I’d never been serenaded before.
Certainly not by accomplished musicians who could rival almost any successful pop or rock band back in the United States.
Twilight had settled in, the light breeze creating a slight chill. With the scent from the flowers covering a dozen trellises, flowerboxes lined on all sides of the outdoor restaurant and bar, and with the flickering candlelight, the location was one of the most romantic I’d ever seen.
Especially with such a handsome man sitting across from me.
Our walk had taken over an hour and when we’d returned, fresh flowers had been placed on the table, along with a plate full of chocolates and a congratulatory note on our nuptials. There’d also been a bottle of champagne, which we’d thoroughly enjoyed while listening to the incredible Brazilian music.
The four musicians were standing around the two of us, providing a dark yet seductive love song that was perfect for our twisted fates.
There wasn’t a person sitting at any of the tables or at the bar who wasn’t enjoying the moment.
Or watching our every move.
When the musicians had finished, the small crowd went wild, very appreciative of the incredible serenade.
I couldn’t help but notice Donatello handed the lead singer a folded handful of cash, which didn’t surprise me about the man, but did given we couldn’t use our credit cards. Yet his kind act brought another wave of warmth.
As the group nodded, already walking away, he turned his full attention to me, tossing his napkin and standing. When he offered me his hand, I peered at him quizzically. “What now?”
“Now, we dance.”
There would be no saying no. The three words weren’t a request, but a demand.
Even the way he pulled me to my feet was a clear indication he was very much and would always be in charge.
I’d never thought of him as a dancer, but since I was already proven wrong once before, I had no issue allowing him to take the lead. He held me tightly against his body, sliding one palm down to the small of my back. With his long legs and mine, we fit perfectly together as the lead Spanish guitarist moved in front of the others.
While there were two other couples dancing on the stone dance floor, Donatello had guided us front and center.
Of course.
He wasn’t the kind of man to shy away from center stage. With the shimmer of the rope lights crisscrossing the rail of the trellis, the warm glow presented over us provided a perfect ambiance.
His other hand was pressed against my neck, the hold even though tender extremely possessive. There was no doubt to anyone near that I belonged to him.
The guitarist’s fingers flew across the fretboard, producing a sound that was at once profoundly melancholy and fiercely vibrant, a ‘duende’ that seemed to make the very air of the festive outdoor room vibrate with longing.
Everything about the night had been perfect.
So far.
And it wasn’t over yet.
My mother had always told me life was for the living, her comment meant to dissuade the bouts of melancholy I’d felt when seeing dead squirrels on the side of the road. I’d been the little girl who’d wanted to heal everything, called a mother hen more than once.
My mother and grandmother had taught me so many things about living. Now I’d never get a chance to teach my own daughter how to fight.
Or how to respond when she found the right man.
Keeping in time to the music and his eyes locked on mine, Donatello raised his arm, taking mine with his. With our fingersintertwined, he spun me around in three complete circles, dipping me when he was finished. He was even more of an expert than I’d been allowed to witness, taking control of more than just my body and the stage.
He commanded the entire bar, everyone backing away or turning their chairs so they could watch the two lovers engaged in an intimate dance of lust and love.
As well as power.
There wasn’t a man or woman in the outdoor space that didn’t feel Donatello’s power, and the darkness enshrouding him.