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‘We could do this with a bit more style, you know. Take some time,’ he said.
‘We don’t have time.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘My father is binary in the way he approaches life. It’s his way or no way. We need to present him with an irreversible fact—like a marriage certificate.’ She met his gaze, her green eyes narrowing. ‘I know this is a little basic, but unlike you I didn’t have a couple of months to work everything out in detail. Shall we go in?’
The ceremony was short and functional.
The registrar, a pleasant woman in her fifties, spoke her lines clearly, turning to each of them as she waited for their responses.
They had agreed to use English for the ceremony. But although they were both fluent, to her, the unfamiliar words made everything feel even more remote and pragmatic.
‘Immacolata and Vicenzu, with your words today, I can now pronounce you husband and wife.’ The woman smiled. ‘And now you may seal the promises you have made with a kiss.’
Imma’s expression didn’t change, but Vicè felt her go still beside him. Glancing down, he saw that her green eyes were huge and over-bright, and her slim body was trembling like a wild flower in the wind.
It’s just a kiss, he told himself.
And he lowered his head, assuming it would be nothing more than a passing brush of contact. But as their mouths touched he felt her lips part and instantly his body tensed, his insides tightening as a jolt of desire punched him in the gut.
Instinctively he slid his hand over her hip, tilting her face up to meet his and deepening the kiss.
Oh, but he hadn’t meant to do that.
It was insane, stupid—beyond reckless—only he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
He wanted her...wanted her with an urgency and intensity that was beyond his control.
He heard her breath hitch in her throat and was suddenly terrified that he would lose her—that he wouldn’t be able to satisfy his hunger for her sweet, soft lips—but she didn’t pull away.
Instead she leaned into him, her body moulding against his, and then he was pressing her closer, one hand sliding down her body, the other threading through her silky, dark hair.
His heart was pounding and his blood was surging through his limbs as an ache of need reared up inside him, pulsing and swelling, blotting out everything but the softness of her body.
From somewhere far away he heard a faint cough and, still fighting his drowning senses, he broke the kiss.
Imma was staring up at him, her green eyes unfocused, her lips trembling, and it was only the presence of the registrar and the two witnesses that stopped him from pulling her back into his arms and stripping that appalling dress off her body.
The registrar cleared her throat. ‘Now, if you’d like to join me, we have the register here, all ready and waiting. Once that’s signed, we’re done.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure you have plans for the rest of your special day.’
Vicè nodded. He did. But unfortunately for him, his marriage strictly forbade those plans being fulfilled.
Watching Imma sign the register, his shoulders tensed. It didn’t matter that they had just come close to ripping off each other’s clothes in public. Judging by the look on his new wife’s face, that wasn’t about to change any time soon.
* * *
Leaning back in her seat, Imma tilted her head sideways, gazing through the window at the cloudless blue sky. Her posture was determinedly casual, but her ears were on stalks and every five seconds or so her skin tightened and her stomach flipped up and over like a pancake in a skillet.
She felt on edge and distracted. And, even though wild horses wouldn’t have dragged it out of her, she knew she was waiting for Vicè to walk back into the cabin.
After the ceremony they had taken a taxi back to the private airfield, Vicè’s hand still clamped around hers. But as soon as they had got on board the plane he had excused himself on the pretext of wanting to change into something less formal.
In reality, they had needed to give one another privacy to tell their respective families.
There was the sound of footsteps and instantly her nerves sent ripples of unease over her skin. But it was only the steward, Fedele, bringing a pot of coffee.
‘Congratulations again, Signorina Buscetta—I mean Signora Trapani.’ The steward smiled down at her. ‘Would you like anything to go with your coffee? We have pastries and fruit.’
She shook her head. ‘No, thank you, Fedele. But would you please thank the crew again for their kind words.’
It had been easy to tell the cabin crew that she was married, to receive their polite and no doubt genuine congratulations. Sharing the news with her father had been far less pleasant.
