“No,” she mumbles. “As long as you stay away from me, I won’t have to hurt you. I want nothing to do with you.”
We’re both quiet until we reach the reception but before either one of us moves, there’s something I have to say.
“You look beautiful in your wedding dress.”
Her body stiffens while she keeps her eyes glued out the window. “You like my dress? My brother and dad hate it. They think it’s too promiscuous.”
“I love the dress. Your brother and dad are mistaken.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because even though I don’t trust you, I won’t lie to you. You look beautiful in your dress and I wanted you to know.”
When she doesn’t answer, I open my car door but before I can get out she says, “Thank you,” stopping me.
She doesn’t say anything more. After a beat, I get out of the car and she does the same and we walk into the hotel where our reception is being held.
Our guests have already arrived and are seated, eating their dinner. The band Patrick hired – he handled all of the wedding details – announces us as we enter.
“To Mr. and Mrs. Marco Amato!”
The guests all clap for us.
Ciara scowls. “I didn’t agree to take your name.”
“It’s customary.”
“I still didn’t agree to it. I want to keep my own name. It’s who I am.”
“You wanted me dead, Ciara. You don’t get a say.”
“And you wanted to force me into a marriage. I’m not sure which one is worse.”
I give her a hard look before taking her hand in mine. “We need to have our first dance. Put on a show for the people here. They need to know that this alliance can work.”
“The last thing I want to do is dance with you.”
“You might stab me in the back, so I don’t really want it either. But we have to and sometimes we have to do things we don’t want.” I pull her onto the dance floor and Ciara finally relents.
The moment she’s in my arms, I feel a spark of electricity. She fits perfectly into the crook of my body. This would be fine and well if I wasn’t worried about my own wife trying to kill me.
Ciara and I move gracefully across the dance floor.
“Where did you learn to dance?” I ask.
“Surprised I would know how to dance? That an Irish woman would know ballroom?”
“I never said that. I’m just asking you a question.” My hand tightens over her hand. “You don’t have to make everything so difficult.”
“Easier said than done with you.” She looks over my shoulder as we move around the dance floor until she finally speaks again. “I learned from my mom. Where did you learn to dance?”
“Surprised a man like me would know how?”
“Yes,” she says flatly.
“I learned from my parents. My father always thought a gentlemen should know how to do the waltz. It’s the only dance I know how to do.”
“Where are your parents? It’s just you here. The rest of the guests are friends of my father.”
