CHAPTER ONE
THE BRIDE
Beatrice Fiore had spent most of the morning imagining her father’s funeral. She was not especially proud of this, although she considered the circumstances sufficient justification for a certain amount of uncharitable thinking. The funeral itself would be magnificent. Her father had cultivated enough enemies to guarantee an impressive turnout, and there would be enormous arrangements of white lilies, the scent of which she had always disliked. Men in expensive suits would gather outside the church, murmuring about honor and loyalty while calculating how much territory they might acquire now that the old bastard was dead.
Her mother would wear black, naturally. She would cry. Beatrice wasn’t certain whether she herself would manage tears, but she was confident she could arrange an appropriately solemn expression. She had been practicing one all morning.
“You’re doing it again,” her mother said.
Beatrice looked at her reflection in the dressing-room mirror. “Doing what?”
“Making that face.”
“It’s my face, Mamma. I’ve had it for twenty-five years.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
Unfortunately, she did. Her mother stood behind her, arranging the long ivory veil that cascaded down the back of the wedding gown. The dress was spectacular, an insult added to several existing injuries. Heavy silk fell from a beautifully fitted bodice, its neckline simple enough to make the intricate lace along the sleeves seem almost extravagant. The back dipped low, ending just above her waist, and the skirt moved with an understated elegance that Beatrice had once imagined for a wedding she actually wanted.
She had never intended to marry in a church filled with men her father considered business associates. Nor had she anticipated that her engagement would last twenty-three days, during which she would neither speak to nor meet her future husband. She had certainly never expected to discover that her father considered her a negotiable asset.
“I’m not nervous,” she said, although no one had suggested that she was.
Her mother fastened a pearl at her wrist, examining her reflection with an expression of carefully maintained composure. “Your father believes this marriage will protect you.”
“From what?”
“You know the difficulties between the families.”
“I know what Papa has told me.”
“Then you understand.”
“Actually, I don’t. I understand that men have been threatening one another for decades, and apparently the solution is for me to marry a stranger.”
Her mother sighed. “Gabriele Santorini is not just anyone.”
“That is becoming painfully clear.”
“People speak well of him.”
“People speak well of Papa, too. Usually when he’s close enough to hear them.”
Her mother’s expression changed. Beatrice saw the familiar fatigue beneath the immaculate makeup, the look she had first learned to recognize in childhood when her father returned home angry and the entire household quietly rearranged itself around his mood. Beatrice loved her mother. She also feared becoming her.
A knock came at the door, and Salvatore Fiore entered without waiting for an invitation. He wore an expensive suit, a confident smile, and the satisfaction of a man who believed everything was proceeding according to plan.
“Bellissima,” he said.
Beatrice stared at him.
“Come now. Surely you can smile for your father.”
“I thought the smile was reserved for the photographs.”
His expression cooled. Her mother intervened to say that Beatrice was nervous, but he dismissed the explanation with a small movement of his hand. He studied the dress, spoke of her grandmother, and told her the cars were ready. Beatrice looked at the man who had once let her stand on his shoes to dance around the kitchen and struggled to reconcile that father with this one.
The church was full by the time she arrived. Beatrice had refused to look at photographs of her future husband; it was an admittedly childish refusal, but it had been one of the few choices left to her. Now she stood at the entrance with her hand tucked into her father’s arm, and the organ began. At the far end of the aisle stood a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. As they began walking, she could finally see his face. Oh, for God’s sake.
That was her first thought. Her second was considerably less suitable for a church.
Gabriele Santorini was beautiful. Not handsome in the pleasant, forgettable way of the boys she’d dated at university. He was the sort of man who made people look twice, then become irritated with themselves for doing so. His dark hair was cut neatly, with a slight wave. His face was angular without being harsh, his mouth beautifully shaped, his nose straight except for a faint irregularity near the bridge. A small scar interrupted one eyebrow. He was broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, and offensively well dressed.
She had been prepared for an unattractive husband. She had found a certain comfort in imagining one. It would have made hating him so much simpler.
But this?
Her father could at least have arranged for her to marry someone with unfortunate ears. She forced herself to look away. A few seconds later, she looked back.
Gabriele was watching her approach, his expression composed but not cold. She held his gaze rather than lowering her eyes, and a faint change near his mouth suggested that he understood her defiance.
By the time she reached the altar, she had recovered enough to remind herself that beauty was irrelevant. So were wealth and charm. She was being married to a stranger because other men had negotiated her future without asking her. Her father placed her hand in Gabriele’s.
His fingers were warm, with a slight roughness she had not expected. She looked up and discovered, with fresh irritation, that he was even more attractive at close range.
“Beatrice,” he said quietly.
