Romeo for Hire

by Jane Beckenham

  “Never mind. It wasn’t him I wanted to see,” she almost purred, her scarlet nails trailing a path along the back of the leather sofa.

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No, dearie.”

  “Dearie?” Who was she calling dearie? Carly bristled. She eyed the woman. Long, leather-clad legs, her slim hips wrapped in a beaten silver and aqua belt, breasts pouting over the top of a laced, peasant-style blouse.

  And shoes.

  Carly’s gaze dropped to the woman’s shoes. The heels seemed so thin, they’d split in two any minute. She prayed God would listen and heed her prayer. Not nice, she knew, but who cared. This woman had barged in and wasn’t about to win any personality contests as, with barely concealed disdain, her gaze traveled up and down Carly.

  Rosaria circled her like a lioness on the hunt, ready to pounce, and a prickle of fear shot down Carly’s spine. Had she let a mad woman into the apartment?

  “You’ll do.”

  “Do?” Carly frowned. She rested her hands on her hips. “Look, I think it best you go.”

  “In my own time, dearie. I have a wedding gift.” Rosaria smiled and let out a deep, throaty chuckle. It was the sound of molten sex. Damn it. The woman was a vixen in heat and made Carly more than nervous. She was afraid.

  Rosaria picked up a bag at her feet and passed an elaborately wrapped parcel.

  Carly took it, unsure what to say.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “I’ll wait for Marco.”

  “Oh, no, don’t do that. I’d love to see you open it.”

  Putting the parcel on the coffee table, Carly sat on the sofa and fiddled with the abundance of frothy ribbons. She turned the gift over and slipped a finger under the tape and unwrapped it. It was a picture frame.

  Rosaria hovered, reminding Carly of a vulture swooping down. She turned the frame over, and her jaw dropped. It was elaborate gold filigree and very expensive. But it wasn’t the expense that shocked her, but the large portrait photo it enclosed. The frame slithered from her fingers and clattered onto the coffee table. Carly didn’t care if it smashed into a thousand pieces.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Get out.” Carly scrambled from her seat and pointed to the door. “I think you’d better go. Thanks for the frame.”

  “Oh, dear, I seem to have upset you.” Rosaria smiled and sashayed toward the door. Carly gritted her teeth. Why did the woman have to be as sexy as hell?

  “What did you expect, Ms. Santos? Did you think I’d enjoy seeing a picture of you, naked? I presume you’re an ex-girlfriend of my fiancé?”

  “Tut, tut.” Rosaria laughed again, showing off her brilliant white smile, while her eyes remained cold and lifeless. “You may not like it, but I’m sure Marco will. Marco always said I had a good body. He loves it.” She slid a well-manicured hand across her flat abdomen and over the curve of her hip.

  Carly choked back the bile. She had to get this woman out of here. “Thanks for your visit. Time to go.” Her tone was hard as stone, but her heart was fragile, breaking. This is the body Marco loves. Present tense. The woman had said loves, not loved, as in the past. Was Marco still seeing her? The thought filled Carly with a bitter dread.

  “I’m going, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Warn me?”

  “Si.”

  Carly gasped. “You’re Italian?”

  “Of course.” Her smile widened. “Marco and I go a long way back. Family friends. We understand each other. I know him.” She gave Carly another withering look. “You may think you have him, but don’t get too attached. Marco is mine. Once he gets over the baby idea, he’ll come running back. He always does. Babies are such a bore. Marco doesn’t want my body to get so ugly.” She preened, letting a hand drape once more over her pancake-flat stomach.

  Numbed by the woman’s vicious verbal attack, Carly couldn’t speak.

  It didn’t get any better. “Just wait till you’re big and fat. Marco will not want you. And when that brat screeches the night away, he’ll be back in my bed.” Rosaria Santos tossed her silken tresses over her shoulder with the flick of one scarlet finger and walked to the lift, hips swinging with a sexual invitation Carly knew would turn heads wherever she went.

