One Night In…

She stopped, stared uncertainly. ‘What do you mean?’

Stefano shrugged. ‘No one ever expected Alessandro di Agnio to get married.’

‘I’ve gathered that,’ she replied, a bit tartly. ‘I also understand he’s had plenty of women, plenty of parties, and that he’s probably been the most notorious playboy Milan—and Italy— have ever seen!’

She’d meant to be sarcastic, but Stefano just nodded slowly. ‘Then you are starting to understand.’

Meghan was more shocked by Stefano’s admission than she cared to admit, but she rallied her courage and spread her hands wide. ‘So what? Lots of men—Italian men—have similar pasts. He’s CEO of an important company. He’s married now. What matters is now.’ She so desperately wanted to believe that was true.

‘Yes,’ Stefano agreed quietly. ‘But people don’t want to forget. They can’t. Alessandro least of all.’

Meghan shook her head, though she’d suspected as much. ‘Then what can I do? I don’t want the past to destroy us.’

‘Has he told you about his brother?’

‘He died. That’s all I know.’

‘Roberto was CEO of the company after their father died. He’d been groomed for the role since infancy, but he was hopeless at it. He was an artist, and he could not make good business decisions. When he died Alessandro took over, but there was not much to work with. People …’ Stefano paused, his expression momentarily guarded. ‘They doubted he could do it, but he has. He has brought the company back from the brink of ruin. He has proved many, many people wrong, signora. I hope he is proved right in you.’

‘So do I,’ Meghan whispered.

He nodded towards her necklace. ‘One of his designs.’

‘What?’ Meghan touched the necklace, shocked. ‘Alessandro designed this?’

‘Yes—a hobby of his.’ Stefano’s face was shadowed for a moment. ‘He doesn’t like people to know … it’s merely a pastime.’

Alessandro was quiet on the way home. Meghan watched him from under her lashes, saw the implacable lines of his face and knew he would not want to talk. He would certainly not want to answer questions.

Yet she had so many.

He needs love.

Did he? Meghan wondered achingly. She so wanted to be able to give it to him … if only he would accept her gift. If only he would dispel his own shadows … or let her help him do it.

‘Did you have a good time tonight?’ she finally asked, breaking the silence that hung like a pall of gloom over the car.

‘No, but I didn’t expect to,’ Alessandro replied shortly. His eyes slid to Meghan, roamed over her. ‘But I did enjoy seeing you in that dress, and picturing what you look like underneath.’

Meghan swallowed, smiled. Sex. That was what he was going to reduce it to now—what he wanted it to be.

She forced herself to smile. Knew she couldn’t make him love her. The only power she had now was her love for him. It would have to be enough.

‘I’m yours to command.’

Alessandro’s eyes lit with a feral pleasure. ‘Good.’

He came to her when she was in the bedroom, wiping her make-up off with a tissue.

He stood silently behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his face dangerously blank.

‘Can you help me with the necklace?’ Meghan asked lightly, though she trembled inwardly at the now-familiar mask he wore. A mask she didn’t like. Didn’t understand.

He obeyed, undoing the intricate clasp. He laid the necklace on the table and then looked at her. Their gazes met in the mirror, his face was still blank except for a cold, predatory smile.

‘Take off your clothes.’ It came out as a command, blunt and base, and Meghan stiffened, startled, uncertain.

‘Take them off, Meghan,’ he said silkily. ‘I want to look at you.’

She hesitated, hating the cold smile he humiliated her with, yet seeing—wanting to see—desperation in his eyes. He was driven to this, and she didn’t understand why.

‘Scared?’ he mocked softly.

She lifted her chin, met his chilling gaze, and obeyed.

Turning around slowly to face him, she slipped off the dress and it fell in a pool of silk around her feet. She took off her bra and panties and stood there naked, proud, unashamed.

Trembling.

His gaze swept her, raked her, inspecting and assessing.

Why was he doing this? Meghan didn’t know. She wouldn’t let herself feel the humiliation, the hurt. She’d felt it before, and that life was gone now. For ever. She came to him in love, even if he didn’t know it. Even if he wouldn’t accept it.

‘Touch me.’ His bold gaze challenged her, and simply, silently, she moved forward.

