The Last Santini Virgin
“Why Didn’t You Tell Me You Were A Virgin?”
“Why would I?” Gina snapped.
“Because it would have been fair to warn me!”
“Warn you? So you were expecting me to maybe wear a sign around my neck? How about ‘Virgin— Deflowering Required’?”
“You should have told me,” Nick said simply, shooting her an icy glance.
She would not feel guilty about this, Gina told herself. Every woman had the right to choose when and where and with whom she lost her virginity. She’d chosen Nick.
Nick buttoned his jeans, then looked her directly in the eyes. “If I’d known, nothing would have happened here tonight.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t tell.” Because no matter how things were going now, the actual sex part of the evening had been spectacular. For a few brief wonderful moments she’d actually felt connected to Nick. And certainly every couple’s “forever” began with a moment’s connection….
Dear Reader,
Silhouette is celebrating our 20th anniversary in 2000, and the latest powerful, passionate, provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire are as hot as that steamy summer weather!
For August’s MAN OF THE MONTH, the fabulous BJ James begins her brand-new miniseries, MEN OF BELLE TERRE. In The Return of Adams Cade, a self-made millionaire returns home to find redemption in the arms of his first love.
Beloved author Cait London delivers another knockout in THE TALLCHIEFS miniseries with Tallchief: The Homecoming, also part of the highly sensual Desire promotion BODY & SOUL. And Desire is proud to present Bride of Fortune by Leanne Banks, the launch title of FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE GROOMS, another exciting spin-off of the bestselling Silhouette FORTUNE’S CHILDREN continuity miniseries.
BACHELOR BATTALION marches on with Maureen Child’s The Last Santini Virgin, in which a military man’s passion for a feisty virgin weakens his resolve not to marry. In Name Only is how a sexy rodeo cowboy agrees to temporarily wed a pregnant preacher’s daughter in the second book of Peggy Moreland’s miniseries TEXAS GROOMS. And Christy Lockhart reconciles a once-married couple who are stranded together in a wintry cabin during One Snowbound Weekend….
So indulge yourself by purchasing all six of these summer delights from Silhouette Desire…and read them in air-conditioned comfort.
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
The Last Santini Virgin
Maureen Child
www.millsandboon.co.uk
For my cousin, Kathy Carberry Makowski,
who, like the rest of us, may get knocked down,
but always gets up.
MAUREEN CHILD
was born and raised in Southern California and is the only person she knows who longs for an occasional change of season. She is delighted to be writing for Silhouette Books and is especially excited to be a part of the Desire line.
An avid reader, Maureen looks forward to those rare rainy California days when she can curl up and sink into a good book. Or two. When she isn’t busy writing, she and her husband of twenty-five years like to travel, leaving their two grown children in charge of the neurotic golden retriever who is the real head of the household. Maureen is also an award-winning historical writer under the names Kathleen Kane and Ann Carberry.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
One
“Move that hand, Marine,” Gina Santini said firmly, “or lose it.”
Gunnery Sergeant Nick Paretti chuckled and slowly, deliberately, slid his hand higher up her back, away from her behind. “What’s the matter, princess?” he asked. “Do I make you nervous?”
Nervous didn’t quite cover it, she thought. For three and a half weeks, now, she’d been spending three nights a week in this man’s arms. And it wasn’t getting any easier.
Although she was annoyed by Nick’s arrogance, the real problem was her attraction to him. It was no use trying to argue with her own hormones. But for Heaven’s sake, how could she feel such electricity for a man who’d made it his life’s work to irritate her?
“You’re trying to lead again.” His deep voice shook her, as always, and she resented him for that, too.
Gina tilted her head way back and looked up into her dance partner’s eyes. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to lead if you’d remember the steps.”
“And maybe,” Nick nearly growled, “I’d remember the steps if you wouldn’t quit changing the rhythm on me.”
