One Night In…

‘What happened then?’ Alessandro asked quietly, after a long moment when the only sound in the still room had been their breathing, ragged and uneven.

‘I ran. He tried to grab me. I don’t know what he would have done if— But I got away. And I kept on running. I ran right out of that town, that life, and I can’t go back.’

‘There are people there who would support you,’ Alessandro said in a low voice. ‘They would understand, Meghan.’

‘But I’m so ashamed,’ she confessed in a wretched whisper. ‘It’s my fault. I should have known. I should have known what kind of man he was. I should have stopped it.’ Her voice broke, and Alessandro pulled her towards him, wrapped her in an embrace that was both tender and savage.

‘No. How could you know? How could you expect…?’

He was silent, his arms around her, his chin resting on her head. Meghan tried to control her shuddering breaths, her pounding pulse.

‘Did you press charges?’ Alessandro asked after a long, ragged moment.

‘No.’ She was horrified at the thought. ‘The last thing I wanted was people knowing what had happened, what I’d done. I told you—I ran. I didn’t even explain where I was going. I sent a postcard. I know everyone is confused, hurt, even, but I couldn’t live in that town knowing he was there. He wouldn’t let me. And I couldn’t bear people knowing.’ She looked up at him, her eyes wide. ‘I was afraid they would condemn me if they knew. I couldn’t bear the shame.’

He stroked her face—light, feathering movements. ‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t suppose anyone could.’

He continued stroking her hair, her shoulders. Meghan never wanted him to let her go. She never wanted to feel alone, ashamed again.

‘And for this you blame yourself?’ he finally asked. ‘You told me you thought you might have known deep down that he was married. I forced you to that confession.’ Regret laced his words and roughened his tone. ‘But this? Meghan, you could never blame yourself for this. That man—that Stephen—he was a monster. This was not your fault. None of it. You are not responsible for another’s actions.’

‘It’s hard,’ Meghan said after a moment, her voice no more than a thread of sound, ‘not to blame yourself when someone else does. Someone you thought you loved. I stopped believing in myself, in who I was. I’m not sure if I even know any more.’

Alessandro was silent. Meghan heard their breathing, the ticking of a clock, the muted roar of traffic from Milan’s busy streets below.

‘Yes,’ he agreed finally, softly. ‘It is hard. Lord knows, it is very hard. But I am the man with you now, Meghan, gattina. I am the man who married you, and I believe in you.’ He tilted her face up to meet his, wiped the traces of her tears with his thumbs. ‘I know who you are, and I believe you.’

Meghan closed her eyes, felt the old shame slipping away. He knew. He knew, and he believed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘That’s why I wanted to tell you.’

‘I’m glad you did.’ He cupped her face, slid his hand through the heavy mass of hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Your trust in me is precious.’ His voice was stilted, as if he was testing out new words, new emotions. ‘I am humbled by it.’

Tears sparkled in her eyes. Trust me. She wanted to say it, to plead, but she knew now was not the time. She’d been ready to share, to confess.

Alessandro wasn’t. Yet.

He gazed at her gently. ‘And now? Are there shadows?’

Meghan smiled tremulously, glanced around the darkened room. ‘No. There are no shadows for me.’

‘Good.’ He kissed her softly, the gesture a plea, a prayer. Not a demand. He would demand nothing of her tonight, Meghan knew.

Nothing that she didn’t want.

She kissed him back, her hands sliding up the silkiness of his shirt, bunching the cloth between her restless seeking fingers.

He broke the kiss and glanced down at her with a faint frown between his brows. ‘You are certain?’

‘I am.’ She felt drained, yet relieved. Empty, yet waiting to be filled.

‘Good.’ He kissed her again, this time his mouth sure and seeking, soft and warm.

Meghan felt him untie the bathrobe, felt it slip from her shoulders. She heard his indrawn breath as his gaze roamed over her, taking in the simplicity of the nightgown.

‘You are so, so beautiful. Bella.’ He kissed her shoulders, one first, then the other, and slipped the straps down. The material slid to her waist in a puddle of silk.

Meghan closed her eyes. She’d expected to feel exposed. Ashamed.

She felt neither.