She stood before him while he watched her unbutton his shirt. She willed her hands not to shake. Meghan felt his muscles flex under her fingers, knew he was not unaffected by her, even though his still, stony stance made her think otherwise.

Her hands moved lower, hovered at his belt buckle.

‘Touch me, Meghan. Touch me.’ His voice was quiet, lethal, yet she could hear the need, the plea underneath the command. At least, she thought she could.

She hoped.

He was different. This was different.

She undid his buckle, slid his trousers down his legs, dropping down to her knees in front of him. He groaned softly, his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her to him.

She kissed him there softly, reverently, and with a shuddering gasp he pulled her up into his arms, burying his head in her hair, breathing in the scent of her as if it were air, as if it would save him.

‘Why don’t you stop?’ he groaned against her hair, her eyes, her mouth. ‘Why don’t you stop?’

‘Stop?’ she repeated uncertainly, accepting his kisses, his regrets.

‘Stop loving me.’

Everything inside her stilled, became suspended and motionless. She touched his face with her hands, looked into his eyes, saw the anguish. ‘You know?.’ She was shaken by his admission, by hers. By the truth they both knew.

‘Don’t, Meghan. Don’t do it. Stop yourself. For your own sake, for mine, stop.’ He was still kissing her, each touch a plea. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

But I will. The words hovered in the air, unspoken. Not needing to be said.

‘I can’t stop,’ Meghan whispered. ‘I don’t want to.’

He shook his head in denial even as he laid her gently on the bed. ‘No. No. You don’t know …’

‘Tell me.’ She arched up, gasping as he touched her, his fingers slipping inside, so knowing, so tender, drawing her fevered response.

‘No … Meghan.’ His voice was ragged as he entered her warmth, filled her once again. Meghan moved beneath him, accepting his weight, the solid strength of him above and inside her.

He buried his face in her shoulder, his lips on her neck, gasping as they both moved, rocking, wanting, finding … and then shattering into pleasure. ‘Meghan … I need you too much.’

Meghan clung to him, stroked his face, his hair. His words echoed in her mind with a flicker of hope.

He needed her. It wasn’t love, but it was something.

It was all she had, and she clung to it fiercely.

Two days later Alessandro came home with two envelopes and a secretive smile.

Meghan was in the lounge, curled up with a book. Since that night of both pain and pleasure they had not talked of love—her love—again. Meghan had not wanted to mention it. She couldn’t face the certain rebuff.

Alessandro had reverted—as he always did—into the charming, urbane man she’d once thought was his real self and now knew was not.

Even though she still wanted to find the truth she’d been grateful for the reprieve, a respite from the intensity. They talked, they ate, they made love. Life, on the surface, was simple. It wasn’t real. It was a half-life, a life of pleasant pretence.

Meghan wondered how long it would last.

How long they could both keep it up. One of them was certain to break.

Shatter.

Now she took in his teasing, expectant smile with a little fizz of anticipation.

‘What is it? What do you have?’

He handed her the first envelope. ‘See for yourself.’

Meghan opened it, scanned the embossed paper. It was a letter from one of the American schools in Milan, offering her an interview.

‘Alessandro!’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you arranges…?’

‘I had your CV from Stanton Springs faxed to them. It was a matter of minutes.’

‘And some ingenuity.’

He shrugged, the movement one of instinctive inherited male arrogance. ‘That I have.’

‘The interview is next week!’ Meghan marvelled. ‘I can’t believe it!’ She glanced at him over the letter, sincerity shining in her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

Her gratitude bothered him; she saw it in his dismissive shrug, heard it in his brusque tone. ‘It was easy. Open the other one.’

She opened the second envelope. A postcard fell out.

It was a vista of an aquamarine sea, a stunning white sand beach. Meghan read the place name on the back of the card. ‘Amorphos?’

‘A Greek island, very small, very secluded. We leave tomorrow morning.’

Her eyes flew to his. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘I’ve arranged with my mother to buy the necessary things for you that you don’t have already. Your bags are packed. There is nothing keeping us here.’

‘Our honeymoon,’ Meghan said in dawning delight, and he pulled her into an embrace, gave her a brief, hard kiss. ‘Yes … where no one can find us.’

Meghan smiled, but she couldn’t keep from thinking, We can’t run for ever.

They took Alessandro’s private jet to Amorphos, so there was just the two of them in the sumptuous interior, feasting on strawberries and chilled champagne.

