‘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.
CHAPTER NINE
THE wedding was a blur.
Meghan understood the words, but the Italian washed over her in a soothing, melodious tide of language.
She wore the dress—Gabriella’s timelessly elegant ivory gown—altered to fit her own more generous curves.
She saw the guests, a handful of discreet friends and business associates who watched the strange, sudden ceremony with carefully blank faces.
She had the bridesmaids—Alessandro’s younger sister, Chiara, sleek and quiet, having flown in that morning from London. She was flying out immediately after the reception, and from the way she stood next to Meghan, her body tense and straining as the priest rambled on, Meghan guessed she couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Alessandro’s best man, Stefano Lucrezi, was watchful and alert, his attention solely on the priest. Meghan had the sense that he was aware in some way of Chiara, though he never looked at her.
And Alessandro? He stood there, calm, urbane, implacable. In a few minutes—seconds, perhaps
—he would be her husband.
He hadn’t spoken one word to her since she’d entered the church, walked down the ancient stone aisle alone amidst a sea of frighteningly neutral faces.
This was her life now.
Now, now it was too late to back out.
And still she didn’t want to.
Silly, naïve her.
After that shattered evening when they’d almost made love— passionate, desperate, on the floor—Alessandro had reverted to his old self: charming, urbane, amusing.
A fake.
Meghan saw it now—saw how the mask dropped into place, saw how he protected himself, kept anyone from guessing, knowing who he really was.
She still didn’t.
And yet she was here, marrying him, because she wanted to know.
It wasn’t just about the power any more.
It was about the need.
The priest stopped talking, and Meghan saw that the guests had all stood. Waiting.
She was married.
Alessandro took her cold hand in his, and together they walked out of the church into the pale sunshine of the early spring day.
Everyone else followed them out before either of them had exchanged a word. Stefano clapped Alessandro on the shoulder, and Meghan recognised the various phrases of congratulation, though she felt numb to the emotions.
Someone brought forward a beribboned box, gesturing excitedly for Meghan to open it.
She looked uncertainly from the box on the steps of the church to Alessandro, whose expression was inscrutable.
‘They want you to open it,’ he explained, with a slight smile, and Meghan moved forward. Was it a present? A custom? She wished Alessandro would explain, but he’d only folded his arms over his chest, his eyes glinting with cool amusement.
‘You could help me a little,’ she said under her breath, and Alessandro smiled.
‘But I’m enjoying the view from here.’
Meghan gritted her teeth. Charming, aloof, distant. This was the man he chose to be now, and she would have to accept it.
She couldn’t make him bare his true self. Wasn’t sure she was ready for it. The glimpse she’d had so far had shot her to pieces.
She pulled on the ribbons and tentatively opened the lid of the box.
There was a loud cooing sound, the rushing of wings, and she stumbled back in surprise, her arms thrown over her face, as two doves soared into the sky amid many exclamations and cheers.
‘An Italian tradition,’ Alessandro informed her dryly as she lowered her arms and gazed upwards at the birds, now circling the church spire. ‘To symbolise the happiness and unity of the married couple. My mother arranged it, no doubt. Reading things into this marriage that are not there.’
Meghan was struck to her soul, but she mustered enough spirit to reply in kind. ‘What? You don’t want happiness? Surely that’s a reasonable expectation for both of us, Alessandro?’
‘Is it?’ There was no mistaking the sardonic doubt in his voice.
‘Yes,’ Meghan said firmly, daring him to believe, wanting to believe herself. ‘It is.’
He gazed down at her, and a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. ‘As long as you realise what makes us happy.’
What made him happy. More warnings. Meghan was tired of it. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘I’m not in that much danger of falling in love with you!’
Alessandro’s face relaxed and he gave a little chuckle. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I like your claws, gattina. And perhaps we shall both be happy.’
He took her elbow, steering her through the crowd into the waiting limo that would take them to the reception.
‘Who are all those people?’ Meghan asked as she craned backwards to look at the milling crowd.
‘Mostly business associates, friends of my mother’s.’ He shrugged in dismissal.
‘What about your friends?’
He smiled, but his voice was hard. ‘My friends were not invited.’
What on earth did that mean? Meghan leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. ‘But you have friends,’ she said after a moment. ‘Will I meet them?’
‘No.’
End of discussion. Right now Meghan was too tired to press, too weary to hear his warnings, his rebukes.
‘What a pair we are,’ she said, trying to make her voice light. ‘Friendless and alone.’
‘That’s why I married you, isn’t it?’ Alessandro returned silkily. ‘Now we’re not alone. Now we have each other.’
Somehow his lethal, mocking tone robbed the words of any comfort.
