The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario: Once a Ferrara Wife... / A Dark Sicilian Secret / Blackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife

She walked towards the door but Dani caught her arm. ‘Wait for me. I want to be there to see Cristiano’s face when he first sees you in that dress.’

‘You never give up, do you?’

‘Not when something is worth fighting for. I know you still love him.’

The words jolted Laurel out of her self-imposed semitrance. ‘Move, or you’re going to be late for your own wedding.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘This is your wedding day! You’re the subject.’ She wasn’t in love with him. Definitely not. It was always going to be an emotional time. That short lapse last night didn’t mean anything.

‘But—’

‘You’re keeping the groom waiting.’

As Laurel walked with Dani across the flower-strewn terrace, she had reason to be grateful for her friend’s flamboyant style. Her own wedding had been small and intimate. An exchange of vows between two lovers and their closest friends and family. Dani had opted to make her wedding as big a party as possible and at least two hundred guests were seated on the enormous terrace that overlooked the beach.

Laurel stooped and rearranged the generous folds of her friend’s dress, noticing with some relief that her fingers were now completely steady.

She had no idea what Cristiano’s reaction to her dress was because she wasn’t looking at him when he strode onto the terrace and she had plenty of reasons to keep herself otherwise occupied as he carried out his responsibilities as head of the family.

The only slightly rocky moment came when Laurel found herself face to face with his mother.

‘You are back.’ Not even the hot Sicilian sun could make up for the lack of warmth and Laurel knew exactly why she was being subjected to disapproval.

To Francesca Ferrara, a woman who could trace her lineage right back to the fifteenth century and earlier, Laurel must have been the daughter-in-law from hell. A mongrel, who had failed to fulfil that most basic requirement of a good Sicilian wife—turning a blind eye to her husband’s bad behaviour.

‘I’m back just for the wedding. Then I’m leaving.’

Fortunately, at that moment the string quartet started playing and the ceremony began, sparing Laurel an awkward conversation.

Relieved, she focused on her role as maid of honour. It was impossible not to be aware that people were looking at her, but she concentrated her attention on her friend, allowing the faces around her to blur.

As Dani spoke her vows and took Raimondo’s hand, a lump formed in Laurel’s throat.

Hadn’t she done the same at her own wedding? She’d been so blissfully happy, so convinced that this couldn’t possibly be happening to her, that she’d had to check it was real. The priest had been shocked but Cristiano had just laughed and immediately lifted back her veil and cupped her face in his strong hands, the warmth of his kiss giving her all the reassurance she’d needed.

It was that uncanny ability to see into her mind and knock aside her reservations and caution that had given depth to their relationship. He was the first man she’d allowed into her heart. The only man.

It had made the fall all the harder.

Thinking of it brought the tightness back to her chest.

A wave of dizziness rushed over her, although whether it was the intense heat of the sun or just misery she didn’t know.

It was only when she became aware that Santo was staring at her intently that she realised that her cheeks were damp.

Oh, no …

Frantically trying to work out how the tears had managed to fall without her permission, she saw the exact moment Santo’s hostile stare turn to a puzzled frown.

Laurel ignored him and concentrated on her friend, desperately hoping that Cristiano hadn’t witnessed her lapse in control. There was no way she dared risk a glance at him so she just had to hope he wasn’t looking in her direction. And if he was—well, she’d have to pretend she had something in her eye. Sand? An insect?

Furious with herself, she stared straight forward. She wasn’t a crier. Never had been. So why was it that since she’d arrived in Sicily that was all she’d felt like doing?

Maybe it was the stupid dress.

She’d spent hours planning her wardrobe, making sure that her clothes were practical. And here she was standing in the most romantic-looking dress she could have imagined witnessing a public display of love when love was a word she wanted to delete from her brain.

The lump in her throat grew bigger and she stood still, hardly able to breathe as her friend exchanged rings with the man she clearly adored.