  She couldn’t look a moment longer and slammed the door, sinking to the floor only to catch sight of the picture frame. Naked as the day she was born, but definitely more voluptuous, Rosaria was draped with a barely-there bit of fluff. Carly wanted to smash it to pieces, tear the picture out and rip it up. But most of all, she wanted to strangle the dratted woman with the oh-so-artfully draped feather boa.

  “Who the hell brought this?” Marco asked sharply as soon as he arrived home and spied the gift lying where she’d dropped it.

  Carly looked up from her book. She hadn’t been reading, merely staring at the same page for the last quarter of an hour feigning interest. “Your girlfriend, I believe.”

  Marco eyed the picture. “She was here?”

  “Yes, and I can’t say it was a delight to meet her. If you intend to continue your liaisons with Ms. Santos, make sure it’s not here.”

  “Liaisons?” Marco exhaled, but Carly refused to jump, refused to acknowledge the power he had over her, despite the warring in her stomach. Her nerves were shot, and her stomach heaved. Quite frankly, she far preferred staring at the toilet bowl than the icy blue accusing eyes of her soon-to-be husband. “Rosaria is history.”

  “Whatever you say,” she said, flicking a hand in dismissal. “Just keep her away from me.”

  Marco frowned, but Carly wasn’t interested in letting him draw out this conversation.

  “I can’t be bothered arguing.” She turned a page. “I realize my hold on you is tenuous, to say the least, that the draw card in our marriage is the baby, but back off and keep that woman away.” With as much dignity as she could muster, Carly stood and looked down at the frame lying neglected on the sofa. “Nice frame, shame about the photo,” she said. She turned on her heels and walked to her room, closing the door behind her, the click of the lock resounding tenfold, though it couldn’t drown out the pain in her heart.

  Crawling onto her bed, Carly pulled the luxurious cotton coverlet up and huddled underneath. She hurt—a lot—and within minutes the floodgate opened and tears fell. She didn’t try to stop them, hoping to purge her heart. Having Rosaria Santos around hurt like hell and aborted any minuscule thread of hope she held.

  A brittle laugh escaped her lips.

  A tenuous hold, she’d said.

  What a joke. It wasn’t a hold. It was their baby that bound them, nothing more.

  But there was one thing Carly couldn’t forget. She loved Marco. But what use was love?

  Swearing under his breath, Marco paced the floor. He dropped his gaze and caught sight of the Aubusson underfoot, lips twisting in a slight smile as he remembered Carly’s words about wearing a path in the rug. He halted, placed his tumbler of brandy on the side table, and flopped down on the sofa, dropping his head in his hands. What an ass he’d been. Guilt washed over him, and he felt an intense discomfort. Not for the first time either, he remembered. Where Carly was concerned, he seemed to be making a shambles of everything.

  Marriage!

  The very idea scared the living daylights out of him, which wasn’t surprising, considering his mother’s track record. Okay, so he was an adult and should conduct his life accordingly, but when it came to the “M” word, he was back at boarding school, listening to his mother’s explanations about why he had to stay there or else be shipped off to obscure Italian relatives. Father number two didn’t like children. Marco shook his head and tried to block out the memories. Memories he wished he didn’t have, but had to deal with nevertheless.

  Children needed fathers. He knew that and he wasn’t about to forsake his child. Never. His child would have him around and not be bundled off to boarding school or distant family. Never in a million years would Marco repeat his life e
xperiences with his own child.

  But marriage?

  Carly hated his guts for forcing her hand.

  Too bad. His child needed him.

  He drained his glass and headed to his bedroom. Hopefully he’d get some sleep. Three months dreaming of a certain auburn-haired goddess hadn’t done his sleep patterns any good, and he needed as much coma-like sleep as he could get.

  Tomorrow was his wedding day.

  The sun streamed through the bedroom window, waking Carly with a start. For a moment, she was confused by her surroundings until the mush that constituted her collective brain cells began to function, albeit one at a time.

  Today was her wedding day. She was marrying Marco.

  She should have been radiantly happy. Should have been ecstatic. Brides were, weren’t they?

