Читать книгу One Night In… - Кейт Хьюит, Оливия Гейтс - Страница 29

‘I THINK we will find all that you need on the Via Montenapoleone,’ Gabriella told Meghan the next day, as they took the di Agnio limousine into Milan’s shopping district. ‘The best shops are there— including the flagship Di Agnio boutique.’

Meghan nodded, barely taking in her future mother-in-law’s words. She was hopelessly distracted by the remorseless echo of Alessandro’s voice.

One of my mistresses.

After he’d left the room Meghan had opened the cupboard and found a range of clothes, from casual dresses and jeans to screamingly expensive evening gowns.

His mistresses’ clothes.

Why had he said that?

Meghan had sighed as she’d taken in one designer gown after another, her hands roaming mindlessly over silk, satin and crêpe. Of course she’d known he’d had lovers. Mistresses. He was a virile, beautiful man. Of course he had. He’d hinted at it before.

But why mention it then, in the twilit intimacy of the darkened bedroom, her lips still burning from his kisses, her senses still scattered by his touch? The remark had been delivered with the cruel, cold accuracy of an arrow to the heart … and it had met its target.

He had, Meghan knew, been warning her.

Don’t fall in love with me. The voice in her head was as loud as if he’d actually said it.

And hadn’t he? He’d warned her before. She should have realised a single moment of tenderness, companionship, desire was simply that.

A moment in an otherwise barren marriage.

A marriage of convenience … for both of them. No matter how it felt, no matter how it seemed.

He wanted someone to give him an heir. A willing woman in his bed who wouldn’t demand love. Someone to keep him from being alone. Lonely.

A woman who wouldn’t bother him too much.

And she wanted power. Safety. Security. Release from the fear and shame.

That was why she’d agreed. That was the promise she would build her life upon.

Not flimsy dreams of love, of affection, but the man Alessandro had said he meant to be.

She’d finally picked one of the gowns—a simple design of black silk that had swirled about her calves and was the least revealing—and had gone downstairs.

Dinner had been stilted, strained. Gabriella had tried to make conversation, Meghan had helped her woodenly, and Alessandro had sat in flinty silence, preoccupied, refusing even to meet Meghan’s gaze, indifferent to his mother’s.

After dinner he’d excused himself, and when Meghan had woken in the morning he’d already gone to work. She wondered if she’d actually see him again before the wedding.

The wedding. She could leave, she reminded herself. Slip out while he was at the office and never come back.

Keep running.

The trouble was, she didn’t want to.

She was damned by her own need.

Her own desire.

‘Here we are.’ Gabriella’s voice was bright, her manner only a little stiff, as the car slowed to a stop on a long, glittering street lined with the most famous and expensive designer names in the world. Boutiques with a single garment hanging in the window and a lock on the door.

The next few hours were a blur of clothes and fitting rooms. Gabriella spoke rapid Italian with sleek saleswomen who examined Meghan’s body and thrust clothes at her as if she were no more than a problem, a rather difficult problem, to be fixed.

Three hours and a dozen designer bags later, Gabriella glanced consideringly at Meghan and said, ‘I know Alessandro has not mentioned it, but since you are to be married, perhaps we could do your hair? Your make-up? There is a salon on the next street that can take you now.’

Meghan nodded dumbly. She hadn’t had a haircut in over six months.

‘Buon.’ Gabriella smiled. ‘As sudden as this arrangement may be, every bride wants to look beautiful on her wedding day, yes? And what of your dress?’

‘Dress?’ Meghan repeated uncertainly. She was humbled by Gabriella’s acceptance, by the woman’s friendliness.

‘Wedding dress,’ Gabriella explained. ‘There are few shops that can fit and alter a dress in so short a time.’

‘It’s going to be a very small wedding,’ Meghan said hurriedly. ‘I can wear something simple. One of the dresses you bought for me.’

‘No, that will not do. You need a proper dress—a bride’s dress.’ Gabriella paused. ‘You can wear mine.’

