The Borghese Bride

by Sandra Marton

  And he’d let her get away with it.

  How come? Not that she’d change her mind, ever, but…but didn’t it bother him, that he had a wife who wouldn’t be his wife?

  Arianna rose to her feet, picked up her empty glass and went into the house. The sitting room was dark and deliciously cool. She stood still for a moment, head lifted, eyes closed, and let the chill ease the pounding in her head.

  He’d tried to make her play at being his wife in simpler ways, but she’d made her position clear on that, too.

  “I have a housekeeper,” he’d said the first morning, when he’d told her they’d eat breakfast together, for appearance’s sake.

  “I don’t give a damn about appearances,” Arianna had hissed, moments before Jonathan joined them, and Dominic had leaned toward her, his face dark.

  “Do you give a damn about anything but yourself? Think of the boy. Use your head, Arianna. It will be better for him if he thinks we are happy together.”

  It was hard to argue with such logic and she hadn’t even tried. There were other ways to make Dominic understand how she felt about the arrangement he’d forced her into.

  The simplest was to ignore his suggestion that she make whatever changes she wished in the apartment, and in how his housekeeper did things.

  The woman had approached her that same morning.

  “I was going to purchase new towels to replace the old in the first floor lavatory this week,” Rosa had said politely. “Perhaps the signora would like to do it herself, or tell me what colors she prefers.”

  “Buy whatever you wish,” Arianna had said, just as politely. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Well, then, if there are any special foods you like, signora, you have only to tell me and I’ll be happy to prepare them.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. Cook as you normally do.”

  A tiny frown had appeared in Rosa’s forehead. “The boy has no favorites, either?”

  Arianna had relented. Jonathan didn’t like broccoli or cooked carrots. He loved chocolate milk. There was no reason not to tell all that to Rosa, especially since Jonathan’s view of this change in their lives was the exact opposite of Arianna’s.

  Her son was thrilled. He loved Italy, loved Rome, loved the vast, high-ceilinged apartment with its marble and hardwood floors, its views of the Via Giacomo, the crowds that gathered on the Spanish Steps.

  “I love it here,” Jonathan had told her, holding his arms out wide to encompass all the new treasures of his young life.

  What he loved most was Dominic—and the feeling was obviously mutual.

  Dominic treated Jonathan in a way that would make most women ecstatic. Your new husband and your child were crazy about each other? Well, that was wonderful, wasn’t it? Weren’t the TV talk shows, the magazines, the pop psychology bestsellers everywhere full of sad stories of stepfathers who didn’t like their new children? Of children who couldn’t tolerate their stepfathers?

  It wasn’t like that in this family.

  Man and boy chatted about anything and everything. Baseball. Soccer. Movies. Whether it was truly gross to suck up strands of pasta from your fork, or were there even grosser things nobody had yet invented. A new video game Bruno had talked about—a game that Dominic would surely bring home the next evening, despite Arianna’s objections that he was spoiling Jonathan.

  “He’s a great kid,” Dominic countered. “And I’m not spoiling him. I like to play these games, too.”

  He played with Jonathan after supper, while she read in the sitting room. Tried to read. It was hard, with the sounds of Dominic’s laughter and Jonathan’s giggles coming right through the door.

  Last night, she’d watched them as they talked about baseball, something about a pitcher and the New York Yankees, and suddenly her heart had swelled with joy.

  My son, she’d thought, my little boy and his father.

  She must have made a sound because they’d both looked at her.

  “Mom?” her son had said uncertainly, and she’d smiled and said, whoops, she was sorry, she’d just smothered a sneeze…and she’d gone to her bedroom, shut the door, leaned back against it and shuddered.

  Her husband was a ruthless man. He’d proved that already, when he’d forced her into this marriage. What would he do if he figured out that Jonathan was his?

  Arianna took a deep breath.

  What was that old saying about putting the cart before the horse? There was no reason to think ahead. So far, nothing had changed. Dominic hadn’t noticed anything. Maybe he never would. Women were good at speculation about who babies took after; men weren’t. Hadn’t she been part of endless conversations about the offspring of women she knew?