She felt Alessandro’s gaze on her—warm, admiring, gentle—and she smiled. He cupped her breasts in his hands, chuckling softly.

‘As golden as the rest of you. You are like a sunbeam.’

She gave a little laugh, raised her eyes to meet his own heated gaze. ‘I want to see you.’ Fumbling just a little bit, she unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged it off impatiently and she ran a hand down his chest, the smooth expanse of skin, sighing in satisfaction. ‘I’ve wanted to do this.’

‘I’ve wanted you to.’ Alessandro’s voice trembled as he laid her on the bed, stretching out beside her. ‘This is how I’ve wanted it between us. Always.’

She nodded speechlessly, the feelings he was drawing from her filling her, spilling up to overflowing. She felt blessed.

He ran his hand over her breasts, across her navel, skimming over her hidden femininity.

Meghan moaned, arched helplessly. She wanted his touch. She craved it.

She lost herself to the exquisite feel of his hands on her, roaming, seeking, wanting. She was helpless, splayed beneath him, lost in sensation. Touch, taste, feel.

‘Meghan, look at me.’ There was amusement as well as tenderness in Alessandro’s voice. ‘Make love to me with your mind, not just your body. See the memory we’re making together. See how I want you.’

Meghan opened her eyes, saw him braced on his forearms above her, the need and desire open in his face, his eyes, his languorous smile.

His hand moved down, deeper, slipping inside her with a gentle, knowing touch, to the very core of her womanhood, her self, stroking her to helpless flames.

She gasped, her eyes widening, fastened on his, as he smiled, his own eyes darkened with desire.

‘Touch me.’

She touched his chest, let her hand slide down, her lips curving in an ancient, womanly smile of seductive power as she heard him gasp.

‘Touch me …’ His voice was ragged as he rolled on his back, taking her with him, giving her the power.

She straddled him, revelling in the feel of him underneath her, his hard thighs beneath hers, open, vulnerable to her, wanting her touch, her kiss, his entire body a supplication, a prayer.

She watched as his breathing hitched, his eyes glazed with desire. He never stopped looking at her, even as he clasped her hips and she lowered herself onto him.

She gasped in shocked delight as she felt him fill her, felt the satisfaction deep in her core even as the hunger grew, wilder and deeper, needing to be met.

‘You feel so good,’ he said raggedly, ‘so right.’

It did feel right, Meghan thought dizzily as she moved, rocking, adjusting to this new sensation, this wondrous flooding of feeling. Pleasure. Emotion. Joy. She threw her head back as they began to move in a beautiful dance, minds and bodies as one.

One.

One flesh.

She couldn’t think any more, could only feel, her hands bunching on his arms, her thighs pressed against him as he reached up to cup her breasts in his hands, possess her in every way possible.

‘Golden …’ he whispered, chuckling softly, and Meghan gasped as he moved, clasping her to him, her legs wrapping around him so they were joined, fused, from shoulder to thigh. She buried her head in his neck, overwhelmed. Overcome.

‘Look at me.’

I want you to see me when I make love to you. I want you to look in my eyes and see how I want you.

She saw it now as his eyes blazed into hers, filled with a desire that was elemental, consuming them both in its wondrous flames.

He never stopped looking at her, possessing with his eyes as well as his body, as the pressure and pleasure built to a glorious crescendo.

She cried out, and he captured her mouth with his own as she shattered, just as he had predicted she would, into a thousand sense-scattering pieces.

And then he put her back together again, cradling her as they lay there, still, sated, their breathing ragged.

I love you.

It came unbidden, helpless. Hopeless. Meghan closed her eyes, her cheek pressed against his chest, the tang of his sweat still on her lips.

I love you.

Why? When? How?

She didn’t know when it had happened. Perhaps when she had first looked into his eyes at the trattoria, and her soul had recognised someone who knew her. Knew her completely and understood. Believed.

Perhaps it had happened later, when he’d opened her heart and mind to the possibility of trust, of desire without shame, need without fear.

Perhaps it had happened just now, when he’d undone her— known her—completely.

She just knew it was true.

She loved him—loved his tenderness, his teasing smile, his ability to give himself so completely. Loved him despite the darkness, the despair that he hid, the secrets she knew he kept, the pain she knew he would cause her.

