Читать книгу One Night In… - Кейт Хьюит, Оливия Гейтс - Страница 31

MEGHAN awoke to an empty bed. For a moment she felt the familiar lurch of fear, then she forced herself to shrug it off.

There were no more shadows. For her.

Alessandro came into the room, showered, dressed, and bearing a tray with coffee and rolls.

‘I thought you might be hungry.’

‘Starving.’

His smile was knowing, seductive, and Meghan found herself grinning. She bit lustily into a roll as Alessandro took a cup of coffee and stretched out beside her.

‘I thought today we could look for a place to live.’

‘What about your flat?’

‘It is a small place, sterile—a bachelor’s pad, as they say. You would hate it.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Meghan protested. ‘We could buy some flowers, some pictures—’

‘No, no.’ He was firm in his dismissal. ‘It needs much more than that. It is simply not suitable. We can look for a place together—a home to start our new lives in?’

‘If that’s what you want,’ Meghan said, a bit unsteadily. It sounded idyllic. Perfect. And far too good to be true. Like a dream they were weaving, something set apart. Unreal.

‘That’s what I want,’ Alessandro replied. ‘I need to make a few phone calls. I’ll leave you to get dressed.’

He left the bedroom and Meghan leaned back against the pillows, her mind buzzing happily with new thoughts, new dreams.

Half an hour later they were in Alessandro’s car, cruising the streets of Milan.

Meghan gazed in wonder at the ancient buildings coupled with the modern glamour. This was Alessandro’s city, she thought, as he navigated the traffic with expert and uncomplicated ease.

He belonged here, among the rich and powerful. And now she was part of that too. Yet somehow the prospect of power had lost its allure.

Wealth, security—even safety—they all seemed useless without love.

Meghan’s mouth twisted grimly. Too bad, she thought. That was how it was. For now.

‘Do you have a destination in mind?’ she asked, and Alessandro gave her a fleeting smile.

‘Wait and see…’

He turned the car into a narrow street which opened onto a square, not as impressive as at his mother’s residence, but filled with sunlight.

Children played on the green, and the town houses that fronted it looked well cared for. Loved.

‘This looks nice,’ Meghan offered cautiously, for it wasn’t the sort of place she’d imagined Alessandro in. It looked like a place for families—a place where happiness and joy were shared, simple pleasures enjoyed.

No glamour.

No power.

‘Yes, it does,’ he agreed. ‘The agent gave me the key this morning.’

He led her up to one of the houses—a narrow stone building, with bright shutters and begonias spilling from the wrought-iron balconies.

Alessandro unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

Meghan walked slowly through the rooms. They were generously proportioned without being ostentatious, the wide windows thrown open to the spring sunshine.

She stood in the middle of the gleaming kitchen, the large pine table in its centre testifying to the fact that this was a family’s house.

‘It’s semi-furnished,’ Alessandro told her, reading the details from a brochure. ‘We can pick up more bits and pieces as you like. Four bedrooms upstairs, another on the third floor if we want live-in help. The kitchen, lounge, and dining room on this floor. There is a small garden at the back, and of course the square out in front.’ He looked up at her, eyes glinting. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s perfect,’ Meghan said simply. ‘Perfect.’

He strode towards her, snatched her up and kissed her soundly. Meghan laughed in surprise.

‘We’ll have our children here. I’ll teach our sons to play football in the square. It will be so good for us.’

His voice rang with certainty, and yet Meghan heard the desperation underneath, the ragged edges.

They were both trying so hard to believe. To make it real.

Yet it still smacked of a fairytale, a story that had to end— and perhaps not with a happily-ever-after.

They moved in the very next day. Alessandro had linens and towels brought from one of Milan’s exclusive stores, and Meghan had fun shopping for food at the local negozio.

Alessandro came in from work as she made dinner, his gaze sweeping over the simple scene—from the food on the table to Meghan at the stove, a dishtowel tied around her waist.

‘We forgot to buy an apron,’ she said with a little smile, and he pulled her into a long, breathless kiss.

‘I’d just want to take it off you anyway.’ His hands roamed over her, leaving flames of need in their wake.

‘Alessandro, the dinner …’ Her protestation was so weak as to be laughable.

‘We haven’t christened this house,’ Alessandro murmured against her mouth. ‘I’d like to try every room—but we’ll start with the bedroom. I like a soft bed …’

He pulled her upstairs, closing the bedroom door with a soft click, and laid her gently on the bed. Meghan lay there, happy, gazing up at him.

