But their easy discussion at her temporary residence in a village near London and the mature, sensible way he’d handled her little lie of omission,andtheir situation, had lulled her into believing him to be a trustworthy man.
So when he’d suggested on the phone—the man had his secretary check on her three times a day along with the frequent updates he received from her bodyguard-slash-nurse—that she travel to Venice so that they could get married in a quiet civil ceremony,so that they could hurry up and legitimize their unborn child, she had agreed like a meek little puppet.
Naive fool that she was, Mimi had even convinced herself that being married to him wouldn’t be too bad. And that it even might be nice to have a dependable partner in the early months after the baby came.
Now she was standing in front of the same crème de la crème of the Venetian society the DiCarlo family lorded over, seven months pregnant. For just a second, she wished the doctor hadn’t given her the permission to travel so easily, or that Renzo hadn’t been able to arrange a private jet with two medics on board.
But she was here now, and it was pointless to wish otherwise.
The white marble steps were already lined with people. Guests dressed in designer finery milled about, their conversations a symphony of accents—Italian, English, French.
Then she caught sight of the DiCarlo family—his sleek, sharp-featured sister, Chiara, and diminutive mother watching her with cool amusement, his father surveying her like a king inspecting a commoner, his brother, Massimo, looking pretty and sullen as usual, and his cousins whispering behind perfectly manicured hands.
Her heart pounded as she felt their scrutiny, their judgment. Most of which was based on Pia’s behavior with them, with Santo. Which meant she was losing before she was even starting on this path.
No, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her crack. Also, this wasn’t a real marriage, and her in-laws’ approval was the last thing she sought.
At the bottom of the steps, a throng of paparazzi jostled for position behind red rope, their cameras flashing like strobes as Renzo exited the taxi behind her. The air grew thick with the click of shutters and the hum of curiosity.
Mimi realized with a dawning horror that her name was already being shouted alongside Renzo’s.
“Mimi, look this way!”
“Signora DiCarlo, how does it feel to bring the uncatchable bachelor Renzo DiCarlo to the altar?”
Her breath caught.
Signora DiCarlo.
They had already changed her name, and it felt as heavy as the weight of the hundred or more pairs of eyes on her. Thank the universe she had trusted her gut instinct and dressed in a loose-fitting lacy black dress.
She definitely wasn’t going to spend her hard-earned money on a new dress for a wedding she didn’t want.
Her bridegroom, of course, was dressed in a black Armani tuxedo that made him look like he’d just stepped off the pages of a wedding magazine.
Jet-black hair slicked back, olive skin gleaming in the sun, Renzo looked like a dream—a wet dream come true. Definitely hers, given how she’d indulged herself in the last week with images of him.
Her cheeks heated with the knowledge of what she’d done, like a neon sign painted over her face.
Reaching her, Renzo hurriedly pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. “You look…flushed.” Concern drew deep grooves around his mouth. “Are you feeling unwell?”
Mimi fought the urge to slap his hand away.
But he was apparently as perceptive as he was high-handed. He tilted his head as if he needed a different point of view to consider her. “Ah…you’re angry.” Then he stepped close, closer than she was comfortable with, and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. The gesture discombobulated her, like everything about him did. And that scent of him sent her hormones haywire again.
“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered, her gaze lingering on his Adam’s apple. Then, needing to do something with her hands, she fiddled with his straight bow tie. He bent his head, and Mimi’s tummy did that roll and swoop again.
The sight of Renzo DiCarlo subjecting himself to his bride-to-be’s scrutiny was the stuff of legends, and that he was playing the part so dutifully with her was enough to make even her sensible head go dizzy.
“Did you know that you have a very open face, Mimi? You telegraph everything you think, every emotion that moves through you, in your eyes. The last thing we need is to give the press more fodder about us.”
“I’m the one giving them more fodder?” she hissed under her breath. His scent was seriously messing with her composure. “You promised me a quiet civil ceremony. This…is hardly that. And how powerful and influential do you have to be to reserve this place in a matter of one week?” She didn’t give him a chance to reply to her rhetorical question. “You didn’t even have the decency to tell me ahead of time. Do you realize how humiliating I find this? All these people staring at me, judging me, wondering which trash pile you pulled me out of…”
She didn’t understand why tears pricked behind her eyes. Usually, she didn’t give a rat’s ass about how she was perceived by anybody. But something about this situation made all her hackles rise.
Renzo frowned. “You can hardly blame me for this after the stunt your mother pulled in the last week.”
“What?” Mimi blinked, her frown as genuine as her bafflement. “My mom’s in Australia.”
