Sara Craven - His Reluctant Bride

‘I hope she will be much more than that,’ he told her with a trace of chill. ‘Her husband is one of my greatest friends, and I was best man at their wedding. They have been—good to me in return.’

He paused. ‘You are going to a new life, Paola, with its own demands. As my wife, you will be expected to patronise Italian designers. How many do you know? What formal clothes will you need? How many dinner dresses—how many ballgowns?

‘This is a world Teresa knows, and you can trust her advice.’ He paused. ‘She can also help you in another way. Before she married Ernesto, she worked as a linguist. So you may practice speaking Italian to her. Start to regain your former fluency.’

Her face warmed suddenly as she recalled precisely how that proficiency had been acquired during those long, hot afternoons a lifetime ago. The things he had whispered to her as she lay in his arms—and taught her to say to him in return.

She was suddenly aware that he was watching her, observing the play of embarrassed colour on her skin, before he added softly and cynically, ‘But with a rather different vocabulary, carissima. ’

She said with deliberate coldness, ‘Do you have any other orders for me?’

He was unfazed. ‘If I think of any, I will let you know.’

‘How nice it must be,’ she said, ‘to always get your own way. Think about it.’ She ticked off on her fingers. ‘You need an heir—you have one ready-made. You require somewhere convenient to keep us—and you own a hotel with a vacant suite. You don’t wish to be married—and you find a wife who doesn’t want to be anywhere near you either. You’re ahead on all points.’

‘Am I, bella mia ?’ His tone was cordial. ‘How interesting that you should think so. But perhaps you should refrain from mentioning my good fortune to Teresa and Ernesto. They might not agree with you.’

He paused. ‘One more thing before we go to meet them.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a small velvet box.

As he opened it, Polly drew an unsteady breath at the coruscating fire from the enormous diamond it contained.

‘Give me you hand.’ It was a command, not a request, but she still hesitated.

‘Surely—this isn’t necessary …’

‘On the contrary, it is essential,’ Sandro contradicted her. ‘So —per favore …’

Mutely, reluctantly, she allowed him to slide the ring onto her finger. A moment, she thought in anguish, that she’d imagined so many times during the summer of their love. But not like this. Never like this.

Her voice shook slightly. ‘It’s—beautiful.’

At the same time its dazzling brilliance seemed almost alien on her workaday hand, she thought, making her feel like some latter-day Cinderella.

But Sandro was no Prince Charming, she reminded herself soberly. And his diamond was altogether too magnificent a symbol of the cold, sterile bargain they had made with each other.

As if Sandro had read her thoughts, he said quietly, ‘You will soon accustom yourself to wearing it.’

She bent her head. ‘Along with everything else, it seems.’

‘There will be compensations,’ he told her. ‘Tomorrow I shall open a bank account for you.’

She shook her head almost violently. ‘I don’t want that.’

‘Dio mio.’ His voice was weary. ‘Paola, do you have to fight me each step of the way? Do you wish our child to be brought up in a battlefield?’

She looked away. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Then please try and accept the arrangements that must be made.’

‘I can—try,’ she said unsteadily. ‘But it’s not easy when your whole world has suddenly been—turned upside down.’

‘You think you are alone in that?’ There was a note of harsh derision in his voice. ‘I too am obliged to make—adjustments.’

‘But you don’t have to.’ She faced him with new determination, hands clenched at her sides. ‘I—I understand that you need to see Charlie, to spend time with him, and I swear I’ll co-operate in any way over this. But why tie yourself to an unwanted marriage when you could meet someone to love—someone who knows how to be a marchesa ?’ She paused. ‘Someone the contessa might even approve of.’

‘You think that is an essential quality in my bride?’ His mouth twisted.

‘I think that, otherwise, there’ll be problems,’ Polly said flatly. ‘You must see that. After all, she runs your home—and she’ll see me as an interloper. A poor substitute for the girl she loved.’

‘Then she too will have to adjust.’ His voice hardened. ‘Believe this, Paola. My son will grow up in my home with the knowledge that his mother is my wife. Nothing else will do—either for him, or for the world at large.’

He walked to the door, and held it open. ‘Now begin to play your part. My friends expect to meet a girl happily reunited with her lover—so pretend,’ he added flatly. ‘Avanti.’

The serial killer was on the move, and the heroine was alone in her apartment, with a thunderstorm growling overhead. Any minute now she was going to run herself a bath or take a shower, Polly thought wearily, because that was what always happened.

I need, she thought, blanking out the television screen with one terse click of the remote control, to be distracted, not irritated.

She also wanted to relax—but her inner tensions were not so easily dispelled.

Besides, she could do without artificial horrors. Her mind was full enough already of disturbing sounds and images—bleached rock in the blazing sun, the squeal of tyres, the screech of brakes and wrenched metal. A girl screaming in fright, and then an even more terrifying silence, with Sandro lying unconscious and bleeding under a pitiless sky.

Perhaps this was why she was still up and restless, when common sense suggested she should be in bed, with Charlie fast asleep in his cot near by. She’d wondered if he would react badly to his new surroundings, but he’d settled with little more than a token protest.

Perhaps I should be more like him, Polly thought with a grimace. Learn to deal with six impossible things before breakfast.

However, liking Teresa and Ernesto had not proved impossible at all. She was tall, and slim as a wand, with long dark hair and laughing eyes. And although she was the epitome of chic, that did not stop her indulging in a rough-and-tumble on the floor with Charlie and the twins.

Ernesto was quieter, with a plain, kind face, observing his wife and children with doting fondness through his silver-rimmed glasses.

In other circumstances, Polly would have loved to have them as friends. As it was, she felt a total fraud. And sitting next to Sandro on one of the deeply cushioned sofas in their drawing room, with his arm draped casually round her shoulders, had proved unnervingly difficult.

Blissfully married herself, Teresa, left alone with Polly, had made it clear that she thought Sandro was glamorous and sexy beyond belief, in spite of his scarred face, and that she was assisting at the romance of the century.

And even if I told her that marrying Sandro was simply a rubber stamp on a legal arrangement I want no part of, Polly thought sadly, she wouldn’t believe me.

‘Ah, but shopping will be such fun, cara ,’ Teresa had told her buoyantly. ‘Particularly as Alessandro has put no limit on our spending,’ she added with glee.

And although she must have been brimming with curiosity about Sandro and Polly’s former relationship, she nobly refrained from asking questions that her guest might find difficult to answer.

There had been only one awkward moment, when Teresa had been admiring Polly’s engagement ring. ‘A diamond?’ she exclaimed. ‘But I thought …’ She encountered a swift glance from Ernesto, and hastily went on, ‘I thought, as your bride has green eyes, you would have chosen an emerald for her. Or do you believe they are unlucky? Some people do, I think. And a diamond is forever, no?’