The Bride Fonseca Needs

by Abby Green

  Max took ruthless advantage, deepening the kiss, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her into him, feeling his aching hardness meet the soft resistance of her body. Her breasts were full, pressing against him, and his hand snaked under her vest, spreading out over her lower back. Her skin was silky and hot to the touch.

  Lust such as he’d never experienced had him in a grip so strong he couldn’t think beyond obeying this carnal need.

  * * *

  Darcy was dimly aware of a very distant voice in her head, screaming at her to stop and pull back. Moments ago she’d been blisteringly angry with Max. And hurt. But she didn’t care any more. She was in his arms and her world was made up of heat and glorious pounding desire.

  Every part of her exulted in his masculinity and his sheer size. Big hands were smoothing up her back, lifting her vest until it snagged under her breasts. He pulled away from her mouth and Darcy sucked in much needed oxygen—but it didn’t go to her brain, it seemed only to fuel the hunger in her body.

  Max’s mouth feathered kisses along her jawbone and down to the sensitive part of her neck just under her ear.

  The scent of sex was musky in the air and it was mixed with something very feminine. Her desire. Oh, God. She was so weak, but she didn’t care any more.

  When he pulled back to take her hand in his and lead her over to the sofa she went with him without hesitation. He sat down and guided her over him so that she ended up with her knees either side of his thighs, straddling his lap, his erection a hard ridge between her legs.

  Some vital part of her brain had abdicated all responsibility for this situation. It felt dangerously liberating. He was looking at her with such dark intent that she felt dizzy even as her hands were already on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, eager to explore the wide expanse of his chest.

  He said thickly, ‘Dio, I want you so much.’

  Darcy couldn’t speak. So she bent her head and kissed him again. His hands gripped her waist for a moment before exploring upwards, pulling her vest up and over her breasts, baring them.

  He broke the kiss and looked at her, eyes wide, feverish. ‘Si bella...’

  He cupped one breast in his hand and squeezed the firm flesh. Darcy bit her lip at the exquisite sensation, and then cried out when he leaned forward and took the straining tip into his mouth, sucking it deep before letting it pop out and then ministering to her other breast with the same attention.

  She wasn’t even aware that her hips were making subtle circular motions on Max’s lap, seeking to assuage the building tension at her core, where the slide of his erection between her legs was a wicked temptation. She only became aware when his hand moved down to her buttocks and held her there. His arousal was thrusting between them, touching her intimately through their clothes. She was pulsating, all over.

  A wave of incredible tenderness moved over her as she saw his scar, gleaming white in the low lights. Without thinking Darcy reached out and traced it gently, running her finger down the raised and jagged length. Then she bent to kiss it.

  And just as she did so the wave of tenderness finally triggered some faulty self-protection mechanism and she tensed all over, her mouth hovering just over Max’s scar.

  What the hell was she doing?

  He’d just been a complete bastard and yet after a brief apology and a kiss hotter than Hades she was writhing in his lap, about to let emotion overwhelm her! A man who saw her as just a means to an end.

  What was even worse was that she’d already seen some pictures online, of them in Paris, outside the jewellers. She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, small and chubby next to Max’s tall, lean form, clutching at him. It was galling. Mortifying how ill-matched they were.

  Darcy scrambled up and off Max’s lap so fast she nearly fell backwards. She tugged her vest down over straining breasts.

  Max sat forward, his shirt half open, deliciously dishevelled. ‘Darcy...what the hell?’

  Darcy’s voice was shaky. ‘This is a mistake.’

  Every masculine bone in Max’s body was crying out for completion, satisfaction. He could barely see straight. He’d been moments away from easing his erection free of confinement, ripping Darcy’s clothes off and embedding himself so deeply inside her he’d see stars.

  He hated it that she seemed to have more control than him—that she’d been the one to pull back. The rawness he’d felt earlier had returned. He felt exposed.