The look in his eyes—as if he were examining a priceless treasure—made her mouth dry. She held out her arms.

‘Come to me.’

Pain slashed across his features so briefly she almost didn’t notice it, but he shrugged off his clothes and fell upon her, and the moment of uncertainty was lost in passion, lost to the exquisite feeling of being touched, treasured.

‘We’ve been invited to a party tomorrow,’ Alessandro told her later, as they ate the reheated pasta, his voice suddenly turning alarmingly neutral. ‘It’s bound to happen as people hear about our wedding. They want to meet you.’

‘A party could be fun,’ Meghan said. She glanced at him uncertainly. ‘You sound like you don’t want me to meet them.’

‘But of course not. I want to keep you all to myself. Any man would.’

‘We can’t hide for ever,’ Meghan said teasingly, and knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say.

A muscle bunched in his jaw and he set his wine glass down carefully. ‘No,’ he agreed flatly. ‘We can’t.’

What are you hiding? Meghan wanted to ask. Demand. What secrets are you keeping?

But of course she would demand nothing. Because Alessandro didn’t want a wife who made demands.

A wife who loved him.

Too bad that was exactly what he had.

The next evening Meghan got dressed for the cocktail party with a mixture of anticipation and foreboding.

No matter what she’d said, she wanted to hide here with Alessandro for ever. Playing house and forgetting the world outside, the people who waited to meet them, to judge them.

Judge him.

‘I have something for you.’ Alessandro came in the bedroom, his black tuxedo setting off his ebony hair and navy eyes with stunning simplicity. He held a black velvet box in his hand.

Meghan turned, and he took in her evening gown—the amber silk she’d worn the other night, its tear discreetly mended—with an appreciative breath.

‘My sunbeam,’ he said softly. He handed her the box. ‘This will match your gown and make your eyes sparkle.’

Intrigued, Meghan opened it. Nestled on the velvet was a necklace made up of pure topaz, the elegantly cut gems rimmed in gold, each piece daringly designed as if to fit a puzzle, sharp and brilliant.

‘Alessandro, it’s … amazing. Truly beautiful. Is it a Di Agnio piece?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. When I saw it I thought of you. May I?’ She nodded, and he lifted the necklace from the box, slipping it around her throat.

It lay heavily against her collar-bone, each piece flat, shining. She touched it reverently. She’d never worn something so exquisite, so expensive.

Alessandro’s appreciative smile hardened briefly. ‘Now we must go. The party—and people—await.’

The cocktail party was in one of Milan’s high-rises—a glittering needle of light that pierced the evening sky.

Meghan’s nerves jangled as she thought of the people circulating above them, waiting for their arrival.

‘We don’t need to stay long,’ Alessandro said, and she didn’t know if he was reassuring her or himself. ‘We’re newlyweds, after all. People will understand.’

She nodded mutely, and a valet came to park the car.

Upstairs, guests mingled in a sumptuous penthouse apartment, the room filled with the murmur of voices and the clink of crystal.

Meghan searched the crowd for a familiar face and found none. She felt Alessandro tense beside her, though his urbane smile remained unchanged.

His whole body radiated tension. She wanted to reach out, to hold his hand, to tell him he could do this, they could do this, because she was at his side.

The idea was laughable. He would be furious that she saw his weakness, humiliated by her display. And she was too scared to do it anyway.

‘Alessandro … and your lovely bride!’ A man in his late forties, trim, with grey hair slicked back from a high forehead, came forward with a hard, bright smile. ‘Who would ever have thought a man such as you would get married? It must be true love, eh?’

Alessandro inclined his head in cool acknowledgement. A muscle bunched in his jaw.

The man turned his crocodile smile on Meghan. She forced herself not to recoil from the way his gaze swept up and down her length. ‘What is the trick, bellissima? To capture a man with such a—notorious—reputation with women?’

‘I don’thave any tricks,’ Meghan replied with dignity. ‘Perhaps that’s why I have been successful where so many have not.’

‘Ah, such a fair rose.’ His smile verged on a sneer. ‘Alessandro and I go way back, you know. We’ve shared many … experiences.’ His voice caressed the last word with obvious lascivious intent.

‘Experiences best forgotten,’ Alessandro interjected lightly, although his eyes were like flint.

‘I remember when you could have a woman on each arm and one in your lap, and be finished with all of them by midnight,’ the man reminisced slyly. ‘Good times, eh, Alessandro?’

