Postcards At Christmas. Cara Colter
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out on the rough worktables. It was a beautiful space, full of light even in the cool month of November. It was also chilly, though, and dusty. He turned on the heat and admitted he hadn’t been there in months.
That gave her another opportunity to remind him that he should be making time for the things that mattered.
He only backed her up against a wall between a drawing of a small dark-haired girl in traditional Montedoran dress and another of a white goat chewing on a straw hat. “No lectures. Not today.” And then he kissed her, a slow, lovely kiss during which he eased his clever hands inside her coat and caressed her breasts through her sweater. He also trailed his fingers up her thigh, taking her skirt along, too.
When he touched her where she wasn’t wearing any panties, she moaned into his mouth as her body instantly responded. He went on touching her, stroking her. She went over the top right there while he kissed her, by the window that let in the pale late-autumn light, against the white wall.
As the fierce pleasure faded to a happy glow, she laughed and dared to put her hand down between them to feel how what he’d done to her had excited him, too. She was just running her fingers up and down the long tight bulge at his fly when the cell phone in his pocket started to vibrate.
He muttered, “Ignore it,” and captured her mouth again.
But she turned away, grinning and more than a little bit breathless. “Go on, answer it—at least check and see if it’s anything important.”
“It’s not.” He bit the side of her neck and then stuck out his tongue and licked where he’d nipped her.
By then the phone had stopped its soft buzzing. She gave in and turned to him again with a willing sigh. His warm lips settled on hers.
And the phone started vibrating a second time.
He swore against her mouth—and then he lifted his head, took the phone from his pocket and switched it off quickly. But not before she saw that it was Vesuvia. He glanced up at her as he shoved it back in his pocket again and must have seen something he didn’t like in her expression. “Don’t you start in on me.”
“What? I didn’t—”
He stopped her from saying more by kissing her again, a long, thorough kiss, more artful than passionate. She accepted that kiss. Like all his kisses, it was too good to pass up. But the mood was pretty much trashed.
In the end, even a lover as skilled as Dami had trouble getting back into a sexy encounter after dual interruptions from the ex. He braced an arm against the wall above her shoulder and leaned his forehead against hers. “Sorry, Luce.”
She tipped her head up and kissed him again, but quickly that time, brushing her lips across his. “Does she...call you a lot?”
He pushed away from the wall—and her. Impatiently, he insisted, “It honestly is over with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I believe you. I was only...” She found she didn’t know how to go on.
“What?” he demanded.
“Well, I mean, I just feel bad, that’s all.”
“For her?” His eyes flashed dark fire.
She held his gaze and shook her head. “No, Dami. For you. Because it didn’t work out with her and I think that you really did want it to. And, well, yeah, maybe a little for her. Before he found Alice, Noah had a couple of girlfriends like that. They just wouldn’t let it be, you know? They wanted more from him than he was willing to give them and they kept calling him and he was frustrated and angry and didn’t know how to get through to them that over was over.”
He braced his arms on the table behind him, leaned back on it and studied his fine Italian shoes. “Yes. Well, it is over.”
“Got that. Truly.” Also that you want this subject dropped. And really, it wasn’t a bad thing for her, she thought. To be so sharply reminded of all that the beautiful man before her wasn’t willing to give.
They had this brief magical time together. He was being so good to her, so thoughtful and tender and brilliantly instructive—not to mention very, very sexy. He was giving her what she hadn’t even really understood she needed so much: to discover all the things she’d missed about passion and sex and to feel safe and cherished and free to be her whole self while it was happening.
She promised herself that tomorrow when it came time to say goodbye, she would definitely remember not to cling. And no matter how much she wanted to hear his voice, she wouldn’t start calling him all the time.
He looked up, one dark eyebrow lifted. “Shall we move on?”
“Yes, we shall.”
“Have you been to Casino d’Ambre?”
“No, and I really, really need to see that.” She gave him a big smile and held out her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Half an hour later, as he took Lucy on a tour of Montedoro’s world-famous casino, Damien was feeling more than a little guilty about his behavior at the villa. He’d been gruff with her when he’d had no reason to be—other than he’d been kissing her and touching her and thoroughly enjoying himself. And then the phone had gone off twice and ruined the moment.
He’d felt rotten—about V and her games. About Lucy witnessing once again what a bad choice he’d made in getting involved with V in the first place. About how his life seemed somehow rudderless lately, without direction.
Which was absurd, really. He’d always taken life as it came and had a fine time of it. He was still having a fine time of it, and he didn’t plan to change.
Lucy took it all in stride. She didn’t let his earlier bad attitude put a damper on the day. She didn’t push; she didn’t sulk. She was as lighthearted and full of fun as ever, wide-eyed at the beauty of the legendary casino, clapping when some tourist won a bundle at roulette.
After the Casino d’Ambre, they strolled the shops of the Triangle d’Or, the area of exclusive stores, restaurants and hotels surrounding the casino square. Workers were everywhere that day putting up the Christmas decorations around the square, ushering in the season. Holiday music filled the air.
Damien took Lucy’s hand as they walked. He leaned close and teasingly reminded her to pay no attention to the ever-present paparazzi. He made an effort to be extra attentive after the uncomfortable moments at the villa.
They’d stopped to watch a couple of burly workmen hang a giant lit wreath above a shop door when she sighed and sent him one of her dewy-eyed smiles. “Christmas in Montedoro. I’ll bet it’s almost as beautiful as Christmas in Manhattan.”
He squeezed her fingers, twined with his. “I know your brother is angling to get you to go home to California.”
“He can angle all he wants. I’ll be in New York City for the holiday season. Just wait and see.”
He let go of her hand so he could wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. She laughed, a happy, carefree sound. And so he bent his head and kissed her, right there on the Triangle d’Or for the two workmen and the crowds of busy shoppers and everyone else to see.
When they started walking again, he kept his arm around her and she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Dami. For giving me this beautiful, perfect Thanksgiving. It’s turning out to be everything I could have hoped for.”
He pressed his lips to her fragrant hair. “No thanks are needed. Ever. You know that.”
She looked up at him then. Her eyes were so solemn. “You are the most generous person I know.”
He wasn’t, and she really ought to remember that. “Not really.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Yeah. Really.”
“If you keep making me sound so exemplary, I’ll