  He stood up in a less than graceful movement, his body still clamouring for release, but he was damned if he was going to admit that to Darcy.

  He bit out, ‘I don’t play games, Darcy, and I don’t believe in mistakes. I believe in choices. And you need to be honest with yourself and make one.’

  Darcy looked up at him for a long moment and the very thin edges of Max’s control threatened to fray completely. But then she took a step back and said in a low voice, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  Frustration clawed at Max with talons of steel. That was not the answer he’d wanted to hear. As she moved to walk away he reached out and took her arm again, not liking the way she tensed.

  ‘Damn it, Darcy. We both want this.’

  She turned her head and looked at him. ‘No, Max, we don’t.’

  She pulled free and walked quickly from the room.

  Two weeks later

  ‘I do hope that you haven’t put me anywhere near your father. Honestly, if he turns up with his latest bimbo—’

  ‘Mother. Please stop.’ Darcy tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. ‘You’re not near my father, you’re at opposite ends of the reception lunch table and the registry office.’

  Her mother, as petite as Darcy but über-slim sniffed. ‘Well, that’s good.’

  Darcy sighed. She and Max had agreed that it would look better to have family there, and that they could serve as witnesses. Her parents were as bad as each other in different ways: her passionate Italian mother was on a constant quest to find security with ever younger and richer men, and her hopelessly romantic father got his heart broken on a regular basis by a stream of never-ending gold-diggers who saw Tom Lennox coming from a mile away.

  She forced a smile at her mother in the mirror, not wanting to invite questions about anything beyond the superficial.

  To say that the last two weeks had been a strain was an understatement. Luckily work had kept Darcy busy, preparing for the final reckoning with Montgomery. But the personal tension between Max and her had almost reached breaking point. Even though they’d barely seen each other in his apartment. He worked late most nights, so she was in bed when he returned, and he was gone before her in the morning. And Darcy, of course, had refrained from any more dangerous nocturnal wanderings.

  Even now she burned with humiliation when she thought of the concern she’d felt when she’d seen him that night, staring broodingly into his drink. Alone... Vulnerable... Ha! The man was about as vulnerable as reinforced steel.

  Darcy was sure that he’d only been in London to meet with Montgomery for the last two days to get away from her, and she hated how that stung.

  Since that night in his apartment he’d been cool to the point of icy. And she only had herself to blame. She’d been the weak one. Blowing hot and then cold. Running away because she couldn’t handle the thought of Max breaching the final intimacy, afraid of what would happen to her if he did.

  No doubt he was used to women who knew what they wanted and went after it—and him. No qualms. No questions. Maybe he’d been seeing one of those women in London, discreetly?

  Her mother tugged at the back of her dress now, tutting. ‘Honestly, Darcy, why couldn’t you have bought a nice long dress? This one’s more suitable for a cocktail party. This is quite likely to be your only wedding day, you know.’

  Darcy welcomed
the distraction and said fervently, ‘I’m counting on it. And it’s a registry office wedding, Mother. This dress is perfectly suitable.’

  Her mother sniffed and tweaked Darcy’s chignon, where a mother of pearl comb held the short veil back from her face. ‘Well, I suppose it is a nice dress, for all that,’ she admitted grudgingly.

  Darcy ran a critical eye over herself, feeling slightly disembodied at the thought that she was getting married that day. To Max Fonseca Roselli. The dress was off-white satin, coming to just over her knee. It was a simple sheath design, overlaid with exquisitely delicate lace. It covered her arms and up to her throat.

  It’s fine, she told herself, hating that the little girl in her still yearned for something long and swirling...romantic.

  Wanting to avoid any further scrutiny, she said to her mother, ‘You look gorgeous.’

  Her mother preened—predictably. She was indeed stunning, in a dusky pink dress and matching jacket. An exotic fascinator was arranged in her luxurious dark hair, which was piled high.