Laurel wanted to cover her ears so that she didn’t have to listen. And all the time she was aware of Cristiano standing in the periphery of her vision, a powerful, commanding figure in his beautifully cut dark suit.

Was he in hell, as she was? Was he suffering?

His words flew back into her head.

We stood together in the little chapel that has been part of my family’s estate for generations, and I made you a promise. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health … Remember?

Oh, yes, she remembered. Every word, every promise, was carved into her heart.

Her unhappiness felt too big for her body and Laurel gripped her flowers tightly, trying desperately to stop her feelings from bursting out. She willed Dani and Raimondo to hurry up so that she could get away. She needed to do something ordinary. Something normal and unsentimental to settle her emotions. She’d sneak back to the villa and check her emails. That would bring her back to earth. Or maybe she’d just get out of this dress and go for a run. Lift some weights. Anything.

Desperately fighting for control, she tried to focus on the lush gardens that surrounded the old courtyard. The air was scented with the sweet smell of jasmine and out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of bright pink bougainvillea that painted the terrace in a riot of colour. It was incredibly pretty. The perfect place for a wedding.

Unable to help herself, she lifted her gaze to Cristiano.

Across the terrace, their eyes met.

She wanted to look away but she didn’t, and neither did he. Couldn’t? Wouldn’t? She didn’t know. All she knew was that he was looking at her as if he was trying to see into her mind, those deep-set black eyes fixed on hers as Dani and Raimondo exchanged vows.

This was us.

His lips didn’t move and yet in her head she could hear him saying it.

We had this and you destroyed it.

Heart pumping, she snapped the connection and looked at Dani.

Maybe she was the one who had done the walking, but he was the one who’d destroyed it.

As the couple leaned forward to kiss, Laurel discovered that her skin was covered in goose bumps. What had begun as a slight trembling turned to a shiver. Sickness bloomed inside her and she felt the blood drain from her face as she witnessed their heartfelt declaration of love.

Her own emotions stripped bare, she gripped her flowers and tried to hold herself together.

The rest of the ceremony blurred into one big torture session. One big test of her self-control. She was dimly aware of Dani flinging her arms around her new husband—of sighs from the assembled guests and of the fact she was growing colder and colder.

Somehow she managed to smile, to endure the endless photographs, to say what needed to be said—congratulations, so pleased, yes, she looks beautiful, very happy together—all the while aware of Cristiano taking charge and making sure his sister enjoyed every moment of her special day, his own pain ruthlessly subdued by his awesome willpower.

He was capable of caring, she thought miserably. But sometimes he got it horribly, horribly wrong.

Clumsy, not cruel.

Secure in the knowledge that all attention was on the bride and groom, Laurel slowly turned her head. Seeing that Cristiano was occupied by the bridesmaids, she allowed herself a long indulgent look, knowing it would be her last. After today she wouldn’t see him again.

Storing up images, she allowed her gaze to linger on those thick lashes, travel over that strong jaw and the tempting curve of that mouth. The longing was a great tearing feeling in her chest, which made no sense at all.

She had no wish to turn the clock back.

Deep down she knew that even if he had prioritised her over work on that awful day, it wouldn’t have changed anything. They might have taken a different road, but they would have ended up in the place they were now.

They didn’t work well together. A relationship needed more than fiery chemistry to hold it fast.

With no warning he turned his head and caught her looking.

A frown touched his brows, as if he saw something in her face that puzzled him.

Those broad shoulders squared under the exquisitely cut suit.

Trapped by that searching, questioning gaze, Laurel ceased to breathe. She watched with her heart in her mouth as he tried to read her, saw him use that acute brain of his to draw a conclusion from the facts at his disposal.

One of Dani’s numerous little cousins, unsettled by the size of the gathering, nestled against his legs, seeking security. Cristiano responded instantly, dragging his gaze from Laurel’s pinched white face and swinging the child into his arms, offering that security instinctively and without question. The little girl buried her head in his shoulder and he lifted a hand and stroked those blonde curls, his hand strong and reassuring, his lips moving as he soothed and calmed.