‘Things have changed.’

He raised one mocking eyebrow. ‘Have they?’

Alessandro bunched his fist, flattened it. ‘There are other people for us to greet, Bernardo.’

He turned his back on the man without another word.

‘One of your friends?’ Meghan asked in a low voice. She could feel the revulsion on her face, crawling along her skin, and she knew Alessandro could see it too.

He shrugged in reply. ‘I told you—you don’t know me.’

‘I think I do know you,’ Meghan replied. ‘Even if I don’t know who you were.’

He glanced at her sharply, the hunger in his eyes flaring quickly before dying out. ‘No, Meghan,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t make that mistake. I haven’t changed. The man I was is the man I am. No matter what you think, what I do. No matter.’ He squeezed her arm warningly. ‘Let’s enjoy what we have … and no more.’

Meghan was saved from a reply by another guest crossing to greet them, and the next hour passed in a blur of conversation— some in Italian, some in English—with Meghan desperately trying to remember the faces and names.

She wouldn’t forget the innuendoes.

They laced every sly word, drenched every speculative look.

Hints about his past, his wild days, his many women. She heard the censure, the disapproval, sometimes the reluctant rakish admiration.

Everyone knew who Alessandro had been. Who he was.

Everyone but her.

After an hour she could take no more. She excused herself to the ladies’ room, weaving among the guests in search of an escape, no matter how temporary.

‘Buona sera, Signora di Agnio.’

Stefano Lucrezi lounged in a quiet corner, his wine glass cupped in one palm. He took in her bunched fists and desperate look with one sardonic sweep of his eyes. ‘Are you trying to run away?’

‘Yes,’ Meghan replied, stung to honesty at last. ‘These people are piranhas.’

‘They scent an easy kill.’

She stopped, stared uncertainly. ‘What do you mean?’

Stefano shrugged. ‘No one ever expected Alessandro di Agnio to get married.’

‘I’ve gathered that,’ she replied, a bit tartly. ‘I also understand he’s had plenty of women, plenty of parties, and that he’s probably been the most notorious playboy Milan—and Italy— have ever seen!’

She’d meant to be sarcastic, but Stefano just nodded slowly. ‘Then you are starting to understand.’

Meghan was more shocked by Stefano’s admission than she cared to admit, but she rallied her courage and spread her hands wide. ‘So what? Lots of men—Italian men—have similar pasts. He’s CEO of an important company. He’s married now. What matters is now.’ She so desperately wanted to believe that was true.

‘Yes,’ Stefano agreed quietly. ‘But people don’t want to forget. They can’t. Alessandro least of all.’

Meghan shook her head, though she’d suspected as much. ‘Then what can I do? I don’t want the past to destroy us.’

‘Has he told you about his brother?’

‘He died. That’s all I know.’

‘Roberto was CEO of the company after their father died. He’d been groomed for the role since infancy, but he was hopeless at it. He was an artist, and he could not make good business decisions. When he died Alessandro took over, but there was not much to work with. People …’ Stefano paused, his expression momentarily guarded. ‘They doubted he could do it, but he has. He has brought the company back from the brink of ruin. He has proved many, many people wrong, signora. I hope he is proved right in you.’

‘So do I,’ Meghan whispered.

He nodded towards her necklace. ‘One of his designs.’

‘What?’ Meghan touched the necklace, shocked. ‘Alessandro designed this?’

‘Yes—a hobby of his.’ Stefano’s face was shadowed for a moment. ‘He doesn’t like people to know … it’s merely a pastime.’

Alessandro was quiet on the way home. Meghan watched him from under her lashes, saw the implacable lines of his face and knew he would not want to talk. He would certainly not want to answer questions.

Yet she had so many.

He needs love.

Did he? Meghan wondered achingly. She so wanted to be able to give it to him … if only he would accept her gift. If only he would dispel his own shadows … or let her help him do it.

‘Did you have a good time tonight?’ she finally asked, breaking the silence that hung like a pall of gloom over the car.

‘No, but I didn’t expect to,’ Alessandro replied shortly. His eyes slid to Meghan, roamed over her. ‘But I did enjoy seeing you in that dress, and picturing what you look like underneath.’

Meghan swallowed, smiled. Sex. That was what he was going to reduce it to now—what he wanted it to be.

She forced herself to smile. Knew she couldn’t make him love her. The only power she had now was her love for him. It would have to be enough.

‘I’m yours to command.’

