Love Turns With Twisted Fates (Truth About Love Book 2) Page 4

“Sorry. While that was likely the group I was with, I must have left to get more water when you passed by. The guys were at the studio you were dancing in when I got back. It fucking pisses me off they got to see more of it than I did.” I hear ire in his voice. I fail to stifle my sleep-deprived giggle.

  “I think I then offered to break noses and turn myself in to the coach if they didn’t leave.” Seriously, my giggles are sounding drunk.

  “Why would you turn yourself in?” not understanding the significance of that act.

  “I’d be suspended for a minimum of three games if I were to punch a single one of them.”

  I’m laughing hysterically. “You’re shitting me. You were willing to be suspended for threeeee,” emphasizing the number, “games to stop them from watching me dance?”

  “I was simply removing obstacles and opposition. Not that they’re in my league, but I didn’t want to wait for you to shut them all down.”

  “You’re presumptuousness never ceases to amaze me,” I declare.

  “I don’t know why or if we’ll ever know why, but tonight was meant to be, Izzy.”

  We continued well into the early moments of morning. We watched the sun rise, together but apart. I felt the sun warming my face as I started to give in to the pull of sleep.

  “Hey, Izzy,” I hear Diego whisper, “sweet dreams.”

  Chapter Three:

  Discipline

  August 2006

  I was grateful for the quiet time in the car to just let it set in. I’m gonna be a mom. The smile on my face is as big as the truth that put it there. It wasn’t a long trip to the hotel. After my nursery room daydream, Diego was pointing on some places of interest before he starts on one of the two books he purchased from the hospital gift shop.

  By the time we arrived at the hotel, Diego is through the introduction and into the first chapter of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. He’s reading to me. It’s absolutely adorable. I’m impressed that he isn’t immediately predicting a son. Instead, he’s more focused on…well, on what to expect.

  Without skipping a beat, we’re traveling through the lobby and towards the elevators. Once inside and behind closed doors, he continues where he left off.

  “D, slow down. We don’t have to get all the info tonight.”

  His wide-eyed disbelief makes me chuckle. “Izzy, the sooner we know what we need to know the better.”

  The elevator dings when we reach our floor. He guides me out and to the left down the hallway. Without skipping a beat, he has the book tucked under his arm and the key to the room out of his pocket and in the door.

  Swinging open the door, Diego ushers me into what appears to be a penthouse suite of the hotel. As he hurries me through the foyer, a passing glance reveals my luggage from today’s flight. He starts to set the book on the foyer table, but I can see the thought fleeing his face.

  “Are you planning on reading to me through dinner?” I implore.

  I get “mmm hmm” and a nod. “And maybe through your bubble bath.”

  “A bubble bath?” the excitement kicking up the pitch in my voice.

  Diego just smiles at me. I see delight and love in the eyes staring back at me and…complete adoration. He leads us to the living room area of this mansion in a hotel. There are a set of stares off to the left that leads to the second floor. The opulence is distracting.

  “Diego, don’t you think this was a bit much for just you?” I start to interrogate, but soften my tone.

  His smile irritates me. With a lift of his eyebrow, he teases me, “Well, Mrs. Nosey, since you asked so nicely, I’ll let you in on something. On Friday, the Orcutt Hotel hired me for a rebranding ad campaign. So…”he gives me that smug smile again, “as of yesterday afternoon, my stay here is covered.”

  The cheeky bastard.

  He picks up the phone on the coffee table, “Still want French toast?”

  The mention of the sweet breakfast dish has my stomach shouting and me drooling. Taking a seat on one of the oversized couches, I nod enthusiastically. Toeing off my tennies, I curl up on the giant cushion, grabbing the pregnancy book from Diego’s outstretched hand. He’s on the phone, placing our order for room service and headed toward the kitchen area.

  “Izzy,” Diego shouts from across the way, “is there anything else you want? To eat? Drink?”

  Wanting to order a mimosa, I ask for orange juice and sparkling water. Thumbing through the book, I discover that they recommend not announcing the pregnancy in the first trimester due to the possibility of a miscarriage. Well, Grace already knows, and there’s no way I couldn’t tell Mazzy or Sebastian or Lito. I shrug off the possibility of jinxing as Diego returns to the couch.