She inhaled deeply and counted to ten. Then twenty. Nope, she was still mad. She tried to drag her right hand free of the man’s iron grip, but it was like trying to pull a train with a compact car. Ballroom dance lessons had seemed like such a good idea a month ago. But how could she have known that she’d be paired with a man too tall, too broad and too stubborn?
“Look, General,” she said.
“Gunnery Sergeant,” he corrected her. “Or Nick.”
Apparently, he was feeling magnanimous tonight.
“Nick,” she said, trying to sound cooperative, “we’re both paying a lot of money for these lessons. Don’t you think we should be working together to get the most out of them?”
“I’m doing my share, honey,” he told her, his blue eyes staring steadily into hers. “Our problems start when you try to do my share, too.”
Okay, so she had a little problem with leading and following. But that was better than letting him indulge his tendency to stomp her toes into oblivion.
“Fine,” she said. “You lead. Only this time try not to crush my toes.”
One black eyebrow lifted. “If you didn’t have such big feet, they wouldn’t be in the way.”
Gina stiffened. She was just a little sensitive about the size of her feet. Was it her fault that her mother’s size-four feet had not been handed down to her? “Believe it or not,” she said tightly, “no one else in the world has trouble avoiding my toes.”
“Luck,” he muttered.
“And don’t call me honey,” she snapped.
Gina’s gaze drifted around the room. Five other couples seemed to be gliding effortlessly across the highly polished wood floor. No one else appeared to be battling constantly with their partner. “Do we have to argue our way through every lesson?” she whispered more to herself than to him.
“No argument here, princess,” Nick said, bending his head toward hers and keeping his voice low, “as long as you admit that I’m the man and I’m supposed to lead.”
Was he going to grunt and pound his chest next?
“So,” he asked as the music swelled around them, “you ready now?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she said.
“Let’s get it done, then.” He paused, and she watched him listening to the music, catching the beat. Then he took a deep breath and threw them both into the deep end of the dancing pool. As they executed their first turn, he gave her a fleeting half smile.
Lucky for her it was gone so fast, she thought as she silently acknowledged the thud of her heartbeat. Those occasional smiles of his were nerve-racking. No other man had ever affected her like this. And Gina wasn’t at all sure she liked it. On the other hand, there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it.
The moment they’d been assigned to each other as partners, there’d been fireworks. Not the nice, safe, pretty ones you saw at choreographed Fourth of July shows. Nope, these were down-and-dirty, completely illegal, bottle-rocket fireworks. Hot flashes, brilliant light and a breathtaking sense of imminent danger.
Gina gulped in a breath, pushed that thought right out of her head and concentrated on the present situation. The overhead fluorescent lights seemed to blur slightly as they danced. On the hardwood floor, the colorful shadows of the moving couples swayed and dipped as if there were another world beneath the floor and Gina and Nick, as well as all the others, were the actual reflections.
“You know, we’re getting pretty good at this,” he murmured, and his voice rumbled along her spine.
“Don’t get cocky,” she warned just before they stumbled slightly.
He scowled at her. “A little positive thinking wouldn’t be out of line, here.”
A little rhythm wouldn’t hurt, either, she thought, but didn’t say. Why was he doing this? she wondered for probably the hundredth time since being assigned Nick Paretti as a dance partner. She had a perfectly good reason for being there, of course. She loved dancing. At least she had until recently.
But he was a mystery. A big, burly Marine, from his military-cut, black hair to the spit shine on his exceptionally heavy shoes, he just didn’t seem the type to sign up for dance class. Hand grenades, yes. Waltzes, no.
Plus, he was way too good-looking for comfort. Black hair, piercing blue eyes, square jaw; a nose that looked as though it had been smacked once or twice—she could understand why—and a mouth that could curve into a mocking smile that practically curled her toes.
Oh, my.
The music ended, and Gina stepped back out of his arms. Instantly she felt the loss of him and told herself it meant nothing. She was simply used to the feel of him pressed against her.
