by Jane Porter
Jillian dragged the florist back to the kitchen where the pastry chef had just finished packing up his dishes and samples and photo albums. She introduced the florist to the chef so they could compare notes, which was perfect since Theresa appeared to announce that the designers were ready to meet with her and she needed to come immediately.
As Jillian and Theresa climbed the stairs to return to the sunny sitting room on the second floor, Theresa warned Jillian not to make any decisions on the different designs until she’d seen all the sketches. “You could easily change your mind several times, so study each design and think about what you want, because this is your day.”
They’d paused outside the sitting room with its pale blue walls and white linen-upholstered furniture. “Thank you,” Jillian said warmly. “You’ve done so much for me. I can’t even express my gratitude—”
“It’s him,” Theresa said bluntly. “This is what Vittorio wants for you, and so I support him and am trying to arrange a beautiful wedding and ceremony. But you, I don’t know you, and I don’t know why you’ve kept Vittorio from his son for the past year, but no one has asked my opinion, nor will Vittorio ever. He is a man, and he makes his own decisions, and I appreciate that. However, let me give you a little motherly advice. Do not disrespect Vittorio, and do not disrespect this family, because it will not be tolerated. Indiscretions will not be forgiven, either. As Vittorio’s wife, you are to bring honor and respect to the family. And if you can’t do that, you have no business being here. Do you understand?”
The warmth inside Jillian faded, leaving her chilled. She stiffly nodded her head. “Yes.”
“Good,” Theresa said more lightly. “Now let’s have a look at the bridal gown designs and see which one you prefer.”
Jillian spent the next hour dutifully studying the sketches and talking to the designers, but her heart was no longer in it. For a brief moment she’d gotten excited about the wedding. For a brief moment while consulting with the florist she’d felt like a real bride making real decisions about her dream wedding, but Theresa’s stern warning outside the sitting room had brought Jillian crashing back to earth.
This was not a normal wedding. Their ceremony next Saturday was not going to be a happy day.
With a heavy heart, Jillian gazed at each of the three sketches again—one dress looked like a princess ball gown with layers and layers of tulle and delicate pearl beading, another looked like a fitted ivory satin negligee with a daringly low back and snug shoulder straps, and the third was a slim empire-style dress made of white chiffon, topped with a jeweled bodice and a matching Cleopatra-style jeweled collar.
All three bridal gowns were stunning, all three were glamorous and all three would cost a fortune.
“They’re all beautiful,” Jillian said, going from one to the other and around again without making a decision. “I could wear any one of them.”
“Yes, dear, but you can only have one, and the designers need to go home and get to work,” Theresa said coolly. “So which gown is it to be?”
Jillian lightly ran her fingertips over the sketch in her hand. It was the ball gown sketch, the one that looked most like the kind of dress Cinderella would have worn the night she met the prince.
The first night Jillian had gone to dinner with Vitt she’d thought him a prince.
That first night she’d been so sure there would be happily-ever-after.
She set aside the ball gown design to look at the satin 1930s glamour gown. The dress looked like something a rich man would have his mistress wear. It spoke of sex and seduction and money.
And then there was the chiffon empire-style dress with the jeweled bodice and collar. The embroidery and jewels looked modern and yet the chiffon added softness, making her think of the silvery fuzzy lamb’s ear leaves tucked among the fragrant white flower blossoms.
These three gowns were all so fancy, so showy, she couldn’t actually imagine wearing any of them.
Yet she couldn’t say that to the designers. She couldn’t hurt their feelings.
She flipped through the female fashion designer’s sketchbook, pausing briefly at a sketch she hadn’t been shown. It was a strapless ivory silk gown with a full ruched silk skirt without any embellishment other than a sage green satin ribbon at the waist. The green satin ribbon had been tied into a soft bow and the ends dangled all the way to the skirt’s hem.
It was simple, maybe too simple, which is why Jillian hadn’t been shown it, but she loved the color green, and the ruched ball skirt with the organza overlay.
“I like that one best,” a deep male voice, a very calm voice, said from behind her shoulder. “It looks like you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Vittorio, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You think so?”
He nodded and reached out to catch one of the tears before it fell. “Why are you sad?”
“She’s not sad,” Theresa said sharply, “and you’re not supposed to be here. The gown is supposed to be kept secret—”
“We’re already married, Mother. This is a renewal of vows for the benefit of our family.” He leaned over the back of the couch, took the sketchpad with the color drawing of the ivory gown and green ribbon and held it up. “Who did this one?”
The female designer raised her hand. “It’s mine.”
“This is the one Jill wants,” Vitt told her. He nodded to the other designers. “Thank you for coming today. As promised, you will be well compensated for the consultation. Thank you everyone, and now we must say goodbye as Jill and I have someplace we have to be.”
Jillian lifted her head, met Vitt’s gaze. He nodded slightly. She rose and together they left the room.
“Where are we going?” she murmured as they started down the stairs.
“Out. Away. I thought we could both use some air, and time to ourselves.” He glanced down at her as they reached the bottom stair. “Would you like that?”
“Very much.”
“Good. So would I.”