Meghan glanced out at the Mediterranean below them, a blue blanket stretching to the horizon.

‘I can’t believe this is real,’ she murmured, and Alessandro smiled.

‘It’s as real as we want it to be.’

She tensed slightly, aware that his remark was cryptic. Nothing so far had been very real.

This trip, just like their life in Milan, was a fantasy as manufactured as the Marmore Falls—a torrent one moment, a trickle the next.

It wouldn’t be real until Alessandro confessed, shared the secrets that drove him to despair, that turned him into a desperate stranger. Until he trusted her … loved her.

When would that happen? How could she make it happen? Don’t think you can save me.

The warning rang in Meghan’s mind, echoed through her soul.

But you’re worth saving.

She took a sip of champagne, determined to shrug such fears away, for now at least. The bubbles fizzed pleasantly through her. ‘So, Di Agnio Enterprises can spare you for a few days?’

‘They have to.’ Alessandro stretched out in the seat opposite her. ‘I am the CEO, after all. I make the rules.’

Meghan twirled her champagne flute in her fingers. ‘Stefano mentioned that the company was on the brink of ruin. You saved it.’

Alessandro stilled. ‘He exaggerates.’

Meghan felt her heart skip and then beat double-time at Alessandro’s cold look, but she pressed on anyway.

‘Does he? He seemed quite certain about his facts.’

‘He was gossipping like a laundry woman, then,’ Alessandro replied shortly. ‘It’s hardly like him.’

Meghan leaned forward. ‘Don’t blame him. He was trying to help me.’

‘Help you?’ Contemptuous disbelief delicately laced his words.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ she replied with some spirit. ‘Help me understand you, Alessandro, because you’re hell to understand!’

He stared at her, eyes dark and cold as a lake in winter. Meghan held her breath, wondering if she’d pushed him too far. She hadn’t meant to start this conversation, hadn’t wanted to ask for answers. She just couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know so much.

She wanted to understand.

‘Maybe I am.’ He smiled at her, coldly, and Meghan made herself press on.

‘Stefano—he said your brother was an artist, that he didn’t have a head for business. No one thought—’

‘I know what people did and did not think,’ Alessandro cut in shortly. ‘And do not think to blame my brother. He did the best he could, and if he made any unwise business decisions it was because he was too naïve, too trusting, and people led him astray—’ He broke off suddenly, his breathing ragged, and stared out of the window.

Meghan sat back, reeling from the bitterness that had twisted his voice, his features.

‘Remember, Meghan, I married you because you don’t know me. Don’t understand me.’ His eyes flashed dangerously. ‘And I want to keep it that way.’

‘What kind of marriage is that?’ Meghan asked, a desperate edge to her voice. ‘You can’t—’

‘The kind we agreed on,’ Alessandro cut in with smooth, steely determination. ‘Don’t think to change it. I warn you, I will not allow it. You may think you love me, but you don’t. You don’t even know me. If you did—’ He stopped, stared out of the window again, his face a mask.

‘If I did…?’ Meghan prompted softly.

‘It hardly matters. Your love is worthless to me.’

The cold, casual dismissal sent stabbing pain through her. She blinked quickly. ‘It’s not worthless to me.’

‘It should be. I warned you, Meghan. Don’t forget that.’ His mouth was a hard, unforgiving line. He reached forward and poured them both more champagne. ‘Now,’ he said with silky, lethal intent, ‘let’s try to enjoy the rest of our honeymoon, shall we?’

The rest of the trip passed in miserable silence, Meghan drowning in the fresh sorrow Alessandro had caused.

He did it on purpose. She knew that. He hurt her, drove her away intentionally, to keep her from loving him.

She could only blame herself; she’d known the terms when she’d agreed to the marriage.

It was her own fault now for trying to change them.

She’d just never expected to love so deeply, so purely, so hopelessly.

Was it hopeless? Would Alessandro never learn—perhaps never admit—that he loved her? Was she mad to think he might?

Meghan blinked back tears. The thought of years ahead in a loveless, soulless marriage made her wonder if she could stand it. Yet life without Alessandro at all was not even worth contemplating.

The plane landed on the resort’s private airstrip, and Meghan and Alessandro stepped out into the hot, dry sunshine.