It was like a slap, the display of masculine protectiveness so perfectly timed that it snapped the nostalgia that had rendered her immobile. This was Cristiano at his best. With everyone around him depending on him.

It was ironic, she thought, that the one time she’d allowed herself to do that he hadn’t been there for her.

Feeling control slide from her grip, Laurel slid discreetly out of the group and forged her way through the guests to the other end of the terrace. If she took the long way round she could make it back to the villa unseen. This was her opportunity to make her final exit from his life with the minimum of fuss. She’d pack now and make her way to the airport. Forget waiting until the morning. She was willing to take a flight anywhere, as long as it meant getting out of Sicily tonight.

‘What’s going on, Laurel?’

Santo stood in front of her and the fact that it should be him who witnessed her distress was all the more humiliating. ‘I need to be on my own.’

Strong fingers caught her chin and lifted her face, the frown descending like black clouds as he saw her eyes. ‘You’re crying. Now why would you be crying, I wonder?’

‘I’ve been staring into the sun.’

‘Why are you leaving?’

Desperate, she threw everything she had. ‘Because it was crazy to come here. A divorce and a wedding don’t go together.’

‘I was watching your face. When Dani said her vows, you looked as if someone was removing your skin with a knife.’

The image made her wince because it was exactly how she’d felt. ‘The death of a marriage is always sad.’

‘I wasn’t looking at a woman grieving for the death of her marriage.’

Oh, God, why now? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? ‘You saw me upset. Was it hard for me to witness two people exchange those vows? Yes, it was hard. It doesn’t change the fact that Cristiano and I are finished.’

‘Why? You’re obviously still in love with him.’

‘I’m not in love with him!’ Her foot almost slipped on the step. ‘It’s … you’re … I’m just not.’ She didn’t want to be. She couldn’t be. That would be like almost drowning in the sea and then telling someone you loved water.

‘I have never seen a woman work so hard not to look at a man as you tried not to look at Cristiano during the wedding. Were you afraid that if you looked at him, he’d see what you felt? You always had this thing, didn’t you—’ he spread his hands in an expressive Mediterranean gesture ‘—this thing where you could read each other’s minds. You each knew what the other was thinking. He used to tease me about it—used to tell me that one day I’d find a woman I connected with, the way he connected with you.’

Laurel felt as if she was about to connect with the ground. Any moment now she was going to faint and smack her head on the concrete. ‘Worry about your own love life, Santo, and leave me to worry about mine.’ She tried to pass him but he caught her arm in a firm grip.

‘What you did almost destroyed my brother. I had to watch him drag himself through every day. Losing you was like losing the oxygen from the air. Without you, he couldn’t breathe.’

Laurel couldn’t breathe either. Her chest was tight and her lungs were burning. ‘Santo—’

‘The funny thing is, I didn’t believe in love until I saw the two of you together.’

Laurel ducked quickly under his arm and started to run.

She had minutes, she guessed. Minutes in which to pack her things and get safely away from the villa before he came after her.

Minutes to end this thing for good.

The sky had turned from fiery red to a rich velvet black, embedded with stars. If there was ever a moment to believe in romance and happy endings it was now but Laurel was a non-believer.

It was over, and she needed to get out of here.

CHAPTER FIVE

FROM the far end of the terrace, Cristiano watched the exchange between his wife and his brother. The child in his arms said something to him and he answered automatically before lowering her to the ground and encouraging her to play with her friends. His mind was wrapped up in Laurel.

During the wedding he’d been determined to ignore her. Not to allow his own private hell to intrude on his sister’s special day. It was only when Santo had nudged him that he’d caught the expression on her face and known instantly that her mind was in the same place as his. He’d seen the betraying glisten of moisture on her cheeks and it had stunned him because in all the time they’d been together, at no time during their intense, crazy love affair had he ever seen her shed a tear. She was the toughest, strongest woman he’d ever met.