‘What?’ Meghan was stunned.

Gabriella laughed lightly. ‘I know, it is old—but they call it vintage these days, yes? And it is a timeless classic, I assure you. I have a seamstress who can alter it in a matter of hours.’

‘I can’t—’ Meghan began, and Gabriella fixed her with a pale, penetrating stare so similar to her son’s.

‘But why not? You are marrying my son, are you not? You are going to be my daughter-in-law. You need a dress. Of course, if you don’t like it you must not wear it. We can find something else.’

‘It’s not that.’ Meghan stared down at her hands. ‘It’s just …’ She looked up, open, honest. She had to know. She would not start this life, begin in this family, with mistrust. ‘Why don’t you hate me?’

Gabriella looked taken aback. ‘But why should I hate you?’

‘I’ve known Alessandro for a very short while. I’m not from your … class.’ She stumbled over the words, the explanation. ‘I’m not even Italian. Perhaps you had someone in mind for him already …’

Gabriella shook her head. ‘No, my dear. The only thing I have in mind for Alessandro now is his own happiness.’

‘Yet …’ Meghan swallowed. ‘There’s so much tension between you.’

Gabriella smiled, the movement strained. ‘Alessandro is very angry with me.’ She paused, weighing her words. ‘I have not considered his happiness in the past as much as I should have. In all honesty, I have not considered … him. It was easier to forget. And then there was the—’

‘Forget your own son?’ The words came out before Meghan could stop herself, and she winced as pain shadowed Gabriella’s features.

‘Alessandro was not an easy child—nor, for that matter, is he an easy man. I realise now my own blame in who he became. It is why he is so angry.’ She shrugged sadly. ‘If you make him happy, then how can I complain?’

‘I hope I will,’ Meghan whispered.

‘You will.’ Gabriella shrugged off the serious talk. ‘With your new hair and make-up, in my wedding dress … Da tutti i san! Who could resist you?’

Meghan found herself smiling back. ‘Da tutti i san,’ she repeated. ‘Alessandro says that. What does it mean?’

‘By all the saints. His grandmother used to say it a lot. He was … very close to her.’

Meghan was intrigued by this glimpse into an Alessandro she didn’t know, couldn’t fathom. ‘Did she die?’

‘When he was nine. She lived in Umbria, at the villa.’ Gabriella shot her a quick, speculative look. ‘You know it?’

‘Yes.’ Meghan couldn’t keep a tell-tale flush from warming her face. ‘I thought it had belonged to Alessandro’s father.’

‘Yes, it was my husband’s family home.’

‘And then Alessandro’s brother’s?’ Meghan pressed, seeking more information.

Gabriella’s lips pressed together. ‘Yes, it belonged to Roberto. Now it is Alessandro’s, as perhaps it should have been all along. Enough talk. We must eat. Shopping is hard work. And tonight you can show Alessandro your purchases. He will be pleased, I hope.’

Meghan nodded. Her stomach had turned queasy, roiling with nerves and doubts. The last time she’d seen Alessandro he hadn’t looked pleased at all, about anything.

About her.

Had he changed his mind?

With lurching fear, she realised she didn’t want him to. How had she started to believe in this, in them, so quickly? So much?

Especially when she didn’t even know what them meant— what they would be to each other. How a marriage would work.

That evening Meghan gazed at her reflection in amazement.

The clothes had been put away, she’d had a nap, and she’d awoken refreshed, ready.

And beautiful.

She touched her hair, now highlighted and styled in gentle waves to her shoulders. The hairdresser hadn’t changed her look; he’d just made her better. More herself.

It had taken, Meghan acknowledged wryly, a lot of money to accomplish that.

The make-up she’d painstakingly applied emphasised her golden-green eyes, making her lashes thick and long, sweeping down to delicately tinted cheeks. Her lips were full and sensual without being pouty. She smiled, intrigued by her new self.