“That went well, I think,” their teacher, Mrs. Stanton, called from her spot at the edge of the dance floor. The woman’s bright-blond hair was swept back into a tight knot at the top of her head, and as she walked into the crowd of dancers, her full skirt swished and swirled around her knees. “Most of you seem to be progressing nicely,” she added, then shot Nick a look that was pure female admiration, and Gina wanted to kick something. “But, ladies, you must remember to trust your partner. The dance floor is not the place for a battle of the sexes.”
“Hmm,” Nick wondered aloud. “You suppose she meant that one for you?”
“Don’t you have to invade a country somewhere?” Gina asked sweetly.
He laughed and shook his head.
“Now, class,” Mrs. Stanton said as she walked back toward the small stereo set up in the corner, “the cha-cha.”
“Oh, man…” Nick’s disgusted groan was just the thing to cheer Gina up.
“What’s the matter, General? Scared?” she asked.
“Sergeant. Gunnery Sergeant, as a matter of fact.” He gave her a glare. “I’ve mentioned it a time or two already.”
She shrugged. “Like it matters.”
“Lady,” he said, inhaling deeply enough to swell his already broad chest to massive proportions. “You are—”
“Better at the cha-cha than you?” she said, interrupting him.
He gave her a fierce scowl. “That’ll be the day.”
“Why, General,” Gina said with a grin, “I do believe that’s a challenge.”
“Take it any way you want,” he said, and reached out to grab her.
“Oh, very smooth,” Gina taunted as he pulled her closely against him.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully as he stared down into her eyes, “you’re the reason there is a battle of the sexes.”
Gina put her left hand on his shoulder and slipped her right hand into his left. “Right. Gina Santini is the mother of all problems between the sexes.”
“Not you personally,” he continued, and held her right hand a little tighter than necessary. “Women like you.”
“Ah,” she said with a nod and a teasing smile, “women who don’t swoon at you warrior types?”
He took a deep breath, blew it out again and asked, “Are we going to dance or what?”
She batted her eyelashes at him and said, “I’m waiting for you. You’re the fearless leader, remember?”
Grumbling under his breath, Nick started moving to the rhythm of the music. Gina concentrated on following his lead rather than trying to plot their course around the floor. She knew he hated the cha-cha, but she loved it. There was something about the way he held her for this dance. The way their hips moved against each other.
Uh-oh. Better not go there.
They executed a turn, and she silently admitted that her generation was missing a lot with all of the wild, contortionist dances that were so popular now. There was so much more to be said for the closeness of ballroom dancing.
Too much, really, she thought as she felt Nick’s pelvis move against her. Fires stirred within and she closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, she met his gaze and saw flickers of heat shifting in his eyes. One of his hands dropped to the curve of her behind, and Gina would have sworn she felt the brand of each of his fingertips.
“Much better, Sergeant and Gina,” Mrs. Stanton called out as they cha-cha’d past her.
Gina automatically stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.
“Teacher’s pet,” Nick mumbled with a brief smile.
“Delinquent,” she muttered.
“How’d you guess?”
“What?”
“That I was a delinquent when I was a kid.”
Was he serious? He practically had Bad Boy stenciled on his forehead. “I’m psychic.”
“Too bad you’re not a tall psychic,” he said.
Five foot five wasn’t exactly an amazon, but she didn’t qualify for kids’ ticket prices at the movies, either. “I’m not short,” she told him. “You’re abnormally tall.”
“I’m only six-four, which is hardly Godzilla.”
“Depends on your point of view.”
He blew out an exasperated sigh. “I wasn’t trying to start World War III,” he complained. “I’m just saying I’m getting a crick in my neck looking down at you.”
“Well looking up all night isn’t a picnic, ya know.”
Ridiculous to argue over nothing, but it was certainly safer than concentrating on how he was making her feel. Their hips moved against each other again, and Gina flushed, her body awakening to the closeness of Nick’s.
Was dancing supposed to be this sexy? Nick wondered as he pressed Gina even closer to him, hoping as he did so that she couldn’t feel the arousal tightening the fit of his slacks. She felt so small, so defenseless in his arms. Yet even as that thought entered his mind, he wanted to chuckle. Gina? Defenseless? Yeah, like a hungry tiger.