CHAPTER NINE
VITTORIO opened the front door to the front steps and sunshine flooded the stone entry. The air felt fresh, the sky was blue with just a few wispy clouds, and a cream two-seater convertible sports car gleamed in the circular driveway.
“That’s a beautiful car,” she said, descending the steps to examine the car’s flowing lines from the curving panoramic windshield to the sleek rear end. “Has to be a 1950s design,” she added.
“Good eye. 1955,” he said, smiling at her. “A Lancia Aurelia.”
“Don’t they call these B24 Spiders?”
Vittorio laughed softly as he opened the passenger door for her. “They do. How did you know?”
She glanced admiringly into the interior with its dark red leather seats and dash. “My dad loved cars. He was always buying new cars and living in Detroit—” She broke off, horrified by what she’d just revealed and then panicked, she babbled on as she slid into the passenger seat. “Dad still watches car auctions on TV.”
Vittorio closed the door behind her and moved to the driver’s seat. “You never mentioned your father’s interest at Bellagio.”
She glanced up at the chiseled features of his face to see if he’d caught her slip, but Vittorio looked relaxed, his expression almost happy. “I didn’t realize you liked old cars, too,” she said, thinking that her mention of Detroit hadn’t registered, “because all of your cars at the lake villa were new.”
“And what do you prefer?” he asked, closing his door.
“I do love classic cars best.”
“Sounds like you are your father’s daughter,” he said, starting the car.
Jillian grew hot, her skin prickly. She’d definitely been her father’s daughter the first twelve years of her life. She’d loved his energy and charm and ready laugh. “Growing up I was very close to him,” she said quietly. “I was proud of being a Daddy’s girl.”
“What changed?” Vittorio asked, shifting gears and heading down the driveway to the cas
tle’s impressive gates.
She was silent a long moment as Vittorio pulled away from the Normandy castle with its turret and tower to head down the drive toward town.
The sun shone brightly and Jillian lifted a hand to shield her eyes. “His job,” she said at length. “He had problems at work.”
“What sort of problems?” Vitt asked, sliding on a pair of sunglasses.
“Financial.”
Vitt shot her a glance. “Did he embezzle money?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. We never talked about it at home. My father wasn’t open and my mother didn’t ask questions. They had a very traditional marriage. Dad was the head of the family and made all the decisions. It was Mom’s job to agree with him.”
Vitt shot her a brief glance. “You’re nothing like your mother.”
She laughed despite herself. “No, I’m not. Maybe that’s why we’re not close.” But then her smile disappeared as she thought of her sister, a beautiful brunette who’d taken after their mother. Mom and Katie had been close, practically been best friends. “My sister and Mom talked every single day though, sometimes three or four times a day. Even when Katie was at college she called Mom to get her advice, ask her opinion. I used to tell Katie to grow up, become independent but she said Mom needed her, and now, looking back, I realize Katie was probably right. Mom hasn’t had much of a life.”
“When is the last time you saw them then? Your sister’s funeral?”
Jillian dug her nails into her hands and looked away. “I wasn’t able to make the funeral.”
“What?”
She felt Vitt’s stare and she lifted her shoulders. “I was in Switzerland working. There was no graveside service. Mom and Dad just took Katie’s ashes home.”
“That’s just strange.”
“As I said, we’re not close.” She turned to look at him, eyes huge in her pale face. “I haven’t seen them since I graduated from college, and that was five years ago.”
“Don’t you want to see them?”
“Yes.” Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. “But there are reasons we don’t get together, and I have to respect those reasons.” Jillian grabbed her long hair in her hand to keep it from blowing in her face. “I’m not saying it’s easy, because it’s not. I wanted to go home and see them after Katie’s death. I wanted to be with the people who loved Katie as much as I did, but I couldn’t go, and I grieved on my own, and it was horrible.” She blinked back tears. “But then I changed jobs and moved from Zurich to Istanbul and that helped. Helped distract me from always thinking about losing Katie.”
Vittorio glanced at her again, his sunglasses hiding his eyes and yet from the set of his mouth she knew he was thinking over every word she’d said.
She’d said a lot, too.
“Can we talk about something else?” she said huskily. “Talking about my family just makes me miss Katie even more.”
They drove along the lower slopes of Mount Etna, passing through acres of black lava only to arrive at terraced fields of vineyards and almond and hazelnut groves.
They stopped at Roman ruins an hour and a half outside Paterno and Vittorio held her hand as they walked down stone stairs cut from the hillside to the bottom of what once must have been a very grand amphitheater. In places the rows of stone seats climbed perfectly up the grassy hillside. In other areas the stones had been broken and toppled and lay in pieces on the ground.
“Can you imagine attending a play or a concert here?” Jillian asked, doing a slow circle to fully savor the amphitheater’s grandeur.
“Now and then concerts are still performed here. It doesn’t happen often anymore—the last time was ten years ago—but it’s a magical thing to have the theatre come alive, with all the performers lit by moonlight and candlelight.”
Jillian sat down on a stone bench that was still largely intact. “We’re in a field with a secret Roman amphitheater that’s just an hour from your home. I’m jealous!”
