The Sicilian's Wife (7 page)

Her mind seemed to split in two, one half of it wanting exactly this. Wanting to hold on tight to Cesare's strength and never let go, to clench her fingers around his arm, feel it support her as it had done moments before. That part begged to allow herself to dream of the way it would feel to have that strength reach out to enclose her, hold her tight. The other, weaker, side of her thoughts only wanted to snatch her hand away and turn and run, away from here, away from the emotional distress she knew she was laying herself open to, the bitter pain of living with and loving a man who didn't feel the same way about her.

Somehow she managed to get through what remained of the ceremony. She went back out into the church, walked by Cesare's side down the long, stone-flagged aisle and out into the bright sunlight of a late July day. She even managed to switch on a smile at the right moment, direct it at the right people. She could only pray that no one saw the emptiness behind the gesture, the way no lightness touched or warmed her eyes but left them cold and dead as the feeling in her soul.

The only time her careful mask faltered was when they were outside the church, every movement accompanied by a chorus of congratulations and a hail of brightly coloured confetti. It was as they were making their way to the car that was to take them to the reception, that someone spoke behind her, their voice carrying loud and clear in a moment of unexpected silence.

‘It's been lovely! Really lovely.'

Megan recognised the tones of her father's secretary, a stout, middle-aged lady with an incurably romantic streak.

‘If you ask me, it's been a dream wedding.'

A dream wedding. The words fixed themselves inside Megan's head as the car moved, began to pull away from the crowd gathered by the kerb. The sight of Annie Patrick's broad, handsome face half hidden behind a flowery handkerchief as the older woman dabbed at her tearful eyes with obvious enjoyment, only added to and aggravated her feeling of isolation and loss.

In some ways it was true: this was her dream wedding. It was the wedding she had fantasised about as an adolescent, the images clear in her mind as she fell asleep in the narrow single bed in her father's house. The setting was the same, the groom at her side was the man she had always pictured as her husband in those long-ago daydreams. But the details of the circumstances in which they were getting married, the reasons for the wedding at all, were such a bitter irony that they turned her dream wedding into a black, dark nightmare.

‘If you're going to wear that expression all day long, then no one is going to believe in the image of this as a whirlwind romance and a happy ever after wedding,' Cesare reproved sharply as he leaned back against the soft leather of the seat of the antique Rolls Royce. ‘You look more like someone who's on the way to her execution rather than the excited young bride about to embark on a lifetime of married bliss.'

‘Maybe that's because that perfectly describes the way I feel!' Megan returned tartly, refusing to look at him but concentrating her attention on the bouquet of roses in her lap, blinking furiously to drive back the tears that welled unexpectedly. ‘We both know that this wedding is a farce—the marriage nothing but a pretence, and a bad one at that!'

‘Well then maybe you'd better buck your ideas up—and fast! If you wander around with that scowl on your face then people are pretty soon going to guess…'

‘Perhaps I want them to guess!'

This time she turned to face him, yellow flames of defiance flaring in her eyes.

‘Did you ever think of that?'

‘And did you ever think of your father in all this?' Cesare stunned her by returning, an edge of something dangerous in his voice.

If Tom suspected this marriage wasn't for real there was no knowing what he'd do. He was quite capable of backing out, refusing the help he so desperately needed. And if her father backed out, then possibly Megan would too.

‘Dad? What has he got to do with this?'

‘If I remember rightly, a rescue deal for your father was part of the bargain between us when we arranged all this.'

Cesare's tone was hard, unyielding, totally ruthless.

‘As soon as we were married, you said!' Megan put in protestingly. Surely he couldn't be thinking of backing out now!

‘But only if people believe that this is a real marriage. One hint of anyone suspecting that there's nothing in it—that it's not the love match it appears to be, then the deal's off.'

Was he really threatening to back out now? To refuse to help her—and her father after all? Surely he couldn't be so cruel!

But then she looked into his dark, set face and knew that
this
Cesare Santorino, the man his business opponents must come up against so often across a boardroom table, could easily be so cruel. He could be all that and more.

‘But that isn't fair!' she protested. ‘It wasn't in our original agreement!'

‘But I'm putting it in there now.'

Cesare's tone left no room for argument or remonstration.

‘If you want I'll have a legal document drawn up to say exactly that.'

Knowing she was defeated, Megan subsided again, staring fixedly at her bouquet.

‘There's no need for that. You've got the whip hand and you know it.'

‘The whip hand?' Cesare questioned, his near-perfect English deserting him momentarily.