  “Should be about twenty minutes. Oh, and I ordered you a double order of sliced avocado.”

  My eyes light up when he informs me he thought of something I didn’t. Since I was a teenager, I’ve been eating an avocado a day as part of my regimen to get the nutrients to manage my anemia. Clearly, I’m not thinking straight when I realize I’ve forgotten a staple, but I feel like I have an excuse with all that’s transpired today.

  “What are you smiling about, bella?”

  “You bought us a beautiful house and we’re having a baby!” I squeal in utter delight.

  He snuggles into me, placing his hand over my still flat belly and smoothing out the t-shirt, “I can’t wait to see your belly big with our baby cooking in it,” he teases.

  “Ugh,” I groan out, “I’m gonna get fat.”

  “You’re going to be sexy as fuck,” he retorts.

  “Since when are you a chubby chaser, D?” I quip.

  “Only when you’re the chubby I’m chasing, Iz,” he deadpans. It gets him an elbow to the side and a swat of my hand to his leg as I pull away from him. He catches me around the waist and pulls me into his arms and onto his lap. “Have I told you how much I love you?” he asks.

  As I always answer, I shake my head and ask, “How much?”

  “So much, so much.”

  We settle into the couch while we wait for dinner. One of the things I’ve always loved about us is the comfortableness of silence between us. We’ve never felt the need to fill it with small talk. He continues to flip through the pregnancy book and I trace his abs through his shirt.

  “Careful, Izzy. You keep doing that and I might just have to knock you up again.”

  I shake with a silent laugh. “I’m already pregnant. I can’t get knocked up while knocked up.”

  “We could always try,” he says grabbing his water bottle and wiggling his eyebrows at me. My answer is a shake of my head.

  “Mi amor, how come you haven’t mentioned anything about an heir to the Santo throne?”

  He spits out the sip of water he’s just taken from his bottle, choking on his laugh. There he goes with those eyebrows. I swear they’re an indestructible arsenal aimed at my self-control. “Honestly, Iz? I kinda like the idea of a little you running around. Hanging all over me and every word I breathe.”

  “In other words,” I pipe in, “you want a pretty little princess to worship you?” It’s my turn to tease him.

  “Funny, Frizzy,” he ruffles my unrestrained and wild hair. “Seriously, I can’t wait to worship at her feet like I do at yours.” He grabs my foot and places a light kiss to the top.

  A knock at the door and my answering tummy reminds me that I am starving and the knock should be room service. Rather than walk around the ginormous couch, Diego hops over the backside like one hops up a curb. I love seeing how graceful he is. It’s even more amazing watching him on the field.

  Diego directs the room service attendant to place all the food on the coffee table. Thank goodness, the table is large; it looks like he ordered half the kitchen.

  Fully sated from the unusual meal choice and my plate of sliced avocado, I snuggle into the couch, letting the cushions cocoon me. Diego’s been on the phone with someone from the team for the last ten minutes or so. I can’t tell by Diego
’s side of the conversation what it’s about, but he sounds excited nonetheless. I drift off; thoughts of our future turn to my mom.

  ****************************************

  It’s been a few days since the news of my dad not being my dad, my subsequent teenage tantrum, and then Dad’s pep talk. So many questions still crowded my head.

  “Hey mom?” We’re sitting in the covered outdoor living room, she’s reading and I’m flipping through a Rolling Stones magazine.

  “What is it, Izabella?”

  “Maaaa,” I groan my displeasure of here use of my full name. It’s so frustrating when she refuses to use one of my many nicknames.

  “Izabella Zoe Marino, I gave you the name for a reason and one of those reasons was not so I could call you by a different one. Now, get on with what you were going to ask.”

  I roll my eyes at her stubbornness. Dad says I get it from her. I refuse to believe I’m that much like her. I shudder at the thought.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about my bio dad sooner?”