“It is beautiful. And the amazing thing is, we have ruins like this all over Sicily. Every couple of miles you’ll find the tumbled stones of a Doric temple, Byzantine church, Norman castle, Greek and Roman amphitheaters. But the ruins aren’t merely in the countryside. Our cities are filled with ancient gates and bridges, tombs and altars. We have two thousand years of history on this island, and it’s all created the strong, modern Sicilian character.”
“You’re proud to be Sicilian,” she said, looking up at him.
Vittorio nodded. “Very proud. Sicilians haven’t just been shaped by thousands of years of different cultures and rulers, but also by the land and weather. Here in Sicily we have six months of perfect warm weather followed by months of torrential rains. The interior of the island is dry, rocky and arid, while our exterior is one of endless coastlines with picturesque beach towns and breathtaking views. We’re surrounded by water and yet at the center is our Mount Etna, Europe’s largest, most active volcano.”
“A place of extremes,” she said.
“Exactly so,” he agreed, extending a hand to her. “Shall we go so I can show you more?”
They stopped in Bronte, enjoying a simple meal in the restaurant’s charming, shady courtyard before Vittorio ducked into a boutique and emerged with a silk scarf and pair of sunglasses. “For your hair,” he said, tying the scarf under her chin. “And your eyes,” he added, slipping the sunglasses onto her nose.
Touched by his thoughtful gesture, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him. “Thank you.”
He gazed down at her for a long moment, a small muscle pulling in his jaw. “My pleasure.”
And then they were climbing into the Lancia sports car and heading to Paterno. Riding home in the sleek two-seater convertible, Jillian felt very chic in her sunglasses and scarf. “This was a really nice afternoon,” she commented as he slowed to allow a shepherd and his flock of sheep to cross the road.
“It still is,” he agreed, dark eyes holding hers, before focusing again on the road. As he drove they sat in silence, mellowed by their meal, the warmth of the sun and the scenic drive.
It wasn’t until they were on the outskirts of Paterno that Vittorio spoke again. “I want to call your parents when we return and personally invite them to the wedding. I will let them know that I can handle all arrangements, and have a plane at their disposal—”
“Vitt, not this again!”
“Jill, you are their only daughter.”
“Maybe, but they won’t come. They just won’t.”
He shot her a swift glance. “How do you know if you haven’t asked them?”
“Because I know them!”
“But I don’t, and if we’re to be a family, I want to know them, and I’d think they’d want to get to know me.”
“They don’t. It sounds dreadful put like that, but it’s the truth. They don’t want to know anyone anymore, not after Katie’s boyfriend—” She broke off, bit down hard into her lip, astonished that she would once again say so much.
He shot her a swift glance. “What did Katie’s boyfriend do?”
Jillian closed her eyes, hating herself.
“Jill?” he demanded.
She looked at him, expression stricken. “Marco hurt her.”
“He was the one that killed her?”
“Yes.” She ducked her head, studied her laced fingers, remembered how when she and Katie were young they’d hold hands when they crossed the street. Held hands when Katie got scared. Tears burned her eyes, but they were nothing compared to the emotion tearing up her heart. “So now my parents don’t go anywhere or meet anyone. They just live in their little house in Fort Lauderdale and soak up the sun and maybe play a round of golf.”
For a moment Vittorio said nothing and then he spoke quietly, flatly. “I am not Marco. I would never hurt you, or your family—”
“That may be, but we will not call them. I will not call them.”
“Then I will.” He glanced at her. “I have their number, Jill. Home and cell
ular.”
She turned her face away from him, jaw set. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. “Don’t do it, Vitt. It’s not a good idea. You have to trust me on this one.”
“Like you trust me?” he retorted.
She stiffened, her spine rigid.
“Your parents are important,” he added. “They’re not just your parents, but they’re Joseph’s grandparents and they should be part of his life.”
“But I don’t want them in Joe’s life! He’s not safe with them in his life. Leave them in Florida. It’s where they belong.”
“How can you be so bitter?”
“Because you don’t know what my father put us through!”
“What did he put you through?”
“Hell.” Then she smiled bitterly to hide the hot lance of pain. It had been hell, too. Her childhood had been so happy that she hadn’t even been prepared for the terrible things that happened when she turned twelve. Couldn’t have imagined that she’d be ripped from that idyllic, sheltered childhood and thrust into a world of constant fear. To know that your father was a hated and hunted man…to live believing your family was in constant danger…to go to bed every night thinking it might be your last…
“Your teeth are chattering,” Vitt said.
They were, too, but that’s because she was freezing. “I’m cold.”
“It’s eighty-four degrees out.”
“So?”
“You’re not cold. You’re afraid.”
“Why would I be afraid?”
Vitt abruptly pulled over to the side of the road and shifted into Park. Unbuckling his seat belt he turned all the way in his seat, his body angled forward to face her. “You’re afraid because if I call your parents, it will reveal all your secrets and all your lies—”
“I have no secrets!”
His jaw flexed. His nostrils flared. He looked as if he was barely keeping his temper in check. “You have one hour to make that call, or I will.”
Vittorio shifted into Drive and steered the Lancia Aurelia back onto the highway.