  He has Jack’s chin, one would say.

  Natalie’s eyes, another would add.

  And the discussion would go on and on while the men in the group just rolled their eyes and finally, if pressed, one of them would crack that yeah, the kid in question looked like his old man but, basically, he just looked like a kid.

  No, nothing had changed. Dominic would not catch on. He would remain a sperm donor who’d given her her son but didn’t know it. He’d remain the husband she didn’t want, didn’t love, didn’t desire…

  Arianna swallowed hard.

  She didn’t. Of course, she didn’t.

  She walked slowly through the apartment, noting that Rosa had left things ready for dinner as she did each evening. The dining room table was set. Platters and covered dishes would be stacked in the refrigerator and on the big table near the stove.

  God only knew what the housekeeper thought of the Borghese marriage. She arrived each morning at seven, just in time to see Dominic emerge from his bedroom and Arianna emerge from the guest suite with Jonathan. She’d looked startled, the first time she saw their strange morning entrances. Arianna knew enough about upper-class Italian marriages to know that separate bedrooms weren’t unusual, but for newlyweds?

  Surely, brides here shared their husbands’ beds just as they did in the States.

  The housekeeper probably thought the new signora was crazy. Well, maybe she was.

  Arianna turned on the water in the kitchen sink and washed out her glass.

  A woman would have to be crazy, wouldn’t she, to get trapped in an arrangement like this?

  Dominic made it seem as if he was a knight in shining armor, marrying her to keep the marchesa from collapsing that day in the back yard of the little house in Connecticut.

  Who was he kidding?

  Arianna put the glass in the drainer.

  He’d made his incredible announcement, that he intended to force her into marriage, before the marchesa’s arrival. He didn’t like being reminded of that little fact, either. Apparently, he liked thinking of himself as a martyr who’d taken a wife as an act of gallantry.

  The truth was that he’d taken a wife because he wanted one. Because he wanted her…and he hadn’t done a thing about it. Not a thing.

  All these nights, she’d slept alone. Slept? Not really. Mostly, she lay awake, despising Dominic, despising herself for not finding a way out of this nightmare…

  …despising herself for wanting him.

  Arianna sank into a chair at the kitchen table and buried her face in her hands.

  The truth was ugly. She didn’t want to face it, but denying it was even worse. She hated Dominic—and wanted him. Wanted him, night after night while she lay alone in her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling and remembering how it had been to make love with him, remembering the feel of his hands, the taste of his skin.

  Last night, she’d been sure he was coming to her. She’d heard the creak of the floorboards and her heart had climbed into her throat. She’d sat up, clutched the blanket to her chin, waited, oh yes, waited for the door to open, for Dominic to step into the room, to come to her bed and take her in his arms, put an end to this nonsense and make her his wife.

  But the footsteps had hesitated only briefly, then continued
past her door the same as they did all the other nights. And Arianna had awakened today as she did every day, detesting herself for wanting him.

  The shame of it was a leaden weight lodged in her breast.

  What kind of woman dreamed of possession by a man who’d forced her into marriage? Who would probably tear her son from her if he ever learned the truth?

  Suddenly, the walls of the enormous apartment seemed to be pressing in. Arianna got to her feet and hurried to the front door. Maybe she could catch up to Gina and the boys. Maybe…

  She fell back as the door swung open. Dominic stood on the threshold, eyes dark, mouth narrowed. He looked wild and dangerous, and her heart slammed into her throat.

  “Arianna,” he said, and what he wanted, what he intended, what he was, at last, going to do, all resonated in that one word.

  Arianna turned and fled down the hall. She heard the door bang shut, heard the sound of her husband’s footsteps coming after her. His hands clamped, hard, on her shoulders and he spun her toward him.

  “No,” she cried, and swung her fist. She caught him in the shoulder. Pain shot up her arm. Dominic’s body, his muscles, everything about him was unyielding. She swung again. He grunted, dodged the blow, hoisted her into his arms and strode down the hall to the guest suite.

