Читать книгу Modern Romance June 2015 Books 1-8 - Эбби Грин, Natalie Anderson - Страница 14
ОглавлениеDARCY IMMEDIATELY PALED in the dim lighting, and Max didn’t even have time to regret the words that had come out of his mouth before her eyes were flashing blue sparks.
‘I know you’re a ruthless bastard, Max, but I’ve never thought you were unnecessarily cruel. If that’s the way this will play out then you can find yourself another convenient wife.’
She whirled around and was almost gone before Max acknowledged the bitter tang of instant remorse and shot up out of his chair, closed the distance between them and grabbed her arm in his hand, stopping her in her tracks.
He cursed and addressed the back of that glossy head. ‘Darcy. I’m sorry.’
After a long moment she turned round. She was so tiny in her bare feet, and it reminded him of how she’d fitted against him earlier that day, making him aware of an alien need to protect, to cosset.
Her eyes were huge, wounded. He cursed himself silently. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, aware that he’d probably never uttered those words to anyone.
‘You should be.’
Her voice was husky and it had an effect on every nerve-ending in Max’s body.
‘You didn’t deserve that.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
And then, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world, as well as the most urgent, Max took her other arm and pulled her round to face him. The air crackled between them. He could see Darcy’s breasts rise and fall faster with her breathing, and he was so hard he ached.
He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to Darcy’s, drawing her up against him. She was as still as a statue for a long moment, as if determined to resist, and then on a small indrawn breath her mouth opened under Max’s and the blood roared in his head.
His hands dropped and settled on her waist, over the flimsy fabric of her vest, relishing the contours of her tiny waist. She triggered something very primal in him in a way no other woman ever had.
His tongue stroked into her mouth, finding hers and tangling with it hotly. His erection jerked in his pants in response and he groaned softly.
Darcy tasted like the sweetest nectar on earth, but her small sharp tongue was a pointed reminder that she had an edge. That only fired up his blood even more. She was soft, sweet, malleable...and melting into him like his hottest fantasy.
Max took ruthless advantage, deepening the kiss, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her into him, feeling his aching hardness meet the soft resistance of her body. Her breasts were full, pressing against him, and his hand snaked under her vest, spreading out over her lower back. Her skin was silky and hot to the touch.
Lust such as he’d never experienced had him in a grip so strong he couldn’t think beyond obeying this carnal need.
* * *
Darcy was dimly aware of a very distant voice in her head, screaming at her to stop and pull back. Moments ago she’d been blisteringly angry with Max. And hurt. But she didn’t care any more. She was in his arms and her world was made up of heat and glorious pounding desire.
Every part of her exulted in his masculinity and his sheer size. Big hands were smoothing up her back, lifting her vest until it snagged under her breasts. He pulled away from her mouth and Darcy sucked in much needed oxygen—but it didn’t go to her brain, it seemed only to fuel the hunger in her body.
Max’s mouth feathered kisses along her jawbone and down to the sensitive part of her neck just under her ear.
The scent of sex was musky in the air and it was mixed with something very feminine. Her desire. Oh, God. She was so weak, but she didn’t care any more.
When he pulled back to take her hand in his and lead her over to the sofa she went with him without hesitation. He sat down and guided her over him so that she ended up with her knees either side of his thighs, straddling his lap, his erection a hard ridge between her legs.
Some vital part of her brain had abdicated all responsibility for this situation. It felt dangerously liberating. He was looking at her with such dark intent that she felt dizzy even as her hands were already on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, eager to explore the wide expanse of his chest.
He said thickly, ‘Dio, I want you so much.’
Darcy couldn’t speak. So she bent her head and kissed him again. His hands gripped her waist for a moment before exploring upwards, pulling her vest up and over her breasts, baring them.
He broke the kiss and looked at her, eyes wide, feverish. ‘Si bella...’
He cupped one breast in his hand and squeezed the firm flesh. Darcy bit her lip at the exquisite sensation, and then cried out when he leaned forward and took the straining tip into his mouth, sucking it deep before letting it pop out and then ministering to her other breast with the same attention.
She wasn’t even aware that her hips were making subtle circular motions on Max’s lap, seeking to assuage the building tension at her core, where the slide of his erection between her legs was a wicked temptation. She only became aware when his hand moved down to her buttocks and held her there. His arousal was thrusting between them, touching her intimately through their clothes. She was pulsating, all over.
