One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс

      And she needed it too; her body ached, demanding to be quenched. She pulled him to her, her dress bunched around her waist, her thighs bare and splayed open.

      Alessandro was poised above her, one hand on the waistband of his trousers, undoing his fly with urgent trembling fingers, when he suddenly stilled. Stopped.

      The moment was endless. She looked up from the haze of her own need and desire and saw a terrible anguish on his face. He dropped his hand from his trousers, rolled off her onto his back on the floor, one arm covering his face.

      ‘Alessandro …’

      ‘Heaven help me,’ he choked out. ‘Look at us. Look at me.’ He sounded disgusted, sickened.

      ‘I’m sorry …’ Meghan began hesitantly. She lay there, her dress in hopeless disarray, her body still open to him. Still wanting.

      He didn’t look at her as he shook his head. ‘You are sorry? Gattina, no. No.’ It came out harshly. He dropped his arm from his face, sat up and raked a hand through his hair, his face still averted. ‘Just go, Meghan,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Leave me. I’m no good to you now.’

      Meghan sat up too, pulled her dress back on with trembling fingers. She wanted to touch him, wanted to put her arms around his hunched shoulders, stroke his bowed head. ‘Yes, you are.’

      He shook his head again, his hands fisted in his hair. ‘Please. Please leave me. For both our sakes.’ His voice rose to a near roar. ‘Go!’

      Choking back the misery and confusion that threatened to rise up into an endless sob, Meghan went.

      CHAPTER NINE

      THE wedding was a blur.

      Meghan understood the words, but the Italian washed over her in a soothing, melodious tide of language.

      She wore the dress—Gabriella’s timelessly elegant ivory gown—altered to fit her own more generous curves.

      She saw the guests, a handful of discreet friends and business associates who watched the strange, sudden ceremony with carefully blank faces.

      She had the bridesmaids—Alessandro’s younger sister, Chiara, sleek and quiet, having flown in that morning from London. She was flying out immediately after the reception, and from the way she stood next to Meghan, her body tense and straining as the priest rambled on, Meghan guessed she couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

      Alessandro’s best man, Stefano Lucrezi, was watchful and alert, his attention solely on the priest. Meghan had the sense that he was aware in some way of Chiara, though he never looked at her.

      And Alessandro? He stood there, calm, urbane, implacable. In a few minutes—seconds, perhaps—he would be her husband.

      He hadn’t spoken one word to her since she’d entered the church, walked down the ancient stone aisle alone amidst a sea of frighteningly neutral faces.

      This was her life now.

      Now, now it was too late to back out.

      And still she didn’t want to.

      Silly, naïve her.

      After that shattered evening when they’d almost made love— passionate, desperate, on the floor—Alessandro had reverted to his old self: charming, urbane, amusing.

      A fake.

      Meghan saw it now—saw how the mask dropped into place, saw how he protected himself, kept anyone from guessing, knowing who he really was.

      She still didn’t.

      And yet she was here, marrying him, because she wanted to know.

      It wasn’t just about the power any more.

      It was about the need.

      The priest stopped talking, and Meghan saw that the guests had all stood. Waiting.

      She was married.

      Alessandro took her cold hand in his, and together they walked out of the church into the pale sunshine of the early spring day.

      Everyone else followed them out before either of them had exchanged a word. Stefano clapped Alessandro on the shoulder, and Meghan recognised the various phrases of congratulation, though she felt numb to the emotions.

      Someone brought forward a beribboned box, gesturing excitedly for Meghan to open it.

      She looked uncertainly from the box on the steps of the church to Alessandro, whose expression was inscrutable.

      ‘They want you to open it,’ he explained, with a slight smile, and Meghan moved forward. Was it a present? A custom? She wished Alessandro would explain, but he’d only folded his arms over his chest, his eyes glinting with cool amusement.

      ‘You could help me a little,’ she said under her breath, and Alessandro smiled.

      ‘But I’m enjoying the view from here.’

      Meghan gritted her teeth. Charming, aloof, distant. This was the man he chose to be now, and she would have to accept it.

      She couldn’t make him bare his true self. Wasn’t sure she was ready for it. The glimpse she’d had so far had shot her to pieces.

      She pulled on the ribbons and tentatively opened the lid of the box.

      There was a loud cooing sound, the rushing of wings, and she stumbled back in surprise, her arms thrown over her face, as two doves soared into the sky amid many exclamations and cheers.

      ‘An Italian tradition,’ Alessandro informed her dryly as she lowered her arms and gazed upwards at the birds, now circling the church spire. ‘To symbolise the happiness and unity of the married couple. My mother arranged it, no doubt. Reading things into this marriage that are not there.’

      Meghan was struck to her soul, but she mustered enough spirit to reply in kind. ‘What? You don’t want happiness? Surely that’s a reasonable expectation for both of us, Alessandro?’

      ‘Is it?’ There was no mistaking the sardonic doubt in his voice.

      ‘Yes,’ Meghan said firmly, daring him to believe, wanting to believe herself. ‘It is.’

      He gazed down at her, and a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. ‘As long as you realise what makes us happy.’

      What made him happy. More warnings. Meghan was tired of it. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘I’m not in that much danger of falling in love with you!’

      Alessandro’s face relaxed and he gave a little chuckle. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I like your claws, gattina. And perhaps we shall both be happy.’

      He took her elbow, steering her through the crowd into the waiting limo that would take them to the reception.

      ‘Who are all those people?’ Meghan asked as she craned backwards to look at the milling crowd.

      ‘Mostly business associates, friends of my mother’s.’ He shrugged in dismissal.

      ‘What about your friends?’

      He smiled, but his voice was hard. ‘My friends were not invited.’

      What on earth did that mean? Meghan leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. ‘But you have friends,’ she said after a moment. ‘Will I meet them?’

      ‘No.’

      End of discussion. Right now Meghan was too tired to press, too weary to hear his warnings, his rebukes.

      ‘What a pair we are,’ she said, trying to make her voice light. ‘Friendless and alone.’

      ‘That’s why I married you, isn’t it?’ Alessandro returned silkily. ‘Now we’re not alone. Now we have each other.’

      Somehow