‘Go after her.’ Santo was by his side, smooth and in control, somehow managing to be the perfect host while talking to his brother in a low voice. ‘Go now, because she’ll be out of here in minutes.’

‘She’s complicated.’

‘All women are complicated. I don’t pretend to understand any of them but I do know one thing—’ Santo scooped a glass of champagne from a passing waitress ‘—if there is such a thing as love, then that woman loves you. Move. I’ll cover for you.’

Cristiano stood in frozen silence, remembering the look on her face during the photographs.

Longing. And intense sadness, as if the situation was sucking her down and drowning her.

And that didn’t make sense.

Why would she be sad if this was what she wanted? If she no longer had feelings for him, why did she find all this so stressful?

It came to him in a single blinding flash of comprehension and he pressed his fingers to his forehead, his hand unsteady, the shock of it rocking his composure.

No matter how vehement her denials, it was obvious now that she did love him. It was also obvious that loving him was scaring her to death. She was running because she was afraid of giving in to those feelings. She didn’t want to forgive him because she was afraid to forgive him. Afraid to trust him again.

Behind him he heard the music start, whoops of laughter and knew that soon there’d be dancing.

Propelled by an anger directed towards himself as well as her, Cristiano strode into the villa with the subtlety of the police carrying out an armed raid. The door crashed shut behind him and Laurel flew from the bedroom, eyes wide.

‘What’s happened?’

Just in time, Cristiano thought grimly, noticing the small suitcase lying at the foot of the enormous bed. Santo had been right. A few minutes later and she would have been gone.

Driven by a burning determination to unveil the truth, he didn’t pause in his stride. Instead he just walked right up to her and backed her into the wall, planting his arms either side of her so that she was caged and completely at his mercy.

Now try and run. Now try and get out of that, my beauty.

The intensity of the rage building inside him was shocking and she must have seen something in his face because her eyes widened.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

She squirmed against him but he pressed her back, using just enough of his superior strength to stop her running. She was like an animal caught in a trap, twisting and panting as she struggled to free herself, sobbing with frustration when his only response was to hold her tighter.

‘You’re not going anywhere.’ He fisted his hand into her hair, feeling the dark mass dislodge itself and tumble over his wrist. So silky, so soft. ‘You’re not leaving this room until you’ve admitted how you feel.’

‘Right now? Tired of being around you.’

‘You’re lying. You want this as much as I do—’ He brought his mouth down to hers because he couldn’t help himself, all the anger, the desperation, the raw emotion transmitting itself in that one physical act. He kissed her as if he’d never touched her before and never would again, as if she was the air he had to breathe to stay alive, the blood that kept his heart pumping. Her mouth was warm and sweet, the taste of her going straight to his head and pouring through his senses. Like a dangerous drug, she seeped through him, turning anger to another equally potent emotion.

He was dimly aware that she’d stopped thumping him and was now clutching him, her slim fingers locked in his shirt as her mouth opened under the pressure of his. Heat ripped through the two of them, searing the last of his control, and he scooped her up without thought or hesitation and carried her the few strides to the enormous bed that overlooked the private pool and, beyond that, the gentle curve of the beach. It was possibly the most idyllic setting on earth but neither saw it. Their focus was on each other as they devoured each other.

His trousers hit the floor, swiftly followed by her silk dress, and then he rolled her onto her back, her loosened hair melting over the silk sheets like dark chocolate pouring over whipped cream. A thin strip of lace was all that protected her from him and he ripped it away, exposing her, dizzy with his need for her. This time she was hiding nothing, he vowed. Not one single part of herself. He covered her with his body, prepared to use his weight to keep her still but her arms were round his neck and she met him halfway, her mouth lifting to his as his head descended. Like a starving man he feasted and she did the same, making little noises in her throat as she sank her fingers into his hair and demanded as much as she gave. His tongue was in her mouth, one hand cupping the softness of her cheek while the other found the tempting curve of her breast.