She loved him.

And it was the last thing Alessandro wanted.

Alessandro listened as Meghan’s breathing slowed, her breath feathering his chest. She was asleep.

He relaxed his arm around her, shifting to get more comfortable.

Except nothing could make him comfortable. Nothing could ease the guilt that ate at him, worse than any disease.

She doesn’t know what kind of man I am.

He’d never realised how much she’d been through. Endured. His hand curled into a fist as he thought of what Meghan had been through, of the man who had abused her precious trust, her beautiful body.

He looked forward to going back to that hypocritical little town and wiping that man’s face in the dirt.

Yet what help was that? He was the hypocrite; he was surely only going to cause her more suffering. He wouldn’t be able to help it.

When she discovered his past …

When she learned who he really was …

What he was capable of. What he had done.

Then she would hate him. Affection would turn to disgust, love to hatred.

For he knew she would fall in love with him some time. It was in her nature, warm and generous.

No, he didn’t want her to love him. Couldn’t let it happen. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it when it stopped.

And it would stop. Because he couldn’t change. He couldn’t be that man.

He couldn’t be saved.

If only it were as simple as it had been for Meghan. Banishing the shadows and accepting forgiveness, love.

There was no such easy answer for him. People loved until you disappointed them. He’d seen it, lived it before. The moment you showed you were weak, needy, in pain or trouble, they left.

They fobbed you off on someone else. They turned away. They pretended they didn’t know you.

And who could blame them?

He couldn’t stand for that to happen to Meghan. Better for her not to love him at all.

The only way to keep her from falling in love with him, Alessandro knew, was to show her glimpses of the man he truly was.

Not enough to make her leave, but enough to make her wary.

He only prayed that he wouldn’t hurt her too much … and that she would stay. It would be a fine line.

Because he didn’t know what he would do if she left.

His arm tightened around her again instinctively, and she stirred in her sleep.

Glimpses, he reminded himself, his lips twisting in a savage smile. Glimpses would be enough.

CHAPTER TEN

MEGHAN awoke to an empty bed. For a moment she felt the familiar lurch of fear, then she forced herself to shrug it off.

There were no more shadows. For her.

Alessandro came into the room, showered, dressed, and bearing a tray with coffee and rolls.

‘I thought you might be hungry.’

‘Starving.’

His smile was knowing, seductive, and Meghan found herself grinning. She bit lustily into a roll as Alessandro took a cup of coffee and stretched out beside her.

‘I thought today we could look for a place to live.’

‘What about your flat?’

‘It is a small place, sterile—a bachelor’s pad, as they say. You would hate it.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Meghan protested. ‘We could buy some flowers, some pictures—’

‘No, no.’ He was firm in his dismissal. ‘It needs much more than that. It is simply not suitable. We can look for a place together—a home to start our new lives in?’

‘If that’s what you want,’ Meghan said, a bit unsteadily. It sounded idyllic. Perfect. And far too good to be true. Like a dream they were weaving, something set apart. Unreal.

‘That’s what I want,’ Alessandro replied. ‘I need to make a few phone calls. I’ll leave you to get dressed.’

He left the bedroom and Meghan leaned back against the pillows, her mind buzzing happily with new thoughts, new dreams.

Half an hour later they were in Alessandro’s car, cruising the streets of Milan.

Meghan gazed in wonder at the ancient buildings coupled with the modern glamour. This was Alessandro’s city, she thought, as he navigated the traffic with expert and uncomplicated ease.

He belonged here, among the rich and powerful. And now she was part of that too. Yet somehow the prospect of power had lost its allure.

Wealth, security—even safety—they all seemed useless without love.

Meghan’s mouth twisted grimly. Too bad, she thought. That was how it was. For now.

‘Do you have a destination in mind?’ she asked, and Alessandro gave her a fleeting smile.

‘Wait and see…’

He turned the car into a narrow street which opened onto a square, not as impressive as at his mother’s residence, but filled with sunlight.

Children played on the green, and the town houses that fronted it looked well cared for. Loved.

‘This looks nice,’ Meghan offered cautiously, for it wasn’t the sort of place she’d imagined Alessandro in. It looked like a place for families—a place where happiness and joy were shared, simple pleasures enjoyed.

