The women were speaking in English. One accented, so presumably Italian, two American, and they were talking about her.
‘I can’t believe they’re married.’
‘You know who she is, right?’
The Italian made a scoffing sound. ‘A Rossi—allegedly. Come on, you saw the article. She hadn’t even been to Italy until this week.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ one of the American voices chimed in. ‘She’s a Rossi. You know what that means.’
The other American spoke next. ‘Do you think she knows what she’s getting into?’
A husky laugh, and then the Italian spoke, ‘Careful, Sasha. You sound jealous.’
‘Puh-lease. As if I’d ever have wanted to marry Massimiliano. It’s far more fun to call him up and screw him when I get the itch.’
‘No more of that,’ the other American tsked. ‘He’s married now.’
‘So?’ Sasha’s voice showed amusement. ‘What does that mean to me?’
A clicking noise sounded, the artificial lens sound of a phone camera. Really? A selfie, while they were dissecting her life? At least Amelia was under no illusions as to what her marriage was, but if she had married for love, this conversation would have been seriously hurtful.
Then again, she would never marry someone like Massimiliano for love. She wasn’t sure he was capable of it.
Skilful sex, on the other hand…apparently, he had quite the reputation for that. She ignored the acid swirling through her, the way her throat seemed to constrict at the idea of his being able to pleasure whomever he wanted with such skill and aplomb. But how could she ignore it, when it took what had been so incredibly special, and turned it into something ordinary and tawdry?
‘You cannot mean you would sleep with a married man?’
‘I find it hard to believe he’ll be satisfied with her for long. She looks young and dull.’
Amelia’s brow furrowed. Dull? How the heck could they know that? she wondered, cheeks flaming. They knewnothingabout her. She glanced down at her engagement ring, stomach in knots, but strangely reassured by the sight of it. Whatever they might think, she was wearing the Moretti diamond. Or a good copy of it, anyway.
‘Youarejealous. I thought you were seeing that British director, anyway?’
‘Ladies, I can walk and chew gum at the same time. Come on, I’m starving.’ Their voices continued towards the door of the bathroom, and then disappeared as they exited.
Amelia pressed her back to the stall, staring at the dark blue wall opposite, sucking in several deep breaths to calm her nervous system, before she pushed out, and came face to face with an older woman, fixing perfect, dark red lipstick in place. Amelia’s cheeks flamed even hotter at the idea that her mortification had been witnessed by another.
Amelia resolutely ignored the woman, washing her hands before risking a glance in the mirror. The older woman, with her immaculate blonde hair styled into a French braid, met Amelia’s eyes and offered a pouty smile. ‘Some women are bitches,’ she said. ‘Don’t take it personally. You got the man everyone wants—they’re not the last of it you’ll have to deal with.’ She walked towards her then, putting a hand on Amelia’s. ‘I knew your mother,’ she said, gaze on Amelia’s face. ‘You look like her, but something tells me you are not the same, in so many ways. You must take care. This—’ she gestured to the restaurant beyond ‘—is a viper’s nest.’
Amelia sucked in an uneven breath as her emotions rioted. She wanted to ask this woman about her mother, but she held back, out of a self-preservation instinct she’d honed as a child.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said, dipping her head once.
‘Be careful,’ the woman added as she pulled the door inwards, flashing another crimson smile. ‘Your husband is no walk in the park, either.’
She was different when they got home. Different from how she’d been that afternoon, like a field of gasolene, ready to be ignited, trembling for his touch. Now, there was a wariness to her, a different kind of ignition being held at bay. She’d been like it for the last portion of their evening as well, her terse smile replacing the natural interaction they’d shared over their meal.
He’d been surprised to find he enjoyed talking to her. Surprised, and rendered a little off balance by it. He hadn’t expected her to be so intelligent. So worldly. There wasn’t a subject on which she couldn’t speak, which had him wondering more about his bride than he wished. Because other than the next few nights, when he intended to seduce her to the point of oblivion, so her sexual awakening was properly completed, this marriage was meant to be no more intimate than the relationship he had with any of his personal assistants.
Professional, courteous, respectful, with obvious boundaries in place.
He didn’t want to find himself falling asleep thinking about the little cries she’d made as she’d come for him. Or the reason such a beautiful, well-read woman was working in a diner in the East End of London. He particularly didn’t want to be worrying about the way her mood had shifted, and the fact she’d pleaded exhaustion when they’d walked in the door of his penthouse and made a beeline for her own bedroom.
She woke with a strange twisting in her stomach and a heaviness in her heart. A contradiction of feelings. A need for her husband at the same time instinct was telling her to hide from him until she could make sense of things.
But clarity didn’t come with the morning. The best she could do was convince herself to focus on the positives of this arrangement, and remind herself that her husband meant nothing to her, and never would. The cultural significance of marriage was so ingrained, it was easy to think that him being ‘her husband’ somehow gave her an investment in him, and this, when of course that wasn’t the case. She was no more his wife than an actress playing a role. She was being well paid for it, and afterwards, when the job was done and his family name restored, his grandfather at peace, she would be free to get on with her life. Her real life. Without Massimiliano in it.
Her stomach clenched at that, already addicted to the powerful sensual fog he was capable of invoking with a single touch.