A wave of incredible tenderness moved over her as she saw his scar, gleaming white in the low lights. Without thinking Darcy reached out and traced it gently, running her finger down the raised and jagged length. Then she bent to kiss it.
And just as she did so the wave of tenderness finally triggered some faulty self-protection mechanism and she tensed all over, her mouth hovering just over Max’s scar.
What the hell was she doing?
He’d just been a complete bastard and yet after a brief apology and a kiss hotter than Hades she was writhing in his lap, about to let emotion overwhelm her! A man who saw her as just a means to an end.
What was even worse was that she’d already seen some pictures online, of them in Paris, outside the jewellers. She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, small and chubby next to Max’s tall, lean form, clutching at him. It was galling. Mortifying how ill-matched they were.
Darcy scrambled up and off Max’s lap so fast she nearly fell backwards. She tugged her vest down over straining breasts.
Max sat forward, his shirt half open, deliciously dishevelled. ‘Darcy...what the hell?’
Darcy’s voice was shaky. ‘This is a mistake.’
Every masculine bone in Max’s body was crying out for completion, satisfaction. He could barely see straight. He’d been moments away from easing his erection free of confinement, ripping Darcy’s clothes off and embedding himself so deeply inside her he’d see stars.
He hated it that she seemed to have more control than him—that she’d been the one to pull back. The rawness he’d felt earlier had returned. He felt exposed.
He stood up in a less than graceful movement, his body still clamouring for release, but he was damned if he was going to admit that to Darcy.
He bit out, ‘I don’t play games, Darcy, and I don’t believe in mistakes. I believe in choices. And you need to be honest with yourself and make one.’
Darcy looked up at him for a long moment and the very thin edges of Max’s control threatened to fray completely. But then she took a step back and said in a low voice, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
Frustration clawed at Max with talons of steel. That was not the answer he’d wanted to hear. As she moved to walk away he reached out and took her arm again, not liking the way she tensed.
‘Damn it, Darcy. We both want this.’
She turned her head and looked at him. ‘No, Max, we don’t.’
She pulled free and walked quickly from the room.
Two weeks later
‘I do hope that you haven’t put me anywhere near your father. Honestly, if he turns up with his latest bimbo—’
‘Mother. Please stop.’ Darcy tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. ‘You’re not near my father, you’re at opposite ends of the reception lunch table and the registry office.’
Her mother, as petite as Darcy but über-slim sniffed. ‘Well, that’s good.’
Darcy sighed. She and Max had agreed that it would look better to have family there, and that they could serve as witnesses. Her parents were as bad as each other in different ways: her passionate Italian mother was on a constant quest to find security with ever younger and richer men, and her hopelessly romantic father got his heart broken on a regular basis by a stream of never-ending gold-diggers who saw Tom Lennox coming from a mile away.
She forced a smile at her mother in the mirror, not wanting to invite questions about anything beyond the superficial.
To say that the last two weeks had been a strain was an understatement. Luckily work had kept Darcy busy, preparing for the final reckoning with Montgomery. But the personal tension between Max and her had almost reached breaking point. Even though they’d barely seen each other in his apartment. He worked late most nights, so she was in bed when he returned, and he was gone before her in the morning. And Darcy, of course, had refrained from any more dangerous nocturnal wanderings.
Even now she burned with humiliation when she thought of the concern she’d felt when she’d seen him that night, staring broodingly into his drink. Alone... Vulnerable... Ha! The man was about as vulnerable as reinforced steel.
Darcy was sure that he’d only been in London to meet with Montgomery for the last two days to get away from her, and she hated how that stung.
Since that night in his apartment he’d been cool to the point of icy. And she only had herself to blame. She’d been the weak one. Blowing hot and then cold. Running away because she couldn’t handle the thought of Max breaching the final intimacy, afraid of what would happen to her if he did.
No doubt he was used to women who knew what they wanted and went after it—and him. No qualms. No questions. Maybe he’d been seeing one of those women in London, discreetly?
Her mother tugged at the back of her dress now, tutting. ‘Honestly, Darcy, why couldn’t you have bought a nice long dress? This one’s more suitable for a cocktail party. This is quite likely to be your only wedding day, you know.’
Darcy welcomed the distraction and said fervently, ‘I’m counting on it. And it’s a registry office wedding, Mother. This dress is perfectly suitable.’