Alessandro’s eyes lit with a feral pleasure. ‘Good.’

He came to her when she was in the bedroom, wiping her make-up off with a tissue.

He stood silently behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his face dangerously blank.

‘Can you help me with the necklace?’ Meghan asked lightly, though she trembled inwardly at the now-familiar mask he wore. A mask she didn’t like. Didn’t understand.

He obeyed, undoing the intricate clasp. He laid the necklace on the table and then looked at her. Their gazes met in the mirror, his face was still blank except for a cold, predatory smile.

‘Take off your clothes.’ It came out as a command, blunt and base, and Meghan stiffened, startled, uncertain.

‘Take them off, Meghan,’ he said silkily. ‘I want to look at you.’

She hesitated, hating the cold smile he humiliated her with, yet seeing—wanting to see—desperation in his eyes. He was driven to this, and she didn’t understand why.

‘Scared?’ he mocked softly.

She lifted her chin, met his chilling gaze, and obeyed.

Turning around slowly to face him, she slipped off the dress and it fell in a pool of silk around her feet. She took off her bra and panties and stood there naked, proud, unashamed.

Trembling.

His gaze swept her, raked her, inspecting and assessing.

Why was he doing this? Meghan didn’t know. She wouldn’t let herself feel the humiliation, the hurt. She’d felt it before, and that life was gone now. For ever. She came to him in love, even if he didn’t know it. Even if he wouldn’t accept it.

‘Touch me.’ His bold gaze challenged her, and simply, silently, she moved forward.

She stood before him while he watched her unbutton his shirt. She willed her hands not to shake. Meghan felt his muscles flex under her fingers, knew he was not unaffected by her, even though his still, stony stance made her think otherwise.

Her hands moved lower, hovered at his belt buckle.

‘Touch me, Meghan. Touch me.’ His voice was quiet, lethal, yet she could hear the need, the plea underneath the command. At least, she thought she could.

She hoped.

He was different. This was different.

She undid his buckle, slid his trousers down his legs, dropping down to her knees in front of him. He groaned softly, his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her to him.

She kissed him there softly, reverently, and with a shuddering gasp he pulled her up into his arms, burying his head in her hair, breathing in the scent of her as if it were air, as if it would save him.

‘Why don’t you stop?’ he groaned against her hair, her eyes, her mouth. ‘Why don’t you stop?’

‘Stop?’ she repeated uncertainly, accepting his kisses, his regrets.

‘Stop loving me.’

Everything inside her stilled, became suspended and motionless. She touched his face with her hands, looked into his eyes, saw the anguish. ‘You know?.’ She was shaken by his admission, by hers. By the truth they both knew.

‘Don’t, Meghan. Don’t do it. Stop yourself. For your own sake, for mine, stop.’ He was still kissing her, each touch a plea. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

But I will. The words hovered in the air, unspoken. Not needing to be said.

‘I can’t stop,’ Meghan whispered. ‘I don’t want to.’

He shook his head in denial even as he laid her gently on the bed. ‘No. No. You don’t know …’

‘Tell me.’ She arched up, gasping as he touched her, his fingers slipping inside, so knowing, so tender, drawing her fevered response.

‘No … Meghan.’ His voice was ragged as he entered her warmth, filled her once again. Meghan moved beneath him, accepting his weight, the solid strength of him above and inside her.

He buried his face in her shoulder, his lips on her neck, gasping as they both moved, rocking, wanting, finding … and then shattering into pleasure. ‘Meghan … I need you too much.’

Meghan clung to him, stroked his face, his hair. His words echoed in her mind with a flicker of hope.

He needed her. It wasn’t love, but it was something.

It was all she had, and she clung to it fiercely.

Two days later Alessandro came home with two envelopes and a secretive smile.

Meghan was in the lounge, curled up with a book. Since that night of both pain and pleasure they had not talked of love—her love—again. Meghan had not wanted to mention it. She couldn’t face the certain rebuff.

Alessandro had reverted—as he always did—into the charming, urbane man she’d once thought was his real self and now knew was not.

Even though she still wanted to find the truth she’d been grateful for the reprieve, a respite from the intensity. They talked, they ate, they made love. Life, on the surface, was simple. It wasn’t real. It was a half-life, a life of pleasant pretence.

Meghan wondered how long it would last.

How long they could both keep it up. One of them was certain to break.

Shatter.

Now she took in his teasing, expectant smile with a little fizz of anticipation.

‘What is it? What do you have?’