‘You're in the driving seat—in control,' she elaborated unwillingly, tugging off a leaf in the bouquet and discarding it on the floor of the car. ‘You've got me exactly where you want me and I have to do as you say or you'll just drop me right in it.'

Did she really think that? Cesare was forced to wonder. Did she really think that this was nothing but a power struggle? A battle for control where one of them must win and so the other must, inevitably, be the loser? Couldn't she see that there was a way they could both end up the winner? If she could stop throwing the fact that she'd been forced into this marriage in his face; if she'd stop thinking about what might have been with Gary and let herself consider what
could be
between the two of them; if she'd only let him
in
in some way, then things could be very different.

But looking at her now, with her head bent, her face determinedly turned away from him, it was clear she was determined to shut him out, rather than let him in. Her slender hands moved restlessly on the beautiful bouquet, pulling at a leaf here, a petal there, the movement betraying the inner turmoil of her thoughts.

‘Megan…'

Reaching forward, he placed a hand on hers, stilling the nervous movements. Instantly he felt her tense, the muscles in her hand and arm clenching tight, making him regret his action even before he had finally completed it.

Did she really find his touch so offensive? Did she still wish, even after his callous rejection of her, the betrayal of her trust that his seduction of her had been, that bloody
Gary
was the one in the car with her now? That it was Gary's ring she wore on her finger, Gary's name she had taken as her own?

Just the thought of the other man changed his mood in an instant. Anger boiled up, thick and hot. Anger at Rowell for the way he had behaved, at Megan for clinging on to a hope of something she could never have; something that had never existed in the first place. But most of all he was furious with himself for
caring
; for wanting it all to be different.

He and Megan were alike in this at least, he admitted to himself. Both searching for a dream that would never be theirs. He was as crazy, as foolish as she was. He had her in his life; she would be in his home, in his day-to-day existence, in his
bed.
Couldn't he be satisfied with that? Why did he have to go and want her heart as well?

But he had never been one to settle for second best, and he didn't plan on starting now.

‘Megan…' he said again and the new note of steel brought her head up in a rush, green eyes widening swiftly as she looked into his face.

For a moment her soft lips parted as if she was about to say something but then immediately she clearly reconsidered and closed her mouth again, waiting in silence for him to speak.

To her total confusion, Cesare leaned forward and rapped
firmly on the glass partition that divided their part of the car from the uniformed driver.

‘Pull over here and park for a minute,' he ordered crisply. ‘Then take a minute to stretch your legs—get some air.'

‘Cesare!' Megan protested as the chauffeur did as he was told. ‘We can't do this! We're expected at the reception any minute. Everyone will be coming along behind us. They'll expect us to be there…'

‘We can do what the hell we want. If we're not there, they'll wait for us. Whoever heard of a wedding reception going ahead without the bride and groom?'

‘But…' Megan tried again and he laid a finger across her lips to silence her.

‘No talking—this time you listen! I think you'd better decide right here and now if you want this show of marriage to work or not. Because if you do, then you're going to have to work a lot harder on looking as if you actually believe in what you're doing. If you insist on going around with a face like—what is it you say?—like a wet weekday?'

‘Weekend,' Megan supplied automatically, unable to hold back a faint smile at his rare stumble in his use of English.

It was shocking how much it affected her, touching her numbed heart and warming it slightly. Cesare had always seemed so very sure of himself, so capable and confident. Even this tiny slip made him seem so much more human, even the faintest bit vulnerable, and it was not a sensation she was used to.

‘The phrase is a wet weekend.'

‘Okay…'

Cesare shrugged off her mild correction.

‘But whatever the phrase is, that is how you look. And as everyone knows it is not the way that a bride should look on her wedding day. You should look as if all your
dreams had come true; as if there was nothing more in the world that you could hope for.'

He caught her sidelong glance and an expression that was half smile, half scowl, crossed his face in response.

‘Okay, so there is no room for such feelings in our relationship,' he growled bad-temperedly. ‘But you could at least damn well smile!'

Deliberately Megan switched on a blatantly false smile, all teeth and lips, nothing in the eyes. And, as she expected, Cesare's frown grew darker.

‘I can't do it!' she protested. ‘Unless, of course you could help.'

‘Help? How?'

Megan would never know what little extra infusion of courage gave her the nerve to try it. But suddenly she was leaning towards him, bringing her face close to his, looking into his eyes.

‘If you behaved like a bridegroom, then I might find it easier to act as a bride.'