Her mother sniffed and tweaked Darcy’s chignon, where a mother of pearl comb held the short veil back from her face. ‘Well, I suppose it is a nice dress, for all that,’ she admitted grudgingly.
Darcy ran a critical eye over herself, feeling slightly disembodied at the thought that she was getting married that day. To Max Fonseca Roselli. The dress was off-white satin, coming to just over her knee. It was a simple sheath design, overlaid with exquisitely delicate lace. It covered her arms and up to her throat.
It’s fine, she told herself, hating that the little girl in her still yearned for something long and swirling...romantic.
Wanting to avoid any further scrutiny, she said to her mother, ‘You look gorgeous.’
Her mother preened—predictably. She was indeed stunning, in a dusky pink dress and matching jacket. An exotic fascinator was arranged in her luxurious dark hair, which was piled high.
As she zipped up her dress at the back Darcy referred to her mother’s comment about her father. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t brought your own arsenal, Mother.’
Viola Bianci glared at her daughter. ‘Javier and I are very much in love.’
Darcy just arched a brow. From what she’d seen of the permatanned Spanish Lothario, he was very much in love with himself, but he was obviously enjoying parading the very well preserved and beautiful older woman on his arm. For whatever reason—whether it was love or something less—he was lavishing attention and money on her mother, so Darcy desisted from making any more comments.
Her mother came in front of her now, to pull the veil over her face, but she stopped and looked at Darcy.
‘Carina...are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Her mother looked slightly discomfited for a moment. ‘I mean, after your father and I... Well, our break-up... I always got the impression that you weren’t really into marrying anyone.’
A familiar impulse to deflect any concern about her rose up, and even though Darcy recognised that it was totally misplaced she put a hand on her mother’s arm and said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’
And she did, she told herself.
Her mother wasn’t finished, though. ‘But are you in love with him, Darcy? You might think I don’t notice much, but one thing I’ve always known about you is that you’d never settle for anything less than a lifetime commitment—whether it’s through marriage or not.’
Darcy all but gaped at her mother. Since when did Viola Bianci display any perspicacity in looking into her daughter’s psyche? It slammed into her gut and made her want to recoil and protect herself. Lifetime commitment. Was that really what she wanted? As a result of her experiences? More than a sense of security and a successful career?
Her mouth was opening and closing ineffectually. Finally she croaked, ‘I... Well, I do... I mean, I am—’
Just then a knock came on the door and one of the wedding planner’s team popped her head round the door. ‘It’s time to go.’
Saved by the bell—almost literally. As Darcy’s mother began to flap, gathering up her personal belongings and Darcy’s bouquet, she’d never been so glad for her gnat-like attention span. Clearly she wasn’t that concerned about whether Darcy was marrying for true love or not—and frankly that one insight, no matter how erroneous Darcy assured herself it was, was discombobulating enough.
* * *
The registry office felt tiny and stifling to Max, but as he was about to ask for the window to be opened he saw that it was already open. He’d been talking to Darcy’s father, who was a pleasant affable man, completely preoccupied with his much younger glamorous girlfriend, whom Max had categorised as a gold-digger in seconds. She was busy making eyes at Max whenever Tom Lennox’s back was turned.
Max had to curb the urge to scowl at her. She was tall, slim, blonde and undeniably beautiful, but his head was still filled with the way Darcy had felt straddling his lap that night, the size of her tiny waist spanned by his hands. The feel of that hard nipple against his tongue. The scent of her.
Hell. It had been two weeks ago. He was usually hard-pressed to recall any liaison more than twenty-four hours after it had happened. Making love with women was a very pleasurable but transitory thing in his life.
He didn’t wake up at night sweating, with the sheets tangled around his aching body like a vise. He did now. Which was why he’d been in London for the last two days, putting himself through more unsatisfactorily inconclusive meetings with Cecil Montgomery.
The man was still insisting that all would be revealed in a week’s time. Damn him. The one thing easing his frustration was that Montgomery’s attitude had definitely changed since Max had announced his marriage to Darcy. Gone was the slightly condescending and derisory tone. There was a new respect that Max couldn’t deny.
So this would be worth it. The fact that Darcy was driving him slowly insane would all be worth it.
Max felt a prickling sensation across his skin and looked up just as the few people gathered in the room hushed.
She was here. And he couldn’t breathe, seeing how beautiful she looked. It felt as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks, not two paltry days.