No glamour.

No power.

‘Yes, it does,’ he agreed. ‘The agent gave me the key this morning.’

He led her up to one of the houses—a narrow stone building, with bright shutters and begonias spilling from the wrought-iron balconies.

Alessandro unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

Meghan walked slowly through the rooms. They were generously proportioned without being ostentatious, the wide windows thrown open to the spring sunshine.

She stood in the middle of the gleaming kitchen, the large pine table in its centre testifying to the fact that this was a family’s house.

‘It’s semi-furnished,’ Alessandro told her, reading the details from a brochure. ‘We can pick up more bits and pieces as you like. Four bedrooms upstairs, another on the third floor if we want live-in help. The kitchen, lounge, and dining room on this floor. There is a small garden at the back, and of course the square out in front.’ He looked up at her, eyes glinting. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s perfect,’ Meghan said simply. ‘Perfect.’

He strode towards her, snatched her up and kissed her soundly. Meghan laughed in surprise.

‘We’ll have our children here. I’ll teach our sons to play football in the square. It will be so good for us.’

His voice rang with certainty, and yet Meghan heard the desperation underneath, the ragged edges.

They were both trying so hard to believe. To make it real.

Yet it still smacked of a fairytale, a story that had to end— and perhaps not with a happily-ever-after.

They moved in the very next day. Alessandro had linens and towels brought from one of Milan’s exclusive stores, and Meghan had fun shopping for food at the local negozio.

Alessandro came in from work as she made dinner, his gaze sweeping over the simple scene—from the food on the table to Meghan at the stove, a dishtowel tied around her waist.

‘We forgot to buy an apron,’ she said with a little smile, and he pulled her into a long, breathless kiss.

‘I’d just want to take it off you anyway.’ His hands roamed over her, leaving flames of need in their wake.

‘Alessandro, the dinner …’ Her protestation was so weak as to be laughable.

‘We haven’t christened this house,’ Alessandro murmured against her mouth. ‘I’d like to try every room—but we’ll start with the bedroom. I like a soft bed …’

He pulled her upstairs, closing the bedroom door with a soft click, and laid her gently on the bed. Meghan lay there, happy, gazing up at him.

The look in his eyes—as if he were examining a priceless treasure—made her mouth dry. She held out her arms.

‘Come to me.’

Pain slashed across his features so briefly she almost didn’t notice it, but he shrugged off his clothes and fell upon her, and the moment of uncertainty was lost in passion, lost to the exquisite feeling of being touched, treasured.

‘We’ve been invited to a party tomorrow,’ Alessandro told her later, as they ate the reheated pasta, his voice suddenly turning alarmingly neutral. ‘It’s bound to happen as people hear about our wedding. They want to meet you.’

‘A party could be fun,’ Meghan said. She glanced at him uncertainly. ‘You sound like you don’t want me to meet them.’

‘But of course not. I want to keep you all to myself. Any man would.’

‘We can’t hide for ever,’ Meghan said teasingly, and knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say.

A muscle bunched in his jaw and he set his wine glass down carefully. ‘No,’ he agreed flatly. ‘We can’t.’

What are you hiding? Meghan wanted to ask. Demand. What secrets are you keeping?

But of course she would demand nothing. Because Alessandro didn’t want a wife who made demands.

A wife who loved him.

Too bad that was exactly what he had.

The next evening Meghan got dressed for the cocktail party with a mixture of anticipation and foreboding.

No matter what she’d said, she wanted to hide here with Alessandro for ever. Playing house and forgetting the world outside, the people who waited to meet them, to judge them.

Judge him.

‘I have something for you.’ Alessandro came in the bedroom, his black tuxedo setting off his ebony hair and navy eyes with stunning simplicity. He held a black velvet box in his hand.

Meghan turned, and he took in her evening gown—the amber silk she’d worn the other night, its tear discreetly mended—with an appreciative breath.

‘My sunbeam,’ he said softly. He handed her the box. ‘This will match your gown and make your eyes sparkle.’

Intrigued, Meghan opened it. Nestled on the velvet was a necklace made up of pure topaz, the elegantly cut gems rimmed in gold, each piece daringly designed as if to fit a puzzle, sharp and brilliant.