This tiny woman was able to give as good as she got, and he’d found himself almost looking forward to their three-times-a-week shoot-outs. She had a smart-alecky, completely kissable mouth, a compact body that curved in all the right places and a head harder than his.
All in all, just the kind of woman he’d be interested in if he was looking for a woman, which he wasn’t. Now he supposed most men wouldn’t be captivated by a woman who argued anything at the drop of a stick. But Nick had been raised in a good old-fashioned Italian family, where love was measured in octaves reached while yelling.
His mother had told him once that arguments were the spice of married life. And if she’d been telling the truth, then his folks had had one spicy marriage for the past thirty-six years. He smiled to himself as memories crowded into his brain. His two brothers, his parents and himself, seated at the dinner table, arguing about politics, religion, history or even, on a slow day, who was stronger, Superman or Mighty Mouse. The Paretti house was loud, but it was happy.
The cha-cha ended, and the couples on the floor slowly stopped, turning toward Mrs. Stanton, awaiting instructions. Nick dropped Gina’s hand, then curled his own fingers into a fist so he didn’t notice how empty his hand felt without hers in it.
“That’s all for tonight, everyone,” the teacher said.
He ignored the shaft of disappointment that sliced through him. Two hours passed mighty damn quickly in this place.
“But I want you all to think about something,” she went on. “The Bayside Amateur Dance Competition is next month, and we’ve been invited to enter three couples from our class.”
A ripple of conversation rose up and then faded as Mrs. Stanton continued. “Next week I’ll be selecting the three couples who will represent my little dance school, so do your very best, and good luck to you all.”
He caught the excited gleam in Gina’s eyes.
A competition?
In public? Oh, he didn’t think so.
Two
Once class ended, Nick walked outside, barely listening to Gina’s stream of chatter. He kept envisioning himself dancing in public. And those mental pictures were enough to give him chills.
Hell, the whole reason he was taking these classes was because of what had happened the last time he’d danced in public. It was at last year’s Marine Corps Ball. In front of everyone. In a flash he remembered it all.
A crowded room, hundreds of people and him, dancing with a major’s wife. Or rather, trying to dance. She’d cajoled him into it, and he’d reluctantly given in. But as the dance had gone on, he’d almost relaxed…until the moment he’d spun her. Somehow she’d slipped free, and he’d watched, helplessly, as she’d sailed directly into the punch bowl.
Nick swallowed a groan at the memory and quickly pushed the rest of it aside. He really didn’t want to remember the crash of the punch bowl, the splash of liquid, the major’s wife’s screech or the image of the poor woman sitting on the dance floor drenched in ruby-red punch.
Instead he clearly recalled the meeting he’d had a week later with the major.
“You cost me about $250, Gunny,” the officer had said. “It seems even a talented dry cleaner can’t get red punch out of ivory silk.”
Standing at ease, but certainly not feeling it, Nick offered, “I’d be happy to pay to replace the dress, sir.”
“Not necessary,” the Major told him as he stood up from behind his desk and walked around to stop just inches from him. “But I suggest you make sure this never happens again.”
“It won’t, sir,” Nick assured him. “I’ll avoid the dance floor at all costs.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sir?”
The Major perched on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “You know as well as I do that ‘attendance is expected, and body movement at these things will be noticed.’”
Nick winced internally. The Corps couldn’t order a man to show up and dance, but they managed to get the point across, anyway.
“So before you toss some other poor woman into a punch bowl, I suggest, Gunnery Sergeant,” the man said in a low growl, “that you learn what to do on a dance floor.”
Panic, clean and sharp, whistled through him as he realized what the officer was telling him to do. “You can’t be serious, sir. Dance lessons?”