She stood in the doorway with a woman he assumed to be her mother. But he only saw Darcy. The delicious curves of her body were outlined in a white lace dress. A short veil came to her chin, obscuring her face. But he could make out her huge blue eyes even through the gauzy material and he felt his belly tighten with something like...emotion?
She was doing this for him. A monumental favour. You’re paying her, pointed out a pragmatic voice. But still... This went above and beyond payment.
It was gratitude he felt. Gratitude that she was doing this for him. That was all.
Her mother moved ahead of her, smiling winsomely at Max, who forced a smile back. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Darcy as she came the short distance between the chairs towards him. She held a bouquet of flowers in front of her—not that Max could have said what they were.
And then she was beside him, and he was turning to the front, acutely aware of her body heat and her scent. He felt an urge to reassure her but pushed it down. Darcy knew what this was. She was doing it for her own reasons and because he was paying her handsomely.
He frowned minutely. Why had she asked for that specific amount of money?
‘Signor Roselli?’
Max blinked. Damn. The registrar repeated the words for Max, which he duly recited, and then he was facing Darcy. He felt slightly dizzy. Rings were exchanged. Darcy’s hands were tiny, her fingers cool as they slid the ring onto his finger. Her voice was low, clear. No hesitation.
And then he was lifting her veil back from her face and all he could see was an ocean of blue. And those soft lips, trembling ever so slightly.
‘You may kiss your bride.’
He heard the smile in the registrar’s voice but he was oblivious as he cupped Darcy’s small face between his hands, tipping it up towards him, and bent to kiss her.
* * *
Darcy’s mouth was still tingling and she had to stop herself from putting her fingers to it, to feel if it was swollen. Her hand was in Max’s firm grip, her bouquet in the other hand, as he led her through the foyer of the exclusive Rome hotel and into the dining room where an intimate lunch was being held.
Along with her parents, who had been their witnesses, Max had invited his brother and new sister-in-law, and some business associates from Max’s company.
Darcy felt like an absolute fraud, and was not looking forward to being under the inspection of people she didn’t know well. Max made her feel so raw—and even more so now, after two weeks of minimal contact.
Max turned at the door to the dining room, where their guests were waiting, stopping her. His grip on her hand tightened and compelled her to look up at him. She’d been too wound up to really take him in before now, but his dark grey morning suit along with a silk cravat made him look even more handsome and masculine. He could have stepped out of the nineteenth century. A rake if ever there was one. Even though he was clean-shaven and his unruly hair was tamed. Well, as tamed as it would ever be.
Darcy felt a rogue urge to reach up and run her fingers through it, to muss it up.
‘Okay?’
She looked deep into those golden eyes and felt her heart skip a beat. She nodded minutely. Max cupped her face with his hand and rubbed a thumb across her lower lip. Her body clamoured, telling her how much she’d missed his touch.
And then he tensed. Darcy looked to the side to see a tall dark man with possibly the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her life. White-blonde hair and piercing ice-blue eyes. But they were warm, and the woman was smiling at Darcy.
Max took his hand away from her jaw and stood straight. She could feel the tension in his form. ‘Darcy, I’d like you to meet Luca Fonseca, my brother, and his wife Serena.’
Max’s twin was as tall, and as powerfully built as he was, but much darker, with black hair and dark blue eyes.
Darcy shook hands with both of them and Serena came closer to say, ‘Your dress is beautiful.’
Darcy made a small face, feeling completely inadequate in the presence of this goddess. ‘I felt less might be more, considering it was a registry office wedding.’
Serena made a sound of commiseration and said, ‘My husband and I had a beach wedding, just us and close family, and I can’t tell you how relieved I was not to be paraded down some aisle like a wind-up doll.’
Darcy let out a little laugh, surprised that she was so warm and friendly. She felt a pang to realise that she probably wouldn’t ever meet her again after this.
A staff member interrupted them to let them know that everyone was ready for Max and Darcy to make their entrance as a married couple. Luca and Serena went inside and Darcy took a deep breath, glad that it was only a handful of guests. Max took her hand and she pasted a bright smile on her face as they walked into a welcome of clapping and cheers.
They were soon separated and caught up in a round of congratulations and chatter. Darcy felt even more like a fraud, aware of Max’s tall form on the other side of the room as he spoke to his brother. She felt as if she had ‘fake bride’ emblazoned on her forehead.
When there was a lull Serena surprised her by coming over and handing her a glass of champagne.