Details blurred as they tasted, touched and teased. It was wild, bordering on violent and at one point he wasn’t sure if she was fighting him or urging him on as they rolled in a tangle of limbs and slick flesh, animalistic in their need for each other. He sank his teeth into her shoulder and she scraped her nails down his back, her sob turning to a gasp as he moved his hand between her legs. His fingers slid into her slick softness and he felt her writhe with the pleasure, that creamy, taut body shifting restlessly against the sheets as she tried to relieve the nagging ache in her pelvis. He touched her the way he knew she needed to be touched and her response confirmed everything he’d suspected. She was as crazy about him as he was about her. Here, in the most intimate situation of all, she couldn’t hide from him.

And he couldn’t hide from the truth.

He didn’t want a divorce.

He wanted his wife. Here. Now.

Forever.

With a low growl Cristiano moved down her body and used his mouth on her, demanding every last secret from this woman who had haunted every part of his life since he’d met her. He licked in tiny tortuous circles, feeling her velvety softness tighten around his fingers, hearing her sob his name as she shattered into a million pieces.

Temptation, sensation—he considered himself a controlled man but there was no control in this room, not with her naked beneath him. Merciless and unrelenting, he sent her rushing towards her peak again and again until finally she sobbed his name and he levered himself over her and entered her with a smooth purposeful thrust of pure possession that brought a groan to the back of his throat.

She was his, and she’d always been his.

The searing heat was incredible.

His eyes closed.

As her body tightened around his he felt his mind blank and his heart split. It had always been like this between them. So much more than just sex. A joining that was far beyond the physical. No matter what had been wrong, this had always made it right. Oblivious to everything except the moment, he surged into her, each hard, deliberate stroke driving them higher. He made her his in every possible way, drawing every last drop of response from her until she was sobbing with the sheer overload of physical pleasure. The explosion was a culmination of two years of deprivation and denial. Like a deadly storm it came crashing down on them, a destructive force shattering their differences and drowning them in agonizing pleasure. Again and again it rolled over them and his mouth was on hers as his body experienced something close to sexual meltdown.

Dimly aware that she was crying, he tried to haul himself out of the grip of passion but he was weakened by the shocking impact of what they’d shared, powerless to stop the tears pouring down her cheeks as she sobbed something incoherent against his mouth.

Trying to understand what she was saying, he dragged his mouth from hers and just about made out his name and then the words, ‘I can’t do this again—’

The emotion caught him full in the chest and he felt his own throat close. With a rough curse he held her tightly, crushing her against him in a possessive gesture as they both slowly recovered.

She trembled and sobbed against him until his chest was damp, strands of her hair caught between the two of them. Two years ago he would have been appalled if someone had told him he’d be pleased to see her crying. But in a savage, primitive way he was pleased. In fact he was close to exultant because Laurel so rarely showed her emotions. For her to do so now was an indication of what she was feeling and he knew that if there was ever a time to persuade her to talk to him then it was now, while she was weakened and vulnerable.

Cruel? Maybe. She’d already accused him of that, hadn’t she?

He’d never been one to back down when there was something that needed doing.

Stroking her damp hair out of her eyes, he dried her tears, ruthlessly closing down that side of him that retreated from the prospect of upsetting her further. She breathed with a hitch and a judder, everything uneven, but there was no sign of an impending asthma attack. Which was a relief because nothing, not volcanic eruption or earthquake, nor the sharp sting of his conscience was going to interrupt this conversation.

Her eyes were reddened and swollen, her mouth bruised from his kisses. His kisses.

His resolve turned to steel and he stared down at her, knowing that he couldn’t allow her time to put those barriers up again. He was still inside her. Still hard, he realised as he ruefully acknowledged the effect she had on him.

It didn’t get any more intimate than this, he thought grimly, and he wanted intimate.