She rallied her numbed emotions, smiled at the Grecian paradise stretched out before them for their own pleasure, and said, ‘This looks wonderful.’

Alessandro’s eyes glinted approval at her change of mood. ‘I’m sure we can make it so,’ he murmured.

She smiled stiffly, wondered if she had the strength to act the affectionate wife—not loving, never that—when her heart was breaking. Not even breaking. A break would be clean. It was twisting with a torturous pain that Meghan wasn’t sure would ever end.

The resort catered to a most exclusive crowd, and Meghan and Alessandro had their own villa, luxurious and intimate.

‘Not bad,’ Alessandro commented after the porter had left. Meghan took in the combination living and dining room, the tiled floor and simple yet sumptuous furniture, a sliding glass door leading directly to the beach and an aquamarine sea that sparkled like a jewel only metres away.

‘Not bad?’ she repeated with a little laugh. ‘It’s paradise.’

‘I can hardly wait to enjoy it,’ Alessandro murmured, and he moved towards her purposefully.

Meghan tried to return his kiss, tried to fan the flicker of desire in her core. Alessandro began to deftly unbutton her sundress and she stood there silently, her eyes closed, wishing this misery that consumed her heart, her soul, gone.

‘Meghan?’ Her dress was half off her shoulders when he looked up in perplexity. ‘What is it—what is wrong?’

Meghan swallowed, choking down her sorrow. ‘Nothing … I’m just tired.’

He paused, his eyes sweeping over her face, guessing at the truth. Meghan blinked, swallowed. Carefully he zipped her dress back up.

‘Then you must rest.’

Taking her hand gently, he led her to the bed, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead.

‘Rest. There will be plenty of time later.’ He smiled softly, his eyes shadowed, and left the room.

Meghan lay in darkness and pressed her face into the pillow, willing the hot rush of tears back. They came anyway.

How could he be so kind, so tender, if he didn’t love her? Was it an act? A deceit?

Who was the real Alessandro…? And did that man love her?

After a while she fell into an uneasy doze, awoke with her tears spent. This was her honeymoon. It wasn’t the time to demand answers, confessions. She wanted to enjoy it. She wanted Alessandro to enjoy it. The only way to ensure that was to work hard.

Scrubbing her cheeks, Meghan got out of bed.

Over the next week she worked hard to make sure they enjoyed themselves. They chatted rather than talked; joked rather than shared. Meghan kept her voice light. She didn’t ask any questions. She wanted Alessandro happy, even if it hurt. She wanted to make him smile, laugh.

She wanted to heal him, but she didn’t know how.

They swam and snorkelled, sunbathed and slept. They ate the delicious, plentiful Greek food, and drank the rich red wine. They made love—on the king-sized bed, in the kitchen, in the bath, on the cool white sand as the moon rose above the sea, turning it to silver.

Lying on the bed one evening, listening to the waves lap on the shore and to Alessandro’s gentle breathing, Meghan wondered if she would ever be able to expect more. Hope for more.

For something real.

She didn’t know how long she could last, how long her heart could last, living this loveless life.

I love him. I want him to love me.

She closed her eyes and sighed, willing herself to be content with what Alessandro offered.

Her only hope was that he would change, that he would come to love and trust her with time. She had nothing else.

On their last night they walked to a taverna in the village and sat outside. Fairylights were twined in the arbour that surrounded the tables, and the water lapped only metres from their feet, fishing boats knocking gently together as the moon cut a silver swath across the calm surface of the sea.

Meghan picked at her souvlaki, wondering what the future held for them, for their marriage. It was easy to pretend on a beautiful island. Real life back in Milan, with all of its shadows and memories, was something different altogether.

Alessandro covered her hand with his own. ‘It has to end, cara. It always does.’

Meghan wondered if he meant the honeymoon, or something more. Another warning?

She bent her head, let her hair fall to obscure her face. Now was not the time to ask such questions, demand such answers. She knew instinctively Alessandro would recoil. Regret. Repulse.

When would the right time be?

‘Alessandro?’ They both jerked in surprise at the sensual female voice. A woman stood in front of their table, white-blonde hair framing a sharp, pixie face, her wide blue eyes darting speculatively between Alessandro and Meghan. She was dressed in an extremely skimpy and expensive sundress.