His voice was low, rich, carrying the softened consonants of Naples. He leaned closer. She stiffened, thinking he intended to kiss her. Instead his mouth came near her ear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She went still.
Of all the things he might have said, those two words had never occurred to her.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You should have had a choice.”
She stared at him. She had prepared herself for arrogance, for proprietorial satisfaction, even for an instruction disguised as affection. Not an apology. Not an acknowledgment of precisely what had been stolen from her.
“Then why are you here?” she whispered.
His jaw tightened. “Because I couldn’t find another way.”
“That’s a remarkably unsatisfactory answer.”
“I know.”
The priest cleared his throat. Gabriele straightened, but he didn’t immediately release her hand.
“May I explain later?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He met her gaze for a moment. “About listening to me? Yes.”
The priest began speaking. Beatrice turned toward the altar, profoundly unsettled. It would have been so much easier if Gabriele Santorini had been cruel. She could have hated cruelty without difficulty. A man who recognized the injustice of the marriage before she had even spoken was much harder to categorize. She resented him for that almost as much as she resented the marriage itself.
***
The vows were unbearable. Beatrice had attended enough weddings to know the ceremony by heart, but she had never appreciated how extraordinary its language sounded when the people making the promises had absolutely no intention of fulfilling them.
Love.
Honor.
Faithfulness.
Her father shifted in his seat when the priest spoke of mutual devotion, and Beatrice nearly laughed. She would honor her husband, apparently.
Perhaps in the same way one honored a impressive natural disaster. Gabriele spoke his vows without hesitation.
His voice carried easily through the church, calm and assured. He looked at her rather than the priest when he promised to remain faithful to her, and she found the directness uncomfortable. Did he actually mean it?
Surely not.
Men like Gabriele Santorini had mistresses. Everybody knew that. They kept beautiful women in apartments they never visited with their wives, and they expected everyone involved to behave discreetly. Beatrice had grown up watching her mother pretend not to notice the perfume on her father’s shirts. She wasn’t going to do that.
She had already decided. If Gabriele wanted another woman, he could have one, but he would not have Beatrice waiting dutifully at home while he entertained himself elsewhere.
Then again, perhaps she was getting ahead of herself. She hadn’t yet decided whether she wanted him to touch her at all.
The priest turned toward her. She repeated the vows, her voice steady despite the sickening sensation that accompanied each word.
Gabriele listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable. When the rings were presented, he took her left hand with surprising care. The diamond was magnificent.
Of course it was.
Her father would hardly have permitted a modest ring. Gabriele slid it onto her finger, pausing just long enough to make certain it settled comfortably against her engagement band.
Then he looked at her. For a moment, she saw something that might have been regret. The priest pronounced them husband and wife. Beatrice braced herself.
She had dreaded the kiss almost as much as the vows. It was one thing to stand beside a stranger and repeat words required by tradition. It was another to be expected to kiss him in front of everyone she’d ever known. Gabriele turned toward her. His hand moved to her waist, stopping lightly against the silk.
He leaned closer.
“May I?” he murmured.
She stared at him. Of all the absurdities of the afternoon, this might have been the greatest. He was asking permission.
To kiss his wife.
His wife, whom he had acquired without her permission. The irony was so enormous that she almost told him. Then she remembered the congregation, her father’s expectations, the cameras waiting outside.
“You’re asking a little late, don’t you think?”
His mouth twitched.
“For the marriage, certainly.”
She had to work very hard not to smile.
Damn him.
“Just get it over with,” she whispered.
He hesitated, his gaze searching hers. Then he bent his head and kissed her.
It was brief.
His lips touched hers gently, with none of the possessive insistence she’d feared. He didn’t pull her against him or deepen the kiss for the benefit of the guests. His hand remained lightly at her waist, and he withdrew almost immediately. There was applause.
Someone cheered.
Beatrice became aware of an unfamiliar pressure beneath her ribs. It was anger, obviously. Anger could do peculiar things to the body. Gabriele offered her his arm.
“Ready?” he asked.
She looked at the long aisle and the people waiting to congratulate them.
“Not remotely.”
This time, he did smile. It changed his entire face. She resented that, too.
“Neither am I,” he said.
And together, they walked out of the church. For the first time all day, Beatrice found herself wondering whether the man beside her might be telling the truth.
She had spent her entire life surrounded by men who said one thing and meant another, and she knew better than to confuse an apology with a promise kept.
Beautiful eyes did not make Gabriele Santorini trustworthy, nor did the fact that he knew how to apologize.
Even so, when they emerged into the sunlight and Gabriele leaned close enough to ask whether she was all right, she found herself answering honestly.
“No.”
He nodded.
“I thought not.”
And instead of telling her that everything would be fine, he simply adjusted his pace to match hers as they descended the church steps. It was a small courtesy. She wished she hadn’t noticed.
