Escape for Easter. Trish Morey

      Of course, the way they had raved might have had something to do with the cost—this was not the sort of store that had anything as tasteless as price tags—but, seeing her reflection in the mirror-lined cubicle, Sam had had to admit she didn’t look too bad.

      Once she had said yes to the dress the entire thing had snowballed into some sort of mad retail-therapy frenzy! An hour later a stunned Sam had ended up being escorted back to the chauffeur-driven limo the proud owner of some sinfully sexy decadent underclothes, shoes, and most extravagantly a simply gorgeous antique Brussels lace veil.

      ‘This is a wedding—you can’t be too over the top,’ Tim said as he watched the sparkle fade from her violet eyes. She looked so sad that, even though he wasn’t a man into tactile displays, he wanted to hug her.

      ‘It’s not that sort of wedding.’ Sam bit her lip as she heard her carefully neutral tone ruined by the emotional vibrato quiver in her response.

      Tim’s eyes fell from her direct gaze, but he did not directly respond to her comment or, to her relief, lie. Instead he surprised her by producing a posy from behind his back like a conjuror.

      ‘I hope you don’t mind? It is a wedding and you should have flowers.’ Tim pressed the posy of violets into Sam’s hands, adding gruffly. ‘The colour reminded me of your eyes.’

      Sam was incredibly touched by the unexpected gesture. She lifted the posy to her face and inhaled. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’

      ‘You can’t have a wedding without flowers. I know—I offered to pay for the flowers for my sister’s wedding.’ He let out a silent whistle. ‘I had no idea at the time how much they could cost in a real wedding.’ He stopped and looked embarrassed. ‘Not that this isn’t a real wedding,’ he added hastily.

      ‘There’s no need to pretend—we both know that it isn’t,’ Sam replied, her outward composure a stark contrast to the misery churning in her stomach.

      Tim’s expression grew earnest as he studied her pale face. ‘Are you sure about this, Sam?’

      Sam, who wasn’t sure about anything except the fact Cesare was the love of her life and the father of her child, managed a teasing smile. ‘Are you suggesting I run?’

      ‘If Cesare wants this I doubt you could run fast or far enough to escape him…’ Tim’s eyes widened with dismay. ‘God, I make him sound sinister. I didn’t mean it that way, I just meant…’

       That he wants this baby at any cost and I come as part of the package.

      Sam sighed. She supposed she ought to be grateful that Cesare had not tried to deceive her. He had not pretended to love her. Recognising that part of her wished he had filled Sam with self-disgust.

      ‘I know what you meant, Tim, he’s…implacable. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing…’

      Tim didn’t look as though he believed that claim any more than she did.

      ‘And if I don’t, well, there is a perfectly easy solution,’ she mused, recalling Cesare’s comments on the subject.

      ‘Divorce?’

      Sam could understand Tim’s shocked expression. After all, it wasn’t customary for a bride to be discussing the subject just before she took her vows.

      Her slender shoulder lifted. ‘Well…it happens. Don’t worry, I’ll try and make it work,’ she added.

      It occurred to Cesare as he stood in the small anonymous room that this was not the sort of wedding that most girls dreamed of.

      What sort of wedding had Samantha dreamed about?

      Had she dreamed?

      He didn’t know because he hadn’t asked her, he hadn’t given her time to think. It had been obvious that she was still in a state of shock over the unplanned pregnancy and he had ruthlessly exploited the situation to coerce her into marriage. What she wanted or needed had not come into the equation. He had been totally focused on being there for his child, on being a full-time father. That focus had allowed him to ignore one simple fact—he needed her.

      Cesare had never needed a woman before. Wanted, yes, but needed, no.

      The fact she was carrying his child had been convenient in that it had offered a sufficient excuse for him to legitimately avoid delving too deep into the survival-instinct mentality that had taken over when he had thought of her slipping out of his life.

      A wave of self-disgust rolled over him.

      He was a selfish bastard, but the recognition did not lessen his determination that this ceremony would go ahead.

      He would be a considerate husband, he silently vowed.

      She would not regret marrying him.

      The door opened with a silent swish; there was no accompanying blast of music. No tissues were lifted to blot emotional tears, no heads turned to gasp at the bride.

      It took every last ounce of Cesare’s self-control not to turn his own head in response to the sound of footsteps on the wood-block floor.

      Sam recited her part in the charade in a quiet voice that the registrar visibly struggled to hear. Cesare in contrast made his responses in a clear, resonant tone. She kept her eyes carefully trained on the registrar throughout the service and it wasn’t until Cesare was given the smiling all-clear to kiss his bride that she turned and tilted her head, her shaking fingers struggling to lift her veil.

      Cesare released a sigh, glad now more than ever that he had ignored the doctor’s earnest advice that morning.

      Who would want to be lying in a hospital bed gazing at the sterile white walls when they could be looking at this face? She was beautiful.

      He gazed, inscribing to memory every detail of her heart-shaped face. He had traced each contour with his fingers; he knew her skin was smooth and soft; he knew all about the tiny suggestion of a cleft in her small, determined chin and faint frown line between her feathery brows. He knew her mouth was lush and wide and made for kissing.

      What he didn’t know about until now was that her lips were pink like roses, the colour only enhanced, not disguised, by the clear gloss she had applied to them.

      That there was the creamy glowing tint to her skin, the delicious sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her tip-tilted nose, the glorious Titian of her Pre-Raphaelite curls, and most of all he hadn’t known about the colour of her eyes, an impossible shade of deep velvet blue.

      His throat tightened as emotions swelled in his chest. If he woke up tomorrow back in a world of blackness he would carry this memory, that colour, her face with him.

      There had been occasions over the past days when he had fallen asleep with her in his arms fantasising about waking up in the morning and seeing her face. He had never actually expected it to happen, but it had and she had not been there.

      Not there, but his first instinct had been to tell her. He had picked up the phone, his intention to do just that, to share the miracle.

      Then he had heard her sleepy voice the other end and thought, What if it isn’t a miracle? Maybe his sight would vanish as abruptly as it had returned. So he had remained silent and taken the decision instead to seek medical advice.