  She snaps her eyes from her Danielle Steele book. Shock and uncertainty stare back at me before she schools a cooler expression into place. Clearly, and based on her initial reaction, my question came from out of nowhere.

  Placing her book on the table to the side of her, she questions my curiosity. “Izabella, what’s wrong? Why do you want to dredge up that rubbish?” She swishes her hand at me as if trying to shoo away the question I just asked and my curiosity with her gesture.

  “Mother,” irritation laces my voice.

  “And before you start repeating what Dad said, please just tell me everything. I promise I can handle it, as long as it’s the truth.”

  Her dropped shoulders and the resignation on her face says she’s going to explain. I know what Dad said, but I haven’t heard her story.

  “Izabella, I don’t think any of it will make you feel better, but if it’s what you want to hear, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Your bio dad,” she scrunches up her face repeating the words I used for ‘him’.

  “Would you prefer ‘sperm donor’?”

  “Really, Izabella?” she levels her eyes at me in frustration. “Your biological father’s name is Steven. He was a musician,” this time it’s her turn to roll her eyes. “We met when we were both performing at a local music festival. He was the end-all, be-all,” she sighs dreamily. “A bit of Jim Morrison mixed with Slash and undeniably, all bad boy. But when he set his sights on me, I couldn’t look away, much less deny myself the attention of the hottest rocker at the entire festival.

  “We hit it off well. Every day with him made me question the truth in his bad boy persona. I was the center of his universe. When the week-long festival was over, he stuck around. He talked about a future with me,” she’s shaking her head.

  “I was so foolish to think that he was anything less than what the masses were saying. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and mine was dead set on him.

  “A few weeks passed and I realized I was late,” looking up at me to see if I understood what she meant. “A doctor’s visit confirmed my suspicions and I was thrilled. I’d had no family for so long, this was my chance to give myself a family.”

  If it’s possible, she looks sad and happy all at once.

  “At first, Steven seemed okay. In hindsight, I think he was just resolved to his fate. Eventually, the weight of it all broke him. He started drinking more than usual. He was gone more often than not.

  “I’d gone to my first prenatal check-up at about eight weeks. Steven couldn’t go, something about a ‘meeting’,” she frames the last word with air quotes. “If meeting was code for packing his stuff up and leaving, then he did have a ‘meeting.’ ”

  She’s silent for a moment; I’m starting to feel guilty for asking this question.

  “I didn’t hear from him again until you were about three or four. I’d heard he’d popped and fizzled as a musician, but I never expected he’d contact me.”

  She went on to tell me he demanded money to not make trouble for my dad and her about my paternity. He said he would run to the tabloids with his story about the multi-million dollar music producer stealing his baby. Mom couldn’t care less about Steven’s threats. She said she told him to do what he had to do, but he wasn’t getting a cent from her.

  “A week later, he was arrested in London for drug trafficking and I haven’t heard from him again. I think he was convicted, but I didn’t concern myself with the details. His leaving was fate’s way of opening the door for your dad.

  “One day, when you’re a mom, you’ll know what it means to protect your child at all costs. Steven would have only brought you more pain than anything meaningful and he could never be the dad you needed.”

  ******************************************

  “Izzy?” I can hear Diego calling for me, but my eyes are refusing to open. I think I could sleep on this couch forever.

  With slitted eyes, I manage to wake up enough to see his beautiful face. “Hey, sleepy head, you still want that bubble bath?”

  Noting the soreness in my body—probably from traveling, I stretch with a nod. Before I’m finished with my stretch and my feet could hit the floor, Diego swoops me up, cradling me in his arms. “Diego, I’m perfectly capable of walking myself to the bathroom.” I swat at his shoulders to put me down.

  He dips low, but doesn’t relinquish his hold on me. “Grab the book,” he commands. Once, I’ve complied with his command, he uprights us and continues to the stairs. “Bella, let’s just call this practice for when the baby comes.”

  Words escape me. I can’t decide if his admission, even in jest, is adorable or annoying. “You’re so sexy when you screw your face up like that,” he teases. I level a glaring stare at him. “All right, you’re not that sexy when you screw your face up like that,” he counters.