He handed her the first envelope. ‘See for yourself.’

Meghan opened it, scanned the embossed paper. It was a letter from one of the American schools in Milan, offering her an interview.

‘Alessandro!’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you arranges…?’

‘I had your CV from Stanton Springs faxed to them. It was a matter of minutes.’

‘And some ingenuity.’

He shrugged, the movement one of instinctive inherited male arrogance. ‘That I have.’

‘The interview is next week!’ Meghan marvelled. ‘I can’t believe it!’ She glanced at him over the letter, sincerity shining in her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

Her gratitude bothered him; she saw it in his dismissive shrug, heard it in his brusque tone. ‘It was easy. Open the other one.’

She opened the second envelope. A postcard fell out.

It was a vista of an aquamarine sea, a stunning white sand beach. Meghan read the place name on the back of the card. ‘Amorphos?’

‘A Greek island, very small, very secluded. We leave tomorrow morning.’

Her eyes flew to his. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘I’ve arranged with my mother to buy the necessary things for you that you don’t have already. Your bags are packed. There is nothing keeping us here.’

‘Our honeymoon,’ Meghan said in dawning delight, and he pulled her into an embrace, gave her a brief, hard kiss. ‘Yes … where no one can find us.’

Meghan smiled, but she couldn’t keep from thinking, We can’t run for ever.

They took Alessandro’s private jet to Amorphos, so there was just the two of them in the sumptuous interior, feasting on strawberries and chilled champagne.

Meghan glanced out at the Mediterranean below them, a blue blanket stretching to the horizon.

‘I can’t believe this is real,’ she murmured, and Alessandro smiled.

‘It’s as real as we want it to be.’

She tensed slightly, aware that his remark was cryptic. Nothing so far had been very real.

This trip, just like their life in Milan, was a fantasy as manufactured as the Marmore Falls—a torrent one moment, a trickle the next.

It wouldn’t be real until Alessandro confessed, shared the secrets that drove him to despair, that turned him into a desperate stranger. Until he trusted her … loved her.

When would that happen? How could she make it happen? Don’t think you can save me.

The warning rang in Meghan’s mind, echoed through her soul.

But you’re worth saving.

She took a sip of champagne, determined to shrug such fears away, for now at least. The bubbles fizzed pleasantly through her. ‘So, Di Agnio Enterprises can spare you for a few days?’

‘They have to.’ Alessandro stretched out in the seat opposite her. ‘I am the CEO, after all. I make the rules.’

Meghan twirled her champagne flute in her fingers. ‘Stefano mentioned that the company was on the brink of ruin. You saved it.’

Alessandro stilled. ‘He exaggerates.’

Meghan felt her heart skip and then beat double-time at Alessandro’s cold look, but she pressed on anyway.

‘Does he? He seemed quite certain about his facts.’

‘He was gossipping like a laundry woman, then,’ Alessandro replied shortly. ‘It’s hardly like him.’

Meghan leaned forward. ‘Don’t blame him. He was trying to help me.’

‘Help you?’ Contemptuous disbelief delicately laced his words.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ she replied with some spirit. ‘Help me understand you, Alessandro, because you’re hell to understand!’

He stared at her, eyes dark and cold as a lake in winter. Meghan held her breath, wondering if she’d pushed him too far. She hadn’t meant to start this conversation, hadn’t wanted to ask for answers. She just couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know so much.

She wanted to understand.

‘Maybe I am.’ He smiled at her, coldly, and Meghan made herself press on.

‘Stefano—he said your brother was an artist, that he didn’t have a head for business. No one thought—’

‘I know what people did and did not think,’ Alessandro cut in shortly. ‘And do not think to blame my brother. He did the best he could, and if he made any unwise business decisions it was because he was too naïve, too trusting, and people led him astray—’ He broke off suddenly, his breathing ragged, and stared out of the window.

Meghan sat back, reeling from the bitterness that had twisted his voice, his features.

‘Remember, Meghan, I married you because you don’t know me. Don’t understand me.’ His eyes flashed dangerously. ‘And I want to keep it that way.’

‘What kind of marriage is that?’ Meghan asked, a desperate edge to her voice. ‘You can’t—’

‘The kind we agreed on,’ Alessandro cut in with smooth, steely determination. ‘Don’t think to change it. I warn you, I will not allow it. You may think you love me, but you don’t. You don’t even know me. If you did—’ He stopped, stared out of the window again, his face a mask.

‘If I did…?’ Meghan prompted softly.

