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Then he kissed her again, right there, while the flashbulbs put on a light show.
A kiss so thorough that it made her too giddy to mind. And when he finally set her upright again, inclined his head toward the paparazzi, and ushered her into the gala, she had completely forgotten that she’d intended to call him out to the tabloids asRanieri Berryin the first place.
The following morning, she saw that picture—that kiss—plastered everywhere. And what she’d taken as a grim, hard expression on his face looked like...intensity. Passion. An almost unendurable need.
While she looked...
It made that shivering thing inside her go wild to look at herself. Because she looked absolutely transported.
Very much like a woman who was marrying the love of her life in a matter of days.
It’s possible, that same voice inside her chimed in, clearly not impressed with any sense of betrayal she might feel,that this has all been you protesting a bit too much. Isn’t it?
And she tried her best to nip this all in the bud, truly she did, because she was all too aware of the truth of things. No matter how he tasted.
Every time they went anywhere together, she tried again.
But Ranieri cut her off with a kiss here, a deeper kiss there. Always in front of people. Always in front of cameras. Because any venue that she could try to use to embarrass him was the same sort of situation that he could turn against her.
Which he did.
Proving to all the world that the great passion between them was real, after all.
Maybe proving it to you, too, came that voice, inevitably.
Damn him.
And that was how she woke up on the morning of her wedding day, surely and totally doomed, because she hadn’t made any headway at all in getting him to call this off.
But as she looked at the set of photographs splashed across the usual papers from the night before—because they hadn’t bothered with a rehearsal dinner when there was an art show to attend and no rehearsal necessary for a forced travesty—she didn’t see a woman who was one short, fitful sleep away from being married off to appease her late father.
Annika saw herself looking bright and flushed.
She looked like she was well and truly his.
And though she should have been distraught today,doomedwas not how she felt at all.
CHAPTER SIX
THEWEDDINGWENTprecisely as Ranieri had planned.
It was true that the Schuyler House museum baffled him. There it sat on a side street on Upper East Side, lost, to his mind, between the flashier museums that littered the area. The Metropolitan. The Guggenheim. The Frick.
But there was no denying that using Schuyler House leant this wedding of his a certain extra glow.
Even the weather dared not defy him. It was a spectacular afternoon. The deep blue of the sky was a color only possible here in the fall, and yet this first Saturday in October was neither chilly nor overly warm. As if the skies above approved of the outdoor venue he had chosen.
The house was built in that old Gilded Age style, and rather than rearrange the museum—and contend with Annika’s potential reaction to that—Ranieri had decided that the back courtyard was more appropriate. He had found the best event planners the city, offered them enough money to make this last-minute high society wedding a prospect too appealing to turn down, and today he found himself pleased with the results.
Perhaps he was particular. Butparticulargot results.
He had several fortunes to prove it.
Ranieri stood at the head of the aisle the event planners had constructed there in the walled stone courtyard. He waited for his bride while a select number of the world’s and New York City’s wealthiest—as well as Annika’s close friends—filled the few rows of chairs. And when Annika finally appeared, a single violin began to play.
She caught his gaze and stood there a moment, and he wondered—not quite idly—if she might attempt to play one of her tricks here. But instead, she gripped the bouquet she held before her a little tighter and then she started down the wide stone steps at the back of the old house.
And then she headed straight for him.