  Mr. Clueless. “Are you saying I have a screwed up face?” I’m barely able to hold my bothered look when he starts going over what he’s said in his mind. I watch as the wheels are turning, but before too much time passes, he starts rambling.

  “That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I said.” The near frantic tone in his voice collapses my annoyed farce.

  “Izabella Santo, you fucking…” he halts our progress halfway up the stairs. The shudders my hysterics have me in are making it a challenge for him to proceed. “You’re in so much trouble. I’m considering taking you over my knee instead of letting you soak in a bubble bath.”

  The very thought of punishment at his hands breathes new life into my tired body. I stretch up to his ear, breathing softly across his lobe and neck. “You could do both.”

  Diego sucks in a quick breath. I pull back to see the rest of his reaction. His eyes have widened into pools of black trimmed by a ring of blazing copper. The longer I look the more the irises of his eyes resemble solar eclipses.

  “Can you really do that?” his concern never diminishes the craving I can see in his eyes, but he averts them from mine to look at the book resting on my belly.

  I struggle to not let his unasked question break the lust-filled tension between us. “Lover, I don’t think this book is going to have the information on whether or not spanking your pregnant wife is okay. However, a little bit of common sense tells me you smacking my ass won’t have any effect on our less than peanut sized bundle of joy.”

  With a lift of his eyebrows and a tilt of his head, he’s silently questioning me, “Are you sure?”

  I offer him only an eager nod as my answer.

  Setting me down, I take in the ridiculously large master bedroom. Why, it’s large enough to be a decent loft in the heart of Manhattan. I’m spinning toward the large glass windows that make up the wall separating us from the outside.

  I feel Diego come up behind me. His heat radiating off of him in waves sends a chill down my spine and back up causing me to shudder at the top. “Strip.” It’s all he says.

  Without a secon
d thought, I’ve shed my top and am unhooking my bra. I can feel his stare, but refuse to look. His tone told me how this was going to play out. Tonight, right now, I’ve got Mr. Dominant and as usual, I’m eager to play his submissive. I consider making quick work of removing my yoga pants, but I’m not always a very good sub and teasing Dominant Diego is so much fun.

  Hooking my pant with my thumbs, I use minimal force to push my pants down; instead, I use the shaking of my ass to do most of the work. With the waistband past the swell of my butt, I continue at the torturous speed and slowly work my way down, bending at the waist and giving Diego more than an eyeful. As slowly as I bent over, I righted myself, stepping out of the bunched up pants.

  “Put your hands on the glass,” he demands. His command shocking, I whip my head around to meet his stare.

  “Izzy.” It’s just my name, but I know what it means. When we assume these roles, it’s do as he says, no questions asked. Trust is everything and I have to trust that he’s thinking of everything I might be thinking that could make me uncomfortable or feel unsafe. Years of this and his commands can still shock me.

  Peeling my eyes from his, I turn around and make my way to the window. The pooling moisture at the v of my thighs says the shock was just in my head, the rest of me ready for what he has in store. Staring at the expanse of this new city before me, I wonder if anyone can see in. It’s a silly thought. It’s probably after midnight and the closest building to us is over a block and a half away. Perhaps, if they had a telesco—

  Diego clears his throat. So lost in my thoughts of an audience, I forgot to do the task at hand. The glass isn’t as cold as expected when I set my hands in place, but the anticipation has created a slickness to my palms, causing me to slip a little. Pressing the length of him against me, Diego lifts each of my hands and wipes them and the glass beneath them with his t-shirt. Tapping my thigh, he whispers, “Open,” the softness in his voice no less dominating than if he had shouted the word.

  Placing his left hand next to mine on the glass, Diego positions himself behind me and slightly off to the left. With his right hand, he trails his fingers lightly up and down my spine. The pool of moisture is no longer pooling with my legs spread open. I can feel the evidence of my arousal trickling down my thigh. Diego’s hand makes slow circles over the globes of my ass, prepping them for my punishment. A low moan escapes when he moves to my front and he dips his hand lower, grazing my clit. The sudden intake of air by him tells me he’s now acutely aware of how ready I am.