The reception was in a private room at the Principe di Savoia, one of Milan’s most elegant hotels. Meghan sat down, ate the delicious food, drank the exquisite wine, and accepted the embraces and congratulations from a crowd that had become loosened and relaxed, ready to celebrate.
Alessandro sat in the middle of it all, dark and forebidding. When he greeted someone his voice was polished and smooth; he laughed at the jokes and participated in the customary dances, even La Tarantella, the circle dance that Meghan stumbled through, uncertain of the steps, distant from the jollity.
Yet there was no mistaking his dark preoccupation. Almost, Meghan thought sadly, as if he wanted to be somewhere else.
Be someone else.
Her stomach churned. Her heart twisted. Doubt washed over her, yet she couldn’t regret. She’d made this decision. She’d wanted to be here.
Only she hadn’t realised just how very hard it would be. How very hard Alessandro would be, his mouth a grim line, his eyes flinty, every taut line of his body making him guarded, unapproachable.
Unlovable.
How many secrets, dark and treacherous, churned and seethed in the space between them, creating an impossible chasm?
And they weren’t even her secrets.
They were his.
When she was alone for a moment, scraping her sanity together as she stood by a pillar at the side of the dance floor, Stefano Lucrezi approached her.
‘Congratulations, Signora di Agnio.’ His voice was smooth and pleasant, yet the title jolted her.
‘Thank you, Signor Lucrezi.’
‘Please, call me Stefano. So, this was quite the love match?’ He raised his eyebrows, smiling at her. ‘I’ve never known Alessandro to move so quickly with a woman before.’
‘Is that so?’ Meghan’s own smile turned brittle. ‘He has taken care to warn me that he has moved quite quickly with plenty of women in the past.’
Stefano’s gaze did not falter. ‘Ah, so you know of his reputation?’
His reputation? It sounded bad. Still, if the secret that rode Alessandro, drove him to despair, was simply having had too many affairs, Meghan thought she could accept it. She didn’t like it, but if it was the reality she would learn to deal with it.
‘No one’s told me much of anything,’ she said frankly. She looked at Stefano. He seemed friendly, open, and she wanted answers. ‘Do you know Alessandro well?’
‘As well as anybody does. He keeps to himself.’
‘Sometimes,’ Meghan said quietly, her voice an ache, ‘I think I know him quite well. And at other times not at all.’
‘He is, perhaps, two different people,’ Stefano said after a moment. ‘The man he was, and the man he is now.’
And the man he meant to be. ‘What do you mean, exactly? What happened to change him?’
Stefano shook his head. ‘It is not for me to say.’ He patted her hand gently. ‘Perhaps he will tell you, signora, in time.’
Sketching a slight bow, Stefano left her.
Meghan sagged against the pillar behind her. She’d been given clues to this impossible, unfathomable man, but she didn’t understand what they meant.
Didn’t know if she could keep digging for answers.
Wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
Across the room Alessandro watched his bride with a cold detachment he was far from feeling. Encasing himself in ic
e was the only way to get through this event, when every pair of eyes watched him speculatively, hungrily, waiting for disaster, shame.
His own.
They all wanted him to fail—expected it. He’d lived with that for two years, and it should mean nothing to him now.
It did mean nothing to him—except for the one person in the room who didn’t understand.
The one person he couldn’t bear to see him fail.
And yet he would fail. Not with business, because he was good at that. He’d surprised everyone, especially himself, when he’d taken the reins of his father’s company and found that he held them with natural ease.
He would fail her. He already had, in so many ways, and he saw it in the stark confusion in her eyes—the way she turned towards and away from him at the same time, because she didn’t know what he would do, who he was.
What he was.
‘I just spoke to your bride.’ Stefano stood by Alessandro’s chair, smiling faintly. ‘She seems quite fond of you, my friend.’
‘She’ll learn better.’
‘Do you love her?’
Alessandro laughed shortly. ‘No. Of course not.’
Stefano nodded musingly, although his voice sounded regretful. ‘It’s easier that way, I suppose.’
Alessandro turned to him, raised one eyebrow in mocking incredulity. ‘You’re not going to tell me you believe in true love?’
‘Of course not.’ Stefano smiled tightly. ‘You know as well as I do that such a thing is a fairytale. We’re wise men, Alessandro.’
‘Yes,’ he replied flatly, his eyes fastened on Meghan’s slight form. ‘We are.’
It was time to end this torture. He could not take any more speculation, whispered gossip. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be with Meghan.
It was time to claim his bride.
She felt someone’s gaze on her, and before she turned, before she saw who it was, she knew.
The heat and the desire turned her limbs weak, her mind blank and yet flooded with feeling.
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