I go over to the closet and slide open the doors, examining the clothes on the rack. Part of me wants to stay in what I’m wearing and he can go to hell with his expensive dresses and stupid lacy underwear. But another part of me is whispering that he might be expecting menotto make an effort, so why not surprise him? Or maybe he’s expecting full make-up and ball gown, so a sweatshirt is the better surprise?
I stand there looking at the gowns and dresses, paralysed by my own indecision, which is ridiculous, because it’s only a dinner.
Remind him again that you’re his wife. That you deserve respect.
I blink at the thought. It’s true. If I’m demanding his respect I need to look like the wife he’s expecting me to be. I need to remind him of the consequences of what he’s done by bringing me here and marrying me immediately. If he thought he could put a ring on my finger, legally marry me, then forget about me and lock me away like a trophy in his cabinet, then he’ll soon find out he’s wrong.
Determination fills me and I reach for a cocktail dress without hesitation. It’s emerald green and has so many sequins it’s like a disco ball, but when I put it on and look at myself in the mirror, I don’t actually look like a disco ball.
The green fabric shimmers and sparkles as it clings to my body, outlining every curve. The neckline is plunging and there is a slit in one side that cuts straight up my thigh to my hip. It’s sexy as hell and as much as I hate to admit it, it fits me perfectly.
I take my hair out of its ponytail and shake it out, letting the long straight length of it fall over my shoulders. The treatments the hairdresser put in it in preparation for the wedding have made it look glossy and silky. I’ve never really bothered with it before, but now I’m bothering and I’m pleased.
Still, if I’m going to go full wife, I need make-up, and since I hate wearing make-up, it’s going to be a challenge to get it looking perfect. But half an hour and a few YouTube tutorials later, I’ve managed to get mascara on my lashes with no clumps, and gold and green eye shadow on my lids without fallout. Then it’s a slick of red lip balm on my lips for that freshly bitten look, and some high-heeled golden sandals that make my legs look like they go on forever.
By the time I’m done, it’s nearly six thirty, and nerves are gathering in my gut. But I’m not going to wait for Maria to come for me, oh no, I’ll be damned if I wait on his order. So, I give myself one last going-over, then I turn from the mirror and head out of the room.
Chapter Eight
Vincenzo
I’VE ORGANISED FORMaria to serve us dinner out on the terrace that overlooks the sea, and she’s done a fine job. The table is set with a white tablecloth, the finest crystal champagne flutes, heavy silver cutlery and a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket. Candles in elegant glass holders flicker in the slight sea-breeze, and the bougainvillea that cascades from the terrace above in a riot of pink, hangs picturesquely over the scene.
And as I stand there surveying the scene, a part of me is wondering why the hell I’m fussing around with place settings and candles for my new forced bride, when I could be in bed screwing Annika.
It’s a complete fucking mystery.
Everything about my behaviour since I kidnapped Caterina Salvatore seems to be a complete fucking mystery, and I hate mysteries.
I always know what I’m doing and everything is in service to my goal of cleaning the tarnish from the Argenti family’s honour. Deciding to cancel my evening with Annika in favour of dinner with my new wife is not cleaning any tarnish from the Argenti family’s honour. It’s got nothing to do with anyone’s honour at all, so I don’t know why I did it.
She said I had to bear the consequences of marrying her, that I owe her the respect of at least not screwing another woman on our wedding night, and I…had to admit to myself that she was right.
It was a simple thing she’d asked of me. Nothing to do with giving her freedom or sparing her father’s life, only a little respect for one night. Then, of course, without waiting for a response, she gave up her only weapon to me. As if she’d made her point and didn’t need it anymore.
Ridiculous creature. In that moment, with her untidy ponytail and her sweatshirt half falling off her shoulder and her loose black trousers, she looked young, vulnerable and fragile. Defenceless. The perfect prey for the predator. And I was the predator. I was the villain. Yet she gave up her weapon without even waiting for an answer, and that made something in me catch and pull, like a fish hook catching on a rock.
A wife in the families is a host, a mediator, she runs the household and takes care of the children. She is guarded and protected, staying out of the business side of things, because that is a job for men.
My mother, Elena, was different, at least at the start. She was fiery, opinionated, fiercely protective and loyal. Yet, over the years, my father slowly ground all those things out of her. He would not tolerate any exceptions to the norm and he would not tolerate those who wouldn’t do what he said. His word was law. My mother didn’t fit into the box he put her in, so he made her fit by cutting away the pieces of her he didn’t like.
I assumed that any wife I eventually had would be exactly like all the rest. A goodcosa nostrawife who supports her husband, but I knew upstairs in that bedroom, that Caterina Salvatore would not be a wife like all the rest.
She’s like my mother, full of fire and spark, and the way she challenged me with the gun and with her wit…
My father didn’t respect my mother, not at all. He had mistresses scattered from one end of Italy to the other, and he visited them all while she remained here at the estate, dependent on the drugs the doctors fed her.
I’m supposed to be different. I’m supposed to be better. A more honourable man than he ever was, and so how could I do anything but give her what she wanted?
I suspect there’s more to it than that, especially because I didn’t feel even the slightest bit of disappointment about cancelling Annika. But I don’t want to think about what more there is. Not now. Not when I’m still waiting for Giovanni Salvatore’s sworn loyalty.
I can even admit to some…anticipation at the thought of having dinner with my strangely fascinating new wife. She certainly won’t be boring, at least.
Turning from my survey of the table, I’m about to find Maria to tell her to summon my wife, when a woman walks through the French doors and out onto the terrace as if she owns it.
She’s tall and built like a dancer, long legs, slim hips, small, rounded breasts, each and every curve followed lovingly by the fabric of her green sequinned dress. Her black hair is loose down her back, falling almost to her waist, and her incredible eyes are highlighted with sparkles of gold and green on her lids. She wears high-heeled golden sandals that make her legs even longer, and the basest part of me imagines having those long legs wrapped around my waist as I fuck her. Or maybe flung over my shoulders, the long spike of her heel digging into my back as I make her come.
The woman is unfamiliar at first and I have the passing thought that maybe she’s one of my other lovers and if so, what is she doing here? Then, like a blurred scene through a camera lens suddenly springing into focus, I realise who the woman is.