She glanced down at herself, dressed in one of the gowns purchased that morning. It was a pale amber, the colour of morning sunlight.

‘It complements your eyes,’ Gabriella had said in approval. ‘Very nice.’

Looking at herself, Meghan had to agree. The dress was simple, pouring over her body like liquid sunshine without being too revealing, too obvious.

Hinting, not screaming.

Promising.

Taking a deep breath, Meghan turned away from her reflection, the image in the mirror having bolstered her confidence enough. It was time to go downstairs and meet Alessandro.

The central staircase of the town house twisted in a spiral down to the foyer, and as Meghan descended the marble steps she saw Alessandro at the bottom, dressed in a navy blue suit, his back to her. One hand was shoved in his trouser pocket, the other raked through his ebony hair.

Meghan paused on the step, silent and watching. Watching him. Was she imagining the vulnerability in his stance? She must be, for every lithe movement radiated power, strength, authority. Control.

Need.

The word came from nowhere; the thought was stunning in its force.

Surely Alessandro could never need anything?

Surely he could never need her?

Need was more than desire.

Need was love.

He turned, and his eyes blazed for a moment, sweeping over her, drinking her in.

Meghan felt heat everywhere his eyes roamed. Treacherous, wonderful heat. It weakened her, made her sway, and Alessandro saw and smiled.

He reached for the banister, gripped it hard, and Meghan realised with a ripple of shock that he was just as affected as she was.

She walked on trembling legs down the last few steps into the foyer.

‘Hello, Alessandro.’

He reached for her fingers, gently pulling him to her. His lips brushed hers, and when he spoke it was a whisper against her mouth.

‘Why don’t you hate me?’

Meghan tensed, startled. ‘Why would I hate you?’

He kissed her again, moved his lips to her temple. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, gattina.’

Yes, you did. Meghan smiled through the sudden sting of tears. ‘It’s all right.’

‘No.’ His voice was low and almost savage. He kissed her again, hard on the mouth, his fingers digging into her shoulders before he relaxed, his hands softening into a caress. ‘No,’ he said against her lips. ‘But it will be.’

He stepped back, scorching her with one primal, possessive look. ‘You look ravishing.’

He took her hand, linking their fingers as he led her into the dining room.

‘So,’ Gabriella began when they were seated, the food served and wine poured, ‘you say this wedding is next week? Have you made preparations? Secured a church?’

Meghan glanced enquiringly at Alessandro, as curious to know the details as her future mother-in-law.

‘We will be married on Friday, at the San Pietro church,’ Alessandro informed them both. ‘There will be a reception afterwards at the Principe di Savoia.’ He glanced at Meghan. ‘I would have left the arrangements to you, but you are a stranger to this city. I thought it would be easier to arrange it all myself. I hope that is agreeable to you?’

‘Of course,’ she murmured.

‘The Principe di Savoia is Milan’s most luxurious hotel,’ Gabriella informed her. ‘You will be well served there.’ She turned to Alessandro, her thin eyebrows raised. ‘And how many guests are you inviting to this celebration, may I ask? Have you taken care of the invitations as well?’

‘It will be a small affair, as Meghan and I both want. Family only. A few friends.’ He smiled, his voice becoming a drawl. ‘You must invite who you like though, Mamma. I imagine you have plenty of friends who are eager to witness the spectacle … your prodigal son getting married.’

‘Thank you.’ Gabriella clearly chose to ignore the jibe. ‘Chiara is coming?’

‘I spoke to her on the telephone,’ Alessandro confirmed. ‘She can only come for the day. You know how busy she is.’

‘How busy she chooses to be,’ Gabriella agreed. ‘And what of your family, Meghan?’

‘I don’t have anyone coming.’ It came out as a wretched confession. Meghan lifted her chin. ‘I’ve been travelling for a while now, and I’ve … lost touch with people from home.’

Gabriella maintained an eloquent silence at this news, and Meghan knew how odd it must sound. No friends, no family?

