Blackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife. Annie West

her bemused brain.

      Alissa’s eyes widened as she registered pleasure at his skilful caress. A tiny spark of feminine appreciation. A rippling tide of awareness that heated her blood.

      Ruthlessly she crushed it, ignoring too the sizzle of unexpected pleasure as his hands all but spanned her waist, making her feel dainty, feminine and delicate.

      Desperately she focused on pushing him away. Yet her efforts had no effect. He swamped her senses till she was aware of nothing but his hot, heady presence and the current of desire threatening to drag her under. A slow-turning twist of unfamiliar tension coiled deep inside her.

      Eventually he lifted his head and she stared, dumbfounded, at the man who was her husband. She hadn’t expected him to kiss her. More, she couldn’t believe his kiss had been so…disturbing. How could she have responded to a man she didn’t want?

      Dark grey eyes surveyed her as thoroughly as she scrutinised him. His gaze was unrevealing but for a shadow of expression that flickered for an instant.

      A firm hand grasped her sagging jaw. ‘Time enough to stare later, moglie mia.’ His whisper was sardonic.

      Moglie mia. My wife. Alissa’s heart plunged in free fall as she absorbed the horrifying finality of those words. There was no going back.

      He steered her to a desk so she could sign the marriage certificate. Absurdly she was grateful for his support. Her legs felt like cotton wool, her mind was muzzy with shock.

      Why had he kissed her?

      Because he can. It’s a power thing.

      Yet, watching his tight-lipped profile as he signed his name in a slashing script, Alissa could no longer read satisfaction on his face. He looked grimmer than ever.

      Perhaps he didn’t like kissing her. She tried to take comfort in the thought. But her brain was stuck in shocked awareness of how devastating his kiss had been.

      It must never happen again.

      Dario watched the witnesses sign the vital paper that finally secured his ownership of the family estate.

      That bound him to Alissa Scott. Alissa Parisi now.

      His wife. Distaste filled him. She sat motionless, bedecked in showy white satin and a froth of gauzy veil. Who did she think she fooled with that virginal outfit? She was no innocent.

      Was the gown an obscure joke or had she been serious about dressing to please her sister? The notion didn’t sit well with what he knew of this woman.

      Grasping, immoral, unrepentant. She’d tried so hard to deny him ownership of his home. She must have imbibed the Mangano hatred of Parisi blood with her mother’s milk.

      Yet he’d made her his wife.

      The Parisi name shouldn’t be sullied in such a way.

      He ignored the turbulent heat that fired his bloodstream whenever their gazes met. The way his eyes strayed to her face. Her neat nose, bluer-than-blue eyes, her perfect mouth, the fragility of her slender neck.

      He was merely taking her measure. It was anger he felt, not desire. He remembered the feel of her flagrantly enticing body, his hands encircling her tiny waist. The taste of her, rich and sweet. The tattoo of need that throbbed in his blood as he inhaled her skin’s perfume. The pulse of need he couldn’t suppress.

      Triumph had tempted him to respond to the lure of her petal-soft lips. They’d fascinated him from the first. Now he knew they were lush, delicious, dangerously enticing.

      The kiss had been an error.

      It must never happen again.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THEY emerged from the building into bright sunlight. Brilliant blue sky mocked Alissa’s foreboding.

      ‘Mr Parisi! Dario Parisi!’

      Alissa faltered as strident voices called out.

      ‘Hell!’ Beside her, Dario gave vent to a stream of vitriolic Italian under his breath. Bewildered, Alissa saw a mob of photographers crowding close.

      Dario turned, his shoulder blocking them from her vision. She read the sizzle of fury in his expression.

      ‘That’s why you wore the dress? Playing to the media?’ His tone could cut solid ice. ‘Enjoy it while you can, Signora Parisi. Your day in the limelight will be short.’

      ‘Mr Parisi!’ A shout cut across Alissa’s denial. ‘Have you got a statement about your secret marriage to an Aussie girl?’ Cameras thrust close, their lenses threatening dark voids, the sound of shutter clicks aggressive.

      ‘No comment,’ Dario said brusquely, keeping her clamped against him as he shouldered his way down the stairs. His arm looped round her in an embrace like the bite of an unyielding iron chain.

      ‘After you.’ His clipped tone matched his tight hold.

      Alissa stared at the limousine. At the door held open by a familiar chauffeur. The same tough-looking character who’d followed her this past month.

      ‘No, thank you. I have my own car.’ Her ancient red hatchback was a block away.

      ‘Nevertheless,’ he paused on the word, his emphasis on the sibilant vaguely sinister, ‘we’ll travel together.’

      Short of an embarrassing public tussle, she had no choice but to let him sweep her into the limo.

      Alissa sat stiffly as he bent to tuck in the train of her dress, apparently oblivious to the clustering Press. She caught again the fresh scent of his skin, so warmly enticing. So unlike the rigid precision of the man himself. His black hair was combed severely, not a lock out of place. His collar whiter than white, the cut of his suit perfection, his visage as grimly beautiful as a stone god.

      There was nothing soft about him.

      As his eyes lifted under level black brows to meet hers, she was stabbed again by the chill of his disapproval. His distaste. And more. Hatred?

      Alissa shrank back, heart fluttering. He had what he wanted, the promise of the old castello. He couldn’t want a more personal form of retribution.

      His silence as they sped off did nothing to dispel her unease. Tension built with each wordless kilometre.

      ‘I didn’t call the Press,’ she finally blurted.

      ‘Spare me your protestations of innocence.’ He waved a disparaging hand. ‘I have no interest in them.’

      ‘Even if they’re the truth?’ Indignation sizzled at his presumption of her guilt.

      His gaze bored into her, like sharpened steel against her soft flesh. ‘I accept you are many things, but don’t tax my credulity by pretending innocent is one of them.’