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“All right.”
Hope stretched lazily beside the pool. Rhythmic splashing told her without having to look that Luciano’s sister was still swimming laps. Martina was a sweet girl. Three years Hope’s junior, she was very Sicilian in some things, but the influence of her years at American university was unmistakable.
She didn’t defer to her brother as if he were a deity and she had no desire to marry a man solely to secure her future.
Smart and independent, Martina had made life in the di Valerio household bearable for Hope. Not that Luciano’s mother was unbearable. Quite the opposite. She was kindness itself, but she took the marriage of her son and his American girlfriend as a foregone conclusion. Just yesterday she had completely unnerved Hope by insisting she be measured for a wedding gown.
When Hope had mentioned this to Luciano, he had merely smiled and complimented his mother on her forward thinking. Evidently, neither he nor his mother had any doubt as to the outcome of Hope’s time in Palermo. The prospect of a lifetime married to such a confident male was more than daunting, it was scary.
Because Hope wasn’t that confident.
She should be. He made his desire to marry her very clear as well as his pleasure in her company. In short, he was doing exactly as he said he would do and courting her. While he had to work several hours each day, he spent some time each morning and the evenings with her, either taking her out or having his friends in to meet her.
None of them seemed to find it as odd as she did that he’d chosen a little peahen for his proposed bride rather than a bird of more exotic plumage. But then Italian men of Luciano’s income bracket didn’t always consider their wives to be the one for show-off potential. They left that job to their mistresses. Did Luciano intend to have a mistress? Did he have one now?
It was a question she had to have answered before she could marry him, but she was afraid to ask. She spent an inordinate amount of time convincing herself she didn’t need to. Sometimes it worked. Why wouldn’t it?
She had a room that resembled a romantic bower because of all the flowers he had given her, but flowers were the least of his offerings to convince her she wanted to marry him. He gave her gifts practically every day. The bikini she was sunbathing in had been yesterday’s present.
He was spoiling her rotten with both time and gifts.
But he said nothing of love and had not kissed her again since her arrival in Palermo. He had said her virtue was safe, but she had not thought that meant all physical attention would cease.
He avoided touching her which bothered her because she’d come to see that Luciano was a tactile man. He hugged his sister frequently, kissed his mother’s cheeks coming and going and was very Italian in his dealing with his friends. Only she was left out of the magical circle of his affection.
Should it be that way when a man wanted to marry a woman?
While she grew more aware of his physical perfection each day, she worried he had lost interest in her body. Yet, would a man as virile as Luciano contemplate marriage to a woman he didn’t want? The answer had to be no. Unless he planned to have a mistress. But then why get married at all?
Her mind spun in now familiar patterns.
“What are you thinking about so hard that you didn’t hear me calling you?” Martina stood above Hope, her Italian beauty vibrant while she toweled the wetness from her long black hair.
Hope sighed. “Guess.”
“My brother.”
“Got it in one.”
“You are going to marry him, aren’t you?” Unexpected anxiety laced Martina’s voice.
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? The man is besotted. He gave you that totally naff book of Italian poetry.”
“I can’t read Italian.”
“You’re learning.”
She was. Her very rudimentary knowledge of the language was growing rapidly. And because of that she was absolutely certain Luciano had never said a single word about loving her, or being besotted even, in either Italian or English.
Martina settled on the lounger next to Hope. “You love him.”
“I’m not saying anything on the grounds it could incriminate me. It’s the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, you know. Even nosy little sisters can’t bypass fundamental rights.”
Martina laughed. “I don’t need you to confirm it. Every time you look at him, you about swallow him alive with your eyes. You are too sweet, not to mention deep, to have a simple lust infatuation for my brother. With a woman like you, desire is linked to love or it wouldn’t be there.”
And her desire was obvious to even Luciano’s sister. No wonder both Luciano and his mother were so sure of her. “A woman like me?” What made her so different? “Are you saying you’re capable of wanting a man to make love to you that you don’t love?”
