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She felt his fingers tighten around hers.
‘Those men had no right to judge you, cara.’ His beautiful mouth twisted. ‘Believe me, I know. People think because they read about you that they know you, but they don’t.’ His eyes met hers. ‘They really don’t.’
Remembering the stories she’d read about him, she felt a twinge of guilt. How could she complain about being judged when she was guilty of doing the same to him?
‘And those people don’t know you,’ she said, her words tumbling over themselves. ‘The real you. You’re funny, and smart, and kind, and sweet...’
Her voice petered out. Beside her, Vicè leaned back a little, his expression midway between surprise and amusement—unsurprising, given that she’d sounded like some teenage fangirl.
Cringing inwardly, she frowned. ‘Look, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I’ll get Marco to drop you back to your hotel—’
Reaching over, he tugged her towards him. Then he smiled...a slow, flickering smile like a candle being lit that made a pulse of excitement beat beneath her skin.
‘Cara, forget about my hotel...you’re the sweetness in my life.’
Oh, she liked him so much—and she’d almost ruined everything with her stupid accusations. But this was all so new and different. She was different with him. More impulsive and open. Bolder.
Her body tensed. Only not so bold that she was looking forward to facing her father.
Picturing Cesare’s outburst, she shivered. He would be angry enough about her leaving the wedding early, but his fury would be visible from space when he found out she had left with Vicè and come here. Particularly as he’d hinted that he was finally ready to talk about her role at Trapani.
‘How mad is he going to be?’
Her chin jerked up. ‘How did you know what I was thinking?’
‘Just a guess.’ He sighed. ‘Come on, let’s go inside. I think you need something stronger than wine.’
Inside, he poured two glasses of grappa and, dropping down beside her on the sofa, handed her one. ‘Look, I feel like this is my fault. Why don’t I call him? Explain—’
‘No, absolutely not.’ She shook her head. She could think of nothing that would antagonise Cesare more.
Leaning forward, Vicè stroked the curve of her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her skin melt.
‘I’m not scared of him, Imma.’ His face stilled as though something had just occurred to him. ‘Are you?’
She shook her head. ‘Of course not. Papà just doesn’t like surprises. He has plans for me. Expectations. Your father’s business—he wants me to run it.’
He lifted his glass. ‘And you don’t want to.’
It was a statement, not a question. And just for a moment his eyes seemed to narrow. But when he lowered his glass she realised he was just curious.
‘Yes, I do. It’s a wonderful business. And it’s the least I can do for Papà. I want to be there for him.’
Her pulse skipped. Her father was going to be apoplectic, but it was the aftermath of his rage she was dreading.
He would become even more controlling—particularly regarding her matrimonial choices. Claudia could have her Ciro, but Cesare wanted Imma to marry well—and by ‘well’ he meant to a man nearer his own age, whose wealth was equal to the GDP of some small country.
Love hadn’t been mentioned.
She shivered inside. She couldn’t disappoint her father. He needed her to fulfil his dreams.
All she wanted was just one night for herself.
An experience that was hers and hers alone.
An experience she would remember forever—an encounter that would imprint on her body and mind to help her through years of dutiful marriage to a man she didn’t love.
Tonight she wanted fire and ecstasy. She wanted to understand her own needs and desires...be in charge of making that small but important change from sheltered, uninformed virgin to a woman who had experienced the storm of passion.