‘It hardly matters. Your love is worthless to me.’

The cold, casual dismissal sent stabbing pain through her. She blinked quickly. ‘It’s not worthless to me.’

‘It should be. I warned you, Meghan. Don’t forget that.’ His mouth was a hard, unforgiving line. He reached forward and poured them both more champagne. ‘Now,’ he said with silky, lethal intent, ‘let’s try to enjoy the rest of our honeymoon, shall we?’

The rest of the trip passed in miserable silence, Meghan drowning in the fresh sorrow Alessandro had caused.

He did it on purpose. She knew that. He hurt her, drove her away intentionally, to keep her from loving him.

She could only blame herself; she’d known the terms when she’d agreed to the marriage.

It was her own fault now for trying to change them.

She’d just never expected to love so deeply, so purely, so hopelessly.

Was it hopeless? Would Alessandro never learn—perhaps never admit—that he loved her? Was she mad to think he might?

Meghan blinked back tears. The thought of years ahead in a loveless, soulless marriage made her wonder if she could stand it. Yet life without Alessandro at all was not even worth contemplating.

The plane landed on the resort’s private airstrip, and Meghan and Alessandro stepped out into the hot, dry sunshine.

She rallied her numbed emotions, smiled at the Grecian paradise stretched out before them for their own pleasure, and said, ‘This looks wonderful.’

Alessandro’s eyes glinted approval at her change of mood. ‘I’m sure we can make it so,’ he murmured.

She smiled stiffly, wondered if she had the strength to act the affectionate wife—not loving, never that—when her heart was breaking. Not even breaking. A break would be clean. It was twisting with a torturous pain that Meghan wasn’t sure would ever end.

The resort catered to a most exclusive crowd, and Meghan and Alessandro had their own villa, luxurious and intimate.

‘Not bad,’ Alessandro commented after the porter had left. Meghan took in the combination living and dining room, the tiled floor and simple yet sumptuous furniture, a sliding glass door leading directly to the beach and an aquamarine sea that sparkled like a jewel only metres away.

‘Not bad?’ she repeated with a little laugh. ‘It’s paradise.’

‘I can hardly wait to enjoy it,’ Alessandro murmured, and he moved towards her purposefully.

Meghan tried to return his kiss, tried to fan the flicker of desire in her core. Alessandro began to deftly unbutton her sundress and she stood there silently, her eyes closed, wishing this misery that consumed her heart, her soul, gone.

‘Meghan?’ Her dress was half off her shoulders when he looked up in perplexity. ‘What is it—what is wrong?’

Meghan swallowed, choking down her sorrow. ‘Nothing … I’m just tired.’

He paused, his eyes sweeping over her face, guessing at the truth. Meghan blinked, swallowed. Carefully he zipped her dress back up.

‘Then you must rest.’

Taking her hand gently, he led her to the bed, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead.

‘Rest. There will be plenty of time later.’ He smiled softly, his eyes shadowed, and left the room.

Meghan lay in darkness and pressed her face into the pillow, willing the hot rush of tears back. They came anyway.

How could he be so kind, so tender, if he didn’t love her? Was it an act? A deceit?

Who was the real Alessandro…? And did that man love her?

After a while she fell into an uneasy doze, awoke with her tears spent. This was her honeymoon. It wasn’t the time to demand answers, confessions. She wanted to enjoy it. She wanted Alessandro to enjoy it. The only way to ensure that was to work hard.

Scrubbing her cheeks, Meghan got out of bed.

Over the next week she worked hard to make sure they enjoyed themselves. They chatted rather than talked; joked rather than shared. Meghan kept her voice light. She didn’t ask any questions. She wanted Alessandro happy, even if it hurt. She wanted to make him smile, laugh.

She wanted to heal him, but she didn’t know how.

They swam and snorkelled, sunbathed and slept. They ate the delicious, plentiful Greek food, and drank the rich red wine. They made love—on the king-sized bed, in the kitchen, in the bath, on the cool white sand as the moon rose above the sea, turning it to silver.

Lying on the bed one evening, listening to the waves lap on the shore and to Alessandro’s gentle breathing, Meghan wondered if she would ever be able to expect more. Hope for more.

For something real.

She didn’t know how long she could last, how long her heart could last, living this loveless life.

I love him. I want him to love me.

She closed her eyes and sighed, willing herself to be content with what Alessandro offered.

Her only hope was that he would change, that he would come to love and trust her with time. She had nothing else.

