Lucy Gordon - Hot Nights with...the Italian - The Santangeli Marriage / The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command / Veretti's Dark Vengeance

And how he’d thought at the time, troubled, that it almost seemed as if she was somewhere else—and a long way distant from him.

He’d heard the Bishop give the final blessing, then turned to her, slowly putting the veil back from her face.

She had been looking down, her long lashes curling on her cheeks, her slender body rigid under the fragile delicacy of her gown.

And he’d bent to kiss her quivering mouth, swiftly and very gently, in no more than a token caress, wanting to reassure her by his tender restraint that he would keep his word, that she would have nothing to fear when they were alone together that night.

But before his lips could touch hers Marisa had suddenly looked up at him, her eyes glittering with scorn, and turned her head away so abruptly that his mouth had skidded along her cheekbone to meet with just a mouthful of tulle and few silken strands of perfumed hair.

There had been an audible gasp from the Bishop, and a stir in the mass of the congregation like a wind blowing across barley, telling Renzo quite unequivocally, as he’d straightened, heated colour storming into his face, that his bride’s very public rejection of his first kiss as her husband had been missed by no one present. And that she’d quite deliberately made him look a fool.

After which, of course, he’d had to walk the length of the long aisle, with Marisa’s hand barely resting on his arm, forcing himself to seem smiling and relaxed, when in fact he had been furiously aware of the shocked and astonished glances being aimed at them from some directions—and the avid enjoyment from others.

Tenderness was a thing of the past, he had vowed angrily. His overriding wish was to be alone somewhere with his bride where he could put her across his knee and administer the spanking of her life.

But instead there had been the ordeal of the wedding breakfast, being held in the warm sunlight of the main square so that the whole town could share in the future Marchese’s happiness with his new wife. Where there would be laughter, toasting, and sugared almonds to be handed out, before he and Marisa would be expected to open the dancing.

What would she do then? he had wondered grimly. Push him away? Stamp on his foot? God alone knew.

However, she must have undergone a partial change of heart, because she had gone through the required rituals with apparent docility—although Renzo had surmised bitterly that they must be the only newlyweds in the world to spend the first two hours of their marriage without addressing one word to each other.

It had only been when they were seated stiffly side by side, in the comparative privacy of the limousine returning them to the villa to change for their honeymoon trip, that he’d broken the silence.

‘How dared you do such a thing?’ His voice was molten steel. ‘What possessed you to refuse my kiss—to shame me like that in front of everyone?’

She said huskily, ‘But that was exactly why. You’ve never made any attempt to kiss me before, and, believe me, that’s suited me just fine.’ She took a breath. ‘But now all of a sudden there’s an audience present, so you have to play the part of the ardent bridegroom—make the token caring gesture in order to look good in the eyes of your friends and family. So that you might make them think it’s a real marriage instead of the payment of a debt—a sordid business deal that neither of us wants.’

She shook her head. ‘Well—I won’t do that. I won’t pretend for the sake of appearances. And you, signore ,’ she added with a little gasp, ‘you won’t make me.’

There was another silence, then Renzo said icily, ‘I trust you have quite finished?’ and saw her nod jerkily before she turned away to stare out of the car window.

Only it had not been finished at all, he thought bleakly as he pulled the blanket closer round him and turned awkwardly onto his side. On the contrary, it had been just the beginning of a chain of events from which the repercussions were still impacting on their lives. And God only knew how it might end.

She felt, Marisa thought, as if she’d swallowed a large lump of marble.

Curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, she tugged the coverlet over her head in an effort to shut out the ever-present hum of London traffic through the open window, just as if that was the only reason she couldn’t sleep.

Yet who was she trying to fool? she asked herself ironically.

Renzo’s unexpected reappearance in her life had set every nerve ending jangling, while her mind was occupied in an endless examination of everything he’d said to her.

Especially his galling assertion that it had been mistakes by them both that had caused the collapse of their marriage.

Because it was his fault— all his fault. That was what she’d told herself—the mantra she’d repeated almost obsessively during the endless nightmare of their honeymoon and since. Her determined and inflexible belief ever since.

Yet now, suddenly, she was not so sure.

She should have let him kiss her at the wedding and she knew it. Had always known it, if she was honest. Realised she should just have stood there and allowed it to happen. And if she hadn’t responded—had refused to return the pressure of his lips—her point would have been made, but just between the two of them. No one else would ever have known.

Julia, in particular.

‘Are you off your head?’ her cousin had said furiously, cornering her in the pretence of straightening her veil. ‘My God, he must be blazing. If you know what’s good for you tonight you’ll forget your little rebellion, lie on your back and pray that he puts you up the stick. Redeem yourself that way—by doing what you’ve been hired for.’

‘Thank you for the unnecessary reminder,’ Marisa threw back defiantly and moved away, her half-formed resolve to go to Renzo, to tell him she’d been overcome by nerves and obeyed an impulse that she’d instantly regretted, melting like ice in the hot sunlight.

Neither was her mood improved by their first exchange in the car, nor during the largely silent journey down to their honeymoon destination near Amalfi—the first time, she realised, that she’d been entirely alone with him since he proposed to her. A reflection she found disturbing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d ignored her, of course, she thought ruefully, casting a wary glance at his stony profile, but that had been when she was younger, because he’d regarded her as something of a pest. Not because he was angry and humiliated.

And she knew with a kind of detachment that she would have to pay for what she’d done in one way or another.

It occurred to her too that she’d never been his passenger before—another first for her to add to all the others—and as the low, powerful car sped down the autostrada under his casually controlled expertise she remembered a jokey magazine article she’d once read, which had suggested a man’s sexual performance could often be judged by the way he drove.

She observed the light touch of his lean fingers on the wheel and found herself suddenly wondering how they would feel on her skin, before deciding, with a swift churning sensation in the pit of her stomach as Julia’s words came back to haunt her, that from now on she would do better to concentrate firmly on the scenery. However, as the silence between them became increasingly oppressive, she felt that a modest conversational overture might be called for.

She said, ‘The villa—is it in Amalfi itself?’

‘No, in a village farther along the coast.’

His tone was not particularly inviting, but she persevered.

‘And you said it belongs to your godfather?’

‘Yes, it is his holiday retreat.’