No one.

She took a bite of the antipasti—rigatoni in a delicate cream sauce. When would she tell her family? she wondered. When would she go back?

The thought was too depressing, and so she pushed it away. There was enough to deal with here. She had her own shadows, but so did Alessandro.

She wondered if she would ever find out what they were.

After dinner Gabriella excused herself, and Alessandro and Meghan were left alone in the elegant drawing room that faced the front of the house.

A tension thrummed between them, taut and expectant. Meghan realised they hadn’t had much experience in being alone, living as a couple, doing normal, boring things.

The intensity remained. It wouldn’t go away.

How long could they keep this up?

She moved around the room, seeking bland conversation, something innocuous, safe.

Like the villa, the drawing room was decorated in shades of cream and ivory, the muted colours punctuated by the vivid oil paintings on the wall.

Meghan inspected one while Alessandro poured them drinks.

‘Is this by the same artist as the ones in the villa?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know much about art, but it looks similar.’

‘So it is,’ Alessandro agreed, his voice neutral. She knew he was at his most dangerous when his face turned blank, his voice toneless, the mask dropping into place.

She needed to be careful. She needed to know.

He knocked back half of his negroni before handing Meghan her own glass.

‘Who is the artist?’ she asked, and Alessandro took another sip of his drink.

‘My brother. You can see my parents were very fond of his work. They have his paintings in nearly every room of this house.’

Meghan studied him, his careless pose, and yet there was restless energy radiating from every taut line of his beautiful body. The mood had suddenly turned sour, savage, and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Are you jealous of him?’ she asked uncertainly, and he raked her with a cool, contemptuous gaze.

‘Jealous? He’s dead. What is there to be jealous of?’

‘I meant before that.’ Meghan spoke cautiously, feeling each word as though in a darkened maze of memories, every turn leading to an unforeseen trap. A danger.

‘Was I jealous of my brother?’ Alessandro spoke musingly, his expression distant. ‘Perhaps I was, a little. You’ve given me an amusing bit of therapy there.’ His tone turned sardonic. ‘I’d never considered that before.’

‘Don’t.’ Meghan put her glass of negroni down, untasted. ‘You sound like a little boy—mad at his mother, jealous of his brother.’

His eyes turned so dark she couldn’t see his pupils. It was as if his muscles, his mood, were carved from ice. ‘You know nothing about it.’

‘No, I don’t. So why don’t you tell me?’

‘I’ve told you all you need to know.’

‘I want to know more,’ she persisted, her voice breaking a little. ‘Alessandro, I want to understand you.’

He laughed, a harsh sound, raking a hand through his hair before setting his glass down so hard it rattled. ‘Trust me, Meghan,’ he said savagely, ‘you do not want to understand me.’

Meghan trembled inwardly at his words, but she stood her ground. ‘Tell me why not, then.’

He glanced at her, eyes blazing, punishing. His smile was a cruel slash of colour on his face. She took an unsteady step backwards.

‘Why do you think I chose you?’ he asked, his voice a deadly purr. ‘And not some Italian girl, like you said? Someone from my own class, culture? Because face it, Meghan …’ he glanced at her with a searing contempt that made her feel tarted-up and dirty ‘… you’re not.’

‘I know I’m not,’ she whispered, hurt despite her intention not to be, despite her realisation that he was trying to hurt her and she was letting him. This was perhaps hurting him as much as it was her.

Why did he do this to her? To himself?

Why?

‘I chose you because you don’t know my family, you don’t know me, and it can stay that way. I don’t want you to know me. I don’t want you to understand me. I don’t love you, and you don’t love me, remember? So let’s enjoy each other’s company— and bodies—without any unnecessary complications. Is that understood?’ His mouth turned upwards in a mocking smile.

Meghan stumbled back a step, sickened. ‘What about the promises you made to me, Alessandro? What about the man you mean to be? Is this it? Because if so, I don’t want any part of you.’ The words rang out, echoing, condemning.

