Sandra Marton - The Sicilian Marriage

“My pleasure. Ciao, Fallon.”

“Goodbye, Gianni.”

The elevator was waiting. He stepped inside, kept smiling until the car doors closed. Then he let the scowl he’d been fighting darken his face as he took his cell phone from his pocket.

Lynda answered on the first ring. “Hello,” she said in that breathless whisper that always made his muscles tighten.

Strangely enough, they didn’t tighten this time.

“It’s me.”

“Gianni.” Her whisper became a purr. “I hoped you’d call. Are you coming over?”

The elevator reached the lobby. He stepped briskly from the car, nodded to the doorman when he opened the door that led to the street.

“Let’s have dinner.”

“Of course, darling. Are we going out? Shall I put on something pretty…Or shall I stay as I am? I just took a bath and all I’m wearing is that pink silk robe you gave me.”

Pink. Rosebud-pink, like Briana O’Connell’s mouth.

“Gianni? Can you hear me?”

He cleared his throat. “I hear you, Lynda.”

“What do you want to do? We could try that new restaurant everyone’s talking about. You know, Green Meadows. It’s supposed to be spectacular.”

Green, like the dress that outlined Briana’s supple body. Spectacular, like her magnificent face…

“Gianni?”

All at once, Gianni knew what he wanted to do. It had nothing to do with Briana O’Connell. Nothing at all. It was just something that had been coming for a few weeks, and it was time he dealt with it.

“Lynda?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t bother making reservations. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He paused. “And get dressed,” he added gently. “All right?”

He heard the swift intake of her breath. “Gianni? Is everything all right?”

“Twenty minutes,” he said, and pressed the disconnect button.

An hour later, he left Lynda’s apartment for the last time. She was crying and he hated knowing he’d made that happen but at the very start of their relationship they’d agreed neither of them was interested in commitment, and that when the time came to end things, they’d do it with honesty.

“I know,” she’d said tearfully, when he’d reminded her of that, “but I thought things had changed.”

Nothing had changed. It never did. Women always said one thing at the start of a relationship and another at its end.

Gianni sighed. Darkness had finally claimed the city and he was eager to get home, take a long shower and put the strange day behind him. He thought of hailing a cab, then decided he’d rather walk.

Tomorrow, he’d send Lynda something to cheer her. A bracelet, perhaps. Something expensive enough to assuage her tears and his guilty conscience because honesty was one thing, but dissolving a relationship with no warning was another.

The truth was, he really hadn’t thought about ending things until a little while ago. He’d been satisfied enough until he’d gone to that damned party. Until he’d looked into the eyes of a woman who didn’t seem to care that he existed and saw, in those eyes, something else.

That one swift, blinding flash of heat.

A sharp wind blew down 57th Street, surprisingly cold after the warmth of the day. Gianni turned up the collar of his jacket, tucked his hands deep in his pockets and picked up his pace.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU like him?”

Bree looked up from her salad. There it was, the question she’d been waiting for since Fallon phoned and asked her out to lunch. The only surprise was that it had taken her sister a week to make the call and almost half an hour to ask the question.

“Who?” Bree said innocently. Why give away more than was necessary?

“You know who. Gianni Firelli.”

Bree popped a grape tomato into her mouth and chewed contemplatively. She had two choices. She could say “Who?” and pretend not to know what her sister was talking about, or she could tell her to mind her own business. Neither response was going to get her very far. Growing up, she’d learned what that determined tilt of her eldest sister’s chin meant.

The best thing was to tackle this head-on.

“I assume,” she said, putting down her fork, “we’re talking about the fact that I didn’t fall at the man’s feet.”

“Fall at his feet? A simple ‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ would have done it.”

“I said ‘hello.’”

“You know what I mean, Bree. You almost took his head off.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. I can’t believe you behaved so badly!”

Behaved so badly? Bree’s chin lifted, just like Fallon’s. “And I can’t believe you still think I’m six years old.”

“You were rude.”

“I was honest.”

“Being rude isn’t being honest.”

“Your opinion, not mine. Are you going to eat that last croissant?”

“No. And don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing anything. I just don’t want to be badgered.”

“Your manners were appalling.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you,” Bree said sweetly, “but you’re my sister, not my mother.”

“And a good thing, too. If Ma’s plane hadn’t landed late, she’d have been at the party in time to see you in action. Can you imagine how she’d have reacted?”

“No.” Bree’s tone had gone from sugary to saccharine. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Obviously Big Sister hadn’t expected a reply to what she’d meant as a rhetorical question.

“Well, she’d have—she’d have—”

“Sent me to my room without supper? Docked my allowance?”

The sisters glared at each other. Then Fallon sighed.

“Okay, maybe I’m overreacting.”

“Hallelujah,” Bree said, picking up her fork again.

“But you really were abrupt.”

“I wanted to be sure Mr. Firelli got the message.”

“Which was?”

“That I wasn’t interested.”

“Gianni’s a very nice guy.”

“No doubt.”

“And he’s good-looking.”

“Good-looking?” Bree shrugged, put down her fork and reached for the butter. “I suppose.”

“Give me a break! You know he’s good-looking.”

“What I know,” Bree replied, breaking off a piece of croissant and buttering it, “is that Gianni Firelli is gorgeous.”

“Well, of course he is. He’s…” Fallon blinked. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. He’s, what, six-one? Six-two? Shoulders out to here, solid muscle straight down to his toes, black hair, green eyes, a face like a Greek god’s—”

“Italian,” Fallon said, staring at her.

“A minor detail. The point is, the man’s incredible. An out-and-out hottie.” Bree reached for her glass of white wine and smiled at the dumbstruck expression on her sister’s face. “Give me a break, Fallon. I’m not dead! Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”

“I don’t know what I thought,” Fallon said, sitting back in the booth. “Tell me more.”

“What more is there? I’m sure there were a dozen women at your party who’d have happily killed for the chance to be introduced to him.”

“But?”

“But, as I already told Karen—”

“Karen?” Fallon said, bewildered.

“Karen Massini. Tomasso’s wife.”

“Oh. Right. I keep forgetting you and she knew each other before I married Stefano.”

“Only for years and years,” Bree said, rolling her eyes. “We were friends in college. Close friends. Then she married Tomasso, moved to California and we lost touch, but ever since she got pregnant and they moved back to New York—”

“Yes, okay, I remember,” Fallon said, impatient to return to the current topic. “So, you and Karen talked about Gianni?”