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‘I told you, I’ve no intention of being your possession. A ring won’t change that.’
‘How glibly you lie to yourself.’
She gasped and he was once again drawn to her mouth. A mouth whose sweet taste he recalled vividly, much to his annoyance. ‘Excuse me?’
‘We both know you’ll be exactly who and what I want you to be when I demand it. Your family has too much at stake for you to risk doing otherwise.’
‘Don’t mistake my inclination to go along with this farce to be anything but my need to get to the bottom of why you’re doing this. It’s what families do for each other. Of course, since you don’t even speak about yours, I assume you don’t know what I’m talking about.’
Zaccheo called himself ten kinds of fool for letting the taunt bite deep. He’d lost respect for his father long before he’d died in shame and humiliation. And watching his mother whore herself for prestige had left a bitter taste in his mouth. As families went, he’d been dealt a bad hand, but he’d learned long ago that to wish for anything you couldn’t create with your own hard-working hands was utter folly. He’d stopped making wishes by the time he hit puberty. Recalling the very last wish he’d prayed night and day for as a child, he clenched his fists. Even then he’d known fate would laugh at his wish for a brother or sister. He’d known that wish, despite his mother being pregnant, would not come true. He’d known.
He’d programmed himself not to care after that harrowing time in his life.
So why the hell did it grate so much for him to be reminded that he was the last Giordano?
‘I don’t talk about my family because I have none. But that’s a situation I intend to rectify soon.’
She glanced at him warily. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I had a lot of time in prison to re-examine my life, thanks to your family.’ He heard the naked emotion in his voice and hardened his tone. ‘I intend to make some changes.’
‘What sort of changes?’
‘The type that means you’ll no longer have to whore out your integrity for the sake of the great Pennington legacy. You should thank me, since you seem to be the one doing most of the heavy lifting for your family.’
Zaccheo watched her face pale.
‘I’m not a whore!’
He lunged forward before he could stop himself. ‘Then what the hell were you doing dressed like a tart, agreeing to marry a drunken playboy, if not for cold, hard cash for your family?’ The reminder of what she wore beneath the coat blazed across his mind. His temperature hiked, along with the increased throbbing in his groin.
‘I didn’t do it for money!’ She flushed, and bit down on her lower lip again. ‘Okay, yes, that was part of the reason, but I also did it because—’
‘Please spare me any declarations of true love.’ He wasn’t sure why he abhorred the idea of her mentioning the word love. Or why the idea of her mentioning Fairfield’s name filled him with rage.
Zaccheo knew about her friendship with Fairfield. And while he knew their engagement had been a farce, he hadn’t missed the camaraderie between them, or the pathetic infatuation in the other man’s eyes.
Sì, he was jealous—Eva would be his and no one else’s. But he also pitied Fairfield.
Because love, in all forms, was a false emotion. Nothing but a manipulative tool. Mothers declared their love for their children, then happily abandoned them the moment they ceased to be a convenient accessory. Fathers professed to have their children’s interest at heart because of love, but when it came right down to it they put themselves above all else. And sometimes even forgot that their children existed.
As for Eva Pennington, she’d shown how faithless she was when she’d dropped him and distanced herself mere days before his arrest.
‘I wasn’t going to say that. Trust me, I’ve learned not to toss the word love about freely—’
‘Did you know?’ he sliced at her before he could stop himself.
Fine brows knitted together. ‘Did I know what?’
‘Did you know of your father’s plans?’ The question had been eating at him far more than he wanted to admit.
‘His plans to do what?’ she asked innocently. And yet he could see the caginess on her face. As if she didn’t want him to probe deeper.
Acrid disappointment bit through him. He was a fool for thinking, perhaps wishing, despite all the signs saying otherwise, that she’d been oblivious to Oscar Pennington’s plans to make him the ultimate scapegoat.