The deep brown eyes were full of suspicion and also, Megan was stunned to see, a tiny shadow of wary uncertainty lurked in their depths.

‘And how,
adorata
, should your groom behave?'

‘Well…'

Her voice threatened to abandon her and she swallowed convulsively to ease the dryness in her throat.

‘You could try kissing me, for example.'

The swift, slanting look he directed at her seemed to be full of reproof, taking her heart and twisting it painfully in response.

‘No, of course not!'

In a fury of embarrassment she turned away again, looking down at her bouquet, out of the window, anywhere but into that dark, unreadable face.

‘Megan…'

His voice was very low, very soft but she refused to respond to it, keeping her head stubbornly averted.

But then a hand, warm and firm, came under her chin, closing on her delicate jaw with a clasp that was gentle but irresistible and turning her face back to his.

‘Un bacio
…' he murmured, soft and warm as melted honey.

And it was the sweetest kiss she had ever received. The most gentle, tender taking of her lips she had known in her lifetime. It made her heart sing, woke her soul, opened her heart to the possibilities of endless dreams. And it stirred her senses too, with the promise of the joys of loving, the yearning delight of passion and the final, total culmination of desire.

It seemed to go on and on for ever, and yet it could never have lasted long enough to satisfy her. And when he finally released her she was incapable of speech, of thought. She could only sink back in her seat, her thoughts swimming on a heated golden sea, the taste of him still strong on her mouth.

But then at last Cesare moved, lifting his hand to summon the driver and the magical moment splintered all around them, threatening to break Megan's heart all over again as it did so. Hastily she tried to compose herself, to prepare for the continuation of their journey to the country-house hotel where their reception was to be held.

She hadn't expected Cesare to speak and so when he leaned forward and took her hand she jumped like a startled cat, turning wide, uncertain eyes on his unsmiling face.

‘So tell me,
moglie mia
,' he asked, still in those honeyed tones. ‘Was that what you were looking for? Was that the way to make you feel like a bride—to make you smile?'

The light in her eyes was answer enough, but still she
had to put it into words, had to speak just a little of what was in her heart or she knew she would burst under the strain of holding it in.

‘Oh yes,' she said, clasping his fingers as tightly as she dared, the smile he was looking for curving her lips, wide and true, if just a little tremulous at the edges. ‘Yes, Cesare, oh yes. That was exactly what I needed!'

‘A
LONE
at last!'

Cesare sighed and stretched; flexing tight muscles under the smooth material of the silver-grey suit he had changed into before they had left the hotel. ‘I thought they'd never let us go.'

Megan could only nod mutely in agreement, unable to find any words to answer him.

Alone at last.
She had known that this time must come, that inevitably, by the end of the day, all their family and friends would depart and she would be left alone with this man who was now her husband, but somehow nothing had quite prepared her for the finality of the moment. And now that it was here, she had no idea at all how to handle it.

All day she had been a prey to huge fluctuations of mood. One moment her heart had been clenching in fear at the thought of the sheer enormity of what she had done, the prospect of just what she had committed herself to. The next, she had been fizzing with happiness, her mind aglow with delight at the thought that she and Cesare were now husband and wife.

Okay, so things were very far from perfect. They had a long, long way to go before they could say they had reached any real understanding—and ‘understanding' was an even longer way from the ‘happy ever after' she had dreamed of having with Cesare. But they were together. And with care and hard work and rather more than just a pinch of luck, one day, they might just reach that special wonderful goal.

She was prepared to put in that hard work anyway. And she was beginning to suspect that perhaps Cesare was too.

‘Tired?'

Her new husband's question was low and sympathetic and the look he turned on her blended concern with understanding in a way that had the tears pricking at her eyes again.

Another mood swing, she thought shakily, disturbed by the suddennes of it. One moment up, feet off the floor in happiness, the next plunging down to something close to despair and panic. Probably caused by her hormones, she told herself, knowing how she had often felt just before her period started and assuming that pregnancy must have very much the same effect.

‘It's been a long day,' she managed, and he nodded agreement.

‘A long day but I think everything went off all right. No one seemed to suspect anything was other than as we'd said.'

They'd planned carefully just what they would tell their families. What explanation they would give for the suddenness of their marriage plans.

‘We'll tell them we've always felt this way about each other,' Cesare had said. ‘But we've kept quiet about it because each of us suspected that the other didn't feel the same way. But after the party at New Year, we just couldn't keep it to ourselves any longer. We've been seeing each other since then—while you were away at university. That will explain why the baby will come “early”. They're bound to suspect something like that anyway.'

