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“Wives?” he supplied, sardonically. Then regretted it when she turned that dark glare on him. He sighed. “Life is not black-and-white, especially when it comes to marriages. People are not all one thing or another.”
“But in the case of your grandparents, one of them carried on an affair that went on for decades. The other lives by herself in a cottage, cut off from the world. One was considered a great man and celebrated internationally when he died. The other is loathed even by her own grandson.” She shrugged. “It feels black-and-white, doesn’t it?”
Cristiano studied the flush on her cheeks, realizing belatedly that it was temper. “Do you have grandparents too?” he asked. “Is that what this is about? Or is this something more prosaic than a sudden, deep concern for a woman you’ve never met...like second thoughts about a wedding, for example?”
Not that he would entertain her second thoughts.
“They say my grandmother died of shame,” Julienne said, with a certain starkness that tore at him. “Not long after I was born. My grandfather had died when my mother was still young, which everyone agreed was a great blessing. Because he never had to know what became of her.”
“And what of your father? Your father’s family?”
“The man I think was my father also died, but no one is quite certain where he came from. Or if he left any family behind him. I’ve heard theories that his accent was Parisian by way of Marseille. But then again, some argued that he was very clearly not French at all. Who can say? All I know is, he overdosed when I was twelve, and I have never known how to feel about it, because I hardly knew him.”
“I know my grandmother very little,” Cristiano said, because every story she told him about her past was worse than the one before. And wasn’t that the point of this? They would make something new. They would make it all better. “But it is enough.”
“Is she a heroin addict?” Julienne asked, dryly. “I had heard many parts of the Cassara family legend, but not that.”
Cristiano wanted to snap back at her, the way he would at an underling, but she no longer worked for him. Failing that, he wanted to get his hands on her and use the language they were both far more fluent in.
“I do not understand this intriguing take on a woman you’ve never met,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. And not sure that he succeeded when her eyes flashed. “Surely you can allow for the possibility that I might be the expert on her motivations here? Since of the two of us, I’m the only one who knows her.”
“Maybe your grandmother loved your grandfather to a distraction,” Julienne said softly, and her pretty face was unreadable. “So much so that it drove her crazy when he met someone else. Have you ever stopped to think about that?”
“There will be a special license and a priest here by nightfall,” Cristiano told her evenly. “Unless you have some further objection? Preferably not one that is based on your imaginary version of my grandmother?”
And when Julienne looked away, she did not look back for a very long time.
“I cannot marry without my sister here,” she said again. “I won’t.”
“Then,cara, I would suggest you stop arguing about my grandparents’ marriage and get her on a plane,” Cristiano said silkily. “Because the wedding will happen. Tonight.”
Fleurette arrived that evening, grumpier than usual, but with the same giant chip on her tattooed shoulder.
Julienne was so glad to see her, it hurt.
“You know you don’t actually have to marry him, right?” Fleurette asked as she sat in Julienne’s bedchamber in the guest suite with her, watching balefully as Julienne smoothed out the bodice of the dress that had appeared on her bed, as if by magic.
Not magic, she knew. Cristiano.
Cristiano, who could go to the trouble to pick out a beautiful dress for her to wear to what would no doubt be a beautiful wedding, but couldn’t love her. Didn’t love her.
Does he love anything?the voice inside her asked, sounding entirely too much like her sister.Can he?
“Why wouldn’t I marry him?” Julienne asked, catching Fleurette’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. And choosing to keep her thoughts on love to herself. “He’s the father of my child. And as you’ve pointed out to me repeatedly over the past ten years, I have been hopeless about him from the start.”
“I realize it gets confusing here in Europe,” Fleurette said dryly. “But it is not necessary to marry a man simply because he got you pregnant. I know Italylooksmedieval, but it’s still the modern world here too, no matter the age of the buildings. No one cares anymore if a child is born out of wedlock.”
“You don’t care,” Julienne corrected her quietly. “But that is not to say that others share your views.”
Fleurette rolled her eyes. “Do I need to remind you that neither one of us was born on the right side of the blanket? We don’t even have the same father.”
“You don’t know that. It’s as likely that we have the same father as that we don’t.”
“This is the difference between us, Julienne,” Fleurette said softly. Sadly. “You want so badly to believe there might be goodness in the world that you’ll sacrifice yourself on the off chance you might find it. I know better. A sacrifice is a sacrifice. All it means is that you lose something.”
And if Julienne could have, she would have bundled up her sister in cotton wool and made the world so good she would have no choice but to accept it—but that didn’t work. She’d tried. And yes, it had worked out much better than planned, but Fleurette never forgot what could have happened that night in Monte Carlo. What would have happened if Julienne had approached a different man.
Sometimes Julienne thought it haunted her sister more than it haunted her.
