The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,34

sheer fabric and glittering silk. When it caught the light, it looked like it was stitched by rays of sunlight. The cut was modest enough, with only my shoulders and upper chest on display. If it wasn’t for my unbound hairstyle, I would have been very cold.

Alessandro had stopped fidgeting once I let him take off his blazer. The flash of his tattoos below his sleeves felt equivalent to a poisonous snake showing off its brightly colored scales. From the pale looks of the ball’s patrons as they passed him, I knew they would also agree.

My husband had grown bored quickly of kissing up to socialites and had instead found other ways to distract himself. Mainly by playing with me.

A quick pinch to the bum, a tug on a curl, a kiss on my bare shoulder.

“You’re lucky we’re in public,” Alessandro whispered in my ear in a break between people.

I shifted on my feet, trying to wash away the building ache at my center. “Oh?”

His black eyes gleamed knowingly, picking up on the rising flush of my neck and cheeks. “I really like your dress,” he told me.

“I would hope so. It cost you enough.”

A grin passed over his features but the hungry look in his eyes did not diminish. If he kept looking at me like that, I would need to sit down and fan myself—or take him in the bathrooms for some peace and quiet.

One week, I told myself. One more week.

“We are greeting people,” I reminded myself more than him. “This is not the time...”

“Not the time for what? To talk to my wife?”

I tried to hide my smile but failed. “That’s not what you’re doing, and you know it.”

The look in his eyes only grew more intense.

I turned to greet more guests coming in but felt the heavy weight of his stare on my exposed neck. Lucky, I was able to distract myself by welcoming people to the charity ball and swooning under all their compliments.

An old politician tried to get a bit more friendly. His hand moving away bit too slow, his eyes a bit too lustful.

Alessandro moved his hand, the movement rough. When the old politician opened his mouth to say something, my husband grinned savagely.

I laughed as the politician scurried off. “I think you made him nervous.”

“Good.” Alessandro kissed my temple, his arm coming around my waist possessively. Back off, his movements seemed to yell.

“I hope you’re not jealous,” I said.

His laugh rumbled through his chest. “Jealous? I am not jealous. I know you are mine. You give them your tempting, dressed-up self, your filtered version. I get you when you first wake up; I have you when you're dancing around the kitchen and singing to our son."

I abandoned all my pretense about public affection and kissed him, hands cupping his rough jaw.

Alessandro grinned against my lips. “You’re scandalizing your patrons, my love.”

“When have you ever been concerned about being part of a scandal?”

His gaze grew hot, “Never.”

He met my lips, hot and rough. I felt his hands come around my back, holding me tightly to him.

The sounds of the ball disappeared around us, from the guest’s voices to the melody Nicoletta was playing. In that moment, all I cared about was Alessandro’s lips on mine, the strength and warmth of his body, what we could do when we got home—

Alessandro broke away, breathing heavily. “God, I wish we were at home.”

I was about to offer that we should go and disappear into a supply closet when a familiar group of people began to arrive. I had invited Sunny Days Care Home, since they did have one of the highest percentages of Alzheimer’s patients at their facility, and they were an important part of the community. I had told them they could bring whomever was interested.

When I caught sight of little Eloise Pelletier, frail as a bird, shock darted through me. What was she doing here? Would she start a scene?

Alessandro’s hand came to my lower back and he murmured, “Is that who I think it is?” He knew it was, but he was giving me a chance to explain myself.

I never got the chance. The director of Sunny Days swept me up in a conversation, thanking me for my contributions to the community.

Like she was trying to unnerve me, Eloise Pelletier came to stand by the director, her expression lucid.

“Thank you so much for coming,” I said to the director.

“Thank you for inviting us.” This was Eloise. Her airy voice split the