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There was no longer a choice.
She had to marry Max.
But she didn’t have to like it.
• • •
Carina knocked on his door.
Her weak heart exploded with lust and something deeper when he answered and stepped aside. Thank God he’d put on some clothes, but barely. The blue sweat shorts hung low and showed his washboard stomach. The matching T-shirt seemed old as dirt, and the worn fabric clung to his shoulders and chest like a lover.
She fought the impulse to lean in and drag in a breath of his scent—a mixture of soap, coffee, and a hint of musk. He’d showered and his hair was damp and neatly tamed back from his forehead.
“Well?” One bare foot was propped up on the other while he faced her.
“You were right. She wants us to get married.”
Carina waited for a vicious curse. A full-fledged panic attack. Anything to give her an excuse to break her mother’s heart and take the punishment. Instead, he nodded as if he already knew. “I figured. You want coffee?” He gestured toward the table set from room service. Silver domes lifted to reveal scrambled eggs and toast, and a full pot of coffee sat beside a vase with a single long-stemmed rose.
Her temper exploded. “No, I don’t want any goddamn coffee! And I don’t want a husband who doesn’t want me, either. Do you really want to do this? Do you want to be trapped in a permanent relationship you didn’t even choose?”
He lifted his cup and studied her. His face reminded her of a mask, completely devoid of any emotion. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He sipped the steaming brew. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Fury broke loose within and unleashed. “Fuck you, Max. I’ll marry you, but I won’t be your little puppet. Just remember I never asked for this. I don’t need your pity, or good intentions. I had my one perfect night and I don’t need another.”
She slammed the door behind her.
• • •
The day passed in a blur.
The La Capella chapel was a Tuscan-inspired space that fit perfectly. The rich earth tones, highly polished marble floors, and mahogany pews reminded her of home. Carina donned the simple white floor-length Vera Wang dress with numb fingers. Her mother fussed over her hair as if it were a real wedding, twisting the unruly strands into shiny fat curls. When she placed the pearl-crusted veil on her head and covered her face with the white film, no one saw the tears that sprung to her eyes.
She always imagined her giggling sisters around her and walking down the aisle to a man who loved her. Instead, she paused in the doorway and finally understood how her sister-in-law felt trying to conquer her panic attacks. Her stomach lurched, and perspiration broke out on her skin, making her itch.
Cheesy organ music drifted in the air, and Carina took a step back in her Ciccotti shoes, which had four-inch heels, real diamonds, and urged her to run. Hell, she’d be the runaway bride. Find a FedEx truck and hitch it out on a grand adventure. Change her name, go under deep cover and—
Her gaze slammed into his.
His whole aura screamed control. Piercing ocean blue eyes held hers and gave her the strength needed to drag in a breath. Another one. Her mother linked her arm firmly within hers, lifted her cane, and began the long walk down the aisle.
Never breaking his stare, he willed her to complete the walk until she stood before him at the altar. He was male perfection. Dressed in a crisp black tuxedo, with red accents and a rose in his lapel, he exhibited a lean grace and elegance.
He recited his vows in a voice that never shook. The seriousness of the moment conflicted with the impulse of her decision. Somehow, it didn’t seem real until she said the words. Her tongue stuck on the answer. Could she really do this? Marry a man who didn’t love her? The questions whirled and wreaked havoc with her head. A halting silence rushed over the chapel. Her mother tilted her head and waited. The blood roared in her ears, and she swayed on her feet.
Slight pressure from his fingers tapped her back. Slowly, he nodded. Encouraging her to say the words. Demanding she take the leap.
“I do.”
He slid the three-carat crown-of-light diamond onto her finger.
Claimed.
His lips were warm but his kiss was chaste. A formal ending to a ceremony that would change them forever.
Sawyer gave them a private dining room. A popular band played old Italian favorites, and they feasted on pasta, wine, and various appetizers. The cake was personally created by the Venetian’s pastry chef in honor of the wedding.
The next few hours unfolded for her as if she was outside herself. She smiled when necessary. Made calls to Max’s mother and her family to break the news. She forced squeals of happiness with her sisters, and painted a scene of their secret courtship that made her choke. All the while, Max never touched her. He barely glanced at her as they performed the mandatory dance. She guzzled champagne in an effort to forget until they finally made it to their room.
The king-size bed mocked her. Their lovemaking still clung in the air, or maybe it was just her imagination. He stood in front of her, dressed in his impeccable tuxedo, all his gorgeousness and grace so close yet galaxies away. Her body caved and melted under the sudden heat of his stare. “It is our honeymoon night.”
She imagined him stripping off her wedding dress and panties. Parting her thighs. Dipping his head to suck and lick until he finally pushed deep inside and made her forget everything except the way he made her feel.
She grabbed the bottle of champagne chilling in the holder and a glass. Kicked off her shoes. And smiled mockingly.
“Here’s to us, Maxie. Good night.”
In a fit of temper, she saluted and sauntered away with the champagne. Closed the door and locked it. Slumped against the wall in her wedding dress.
And cried.
Chapter Twelve
Two weeks later, Max realized his life was different.
Max enjoyed order and simplicity. His bedroom reflected his lifestyle, full of cherrywood furniture and spartan decorations. Now, the darkness exploded with touches of light—a tangerine throw rug over hardwood floors, a frilly pink scarf hung on the hook behind the door, the spill of glass bottles with fragrance and a clutter of shoes clustered in the corner.
His private bath now smelled of cucumber, melon, and fresh soap. His razor had been moved from the cabinet and was replaced by bottles of lotion and creams. As he made his way down the spiral staircase and into the living room, he noticed a few celebrity magazines lying on the sofa next to an array of romance novels with sexy covers. Max scooped one up to move it into the bookcase, but decided to peek. After he read the scene, he wondered why his face felt suddenly hot. He quickly shelved it and walked into the culinary kitchen.