The smile died on his face, leaving it blank and empty. He stared at her for a moment, and Meghan opened her mouth to deny what she said, to apologise. She wanted him. She wanted all of him. She wanted to understand, to explain, to …

Help. Help him.

‘It’s too late for regrets,’ he said tonelessly. ‘For either of us. You will marry me, Meghan. You don’t have any choice. And neither do I.’

‘We both have choices,’ Meghan protested, though her voice sounded feeble. ‘This may have been a deal, Alessandro, but we can break it.’ Not that she wanted to even now, God help her.

‘We cannot!’

His hand slashed through the air, and, goaded, Meghan found herself replying, ‘I can.’

He came to her in two strides, his face lit with a primal ferocity as he grabbed her shoulders. ‘You will not break it, Meghan. Swear to me!’

‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered. Tears streaked down her face.

He released her. Then his hands slid down her arms, down her sides, and he fell to his knees, his head buried against her middle.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, his voice jagged and broken. He drew in a shuddering breath and his arms wrapped around her waist, clinging to her as if she were his anchor. ‘I never meant … What kind of man am I?’ It came out as an anguished cry, a plea for mercy. ‘What kind of man am I?’

Meghan trembled with suppressed emotion, pain. The tears still streaked down her face as she buried her fingers in his hair. He lifted his head to gaze up at her. The bleak despair etched in harsh, unforgiving lines on Alessandro’s face was nearly her undoing.

‘The man you mean to be,’ she whispered, and kissed him with all the tenderness she longed to give him. He knelt there, motionless, accepting her offering, before he pulled her down to him, turning the kiss into something deeper, something that hurt like a wound, deep inside.

His arms were around her, hard and desperate, the kiss plundering, plunging. Meghan kissed him back, desire fanning quickly, leaping into dangerous flames. She threw her head back to give him access to her throat, desire now pouring through her in a molten wave, burning her up. Their breathing was harsh, ragged.

He pulled her dress down, mindless of the delicate material. The sound of its tearing rent the air, and his voice came out in a sob as he buried his head between her breasts, touching her, suckling her, turning her to liquid fire even as the tears dried on her cheeks.

She pulled open his shirt, the buttons popping and scattering across the floor, let her hands touch and twist and tease, before wrapping her arms around the smooth, broad expanse of his back, pulling him closer.

She didn’t know what was happening—why this moment of passion had sprung from pain and despair, sorrow and misery.

She only knew that she wanted to satisfy him—that she was his, she would be his.

It was what he needed.

And she needed it too; her body ached, demanding to be quenched. She pulled him to her, her dress bunched around her waist, her thighs bare and splayed open.

Alessandro was poised above her, one hand on the waistband of his trousers, undoing his fly with urgent trembling fingers, when he suddenly stilled. Stopped.

The moment was endless. She looked up from the haze of her own need and desire and saw a terrible anguish on his face. He dropped his hand from his trousers, rolled off her onto his back on the floor, one arm covering his face.

‘Alessandro …’

‘Heaven help me,’ he choked out. ‘Look at us. Look at me.’ He sounded disgusted, sickened.

‘I’m sorry …’ Meghan began hesitantly. She lay there, her dress in hopeless disarray, her body still open to him. Still wanting.

He didn’t look at her as he shook his head. ‘You are sorry? Gattina, no. No.’ It came out harshly. He dropped his arm from his face, sat up and raked a hand through his hair, his face still averted. ‘Just go, Meghan,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Leave me. I’m no good to you now.’

Meghan sat up too, pulled her dress back on with trembling fingers. She wanted to touch him, wanted to put her arms around his hunched shoulders, stroke his bowed head. ‘Yes, you are.’

He shook his head again, his hands fisted in his hair. ‘Please. Please leave me. For both our sakes.’ His voice rose to a near roar. ‘Go!’

Choking back the misery and confusion that threatened to rise up into an endless sob, Meghan went.