Olivia Gates - One Night In…

Meghan nodded, barely taking in her future mother-in-law’s words. She was hopelessly distracted by the remorseless echo of Alessandro’s voice.

One of my mistresses.

After he’d left the room Meghan had opened the cupboard and found a range of clothes, from casual dresses and jeans to screamingly expensive evening gowns.

His mistresses’ clothes.

Why had he said that?

Meghan had sighed as she’d taken in one designer gown after another, her hands roaming mindlessly over silk, satin and crêpe. Of course she’d known he’d had lovers. Mistresses. He was a virile, beautiful man. Of course he had. He’d hinted at it before.

But why mention it then, in the twilit intimacy of the darkened bedroom, her lips still burning from his kisses, her senses still scattered by his touch? The remark had been delivered with the cruel, cold accuracy of an arrow to the heart … and it had met its target.

He had, Meghan knew, been warning her.

Don’t fall in love with me. The voice in her head was as loud as if he’d actually said it.

And hadn’t he? He’d warned her before. She should have realised a single moment of tenderness, companionship, desire was simply that.

A moment in an otherwise barren marriage.

A marriage of convenience … for both of them. No matter how it felt, no matter how it seemed.

He wanted someone to give him an heir. A willing woman in his bed who wouldn’t demand love. Someone to keep him from being alone. Lonely.

A woman who wouldn’t bother him too much.

And she wanted power. Safety. Security. Release from the fear and shame.

That was why she’d agreed. That was the promise she would build her life upon.

Not flimsy dreams of love, of affection, but the man Alessandro had said he meant to be.

She’d finally picked one of the gowns—a simple design of black silk that had swirled about her calves and was the least revealing—and had gone downstairs.

Dinner had been stilted, strained. Gabriella had tried to make conversation, Meghan had helped her woodenly, and Alessandro had sat in flinty silence, preoccupied, refusing even to meet Meghan’s gaze, indifferent to his mother’s.

After dinner he’d excused himself, and when Meghan had woken in the morning he’d already gone to work. She wondered if she’d actually see him again before the wedding.

The wedding. She could leave, she reminded herself. Slip out while he was at the office and never come back.

Keep running.

The trouble was, she didn’t want to.

She was damned by her own need.

Her own desire.

‘Here we are.’ Gabriella’s voice was bright, her manner only a little stiff, as the car slowed to a stop on a long, glittering street lined with the most famous and expensive designer names in the world. Boutiques with a single garment hanging in the window and a lock on the door.

The next few hours were a blur of clothes and fitting rooms. Gabriella spoke rapid Italian with sleek saleswomen who examined Meghan’s body and thrust clothes at her as if she were no more than a problem, a rather difficult problem, to be fixed.

Three hours and a dozen designer bags later, Gabriella glanced consideringly at Meghan and said, ‘I know Alessandro has not mentioned it, but since you are to be married, perhaps we could do your hair? Your make-up? There is a salon on the next street that can take you now.’

Meghan nodded dumbly. She hadn’t had a haircut in over six months.

‘Buon.’ Gabriella smiled. ‘As sudden as this arrangement may be, every bride wants to look beautiful on her wedding day, yes? And what of your dress?’

‘Dress?’ Meghan repeated uncertainly. She was humbled by Gabriella’s acceptance, by the woman’s friendliness.

‘Wedding dress,’ Gabriella explained. ‘There are few shops that can fit and alter a dress in so short a time.’

‘It’s going to be a very small wedding,’ Meghan said hurriedly. ‘I can wear something simple. One of the dresses you bought for me.’

‘No, that will not do. You need a proper dress—a bride’s dress.’ Gabriella paused. ‘You can wear mine.’

‘What?’ Meghan was stunned.

Gabriella laughed lightly. ‘I know, it is old—but they call it vintage these days, yes? And it is a timeless classic, I assure you. I have a seamstress who can alter it in a matter of hours.’

‘I can’t—’ Meghan began, and Gabriella fixed her with a pale, penetrating stare so similar to her son’s.

‘But why not? You are marrying my son, are you not? You are going to be my daughter-in-law. You need a dress. Of course, if you don’t like it you must not wear it. We can find something else.’

‘It’s not that.’ Meghan stared down at her hands. ‘It’s just …’ She looked up, open, honest. She had to know. She would not start this life, begin in this family, with mistrust. ‘Why don’t you hate me?’

Gabriella looked taken aback. ‘But why should I hate you?’

‘I’ve known Alessandro for a very short while. I’m not from your … class.’ She stumbled over the words, the explanation. ‘I’m not even Italian. Perhaps you had someone in mind for him already …’

Gabriella shook her head. ‘No, my dear. The only thing I have in mind for Alessandro now is his own happiness.’

‘Yet …’ Meghan swallowed. ‘There’s so much tension between you.’

Gabriella smiled, the movement strained. ‘Alessandro is very angry with me.’ She paused, weighing her words. ‘I have not considered his happiness in the past as much as I should have. In all honesty, I have not considered … him. It was easier to forget. And then there was the—’

‘Forget your own son?’ The words came out before Meghan could stop herself, and she winced as pain shadowed Gabriella’s features.

‘Alessandro was not an easy child—nor, for that matter, is he an easy man. I realise now my own blame in who he became. It is why he is so angry.’ She shrugged sadly. ‘If you make him happy, then how can I complain?’

‘I hope I will,’ Meghan whispered.

‘You will.’ Gabriella shrugged off the serious talk. ‘With your new hair and make-up, in my wedding dress … Da tutti i san! Who could resist you?’

Meghan found herself smiling back. ‘Da tutti i san,’ she repeated. ‘Alessandro says that. What does it mean?’

‘By all the saints. His grandmother used to say it a lot. He was … very close to her.’

Meghan was intrigued by this glimpse into an Alessandro she didn’t know, couldn’t fathom. ‘Did she die?’

‘When he was nine. She lived in Umbria, at the villa.’ Gabriella shot her a quick, speculative look. ‘You know it?’

‘Yes.’ Meghan couldn’t keep a tell-tale flush from warming her face. ‘I thought it had belonged to Alessandro’s father.’

‘Yes, it was my husband’s family home.’

‘And then Alessandro’s brother’s?’ Meghan pressed, seeking more information.

Gabriella’s lips pressed together. ‘Yes, it belonged to Roberto. Now it is Alessandro’s, as perhaps it should have been all along. Enough talk. We must eat. Shopping is hard work. And tonight you can show Alessandro your purchases. He will be pleased, I hope.’

Meghan nodded. Her stomach had turned queasy, roiling with nerves and doubts. The last time she’d seen Alessandro he hadn’t looked pleased at all, about anything.

About her.

Had he changed his mind?

With lurching fear, she realised she didn’t want him to. How had she started to believe in this, in them, so quickly? So much?

Especially when she didn’t even know what them meant— what they would be to each other. How a marriage would work.