  “Dominic!” She was panting, weeping as he elbowed open her bedroom door. “You can’t. I won’t—”

  He bent his head, took her mouth with his. He bit her lip; she cried out in shock and when she did, he plunged his tongue inside. His taste, his heat, filled her. He slid his hand over her, cupped her breast, and she felt her nipple pearl under his rough touch.

  Heat shot through her, quick and sharp.

  “No,” she said against his lips, but her body refused to go along with the lie. She moaned, arched against him. This. This, yes. This was what she wanted.

  Dominic fell onto the bed still holding her, still kissing her. His heart thundered against hers as he slid his hand between them and began undoing the buttons on her blouse.

  “Tell me,” he growled. “Say it.”

  She couldn’t. God, she couldn’t, not even as she felt pleasure slipping along her skin like silk, even as she heard herself whispering his name.

  Dominic cursed, gave up trying to open the buttons and tore the blouse open. Arianna lay exposed to him now. This was his, the lush curve of her breasts, the lightly perfumed cleft that dipped into a lacy white bra.

  He kissed her mouth, kissed her throat, sucked at her nipples until she cried out in pleasure. She was clasping his shirt in her fists, writhing under him, against him, and he pushed up her skirt, slid his fingers inside her panties, watched her eyes blur with excitement.

  She was hot. Wet. Ready. So ready. For him, only for him. The delicate scent of her arousal made him groan with desire.

  “Say it,” he urged, and she wound her hands around his biceps.

  “Dominic,” she whispered. “Dominic…”

  Somewhere out on the hot Roman streets, a horn blared, then blared again. The commonplace sound jolted through Arianna, a sharp reminder of reality.

  She froze, caught her breath.

  What was she doing? Being taken in anger? Giving herself in anger? No. No…

  “No!” The cry ripped from her throat.

  She shoved against Dominic’s shoulders. Pounded against them. He was blind, dumb, unaware of everything but his need. Sobbing, she hit him again. He caught her wrists and pinned her hands above her head.

  “It’s too late for that,” he said roughly. “There’s no turning back from what we both want.”

  “You forced me into marriage.” Her voice trembled but she kept her eyes on his. “Are you going to force me into sex, too?”

  She felt his whole body tense. She waited, feeling the bite of his fingers into her flesh, afraid he might not stop—afraid of how she might respond if he didn’t. Then, after a million years seemed to have gone by, Dominic spat out a word in the same dialect she’d heard him use before, let go of her wrists and rolled off her.

  “To hell with this,” he snarled. “To hell with you, and me, and this farce of a marriage.”

  He got to his feet and hurried from the room. Arianna scrambled up against the pillows, wincing as she heard his bedroom door bang shut. Then she rose from the bed…and saw her reflection in the mirror.

  Her hair was a tangle of wild curls, her cheeks were flushed, her mouth swollen from Dominic’s kisses. Her blouse hung in tatters; beneath it, her breasts showed patches of red from the scrape of stubble on his jaw.

  Her teeth began to chatter. To think that he would do such a thing…

  To think that she would let him.

  That was the truth, wasn’t it? That she’d let him ravish her. That she’d wanted him to do it, yearned for him to do it…

  Footsteps sounded outside her door. She stumbled back, eyes wide, but the footsteps kept going. The front door slammed, and Arianna let out her breath.

  Dominic was gone, at least for a little while.

  She swung away from the mirror, pulled off what remained of her blouse and flung it into a corner. She snatched another blouse from the closet and put it on.

  No more. She had to leave him, face whatever he’d do in retaliation. This couldn’t continue, not even to protect the marchesa, not even to protect her dark secret about Jonathan…

  She laughed, though it came out more like a sob. How could she leave? Dominic held all the cards, and they both…

  “Mah-mee. Hey, Mom.”

  Oh God. Jonathan was back, shouting to her from the courtyard.

