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And she was still in the dark.
Her gynecologist said she might be pregnant. On the other hand, she might not be. The doctor was rushed, the lab was busy, and the upshot was that the earliest she’d have a definite answer was tomorrow or, more probably, Monday, because tomorrow was Saturday and, really, Ms. Orsini, the lab only works half days on Saturday and then it’s only for emergencies …
Isabella groaned and put her head back against the couch.
A few days ago, she’d refused to consider pregnancy as a possibility. Denial had her convinced she had a summer virus. Even when she’d let herself think about pregnancy, she’d done nothing to find out the truth.
Now, she wasn’t sure she could endure the next twenty-four or forty-eight or how many endless hours it would be until she knew.
She wanted to know, right now. She had to know; she had plans to make, whether to remain pregnant, assuming she really was, or to terminate it, or have the baby and give it up for adoption …
Except, she knew the answer.
She’d have her baby. Keep it. Nurture it. Love it, this life she and her lover had made together. Her lying lover …
Had he intended to tell her the truth? That was what he’d said, but—but, it didn’t matter.
Matteo was history, and it was funny but now she thought of him as Rio, because that was who he really was. A strong, proud man who’d created an existence out of nothing.
It didn’t matter what name she gave him.
They’d both lived a lie and now—now they were lost to each other, forever.
A sob burst from her throat.
“I love him,” she whispered, “I’ll always love him—”
Isabella’s cell phone rang. She wiped her eyes with her hand and checked the screen. Anna. She’d call her back. She wasn’t up to speaking with anybody right now, not while she was being such a fool, crying over a man who could have come after her if he’d really loved her, who shouldn’t have believed her terrible lies except yes, he should have, that was why she’d told him those lies, so he would believe them—
Brring, brring, brring.
The doorbell. Of course. Anna had phoned while she was climbing the five flights to Isabella’s flat. Now what? Answer the door? Not answer it? Leave Anna, and all her good intentions, in the hall?
Brring, brring, brring.
Isabella sighed, rose to her feet, went to the door. Such impatience was so typically Anna.
“Okay,” she said wearily as she undid the lock, the chain, the dead bolt. “Can’t you take a hint? Somebody doesn’t answer the bell, somebody doesn’t want visit—”
The words caught in her throat as the door swung open. It wasn’t Anna standing in the hall. It was Matteo. It was Rio. It was the love of her life. Tall. Handsome.
And angry.
Angry? Isabella frowned. What did he have to be angry about?
She would have asked him but he caught her by the shoulders, gave her a little shake and said, “Damnit, Isabella—”
And then his mouth captured hers.
It wasn’t what he’d planned.
He’d rehearsed his lines in the taxi, gone over and over what he was going to say. That he’d lied about his name but not about who he was and never about his feelings for her. That he loved her and she loved him and, damnit, she’d lied, too—
Reality had driven all that logical planning from his mind.
His Isabella lived in a neighborhood that could, at best, be described as diverse. Her building was decrepit. She had five flights of steps to climb.
He was ticked off by the time he reached her door. And when he heard her undoing all those locks, when he saw her looking pale and exhausted and thin, when all of those things happened, he grew so angry at himself for not having told her what a liar he was, for not having confessed his love, for not having carried her off and made her his bride weeks ago that the only thing he could do was kiss her.
That, at least, was logical.
So was the fact that after a few seconds of struggle, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, lifted herself against him and kissed him back.
It took all the determination he possessed to take his lips from hers.
“You are the love of my life,” he said.
And he waited.
For the first time in more than a decade, Rio D’Aquila waited.
It seemed to take forever. Then, at last, Isabella smiled.
“And you are mine,” she said.
Rio’s heart, frozen solid as ice the past endless weeks, the past endless years, thawed at the sound of those sweet words.
“Isabella,” he whispered against her mouth, and he followed her name with a string of words in Italian, in Portuguese, none of which she understood, but she didn’t have to.
He loved her. Her lover loved her.
“Isabella, mia bella Isabella, forgive me. I loved you from the minute I saw you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, her lips curving in a smile. “You’ll have to keep kissing me until I do.”
“I love you,” he said huskily. “That’s why I was so afraid to tell you the truth. I thought you would hate me—”
“I did,” Isabella said, between kisses. “That’s why I told you my own lies. Here’s the truth. I love you. I’ll always love you.”
Rio grinned. “Say it again.”
“I love you. I love you. I love—”
More kisses. Then Rio framed her face with his hands.
“Marry me, Isabella.”
Her eyes glittered with happy tears. She smiled—and then her smile dimmed.
“Ask me on Monday.”
“What?”
“By Monday—” She hesitated. Should she tell him the truth? Yes. Absolutely. She would never lie to him again. “By Monday, I’ll know if—if I’m pregnant. You might feel differently if—”
“Trust me, sweetheart,” Rio said, with a smile so sexy it made her breath catch. “If you’re not pregnant now, I’ll make you pregnant as soon as I can.”
Isabella laughed. “You will, huh?”
“I want a tiny Isabella in our lives.”
“It could be a tiny Rio. Or a Matteo … Which reminds me, what do I call you?”
Rio smiled.
“Call me your beloved,” he said huskily, “as I will call you mine.”
EPILOGUE
EVERYONE agreed that Isabella was the most beautiful bride in the world, just as her sister and her sisters-in-law had been before her.
She wore a floor-length gown of ivory lace, her mother’s lace veil and an antique diamond tiara Anna had found in a tiny Greenwich Village shop.
“It just had your name on it,” Anna explained when she pinned it carefully into Isabella’s dark curls.
The sisters smiled, hugged each other … and wept.
There was, Rio noticed, a lot of weeping going on.
“It’s what happens when you have six sisters at one wedding,” Rafe said drily, but they all knew how lucky they were that Anna and Isabella, Gabriella and Elle, Alessia and Chiara felt as if they were sisters by blood, not only by marriage.
All of them were Isabella’s bridesmaids, though Anna, of course, was her matron of honor.
Raffaele, Falco, Nicolo, Dante and Draco, handsome in their Armani formal wear, stood witness for Rio, equally handsome in his.
They all called him Rio; it was what Isabella called him because it was his legal name and it seemed to suit him better than the name the orphanage had bestowed upon him.
This time, the wedding planner—they’d used the same one for all the Orsini nuptials—knew there was no point telling them you couldn’t have that many best men at the altar.
In fact, she said, with a little sigh, she’d decided that this was how things should be done, if only a groom and his friends looked like these.
After the ceremony at the little Greenwich Village church, limousines took them to the Orsini mansion. The enormous conservatory behi
nd it had been decorated with baskets and baskets of flowers from Isabella’s shop.
There was music and incredible food—Anna, experienced at this by now, had dealt with the catering. And there were endless bottles of vintage champagne, though, as in the past, the brothers—or maybe, this time, it had been Draco—somebody, at any rate, managed to sneak in a few bottles of chilled beer.
Isabella drank only chilled Pellegrino.
She was pregnant, and she glowed as only a happily pregnant woman can glow.
The day was winding down. All the guests had left. Only the band and the family remained when Cesare Orsini stepped up to the microphone, tapped on his champagne flute, cleared his throat and announced he had something to say.
Everyone was surprised.
Their father—the don—had not made any kind of speech at any of the other weddings. He had, if anything, kept to the background, for which his sons and daughters had been grateful.
