Cara Colter - Passionate Calanettis - Soldier, Hero...Husband?

“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 was what he said more accurate? That bump on the head had removed a filter she had been trying desperately to keep in place, and her own doubts, not Connor’s, had spilled out of her.

She got up off the bed. Enough of the self-pity and introspection. Yes, she was lonely, but why had she confessed that to him instead of just looking after it herself?

People had to be responsible for themselves!

Tonight was a case in point. She had been invited to the sixteenth birthday party of one of her former students. As a teacher, she was often invited to her pupils’ family events, but she rarely attended. So, who did she have to blame but herself if she was lonely?

It wasn’t Connor’s fault that he had made her aware of the loneliness as if it was a sharp shard of glass inside her.

She went to her closet and threw open the door. She wasn’t going to the party as a demure little schoolteacher, either. She wasn’t wearing a dress that would label her prim and tidy for all the world to see.

She was not dressing in a way that sent the message she was safe and boring, and not quite alive somehow.

Way at the back of the closet was a dress she had bought a long time ago, on a holiday she had forced herself to take a year or two after Giorgio died. The purchase had really been the fault of one of those pushy salesclerks who had brought her the dress, saying she had never seen a dress so perfect for someone.

It was the salesclerk’s gushing that had made Isabella purchase the dress, which had been way more expensive than what she could afford. When she brought it home, she had had buyer’s remorse, and dismissed it as not right for her. Still, it hung in her closet, all these years later. Why had she never given it away?

She took it out and laid it on the bed, eyed it critically. Not right for the old her. Perfect for the new her.

The dress was red as blood and had a low V on both the front and back, which meant she couldn’t wear it with any bra that she owned.

It was the dress of a woman who was not filled with unreasonable fears.

Feeling ridiculously racy for the fact she had on no bra, she slipped the dress over her head, then looked at herself in her full-length mirror. She remembered why she had purchased the dress, and it wasn’t strictly because of the salesclerk gushing over it.

The dress gave Isabella a glimpse of who she could be. It was as if it took her from mouse to siren in the blink of an eye. She looked confident and sexy and like a woman who was uninhibited and knew how to have fun and let go. It was the dress of a woman who had the satisfying knowledge she could have any man she wanted.

Isabella put makeup on the bump on her head and then arranged her hair over it. She dabbed mascara on her lashes and blush on her cheeks. She glossed her lips and put on a little spray of perfume.

She found her highest heels, and a tiny clutch handbag, and a little silver bracelet. Taking a deep breath, she marched out of her room. Connor’s bedroom door was closed. Summoning all her courage, she knocked on the door.

After a long moment, long enough for her heart to pound in her throat as if it planned to jump out of her, the door opened. He stood there looking down at her. He was wet, still, from the water from the broken shower spewing all over him, from helping her. Awareness of him tingled along her spine.

She was so glad she had put on the red dress when Connor’s mouth fell open before he snapped it shut. Something flashed in his eyes before he quickly veiled it. But even if she had led a sheltered life, Isabella knew desire when she saw it.

He folded his arms over his chest.

“My, my,” he growled.

She tossed her head, pleased with the way his eyes followed the motion of her hair. “I’m going to a birthday party. I wanted to apologize before I left. I have never hit a person in my whole life. I’m deeply ashamed.”

“Really?” he growled doubtfully.

“Really,” she said, lifting her chin.

“That’s kind of not the dress of someone who is deeply ashamed.”

“The dress has nothing to do with this!”

“I think it does.”

“Explain yourself.”

He lifted a shoulder. “All right. I think you’re a boiling cauldron of repressed passion.”

“Maybe it’s not repressed,” she snapped.

His eyes went to her lips and stayed there long enough to make the point that they could find out how repressed or unrepressed she was right this second if she wanted. Her eyes skittered to his lips. She blinked first and looked away. When she looked back, his gaze was unflinching.

“In a dress like that, lots of people are going to want to find out, is she, or isn’t she? You aren’t going be lonely for very long at all.”

Since the whole idea of putting on the dress had been to look passionate, why did she want to smack him again? And badly. She could tell this apology was premature. She had to grip her clutch extra tightly to keep her hand from flying free and hitting him across his handsome, smug face.

No, she didn’t want to smack him. That wasn’t the truth at all. The truth was exactly as he had said. She was a boiling cauldron of repressed passion, and she wanted to throw herself at Connor and let all that repressed passion boil out.

Isabella was absolutely appalled with herself. She took a step back from him and turned away. “Have a good evening, signor,” she said formally, the prim little schoolteacher after all, a child playing dress-up in her red finery.

“Yeah. You, too.”

She turned and walked away. And just because she knew he was watching her, or maybe to prove to herself she wasn’t just playing dress-up, she put a little extra swing in her step and felt the red dress swirl around her.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him still watching her, his eyes narrowed with unconcealed masculine appreciation.

Surprisingly, given that unsettling encounter with Connor, Isabella did have a good evening. Sixteenth birthday parties for young women were a huge event in Monte Calanetti. It was a coming-of-age celebration, probably very much like a debutante ball in the southern US. The party signified the transition from being a child to being a woman.