The other man stared at him for a long minute before asking, “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Nick groaned tightly at the memory before tucking it into a dark corner of his mind. Hell. He had to be the first Marine in history to have been ordered into a dance class. Well, technically not “ordered.” He’d been “suggested” into it. He would much rather the Major had sentenced him to a few thirty-mile hikes. Or had him transferred to Greenland.
But, no. That would have been too easy a punishment.
Instead Nick was stuck practicing to be a second-rate Fred Astaire. And, oh, man, what his friends would say if they knew what he was up to. For weeks after the punch bowl incident, he’d put up with the teasing, the jokes, the near-constant barrage of abuse from his friends. Hell, if they ever found out that he was actually taking ballroom dance lessons, they’d never let him forget it. As for dancing in a contest? He’d probably have to resign from the Corps just to get some peace.
Nope. What he had to do was survive this stupid class then get back to being a full-time Marine.
Of course, when the classes were over, he wouldn’t be seeing Gina again. Surprising really, how much that realization bothered him.
A cold, damp breeze slinked in off the ocean and swept the rest of old memories and troubling thoughts from his mind. He returned his attention just in time to the short woman walking—or rather, running along beside him.
“Are you listening to me?” she asked, and judging from the exasperation in her tone, it wasn’t for the first time.
Nick stopped, looked down at her and shook his head. “If you’re still talking about that competition, no.”
She threw her hands wide and let them fall to her sides again. “Why not?”
That mouth of hers looked good even in a frown. Oh, no, he wasn’t going there. Leaving his hormones out of the equation, Gina Santini was not going to get to him. “A better question, princess, is why are you so hot to enter a contest with me when all you can do is complain about how badly I dance?”
The wind tossed her dark-brown curls around her face, and Gina reached up with one hand to push them back from her eyes. “You’re really not totally bad.”
Heartwarming. “Gee,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his words, “thanks.”
She pulled in a deep breath, which distracted him momentarily by drawing his gaze to the curve of her breasts, then she sighed dramatically. “It’s a contest,” she said as if that was enough to explain everything. “Don’t you want to win?”
That gleam in her eyes was back again, and a part of Nick admired her. He liked a good competition, too. He just preferred entering contests that he had some small chance of winning.
“We’re not good enough,” he said flatly, and started for his car again, hoping she’d drop the subject.
He should have known better.
Right behind him, he heard the heels of her shoes tapping against the asphalt as she trotted to keep up with his long-legged stride.
“We could be,” she said, “good enough, I mean.”
Nick laughed shortly.
“All we’d need is extra practice.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “for a year or two.”
“For Pete’s sake, General,” Gina said, and stepped in front of him, bringing him to a quick stop. “Do all Marines give up as easily as you?”
A quick flash of irritation swelled up inside him.
“Marines do not give up, princess,” he said, and loomed over her, which wasn’t hard since she was so darn short. “We simply choose our battles.”
“Uh-huh. Apparently only the ones you’re sure of winning.”
“Look,” he said, and threw his car a longing glance before looking at Gina again. Obviously, he wasn’t going to get out of here without yet another argument. And to think that only a moment ago he’d been bothered by the thought of never seeing her again. God. What had he done in his life to deserve this irritating, too-damned-attractive woman? Answer: he’d thrown a major’s wife into a punch bowl. “You said yourself all we do is argue. Do you really want to spend more time together?”
She folded her arms under her breasts and he absolutely refused to look. It wasn’t easy, but he kept his gaze locked with hers. One of her finely arched eyebrows went just a bit higher. “We wouldn’t argue so much if you weren’t so stubborn.”
“Hah! I’m stubborn?”
She gave him a look that would have fried a lesser man’s soul. Then, clearly disgusted, she asked, “Why am I even talking to you?”
“You got me, princess.”
“Will you stop calling me princess?”
“As soon as you stop acting like one.”
Her big brown eyes widened and then narrowed dangerously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Well, hell. He hadn’t really meant to say that out loud. “Never mind.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Explain.”
“There’s no reason to go into any of this,” he hedged. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He just didn’t want to enter that blasted contest. “It’s late. I’ve got to get back to base.”