Darcy took a grateful sip. ‘Thanks, I needed that.’
Serena frowned minutely. ‘Are you okay? You look a little pale.’
Darcy smiled weakly. ‘It’s just been a bit of a whirlwind two weeks.’
Serena was about to say something when her husband Luca appeared at her side and wound his arm possessively around her waist. They shared a look so intimate that Darcy felt like a voyeur. And something worse: envy.
To Darcy’s intense relief a gong sounded then, indicating that lunch would be served. She siezed on the excuse to break away and find her seat, and pushed down the gnawing sense of emptiness that had no place here, at a fake wedding.
* * *
The tension that gripped Max whenever he saw his brother had eased somewhat by the time they were sipping fragrant coffee after lunch. He looked around at the guests at the long table. He and Darcy were at the head and she was leaning towards the man on her left, one of Max’s accountants.
This wedding was putting him in pole position to achieve everything he’d ever wanted: the ultimate respect among his peers. So why wasn’t he feeling a sense of triumph? Why on earth was he preoccupied with his very fake wife and how delectable she looked in her wedding dress? How he’d like to peel it bit by bit from that luscious body?
At that moment he spied his brother and his wife, sitting halfway down the table. They were side by side and looking at one another with utter absorption. It made something dark twist inside him.
He shouldn’t have invited them. All anyone would have to do would be to look at Luca and Serena and realise how flimsy the façade of his marriage to Darcy was.
Once again his brother was effortlessly proving Max’s lack. And worse was the evidence that whatever blows Luca had been dealt in his life they hadn’t touched some deep part of him, tainting him for ever. For the first time, Max felt more than envy—he felt hollow.
‘What is it? You look as if you’re about to murder someone.’
The low voice came close to his ear and Max turned his head to see Darcy’s face, a small frown between her eyes. He felt exposed—and frustrated. There was a futile sense of rage in his gullet that was old and dark, harking back to that one cataclysmic day in his childhood. Still to be bound by that day was galling.
He acted instinctively—seeking something he couldn’t put a name to. Perhaps an antidote to the darkness inside him. An escape from the demons nipping at his heels. He uncurled his hand and put it around Darcy’s waist, tugging her into him before claiming her mouth in a kiss that burned like wildfire through his veins.
It didn’t bring escape, though. It brought carnal hunger, and a need that only she seemed able to tap into. Incensed that she could do this to him so easily—and here, in front of witnesses—made Max deepen the embrace. He felt rather than heard Darcy’s moan as both hands moved around her back.
Eventually some sliver of sanity seemed to pierce the heat haze in his brain and he pulled back. Darcy took a second to open her eyes. Her mouth was pink and swollen, her breasts moving rapidly against him.
And then he saw her come to her senses. Those blue eyes went from hot to cold in seconds and she tried to pull free, but Max didn’t let her go, keeping her attention on him.
Darcy couldn’t seem to suck enough oxygen into her heaving lungs. When she could, she hissed at Max, ‘What the hell was that little caveman move?’
She knew damn well that his urge to indulge in that very public display of affection hadn’t been entirely inspired by the need to fool their guests, because the look on his face just before he’d kissed her had been dark and haunted. It struck a raw nerve.
She pushed herself free of Max’s embrace and stood up.
He stood up too, frowning. ‘Where are you going?’
Darcy whispered angrily, ‘I’m taking ten minutes’ break from this charade—if that’s all right with you?’
She forced a poilte smile at their guests, who had now started moving around after lunch, but didn’t stop, heading straight for a secluded balcony through an open set of French doors. She needed air. Now.
She went and stood at the stone wall and looked out over Rome, basking benignly in the midafternoon sun. It was idyllic, and a million miles from the turmoil in her belly and her head.
Damn Max and his effortless ability to push her buttons. The galling thing was she didn’t even know what button he was pushing. She just knew she was angry with him, and she hated feeling like a puppet on a string. This was a mistake. No amount of money was worth this. She’d happily live as a nomad for the rest of her life if she could just be as far away from Max as possible.
Liar.
‘Darcy?’
She closed her eyes. No escape.
Darcy turned from the view. It was the thread of concern in his voice that made her glance at him, but his face was unreadable.
She looked at him accusingly. ‘Why did you kiss me like that? It wasn’t just to put on a show for people.’
‘No,’ he admitted reluctantly, ‘it wasn’t just for that.’