On their last night they walked to a taverna in the village and sat outside. Fairylights were twined in the arbour that surrounded the tables, and the water lapped only metres from their feet, fishing boats knocking gently together as the moon cut a silver swath across the calm surface of the sea.

Meghan picked at her souvlaki, wondering what the future held for them, for their marriage. It was easy to pretend on a beautiful island. Real life back in Milan, with all of its shadows and memories, was something different altogether.

Alessandro covered her hand with his own. ‘It has to end, cara. It always does.’

Meghan wondered if he meant the honeymoon, or something more. Another warning?

She bent her head, let her hair fall to obscure her face. Now was not the time to ask such questions, demand such answers. She knew instinctively Alessandro would recoil. Regret. Repulse.

When would the right time be?

‘Alessandro?’ They both jerked in surprise at the sensual female voice. A woman stood in front of their table, white-blonde hair framing a sharp, pixie face, her wide blue eyes darting speculatively between Alessandro and Meghan. She was dressed in an extremely skimpy and expensive sundress.

‘Emilia.’ Alessandro’s voice was terse. He stood as a matter of form, of courtesy. ‘It has been a while.’

‘Hasn’t it?’ Although she spoke in rapid Italian, this one conversation Meghan was determined to follow. ‘This isn’t your usual type of place,’ she said with a husky laugh. ‘Too quiet by far. I came for a bit of rest and relaxation, but I’m already bored.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Alessandro replied with wintry politeness.

‘Are you?’ Her smile curled upwards, as sleek and sly as a cat’s. ‘Who’s your friend?’

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is my wife—Meghan,’ he said coldly. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’

‘Your wife?’ Emilia let out a peal of incredulous laughter. ‘You’re joking! You? Married?’

‘I assure you it is true, and a most pleasant truth at that.’

Emilia’s gaze raked contemptuously over Meghan. ‘This milky miss? Come on, Alessandro. She could amuse you for a day, a week, not much more. I know you … I know your pleasures.’ Her smile was so intimate, so suggestive, that Meghan gave a little gasp of wounded surprise.

Alessandro’s body was taut, his mouth a thin slash of anger. ‘You are insulting me and my wife.’

Emilia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Her, perhaps,’ she agreed, her voice lowered to a hiss. ‘But you? That would be hard to do.’

Meghan saw the flash of acknowledgement in his eyes before he bit out, ‘I will ask you to leave.’

Her lips tightened, and she turned to Meghan, speaking slowly now for her benefit. ‘Forgive my rudeness. Alessandro and I go a long way back. I’d no idea he’d changed so very much.’ She glanced back at him slyly. ‘If indeed he needed changing.’

‘You must have known he’d taken over Di Agnio Enterprises,’ Meghan pointed out in what she hoped was a reasonable tone, though she felt like clawing the other woman’s eyes out. ‘It seems you are not such good friends with my husband as you thought.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Emilia acknowledged with an icy smile. ‘I never would have imagined him latching on to a woman like you.’ She turned to Alessandro, touched her fingers to her lips and boldly pressed them to Alessandro’s mouth. ‘Ciao, bello.’

He stood still, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his eyes both blazing and cold.

Then she left.

Meghan stared down at her virtually untouched souvlaki. The silence stretched between them, thin and taut as a wire, oppressive as a leaden weight.

‘I guess she’s not too happy you’re married,’ she finally managed, trying to keep her voice light and amused and failing miserably.

Alessandro’s eyes and voice were flat, cold. ‘She wouldn’t be. Emilia and I used to be lovers.’

Icy shock drenched her, left her near to trembling. It didn’t surprise her—of course she’d guessed as much—but it still hurt.

And Alessandro’s cold, calculating delivery of such a fact hurt even more.

‘Used to be,’ she finally repeated, lifting her chin. ‘That’s what’s important now.’

Alessandro’s mouth turned up in a mocking smile. ‘How fortunate I am to have such an understanding wife,’ he remarked lightly. ‘And such sensitivity will surely come in useful, considering I’d slept with at least half the women at the cocktail party the other night.’

Meghan’s vision blurred, whether from tears or shock she didn’t know.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she whispered, though it felt as if it mattered very much.

‘Oh, good,’ Alessandro said musingly. ‘Because it’s probably more like two-thirds.’

‘I know you were a playboy, a womaniser, Alessandro,’ Meghan said through gritted teeth. ‘It doesn’t matter now. I know you’ll be faithful.’