‘We can hardly avoid it,' Megan had put in. ‘Even with a very speedy wedding, the birth's going to be no more than seven months away.'

‘Then we'll be totally upfront about it. Tell them we
realised we'd wasted years already and now we didn't want to wait any longer—for the marriage or anything else.'

It was near enough the truth, Cesare thought now. On his side at least. It was just with Megan that the story was pure fiction from start to finish. But perhaps, given time, he could change that.

‘I didn't like deceiving my father, but in the end I don't suppose he'll mind.'

The truth was that her father had amazed her with his lack of surprise at their announcement of their immediate marriage plans. Perhaps it was because Cesare had already said something to him about helping him out of the financial disaster he had got himself into.

Certainly, Tom Ellis had seemed like a different person at the wedding reception. He'd walked several inches taller, his spine straighter, his shoulders looking as if they'd had a major weight taken off them. There had been a new light in his eyes and a ready smile on his lips and he'd laughed out loud several times—a sound she had once wondered if she would ever hear again.

‘He'll adjust—like my parents will adjust to becoming in-laws and grandparents almost all at once.'

‘I hope so…'

She only wished she could feel as confident as he sounded. Cesare had said that he would be a father to her baby, had declared that it would be as if Gary had never existed—but could he really do that? Could he truly push the other man's existence and his part in the making of the baby out of his mind and act as if it truly was his child, and his parents' grandchild?

At the thought, her stomach, which had been decidedly untrustworthy all day, lurched nauseously, making her feel even more uncomfortable than before. Her head ached and
her back did too and surreptitiously she rubbed it with the back of her hand.

‘You look pale.'

Cesare didn't miss a trick.

‘Are you sure you're feeling okay?'

‘I'm tired,' she admitted. ‘But then I think anyone would be after such an eventful day.'

But perhaps someone whose wedding had been the real thing—a genuine love match—wouldn't feel quite so worn down and deflated by the end of the day. A couple who truly loved each other would be feeling their very best right now, delighted to have reached the end of the day so that they could be alone together. They might be tired but they would be buzzing with excitement, anticipating the best part of their wedding that was to happen when they finally went to bed.

They wouldn't be eyeing each other uncertainly, nerves taut as violin strings, wondering just how the other person felt and wondering what was to come for the rest of the evening.

‘Yes, they would,' Cesare agreed. ‘And you're not exactly on top form.'

‘I'm pregnant, Cesare, not ill!'

Uncomfortably aware of the undercurrents beneath what he was saying, the coded message that threaded through his words, she snapped at him bad-temperedly then immediately wished the words back.

‘Lots of women cope with more than this and still manage.'

‘But you look worn out. I just wanted to make sure you weren't overdoing things.'

Megan had to bite down hard on her lower lip, fighting against the impulse to scream, to demand to know why he didn't just come right out and say it. She knew that what
he was really saying was, are you
too
tired? Or are you ready for tonight? For our
wedding night
?

Are you ready to go to bed with me?

And she knew what her answer would be.

It would be
yes.

It had to be yes. It couldn't be anything else.

Of course she was ready to go to bed with him; to make love to him. There was no room for doubt, or hesitation, in her mind. It was what she wanted—what she had always wanted, almost all her life, it seemed. She loved Cesare and she wanted to make love with him. The sex wasn't the problem.

Telling him was.

She couldn't just blurt it out right here and now, opening her mouth and stating it boldly and frankly, in the way that she felt it deep inside. That was what she had tried to do at New Year—and her insides still curdled at the thought.

At New Year she had spilled out what was in her heart to Cesare and he had just laughed at her and walked away. She couldn't bear it if that was to happen now. Not on her wedding day. Not when they had already started out in such an inauspicious manner and she wanted—needed—so desperately to put things right between them.

‘I've not overdone things, honest.'

Drawing a deep breath she decided to take a risk, mentally closing her eyes and plunging right in.

‘And I've had a lovely, lovely day.'

That took him by surprise, bringing his dark head round to her in shock.

But, ‘I'm glad you enjoyed it,' was all he said.

‘Oh I did!'

She refused to let his carefully guarded delivery, the total lack of emotion in his voice get to her. He wasn't anything like as indifferent and controlled as he sounded. He might
have thought that he had played his cards very very close to his chest all day but there had been moments when his command over his behaviour had slipped and the result had been some of the best, the most special moments of the day.

There had been several of those magical times, ones she had hugged to herself secretly, not wanting anyone else to know just how much they had meant to her.