  As she zipped up her dress at the back Darcy referred to her mother’s comment about her father. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t brought your own arsenal, Mother.’

  Viola Bianci glared at her daughter. ‘Javier and I are very much in love.’

  Darcy just arched a brow. From what she’d seen of the permatanned Spanish Lothario, he was very much in love with himself, but he was obviously enjoying parading the very well preserved and beautiful older woman on his arm. For whatever reason—whether it was love or something less—he was lavishing attention and money on her mother, so Darcy desisted from making any more comments.

  Her mother came in front of her now, to pull the veil over her face, but she stopped and looked at Darcy.

  ‘Carina...are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Her mother looked slightly discomfited for a moment. ‘I mean, after your father and I... Well, our break-up... I always got the impression that you weren’t really into marrying anyone.’

  A familiar impulse to deflect any concern about her rose up, and even though Darcy recognised that it was totally misplaced she put a hand on her mother’s arm and said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’

  And she did, she told herself.

  Her mother wasn’t finished, though. ‘But are you in love with him, Darcy? You might think I don’t notice much, but one thing I’ve always known about you is that you’d never settle for anything less than a lifetime commitment—whether it’s through marriage or not.’

  Darcy all but gaped at her mother. Since when did Viola Bianci display any perspicacity in looking into her daughter’s psyche? It slammed into her gut and made her want to recoil and protect herself. Lifetime commitment. Was that really what she wanted? As a result of her experiences? More than a sense of security and a successful career?

  Her mouth was opening and closing ineffectually. Finally she croaked, ‘I... Well, I do... I mean, I am—’

  Just then a knock came on the door and one of the wedding planner’s team popped her head round the door. ‘It’s time to go.’

  Saved by the bell—almost literally. As Darcy’s mother began to flap, gathering up her personal belongings and Darcy’s bouquet, she’d never been so glad for her gnat-like attention span. Clearly she wasn’t that concerned about whether Darcy was marrying for true love or not—and frankly that one insight, no matter how erroneous Darcy assured herself it was, was discombobulating enough.

  * * *

  The registry office felt tiny and stifling to Max, but as he was about to ask for the window to be opened he saw that it was already open. He’d been talking to Darcy’s father, who was a pleasant affable man, completely preoccupied with his much younger glamorous girlfriend, whom Max had categorised as a gold-digger in seconds. She was busy making eyes at Max whenever Tom Lennox’s back was turned.

  Max had to curb the urge to scowl at her. She was tall, slim, blonde and undeniably beautiful, but his head was still filled with the way Darcy had felt straddling his lap that night, the size of her tiny waist spanned by his hands. The feel of that hard nipple against his tongue. The scent of her.

  Hell. It had been two weeks ago. He was usually hard-pressed to recall any liaison more than twenty-four hours after it had happened. Making love with women was a very pleasurable but transitory thing in his life.

  He didn’t wake up at night sweating, with the sheets tangled around his aching body like a vise. He did now. Which was why he’d been in London for the last two days, putting himself through more unsatisfactorily inconclusive meetings with Cecil Montgomery.

  The man was still insisting that all would be revealed in a week’s time. Damn him. The one thing easing his frustration was that Montgomery’s attitude had definitely changed since Max had announced his marriage to Darcy. Gone was the slightly condescending and derisory tone. There was a new respect that Max couldn’t deny.

  So this would be worth it. The fact that Darcy was driving him slowly insane would all be worth it.

  Max felt a prickling sensation across his skin and looked up just as the few people gathered in the room hushed.

  She was here. And he couldn’t breathe, seeing how beautiful she looked. It felt as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks, not two paltry days.

  She stood in the doorway with a woman he assumed to be her mother. But he only saw Darcy. The delicious curves of her body were outlined in a white lace dress. A short veil came to her chin, obscuring her face. But he could make out her huge blue eyes even through the gauzy material and he felt his belly tighten with something like...emotion?