‘Emilia.’ Alessandro’s voice was terse. He stood as a matter of form, of courtesy. ‘It has been a while.’

‘Hasn’t it?’ Although she spoke in rapid Italian, this one conversation Meghan was determined to follow. ‘This isn’t your usual type of place,’ she said with a husky laugh. ‘Too quiet by far. I came for a bit of rest and relaxation, but I’m already bored.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Alessandro replied with wintry politeness.

‘Are you?’ Her smile curled upwards, as sleek and sly as a cat’s. ‘Who’s your friend?’

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is my wife—Meghan,’ he said coldly. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’

‘Your wife?’ Emilia let out a peal of incredulous laughter. ‘You’re joking! You? Married?’

‘I assure you it is true, and a most pleasant truth at that.’

Emilia’s gaze raked contemptuously over Meghan. ‘This milky miss? Come on, Alessandro. She could amuse you for a day, a week, not much more. I know you … I know your pleasures.’ Her smile was so intimate, so suggestive, that Meghan gave a little gasp of wounded surprise.

Alessandro’s body was taut, his mouth a thin slash of anger. ‘You are insulting me and my wife.’

Emilia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Her, perhaps,’ she agreed, her voice lowered to a hiss. ‘But you? That would be hard to do.’

Meghan saw the flash of acknowledgement in his eyes before he bit out, ‘I will ask you to leave.’

Her lips tightened, and she turned to Meghan, speaking slowly now for her benefit. ‘Forgive my rudeness. Alessandro and I go a long way back. I’d no idea he’d changed so very much.’ She glanced back at him slyly. ‘If indeed he needed changing.’

‘You must have known he’d taken over Di Agnio Enterprises,’ Meghan pointed out in what she hoped was a reasonable tone, though she felt like clawing the other woman’s eyes out. ‘It seems you are not such good friends with my husband as you thought.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Emilia acknowledged with an icy smile. ‘I never would have imagined him latching on to a woman like you.’ She turned to Alessandro, touched her fingers to her lips and boldly pressed them to Alessandro’s mouth. ‘Ciao, bello.’

He stood still, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his eyes both blazing and cold.

Then she left.

Meghan stared down at her virtually untouched souvlaki. The silence stretched between them, thin and taut as a wire, oppressive as a leaden weight.

‘I guess she’s not too happy you’re married,’ she finally managed, trying to keep her voice light and amused and failing miserably.

Alessandro’s eyes and voice were flat, cold. ‘She wouldn’t be. Emilia and I used to be lovers.’

Icy shock drenched her, left her near to trembling. It didn’t surprise her—of course she’d guessed as much—but it still hurt.

And Alessandro’s cold, calculating delivery of such a fact hurt even more.

‘Used to be,’ she finally repeated, lifting her chin. ‘That’s what’s important now.’

Alessandro’s mouth turned up in a mocking smile. ‘How fortunate I am to have such an understanding wife,’ he remarked lightly. ‘And such sensitivity will surely come in useful, considering I’d slept with at least half the women at the cocktail party the other night.’

Meghan’s vision blurred, whether from tears or shock she didn’t know.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she whispered, though it felt as if it mattered very much.

‘Oh, good,’ Alessandro said musingly. ‘Because it’s probably more like two-thirds.’

‘I know you were a playboy, a womaniser, Alessandro,’ Meghan said through gritted teeth. ‘It doesn’t matter now. I know you’ll be faithful.’

‘Do you?’ he mocked, and she gripped the edge of the table, struggling to hold onto her composure, her calm.

She wanted to break down completely.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she finally asked in a low voice. ‘You’re deliberately trying to provoke me. To hurt me.’

Alessandro leaned forward, his eyes glittering with malicious intent. ‘But gattina,’ he said softly, ‘I’m showing you so you know not to be hurt. This is who I was—who I am. You can’t change me. You can’t save me.’

Right then Meghan didn’t even want to try.

She barely remembered the rest of the meal. She must have eaten and drunk, because their plates were cleared away, her glass refilled. She lived in a shocked daze, wondering why Alessandro hurt her so much, why she let him.

Surely enough was enough?

She couldn’t keep doing this.

It wasn’t worth it.

But I love him.

Meghan had wanted power for herself this time, had married for it, but she’d become its victim instead. Again.

Alessandro’s victim.