‘Alessandro, it’s … amazing. Truly beautiful. Is it a Di Agnio piece?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. When I saw it I thought of you. May I?’ She nodded, and he lifted the necklace from the box, slipping it around her throat.

It lay heavily against her collar-bone, each piece flat, shining. She touched it reverently. She’d never worn something so exquisite, so expensive.

Alessandro’s appreciative smile hardened briefly. ‘Now we must go. The party—and people—await.’

The cocktail party was in one of Milan’s high-rises—a glittering needle of light that pierced the evening sky.

Meghan’s nerves jangled as she thought of the people circulating above them, waiting for their arrival.

‘We don’t need to stay long,’ Alessandro said, and she didn’t know if he was reassuring her or himself. ‘We’re newlyweds, after all. People will understand.’

She nodded mutely, and a valet came to park the car.

Upstairs, guests mingled in a sumptuous penthouse apartment, the room filled with the murmur of voices and the clink of crystal.

Meghan searched the crowd for a familiar face and found none. She felt Alessandro tense beside her, though his urbane smile remained unchanged.

His whole body radiated tension. She wanted to reach out, to hold his hand, to tell him he could do this, they could do this, because she was at his side.

The idea was laughable. He would be furious that she saw his weakness, humiliated by her display. And she was too scared to do it anyway.

‘Alessandro … and your lovely bride!’ A man in his late forties, trim, with grey hair slicked back from a high forehead, came forward with a hard, bright smile. ‘Who would ever have thought a man such as you would get married? It must be true love, eh?’

Alessandro inclined his head in cool acknowledgement. A muscle bunched in his jaw.

The man turned his crocodile smile on Meghan. She forced herself not to recoil from the way his gaze swept up and down her length. ‘What is the trick, bellissima? To capture a man with such a—notorious—reputation with women?’

‘I don’thave any tricks,’ Meghan replied with dignity. ‘Perhaps that’s why I have been successful where so many have not.’

‘Ah, such a fair rose.’ His smile verged on a sneer. ‘Alessandro and I go way back, you know. We’ve shared many … experiences.’ His voice caressed the last word with obvious lascivious intent.

‘Experiences best forgotten,’ Alessandro interjected lightly, although his eyes were like flint.

‘I remember when you could have a woman on each arm and one in your lap, and be finished with all of them by midnight,’ the man reminisced slyly. ‘Good times, eh, Alessandro?’

‘Things have changed.’

He raised one mocking eyebrow. ‘Have they?’

Alessandro bunched his fist, flattened it. ‘There are other people for us to greet, Bernardo.’

He turned his back on the man without another word.

‘One of your friends?’ Meghan asked in a low voice. She could feel the revulsion on her face, crawling along her skin, and she knew Alessandro could see it too.

He shrugged in reply. ‘I told you—you don’t know me.’

‘I think I do know you,’ Meghan replied. ‘Even if I don’t know who you were.’

He glanced at her sharply, the hunger in his eyes flaring quickly before dying out. ‘No, Meghan,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t make that mistake. I haven’t changed. The man I was is the man I am. No matter what you think, what I do. No matter.’ He squeezed her arm warningly. ‘Let’s enjoy what we have … and no more.’

Meghan was saved from a reply by another guest crossing to greet them, and the next hour passed in a blur of conversation— some in Italian, some in English—with Meghan desperately trying to remember the faces and names.

She wouldn’t forget the innuendoes.

They laced every sly word, drenched every speculative look.

Hints about his past, his wild days, his many women. She heard the censure, the disapproval, sometimes the reluctant rakish admiration.

Everyone knew who Alessandro had been. Who he was.

Everyone but her.

After an hour she could take no more. She excused herself to the ladies’ room, weaving among the guests in search of an escape, no matter how temporary.

‘Buona sera, Signora di Agnio.’

Stefano Lucrezi lounged in a quiet corner, his wine glass cupped in one palm. He took in her bunched fists and desperate look with one sardonic sweep of his eyes. ‘Are you trying to run away?’

‘Yes,’ Meghan replied, stung to honesty at last. ‘These people are piranhas.’

‘They scent an easy kill.’