  But inside, her nerves did a war dance. She was ready to bolt, but knew deep down she wouldn’t.

  Couldn’t. She tossed aside the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stared out at the day. The leaves were changing color. From the darkest reds to oranges, they lay scattered across the street below like a lush carpet. How different life in New Zealand must be for Marco from his native Tuscany where everything was old, with walled towns and castles, the medieval heart of Italy. Down under, New Zealand’s seasons were the opposite, and the lifestyle not so frantic. It was, however, where he had etched an incredibly successful business for himself. Her soon-to-be husband was determined and loyal—at least where his baby was concerned. But it wasn’t enough. Would never be enough.

  Snatching the phone up before her courage crumbled, she punched in the numbers for Marco’s mobile.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Carly?”

  Her eyes shuttered. He knew it was her. For a moment her voice faltered.

  “Carly, what’s wrong?”

  Everything!

  “I can’t…we can’t…”

  “Can’t what? You’re not making sense.”

  “I can’t marry you.”

  “Like hell.” The phone went dead.

  For two heart beats she stared at the phone still in her hand, heard the disconnected call tone. The phone dropped from her fingers, falling to the bed.

  Five minutes. Ten tops. That’s all she had, then she knew Marco would be here, charging in, taking control. She had to go. She’d write him a note.

  He made it in four.

  “What the hell do you mean, you can’t?” he stormed, the door to her bedroom slamming back on its hinges as he charged in.

  Carly backed up. “Marry you.”

  “Bit late for that,” he said, glancing at his watch. “The wedding is in three hours.”

  “Call it off.”

  “Neither of us wants this marriage, but we will marry.”

  Carly wrapped her arms across her middle, hypnotized by the single water droplet on a strand of his hair that fell across his forehead. It dropped to his cheek, sliding to the corner of his mouth.

  His tongue slipped across his lips, teasing the droplet. He licked it away, and Carly’s blood heated to inferno proportions.

  She shook her head. This wasn’t helping. He wasn’t helping. “And if I refuse?”

  “Ah, but, you haven’t.”

  “I just did.”

  “We both want the best for our child, and that’s two parents. The contract with CV Hotels will secure your company’s place in the design world, countrywide, si?”

  Carly nodded.

  “Your company has put everything into this project. Perhaps if the contract went to someone else, you might not be able to support yourself and our child.”

  Carly’s world toppled. “You bastard.”

  “Definitely. But you see, Carly, I already love the child you carry. My child. I will do whatever I must to keep my child in my life.”

  He made it perfectly clear. If she didn’t marry him, he would destroy her world. The world she’d worked so hard to build. Then where would she be? Pregnant and with no means to support herself and the baby.

  No marriage.

  No contract.

  A potent threat.

  Marco didn’t love her, but she loved him and that was that. Unrequited love would have to be enough for their marriage.

  With a heavy heart, she acceded. “Love our child, Marco, but keep the hell away from me.”

  A knock at the door silenced her argument. Marco opened the door. A maid entered, carrying a breakfast tray.

  Neither said a word as the woman deposited the tray then left. As the door closed, Marco turned to face Carly. “Breakfast, madam.” He offered her a strained half smile.

  “You don’t have to wait on me.” Just then Carly realized Marco was staring at her, his gaze heated as it traveled down her length. Her partially clad length.

  Carly pulled the edges on her dressing gown closer.

  He offered a slight grin and winked. “Nothing I haven’t already seen.”

  Beneath her silk robe, her body hitched into overdrive.

  Damn it. It shouldn’t be happening. She was meant to be leaving. Calling off the wedding. “Well, don’t get any ideas,” she fumed. “We’ve a deal. Mummy, Daddy and baby make three. That’s it.”

  It was as if her comments had splashed him with ice water, and his mask fell back in place, good humor replaced by the darkly daunting man of recent days. “I can see being married to you is going to be a joy.”

  “Don’t bet on it. I didn’t ask for this marriage.”

  “You agreed, nevertheless.”

  “Does the word blackmail mean anything to you, Marco?”