‘Do you?’ he mocked, and she gripped the edge of the table, struggling to hold onto her composure, her calm.

She wanted to break down completely.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she finally asked in a low voice. ‘You’re deliberately trying to provoke me. To hurt me.’

Alessandro leaned forward, his eyes glittering with malicious intent. ‘But gattina,’ he said softly, ‘I’m showing you so you know not to be hurt. This is who I was—who I am. You can’t change me. You can’t save me.’

Right then Meghan didn’t even want to try.

She barely remembered the rest of the meal. She must have eaten and drunk, because their plates were cleared away, her glass refilled. She lived in a shocked daze, wondering why Alessandro hurt her so much, why she let him.

Surely enough was enough?

She couldn’t keep doing this.

It wasn’t worth it.

But I love him.

Meghan had wanted power for herself this time, had married for it, but she’d become its victim instead. Again.

Alessandro’s victim.

The pain of that realisaton sliced her soul in two—was worse than anything she’d known before.

And she didn’t know what to do.

They walked back to their villa in silence, the air wrapping them in a warm, sultry blanket, so different from the shattered atmosphere that lay between them like a thousand splinters of hurt emotion, devastated feeling.

Back in the villa, Meghan walked on wooden legs to the bedroom. She undressed, slipped into her nightgown—another silky confection that made nonsense of what was between them now.

She lay still in bed, her eyes hot and dry.

She was past tears.

It was too late for them, anyway.

Alessandro came in after a little while. He peeled off his clothes and slipped between the cool sheets, his back, an expanse of indifference, towards her.

She wouldn’t let it end this way tonight, Meghan thought.

She wouldn’t be a victim.

She wouldn’t run away.

She would take control. She would demand it.

She reached for him, found herself grabbing his shoulders, pulling him over to her. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him hard, in demand.

A brand.

He didn’t respond. She sensed rather than felt his surprise, and after a moment he rolled away from her.

‘No, Meghan. Not like this.’

His rejection, on top of everything else, was too much.

She’d had enough.

‘Yes, like this.’ She pushed him onto his back, smiling as his eyes widened in surprise. She straddled him, her thighs pressed against his manhood, her own eyes blazing.

She felt the answering stir of his own desire, saw the flicker of admiration in his eyes as she sat above him, naked and bold.

She had him in her thrall, in her power. He was splayed beneath her, waiting, wanting.

Then Meghan smiled sadly.

‘I’m not a whore,’ she said softly. ‘And I won’t use a whore’s tricks to bind you to me. I love you. I know you don’t love me. You can run away from that, you can try to make me run, but you can’t change the truth.’

He looked glorious, his chest bare and smooth and brown, his dark hair rumpled against the white linen pillow. His eyes were dark, fathomless, searching.

Then slowly he reached up, held her face in his hands, and brought her lips down to his.

Surrender.

‘Make love to me, Meghan.’ He smiled against her mouth, his hips rocking hers. ‘Make love to me.’

With a small cry of acceptance, she did, letting him fill her, letting herself be filled to overflowing. Letting the physical joy and pleasure be enough—because right now it was all they had.

It was too much to bear. Alessandro lay on his side and watched Meghan sleep, curled up like a child, next to him.

It hurt too much.

He hadn’t asked for her love, hadn’t wanted it.

Hadn’t ever expected it.

Yet now it was his.

Precious, rare, beautiful.

He rolled on his back and closed his eyes. What could he do with such a gift? He couldn’t even begin to know its value, to understand its worth.

He only knew that it was a gift he would lose, utterly, hopelessly, when she discovered the truth.

Had he actually imagined that he could keep it from her? That the denizens of Milan, eager for his blood, his shame, would keep it from her? The few comments she’d heard so far, the innuendoes she’d figured out, were nothing, nothing, to the secrets that remained.

And when she discovered them he knew he’d see disgust instead of tenderness, revulsion instead of compassion. Then she would leave. Even if she didn’t, even if some brand of honour kept her from going, she would leave in the ways that mattered.

Heart, mind, soul.

He couldn’t bear that. It hurt as much as her love did, innocent and ignorant as it was.

So he kept hurting her. He couldn’t help it; it was the only way he knew to protect her from more pain. To protect himself.

And he hated himself for it more than ever.

He hated himself more now than when he’d seen his photograph plastered on a thousand tasteless tabloids, than when he’d joked and drunk and slept his way through a worthless life, than when he’d killed his brother.

And he didn’t see how it could ever get any better.