  “Mom? Where are you?”

  She shot to her feet, ran her hands through her hair, hurried through the apartment and onto the terrace.

  Jonathan and Bruno grinned up at her, then waved madly as they slurped at cups of gelato. Bruno’s mother was there, too, eating hers with a spoon.

  For reasons Arianna would never quite understand, this moment would be frozen in her memory. In all the years to come, she’d remember it with complete clarity. Gina’s smile, and the little boys with ice cream dripping down their chins, and the oppressiveness of the hot Roman afternoon…

  And the sudden squeal of brakes, the horrendous shriek of tearing metal, the unending scream of a woman crying out in horror…

  Mostly, she would remember knowing that something terrible had happened to her husband.

  “Dominic?” she whispered.

  “Mommy?” Jonathan said, his face gone white.

  Gina’s cup of ice cream fell to the ground.

  “Come,” she said, grabbing both boys, anchoring them to her sides and dragging them into her house.

  Arianna flew into the apartment, through the endless expanse of rooms, down the stairs, out the front door, to the street…

  And saw a woman, numb with shock, clutching a wailing infant in her arms.

  Saw a charcoal-gray baby stroller lying overturned in the road, wheels spinning lazily.

  Saw her husband’s bright red car, its hood wrapped around a lamp post, its front tires up on the curb, the driver’s door flown open.

  But what she saw that made her heart almost stop beating was Dominic, lying in the road beside the car, his arm bent at an angle that made her stomach roll, his head turned to the side, blood oozing slowly from his temple.

  “Dominic,” she whispered, but her voice rose to a scream as she ran to him, dropped to her knees, took his hand in hers and brought it to her lips.

  Did his fingers offer the faintest pressure in return, or was it only her desperation that made it seem that way?

  “Dominic,” Arianna sobbed. She kissed his bruised knuckles and never left him until the paramedics came and gently but forcibly shifted her aside, so they could move her husband onto a gurney and put him in the ambulance.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHY did people speak in whispers in hospitals?

  Hospitals weren’t quiet places like libraries. Hospitals were filled with n
oise. Bells rang with frightening urgency. Carts rattled as aides rolled them down the hall. Down at this end of the building, in the emergency section, there was a seemingly constant whirr of wheels as ambulance attendants rushed gurneys into the building, while doctors shouted instructions at nurses.

  The only quiet thing in the entire place, as far as Arianna could tell, was her. She sat on a wooden bench outside Treatment Room One, hands tightly clasped, heart in her throat as she waited for word about Dominic.

  Half an hour had passed since he’d been rushed into the white-tiled treatment room. A team of green-clad doctors and nurses had brushed Arianna aside, engulfed Dominic and lifted him onto an examining table.

  “What happened here?” someone had barked, even as hands began undressing him.

  “Motor vehicle accident,” one of the EMTs said. “Victim swerved to avoid a baby carriage, climbed the curb and wrapped his car around a traffic barrier.”

  “Speeding?”

  “No. Would have been a lot worse if he had.”

  “Seat belt?”

  “No. He was thrown from the car. Probable compound fracture of the left humerus, possible concussion.”

  “Who’s the orthopedist on duty? The neurosurgeon?”

  “I’ll find out,” a nurse replied, and as she’d hurried to the door she’d noticed Arianna, pressed back against the wall. “You can’t stay here,” she’d said briskly. She’d put a hand in the small of Arianna’s back, pushed her into the hall, and drawn the curtains.

  People had hurried in and out of the room ever since, but no one had paused to say anything to Arianna.

  And she was going crazy, imagining what was happening beyond those curtains. What if Dominic didn’t… What if he was seriously hurt? He’d been so white, so still. He might—he might—

  Arianna shut her eyes. “Please,” she whispered, “please, don’t take him from me.”

  Dominic was alive. He had to be. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t leave her.

  The curtains snapped back. Arianna shot to her feet as a woman in a hospital coat stepped briskly from the room, holding a clipboard and a pen.

  “Signora Borghese?”