  Marco’s jaw tightened at her waspish comment. “I thought you might like to know that the blood tests have returned. Also, our lawyers have sealed the pre-nuptial agreement,” he said as if brushing her aside physically.

  Sadness snaked through Carly’s veins and around her heart until she could barely breathe. Suddenly the tray of food on her lap, the toast with the sliver of butter, the small pot of raspberry conserve and the frosted glass of orange juice, became so intensely interesting that she couldn’t look anywhere else.

  Bad move. Her stomach heaved, and bile rose in her throat, scorching an acidic path. She wanted to be sick.

  “Excuse me.” Scrambling as if lightning had struck, Carly shoved the tray aside and raced for the bathroom, clutching her belly as she went. Unceremoniously, she huddled over the porcelain.

  What was she doing? Why was she marrying him?

  Stupid questions. Easy answers.

  She knew the truth, but nothing right now would force her to tell him. That would only lead to more hurt, and she’d had enough rejection to last a lifetime.

  Church bells pealed in unison and rippled through the cathedral with vocal grandeur, but it could have been rap music for all Marco cared. He wasn’t in a good mood and wanted to get the whole fiasco over with. How his mother had organized a cathedral in such a short space of time was beyond him.

  Marco lifted his head and stared up at the church tower. At least they were real bells, even if his marriage wouldn’t be real.

  That bugged him, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t want the fleeting kind of love a man finds with a woman, didn’t want marriage and certainly didn’t want commitment. But it was the fact that Carly called the shots and made the rules that was giving him a headache.

  You’re losing control.

  Too true, he admitted grimly. And he didn’t like feeling powerless. But time to ponder the present evaporated as his hurriedly appointed best man rushed alongside. “Time to roll, mate. Carly’s car is coming.”

  Rooted to the spot, Marco felt his gut churn.

  Chad gave him a wry look. “You nervous? Don’t be. I can see you love her.”

  “Love, huh.” He did not love her, or any woman, ever. Love was for fools.

  Minutes ticked by. “If she’s not here in ten seconds, I’ll damn well go and get her.”

  Marco groaned. What was th
e matter with him? Suddenly, it was imperative she turn up.

  Chad slapped him playfully on the back. “Don’t stress, mate. She’s here. Probably fluffing her dress. You know how women are.”

  Marco cocked an eyebrow at his best friend. “Do I?” He wasn’t so sure. Right now, all he could do was try to keep the rising tide of anxiety at bay. “I don’t have a clue.”

  The organ struck a chord, and the whispering voices in the ancient cathedral hushed. As if in slow motion, Marco felt his gaze pulled to the rear where, outlined from behind by the golden rays of sun streaming through the wide-open cathedral doors, stood Carly.

  “Gorgeous” came to mind, but seemed a totally inadequate description.

  Carly’s soft pink satin dress hugged her curves in all the right places. Atop her head she wore a spray of rosebuds entwined with pink ribbons. She looked ethereal.

  But Carly was real. Very real.

  And so was the baby.

  Accompanied by the fluttering chords of the organ, she began a slow walk up the aisle toward him, each step measured and stiff. Even from this distance, he could see a burning fear reflected in her expression, and his gut lurched. Had he put that there?

  She was alone. Where was her father?

  But Marco had no time to ponder his future father-in-law’s absence. When Carly took the last steps toward him and looked at him fleetingly, he felt he could drown in her eyes.

  As she came to a halt in a shimmer of satin at his side, he bent and whispered in her ear, “I thought brides wore white.”

  “It’s oyster pink,” she responded, her voice breathless. “Besides, I can hardly wear white being three months pregnant.”

  Marco went to answer that surely propriety didn’t matter these days, but his attention was tugged back by the priest who began to speak in a singular drone that echoed across the vast abyss of the vaulted cathedral.

  It was time to get married.

  “You are now man and wife.”

  It was over. Marco exhaled, and his body jerked alive. It was as if he’d slept throughout the entire service.

  “Kiss the bride,” came a childish call from behind. The small gathering laughed.