Olivia Gates - One Night In…

That evening Meghan gazed at her reflection in amazement.

The clothes had been put away, she’d had a nap, and she’d awoken refreshed, ready.

And beautiful.

She touched her hair, now highlighted and styled in gentle waves to her shoulders. The hairdresser hadn’t changed her look; he’d just made her better. More herself.

It had taken, Meghan acknowledged wryly, a lot of money to accomplish that.

The make-up she’d painstakingly applied emphasised her golden-green eyes, making her lashes thick and long, sweeping down to delicately tinted cheeks. Her lips were full and sensual without being pouty. She smiled, intrigued by her new self.

She glanced down at herself, dressed in one of the gowns purchased that morning. It was a pale amber, the colour of morning sunlight.

‘It complements your eyes,’ Gabriella had said in approval. ‘Very nice.’

Looking at herself, Meghan had to agree. The dress was simple, pouring over her body like liquid sunshine without being too revealing, too obvious.

Hinting, not screaming.

Promising.

Taking a deep breath, Meghan turned away from her reflection, the image in the mirror having bolstered her confidence enough. It was time to go downstairs and meet Alessandro.

The central staircase of the town house twisted in a spiral down to the foyer, and as Meghan descended the marble steps she saw Alessandro at the bottom, dressed in a navy blue suit, his back to her. One hand was shoved in his trouser pocket, the other raked through his ebony hair.

Meghan paused on the step, silent and watching. Watching him. Was she imagining the vulnerability in his stance? She must be, for every lithe movement radiated power, strength, authority. Control.

Need.

The word came from nowhere; the thought was stunning in its force.

Surely Alessandro could never need anything?

Surely he could never need her?

Need was more than desire.

Need was love.

He turned, and his eyes blazed for a moment, sweeping over her, drinking her in.

Meghan felt heat everywhere his eyes roamed. Treacherous, wonderful heat. It weakened her, made her sway, and Alessandro saw and smiled.

He reached for the banister, gripped it hard, and Meghan realised with a ripple of shock that he was just as affected as she was.

She walked on trembling legs down the last few steps into the foyer.

‘Hello, Alessandro.’

He reached for her fingers, gently pulling him to her. His lips brushed hers, and when he spoke it was a whisper against her mouth.

‘Why don’t you hate me?’

Meghan tensed, startled. ‘Why would I hate you?’

He kissed her again, moved his lips to her temple. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, gattina.’

Yes, you did. Meghan smiled through the sudden sting of tears. ‘It’s all right.’

‘No.’ His voice was low and almost savage. He kissed her again, hard on the mouth, his fingers digging into her shoulders before he relaxed, his hands softening into a caress. ‘No,’ he said against her lips. ‘But it will be.’

He stepped back, scorching her with one primal, possessive look. ‘You look ravishing.’

He took her hand, linking their fingers as he led her into the dining room.

‘So,’ Gabriella began when they were seated, the food served and wine poured, ‘you say this wedding is next week? Have you made preparations? Secured a church?’

Meghan glanced enquiringly at Alessandro, as curious to know the details as her future mother-in-law.

‘We will be married on Friday, at the San Pietro church,’ Alessandro informed them both. ‘There will be a reception afterwards at the Principe di Savoia.’ He glanced at Meghan. ‘I would have left the arrangements to you, but you are a stranger to this city. I thought it would be easier to arrange it all myself. I hope that is agreeable to you?’

‘Of course,’ she murmured.

‘The Principe di Savoia is Milan’s most luxurious hotel,’ Gabriella informed her. ‘You will be well served there.’ She turned to Alessandro, her thin eyebrows raised. ‘And how many guests are you inviting to this celebration, may I ask? Have you taken care of the invitations as well?’

‘It will be a small affair, as Meghan and I both want. Family only. A few friends.’ He smiled, his voice becoming a drawl. ‘You must invite who you like though, Mamma. I imagine you have plenty of friends who are eager to witness the spectacle … your prodigal son getting married.’

‘Thank you.’ Gabriella clearly chose to ignore the jibe. ‘Chiara is coming?’

‘I spoke to her on the telephone,’ Alessandro confirmed. ‘She can only come for the day. You know how busy she is.’

‘How busy she chooses to be,’ Gabriella agreed. ‘And what of your family, Meghan?’

‘I don’t have anyone coming.’ It came out as a wretched confession. Meghan lifted her chin. ‘I’ve been travelling for a while now, and I’ve … lost touch with people from home.’

Gabriella maintained an eloquent silence at this news, and Meghan knew how odd it must sound. No friends, no family?

No one.

She took a bite of the antipasti—rigatoni in a delicate cream sauce. When would she tell her family? she wondered. When would she go back?

The thought was too depressing, and so she pushed it away. There was enough to deal with here. She had her own shadows, but so did Alessandro.

She wondered if she would ever find out what they were.

After dinner Gabriella excused herself, and Alessandro and Meghan were left alone in the elegant drawing room that faced the front of the house.

A tension thrummed between them, taut and expectant. Meghan realised they hadn’t had much experience in being alone, living as a couple, doing normal, boring things.

The intensity remained. It wouldn’t go away.

How long could they keep this up?

She moved around the room, seeking bland conversation, something innocuous, safe.

Like the villa, the drawing room was decorated in shades of cream and ivory, the muted colours punctuated by the vivid oil paintings on the wall.

Meghan inspected one while Alessandro poured them drinks.

‘Is this by the same artist as the ones in the villa?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know much about art, but it looks similar.’

‘So it is,’ Alessandro agreed, his voice neutral. She knew he was at his most dangerous when his face turned blank, his voice toneless, the mask dropping into place.

She needed to be careful. She needed to know.

He knocked back half of his negroni before handing Meghan her own glass.

‘Who is the artist?’ she asked, and Alessandro took another sip of his drink.

‘My brother. You can see my parents were very fond of his work. They have his paintings in nearly every room of this house.’

Meghan studied him, his careless pose, and yet there was restless energy radiating from every taut line of his beautiful body. The mood had suddenly turned sour, savage, and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Are you jealous of him?’ she asked uncertainly, and he raked her with a cool, contemptuous gaze.

‘Jealous? He’s dead. What is there to be jealous of?’

‘I meant before that.’ Meghan spoke cautiously, feeling each word as though in a darkened maze of memories, every turn leading to an unforeseen trap. A danger.

‘Was I jealous of my brother?’ Alessandro spoke musingly, his expression distant. ‘Perhaps I was, a little. You’ve given me an amusing bit of therapy there.’ His tone turned sardonic. ‘I’d never considered that before.’

‘Don’t.’ Meghan put her glass of negroni down, untasted. ‘You sound like a little boy—mad at his mother, jealous of his brother.’

His eyes turned so dark she couldn’t see his pupils. It was as if his muscles, his mood, were carved from ice. ‘You know nothing about it.’