The first had been the moment when they had arrived at the reception and she had been wondering just what she should do with the glass of champagne she had been handed, thinking she would have to try and tip it away somewhere without being seen. Cesare had whisked the glass away from her and replaced it with another filled with an apparently identical liquid.

‘Apple juice and sparkling water,' he'd explained casually. ‘Has exactly the same sparkle and fizz, but there's nothing in there to harm our secret.'

He'd been there for her throughout the event, always checking she was all right. It had seemed as if every single time she looked up she met Cesare's thoughtful gaze, the ebony eyes watching every move, observing everything she did. He had been there if she looked tired or uncertain, or just a little in need of support, appearing at her side as if by magic and spiriting her away to a quiet part of the room until she felt ready to face people again.

And they had danced together too. As the first waltz of the evening was announced, along with the words, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr and Mrs Santorino', Cesare had taken her hand in his and led her onto the dance floor. He had kept her close throughout the dance, holding her as carefully and as tenderly as he had kissed her in the car on the way back from the church and, as a result, any last wariness in her heart had melted away for ever. Her feet
had barely seemed to touch the floor as she danced, and she had locked her eyes with his, aware of nothing but his deep, dark gaze, holding her mesmerised. The sounds, the colour, the other people at the reception had all faded away into a hazy blur at the edge of her consciousness, and it had been as if there was only her and Cesare, alone in all the world, and that was just the way she wanted it.

And then tonight, when they had reached his home just outside London where they were to spend their first night, he had stunned her even more.

They had arrived at the house as the evening finally gathered in, and he had dismissed the chauffeur with a word of thanks and what was obviously a very generous tip.

‘We'll stay here tonight,' he had explained, ‘but tomorrow our proper honeymoon will begin.'

Seeing her start of surprise, his mouth had twisted cynically.

‘You didn't think I'd forget an important detail like a honeymoon did you?'

‘Not forget, no. But I didn't think that really a honeymoon was—appropriate—to this marriage.'

‘Everything that's
appropriate
to any other marriage is
appropriate
to ours, Megan.'

The black cynicism with which he echoed her own use of the word made Megan flinch inside.

‘I only meant…'

‘I know exactly what you meant,' Cesare snapped, his tone even harsher than before. ‘But you'd better rethink your ideas—fast. I don't give a damn how you feel about it, but as far as I'm concerned this marriage of ours is as real as any other. There's no turning back now,
cara.
We're married, and that's how it's going to stay.'

‘I—I know…' Megan began but he rushed on, heedless of her stumbling interjection.

‘I didn't just go through that wedding for show—I meant every word I said in those vows. You're my wife, and I'm your husband, and if anyone begins to suspect anything there'll be hell to pay.'

Megan could only nod, still stunned by the fierce possessiveness with which he had said those emotive words, ‘You're my wife'. But even as she was still absorbing them, he continued, rocking her sense of reality once more.

‘And we'll observe every tradition, every rite of the whole occasion—even this one…'

And while she was still registering just what he had said, he had unlocked and pushed open the front door, turning back to her to fold his arms around her, swing her off her feet and high up into the air.

‘Cesare!'

Her breath escaped from her lungs in a shocked, bewildered gasp and she clutched at his broad shoulders, fearful she might fall. But his hands came under her knees, supported her back, his strength taking the weight of her body easily. All she could do was cling on and go with what he wanted as he carried her across the threshold and into the wide, tiled hallway beyond.

Even now, she still trembled deep inside at just the memory of the sensations that had coursed through her in those moments. The way that her heart had lurched into a crazy, staccato beat, sending the blood rushing round her body until her head was spinning in an uncontrolled delight.

And once inside, as he'd finally lowered her to the floor, he had deliberately let her body slide slowly down the lean, powerful length of his; legs, hips, and finally breasts all coming into the most intimate contact with every inch of him. And because of that it had been totally impossible to ignore the swollen physical evidence of his heated response
to her closeness, the instant desire he made no attempt to hide.

It was there in the kiss that followed too. In the way that he had taken her lips with a burning, demanding force that spoke of hunger and passion, and the deep, deep sensuality of the night, all combined with the promise that he would make this a time she would never forget. And she had answered that promise with one of her own, kissing him right back with all the strength and the emotion she was capable of feeling.

‘I
want
you,' he had said. ‘I want you more than life itself. I always have and I always will.' And simply remembering the dark intensity with which he had spoken those words made her shiver as matching sensations fizzed over her skin, sparking electrical storms of response along each tingling nerve.