  She was doing this for him. A monumental favour. You’re paying her, pointed out a pragmatic voice. But still... This went above and beyond payment.

  It was gratitude he felt. Gratitude that she was doing this for him. That was all.

  Her mother moved ahead of her, smiling winsomely at Max, who forced a smile back. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Darcy as she came the short distance between the chairs towards him. She held a bouquet of flowers in front of her—not that Max could have said what they were.

  And then she was beside him, and he was turning to the front, acutely aware of her body heat and her scent. He felt an urge to reassure her but pushed it down. Darcy knew what this was. She was doing it for her own reasons and because he was paying her handsomely.

  He frowned minutely. Why had she asked for that specific amount of money?

  ‘Signor Roselli?’

  Max blinked. Damn. The registrar repeated the words for Max, which he duly recited, and then he was facing Darcy. He felt slightly dizzy. Rings were exchanged. Darcy’s hands were tiny, her fingers cool as they slid the ring onto his finger. Her voice was low, clear. No hesitation.

  And then he was lifting her veil back from her face and all he could see was an ocean of blue. And those soft lips, trembling ever so slightly.

  ‘You may kiss your bride.’

  He heard the smile in the registrar’s voice but he was oblivious as he cupped Darcy’s small face between his hands, tipping it up towards him, and bent to kiss her.

  * * *

  Darcy’s mouth was still tingling and she had to stop herself from putting her fingers to it, to feel if it was swollen. Her hand was in Max’s firm grip, her bouquet in the other hand, as he led her through the foyer of the exclusive Rome hotel and into the dining room where an intimate lunch was being held.

  Along with her parents, who had been their witnesses, Max had invited his brother and new sister-in-law, and some business associates from Max’s company.

  Darcy felt like an absolute fraud, and was not looking forward to being under the inspection of people she didn’t know well. Max made her feel so raw—and even more so now, after two weeks of minimal contact.

  Max turned at the door to the dining room, whe
re their guests were waiting, stopping her. His grip on her hand tightened and compelled her to look up at him. She’d been too wound up to really take him in before now, but his dark grey morning suit along with a silk cravat made him look even more handsome and masculine. He could have stepped out of the nineteenth century. A rake if ever there was one. Even though he was clean-shaven and his unruly hair was tamed. Well, as tamed as it would ever be.

  Darcy felt a rogue urge to reach up and run her fingers through it, to muss it up.

  ‘Okay?’

  She looked deep into those golden eyes and felt her heart skip a beat. She nodded minutely. Max cupped her face with his hand and rubbed a thumb across her lower lip. Her body clamoured, telling her how much she’d missed his touch.

  And then he tensed. Darcy looked to the side to see a tall dark man with possibly the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her life. White-blonde hair and piercing ice-blue eyes. But they were warm, and the woman was smiling at Darcy.

  Max took his hand away from her jaw and stood straight. She could feel the tension in his form. ‘Darcy, I’d like you to meet Luca Fonseca, my brother, and his wife Serena.’

  Max’s twin was as tall, and as powerfully built as he was, but much darker, with black hair and dark blue eyes.

  Darcy shook hands with both of them and Serena came closer to say, ‘Your dress is beautiful.’

  Darcy made a small face, feeling completely inadequate in the presence of this goddess. ‘I felt less might be more, considering it was a registry office wedding.’

  Serena made a sound of commiseration and said, ‘My husband and I had a beach wedding, just us and close family, and I can’t tell you how relieved I was not to be paraded down some aisle like a wind-up doll.’

  Darcy let out a little laugh, surprised that she was so warm and friendly. She felt a pang to realise that she probably wouldn’t ever meet her again after this.

  A staff member interrupted them to let them know that everyone was ready for Max and Darcy to make their entrance as a married couple. Luca and Serena went inside and Darcy took a deep breath, glad that it was only a handful of guests. Max took her hand and she pasted a bright smile on her face as they walked into a welcome of clapping and cheers.