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I hurried into the black satin dress, worried that Marco would be getting suspicious of my slow pace, but when I stepped out of the cubicle, he was busy tapping on his phone.
He whistled in appreciation at the sight of me and stood to inspect me. “Turn. Gorgeous. Did you try on the red? That might work better.”
The red one was basically a floor length negligee, from which my breasts and hips and the rest of me would spill. It screamed, ‘Take me to the bedroom.’
“No thanks.”
The corners of his lips tipped up. “You would look incredible in it.”
“I like this one,” I insisted.
I thought he might argue, but he nodded, marched out to the shop and must have commanded an assistant to come pack up my purchases. To my great annoyance, she packed upeverything—at his request, it seemed, because he paid for it all without blinking.
If he thought I was wearing anything other than the two I’d picked out, he was very much mistaken.
He drove us back to his house, where I had a couple of hours to kill before the dreaded dinner with his mother.
Left alone in my bedroom, I lay on the bed, tired out. And then my lungs closed up in panic. All I could feel was the weight of that masked man on top of me in Mom’s bedroom. I threw myself off the bed and I leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths until the panic passed.
How was I ever going to go home without remembering what had happened there?
The next two hours stretched ahead of me, full of emptiness in which to think of things I wanted to forget.
I hated this feeling. It reminded me of the helpless rage and panic I had felt for years after Dad was gone, turning my whole world upside down with no way of righting it ever again.
My hand was on the door handle. I realised I had been about to rush downstairs to find Marco and beg him not to leave me alone. Like some coward.
No. Hell, no.
I had righted my world by myself all those years ago, and I would do it again. I didn’t need anyone. Not some man to screw up my entire existence all over again.
I could do this. I would.
What I needed was a long hot bath. They had always helped me to push from mind the horridest days. Like an off switch, making everything okay again.
And it really was heaven when I climbed into the silky scented water. My mind immediately went blank. Set to blissful nothing. I massaged a soapy sponge all over my wet skin and then lay back and closed my eyes, breathing in the camomile, lavender and rosewood essential oils.
I was pleasantly drowsing when a small sound from the doorway snapped me awake. I almost screamed, shot upright in the bathwater, and then slapped my hands over my foamy breasts.
When I looked accusingly at the doorway, a little girl stood there. She clamped her hand over her mouth and giggled.
She was small, maybe four years old, dark-haired and delightful in pink.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Amara,” she said in a mischievous voice. “Are you the lady Uncle Marco is going to marry?”
“Er, maybe?”
She giggled again. “Yes, you are. Nonna doesn’t like you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because she’s fighting with Uncle Marco downstairs.”
“Fighting?”
“Not really fighting. Grown-up fighting withvoices.” She made a scary face, then giggled as if she thought grown-ups were very silly.