A pain that Darcy knew she shouldn’t be feeling gripped her when she thought of the anger and frustration she’d sensed in the kiss.
‘It’s one thing to be wilfully and knowingly used for another’s benefit, and to agree to that, but I won’t let you take the fact that I’m not the lover you want out on me.’
Max’s eyes widened. And then he came in front of her and put his hands on the wall either side of her, caging her in. In a low, fierce voice he said, ‘That statement is so far from the truth it’s not even funny. The only woman I am remotely interested in is right in front of me.’
Darcy swallowed and tried not to let Max’s proximity render her stupid. ‘But you were angry...I could feel it.’
Max pushed himself off the wall and ran a hand around his jaw. He stood beside Darcy and looked out at the view. Then he sighed and without looking at her said, ‘You’re right. I was angry.’
Darcy rested her hip against the wall, her own anger diffusing treacherously. ‘Why?’
Max’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. More a reflex. ‘My brother, primarily. I saw them—him and his wife...’
Without elaborating Darcy knew exactly what he meant. She’d seen it too. Their almost unbearable intimacy.
Max shrugged and looked down for a moment. ‘He gets to me like no one else can. Pushes my buttons. I always feel like I’m just catching up to him, two steps behind.’
Darcy could see it then: the intense hunger Max had to feel he wasn’t in competition with his brother any more. Whatever had happened when their parents had split up had marked these two men indelibly.
Feeling tight inside, she said, ‘Well, I don’t like being used to score a point. Next time find someone else.’
She went to move away, to go back inside, but Max caught her before she could leave with his hands around her waist, holding her fast. His eyes were blazing down into hers.
‘I kissed you because I want you, Darcy. If there was anger there at my brother it was forgotten the moment my mouth touched yours. I do not want you to be under any illusions. When I kiss you I know exactly who I’m kissing and why.’
Darcy stared up at him, transfixed by the intensity of his expression.
‘Maledizione. I can’t think when you look at me like that.’
He pulled her closer and Darcy fell against him, unsteady in her shoes. She braced her hands against his chest. He was warm. Hard.
‘Max...’ Darcy protested weakly—too weakly. ‘There’s no one here to see.’
‘Good,’ he said silkily. ‘Because this is not motivated by any reason other than the fact that I want you.’
One hand cupped the back of Darcy’s head and the other was tight around her waist, almost lifting her off her feet. When Max’s mouth met hers she was aghast to realise how badly she wanted it, and she met him with a fervour that should have embarrassed her. But it didn’t. She wound her arms around his neck, her breasts swelling against his chest.
He backed Darcy into the wall, so it supported her, and their kiss was bruising and desperate. Two weeks of pent-up frustration and denial. Max’s hands were on her hips and he gripped her so tightly she wondered dimly if the marks of his fingers would be on her flesh.
Darcy became aware of a noise after a few long seconds of letting Max suck her into a vortex of mindlessness and realised it was someone clearing his throat in a very obvious manner when she pulled back and was mortified to see a staff member—also mortified—waiting for them to come up for air.
Max released her hips from his grip and stood back. His hair was mussed, his tie awry. Darcy felt as if she might float away from the ground, she was so light-headed.
Max turned to face the red-faced staff member, who was obviously eager to pass on his message so he could escape.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Signor Roselli, your car is ready when you are.’
The young man left and Darcy looked at Max, feeling stupid. ‘Car? Where are we going?’
‘The villa—Lake Como—for a long weekend.’
She must have looked as stupid as she felt.
‘Our honeymoon?’ he said.
Max had informed her a week before that they’d go away for a long weekend after the wedding, just so that everything looked as authentic as possible. She’d completely forgotten. Until now.
And suddenly the thought of a few days alone in a villa with Max was terrifying.
‘Surely we can just stay here in Rome? There’s so much to prepare for Scotland—’ she gabbled.
Max was shaking his head and taking her hand to lead her back inside. ‘We’re going to Como, Darcy. Non-negotiable.’
He let go of her hand inside the door to the dining room and, as if sensing her growing desire to escape said firmly, ‘Say goodbye to your parents, Darcy. I’ll meet you in the foyer in an hour.’
She watched, still a little numb, as he strode over to some of the guests to start saying goodbye and felt a looming sense of futility wash over her. A weekend alone in a villa with Max Fonseca Roselli...after that kiss... She didn’t stand a chance.
