Olivia Gates - One Night In…

After that shattered evening when they’d almost made love— passionate, desperate, on the floor—Alessandro had reverted to his old self: charming, urbane, amusing.

A fake.

Meghan saw it now—saw how the mask dropped into place, saw how he protected himself, kept anyone from guessing, knowing who he really was.

She still didn’t.

And yet she was here, marrying him, because she wanted to know.

It wasn’t just about the power any more.

It was about the need.

The priest stopped talking, and Meghan saw that the guests had all stood. Waiting.

She was married.

Alessandro took her cold hand in his, and together they walked out of the church into the pale sunshine of the early spring day.

Everyone else followed them out before either of them had exchanged a word. Stefano clapped Alessandro on the shoulder, and Meghan recognised the various phrases of congratulation, though she felt numb to the emotions.

Someone brought forward a beribboned box, gesturing excitedly for Meghan to open it.

She looked uncertainly from the box on the steps of the church to Alessandro, whose expression was inscrutable.

‘They want you to open it,’ he explained, with a slight smile, and Meghan moved forward. Was it a present? A custom? She wished Alessandro would explain, but he’d only folded his arms over his chest, his eyes glinting with cool amusement.

‘You could help me a little,’ she said under her breath, and Alessandro smiled.

‘But I’m enjoying the view from here.’

Meghan gritted her teeth. Charming, aloof, distant. This was the man he chose to be now, and she would have to accept it.

She couldn’t make him bare his true self. Wasn’t sure she was ready for it. The glimpse she’d had so far had shot her to pieces.

She pulled on the ribbons and tentatively opened the lid of the box.

There was a loud cooing sound, the rushing of wings, and she stumbled back in surprise, her arms thrown over her face, as two doves soared into the sky amid many exclamations and cheers.

‘An Italian tradition,’ Alessandro informed her dryly as she lowered her arms and gazed upwards at the birds, now circling the church spire. ‘To symbolise the happiness and unity of the married couple. My mother arranged it, no doubt. Reading things into this marriage that are not there.’

Meghan was struck to her soul, but she mustered enough spirit to reply in kind. ‘What? You don’t want happiness? Surely that’s a reasonable expectation for both of us, Alessandro?’

‘Is it?’ There was no mistaking the sardonic doubt in his voice.

‘Yes,’ Meghan said firmly, daring him to believe, wanting to believe herself. ‘It is.’

He gazed down at her, and a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. ‘As long as you realise what makes us happy.’

What made him happy. More warnings. Meghan was tired of it. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘I’m not in that much danger of falling in love with you!’

Alessandro’s face relaxed and he gave a little chuckle. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I like your claws, gattina. And perhaps we shall both be happy.’

He took her elbow, steering her through the crowd into the waiting limo that would take them to the reception.

‘Who are all those people?’ Meghan asked as she craned backwards to look at the milling crowd.

‘Mostly business associates, friends of my mother’s.’ He shrugged in dismissal.

‘What about your friends?’

He smiled, but his voice was hard. ‘My friends were not invited.’

What on earth did that mean? Meghan leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. ‘But you have friends,’ she said after a moment. ‘Will I meet them?’

‘No.’

End of discussion. Right now Meghan was too tired to press, too weary to hear his warnings, his rebukes.

‘What a pair we are,’ she said, trying to make her voice light. ‘Friendless and alone.’

‘That’s why I married you, isn’t it?’ Alessandro returned silkily. ‘Now we’re not alone. Now we have each other.’

Somehow his lethal, mocking tone robbed the words of any comfort.

The reception was in a private room at the Principe di Savoia, one of Milan’s most elegant hotels. Meghan sat down, ate the delicious food, drank the exquisite wine, and accepted the embraces and congratulations from a crowd that had become loosened and relaxed, ready to celebrate.

Alessandro sat in the middle of it all, dark and forebidding. When he greeted someone his voice was polished and smooth; he laughed at the jokes and participated in the customary dances, even La Tarantella, the circle dance that Meghan stumbled through, uncertain of the steps, distant from the jollity.

Yet there was no mistaking his dark preoccupation. Almost, Meghan thought sadly, as if he wanted to be somewhere else.

Be someone else.

Her stomach churned. Her heart twisted. Doubt washed over her, yet she couldn’t regret. She’d made this decision. She’d wanted to be here.

Only she hadn’t realised just how very hard it would be. How very hard Alessandro would be, his mouth a grim line, his eyes flinty, every taut line of his body making him guarded, unapproachable.

Unlovable.

How many secrets, dark and treacherous, churned and seethed in the space between them, creating an impossible chasm?

And they weren’t even her secrets.

They were his.

When she was alone for a moment, scraping her sanity together as she stood by a pillar at the side of the dance floor, Stefano Lucrezi approached her.

‘Congratulations, Signora di Agnio.’ His voice was smooth and pleasant, yet the title jolted her.

‘Thank you, Signor Lucrezi.’

‘Please, call me Stefano. So, this was quite the love match?’ He raised his eyebrows, smiling at her. ‘I’ve never known Alessandro to move so quickly with a woman before.’

‘Is that so?’ Meghan’s own smile turned brittle. ‘He has taken care to warn me that he has moved quite quickly with plenty of women in the past.’

Stefano’s gaze did not falter. ‘Ah, so you know of his reputation?’

His reputation? It sounded bad. Still, if the secret that rode Alessandro, drove him to despair, was simply having had too many affairs, Meghan thought she could accept it. She didn’t like it, but if it was the reality she would learn to deal with it.

‘No one’s told me much of anything,’ she said frankly. She looked at Stefano. He seemed friendly, open, and she wanted answers. ‘Do you know Alessandro well?’

‘As well as anybody does. He keeps to himself.’

‘Sometimes,’ Meghan said quietly, her voice an ache, ‘I think I know him quite well. And at other times not at all.’

‘He is, perhaps, two different people,’ Stefano said after a moment. ‘The man he was, and the man he is now.’

And the man he meant to be. ‘What do you mean, exactly? What happened to change him?’

Stefano shook his head. ‘It is not for me to say.’ He patted her hand gently. ‘Perhaps he will tell you, signora, in time.’

Sketching a slight bow, Stefano left her.

Meghan sagged against the pillar behind her. She’d been given clues to this impossible, unfathomable man, but she didn’t understand what they meant.

Didn’t know if she could keep digging for answers.

Wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

Across the room Alessandro watched his bride with a cold detachment he was far from feeling. Encasing himself in ice was the only way to get through this event, when every pair of eyes watched him speculatively, hungrily, waiting for disaster, shame.

His own.

They all wanted him to fail—expected it. He’d lived with that for two years, and it should mean nothing to him now.