the first day I started school.”

      Connor could just picture her starting school: little dark pigtails, a pinafore dress, knee socks and a scraped knee.

      Something that had never happened to him happened—he wondered what Isabella’s daughter would look like, if she had one someday. He felt it was a tragedy that she had said no to her own little girl somewhere along the line.

      “Giorgio was never good-looking.” Isabella looked at Connor critically. He was pretty sure she found him good-looking, but not nearly as sure if she saw that as a good thing or a bad thing.

      “He wasn’t even good-looking as a child, though his eyes held such depths of beauty they took my breath away from the first moment I looked in their liquid dark depths.”

      He had to bite his tongue from saying cynically, How very poetic.

      “He was always sickly—perhaps seeds of the illness that killed him had been growing since we were children.”

      Connor did not like the picture she was painting of the man she had married. Good grief. What had she been thinking?

      She seemed to sense his judgment, because she tilted her chin at him. “He took the fact he was different from all the other boys and made that his greatest strength.”

      “Oh,” he said flatly, not a question. But she took it as a question.

      “Giorgio was able to use such a simple thing as a word to spin entire worlds, enchanted kingdoms. He could see what others missed—the pure magic in a ladybug’s flight, the whole universe residing in the center of an opening flower. While other boys were crass and full of frightening energy, Giorgio was sensitive and sweetly contemplative.”

      Connor hoped he wasn’t scowling. He himself had been one of those crass boys, full of frightening energy.

      “When he asked me to marry him, I didn’t even have to think about it, I just said yes.”

      What kind of man, knowing his prognosis was fatal, would ask someone he supposedly loved to share that with him?

      “I’ve never even been on a real date. Giorgio was not well enough to go out for dinner, or to the movies. Certainly not dancing.”

      She’d never been on a date? That last—certainly not dancing—seemed to have been offered with a bit of wistfulness.

      “I still have the poems he wrote for me, and the splendor of them is still wrenching enough to make me weep.”

      Connor looked at her lips. If she hadn’t dated any other men, she probably hadn’t kissed any other men, either. He had the irreverent feeling he could make her forget the splendor of those poems in about twenty seconds flat. He made himself focus on the small cut on her head.

      “At sixteen I declared my love for him. At twenty I married him, over the protests of my entire family. He had already been diagnosed with his illness. At twenty-six I laid him to rest. In my heart is nothing but gratitude for the amazing time we had.”

      She seemed to be expecting him to say something, so he said, “Uh-huh,” when what he really wanted to do was take her by those slender, very naked shoulders and shake some sense into her.

      “Now in me is an empty place that nothing—and no one—can ever fill.”

      Her tale made Connor want to kiss the living daylights out of her, to wake her up from her trance, to show her maybe that empty place inside her could be filled. But he recognized he was treading on dangerous and unfamiliar ground if he thought he would be the one who was up to the challenge of filling her empty places. Isabella apparently liked the sensitive type. Which, if the way he felt about her husband was any indication, Connor most definitely was not. The man had been sick. That wasn’t his fault. And yet Connor felt aggravated, as if Giorgio had taken advantage of Isabella’s soft heart to give her a life of looking after him.

      “You think I felt sorry for him,” she gasped. “You think I didn’t love him at all.”

      “Hey! I didn’t say that.”

      “You didn’t have to. I saw it in your face. You think I don’t have a clue what love is.”

      He was the one who had told her to be observant, but he hadn’t been expecting this. “I don’t know what you think you saw in my face, but it wasn’t that. You did not see that in my face, because you are looking at a person who truly does not have a clue what love is.”

      “Humph.” She seemed unconvinced. She seemed unfairly angry at him.

      “Maybe,” he suggested carefully, “you said out loud the doubt you’ve been nursing inside since the day you married him.”

      With speed that took him by surprise, she smacked him hard, open-handed, across his face, hard enough to turn his head. He looked slowly back at her as she stood up. The towel fell to the ground, leaving only the shower curtain around her. Gathering her shower curtain, regal as Christina Rose could ever hope to be, as confident as the emperor with no clothes, Isabella got up and walked by him and out of the bathroom. He watched as she walked down the hallway to her bedroom, entered it, sent one damning look back at him and slammed the door.

      Connor Benson stood frozen to the spot, absolutely stunned. He touched his face where her palm had met his cheek.

      Jeez, for a little bit of a thing she packed a better wallop than a lot of men he’d known.

      * * *

      Isabella lay, wrapped in her shower curtain, on her bed in a pool of dampness and self-loathing. She could not believe she had struck Connor. She was going to have to apologize. It was so unlike her!

      It was only because she had hit her head. He’d said it himself. She’d had a bit of a shock—people did and said things they wouldn’t normally say under those circumstances.

      Isabella would not normally confess all kinds of things to him. She had told him she was lonely in a moment of dazed weakness. It was also in a moment of dazed weakness that she had given in to his encouragement to talk about Giorgio.

      What a mistake that had been. She had seen in Connor’s face that he thought her marriage had been a sham.

      Or