RACHEL DIDN’T REMEMBER falling asleep, but when she woke up, she was astonished to discover she was still in Gio’s bed, in his room. Morning light streamed through a break in the curtains, streaking the carpeted floor. Memories of last night returned in a rush.
Rachel sat up swiftly, covers clutched to her breasts.
Giovanni reached out and drew her back down. “Where are you going?” he asked, sleepily.
“Michael,” she protested, even as Gio pulled her toward him.
“He’s with Mrs. Fabbro, remember? I am sure they will be fine for a little bit longer.” Gio rolled her onto her back and kissed her, his body hard and warm.
She shivered with pleasure, feeling the thickness of his erection press between her thighs. He’d made her climax twice last night and yet he hadn’t taken her virginity. She was ready to lose it. Ready to be his.
“Make love to me,” she said, locking her hands around his neck.
“Don’t you want to wait for our wedding night?”
“No. It puts too much pressure on the evening. I already feel so much pressure.”
“Why?”
She wasn’t sure how to explain it to him, but her inexperience was an issue, at least for her. She wanted him, and was glad he would be her first, and yet she was also so very nervous and worried that she’d disappoint him. It was one thing to be a virgin at eighteen, but another at twenty-eight. “What if I’m not any good?” she asked, her voice cracking ever so slightly. “What if you’re sorry—”
“You worry far too much about everything. Stop thinking,” he said. “Stop analyzing. It’s time to live.”
“I agree. I want to live. Make love to me. Now. Please.”
He rolled her over, so that he was now on the bottom, and she was lying naked on top of him. His hand swept down her bare back, over her hip to tease her bottom. He caressed her like that, once, twice, his touch so light on the curve of her backside, and each brush made more of her nerve endings come to life.
He slid his hands over the curve of her butt again, finding the sensitive crease where her cheeks ended and her leg began. He played with the crease and then the tops of her thighs, stroking out and then in again, melting her from the inside out.
“Please, Gio,” she whispered, pressing her pelvis to his, her belly knotting, her womb feeling so empty it made her frantic. She’d waited so long for this, and she was ready. She didn’t need more foreplay. She didn’t need him to be gentle. She wanted to be taken.
His hand slipped between her thighs, finding her slit. She was hot and wet, and his fingers slipped easily into her, stroking, teasing, before sliding out to spread the moisture over her nub, making her buck.
“Gio,” she gritted, arching up as he caressed her again.
He rolled her back over, his knees parting her thighs, holding her open for him. She looked up into his hard, handsome face as she felt the head of his shaft at her entrance. He was smooth and warm and she rubbed herself against him, enjoying the way he felt, and how deliciously sensitive she was with him against her.
He lowered himself to kiss her. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said against her mouth.
“It will only hurt the first time, so let’s get the first time over.”
“My pragmatist,” he murmured, smiling. “I appreciate your candor, but it doesn’t sound sexy.”
“I’m not sexy,” she said hoarsely as he shifted, adjusting himself so that the tip of his shaft was pressing at her entrance.
She exhaled slowly as he pushed in. He was large and she felt tight, but he kept pressing forward, and she drew a deep breath, trying to focus on his warmth and how he felt like satin, but it was snug, as he pushed in, and it began to sting.
Her eyes burned and she blinked, surprised by the pain. She really was too old to be a virgin, she thought blinking back tears.
“I’m hurting you,” he said, growing still.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her hands sliding around his back, savoring the warmth of his skin and the dense muscle in his back. He did feel good, and she wanted this, and it would only hurt the first time. “Don’t stop.”
“Bella, darling—”
“Please. Don’t stop.”
He thrust deeply, burying himself in her. Gio kissed her, giving her time to get used to him, and as she responded, kissing him back, he began to move, hips rocking, withdrawing to sink back into her. She felt a sensation that made her sigh, not quite a tickle or tingle, but something almost delicious. He thrust into her again, and she felt the same pleasure. She relaxed, welcoming the press of his body and the way he sank deeply into her. Her pulse quickened as his tempo increased, and she began to breathe more deeply, feeling her body tighten around him. He was driving her toward another orgasm, and she gripped his shoulders, her body lifting to meet his, wanting the pressure and pleasure, wanting him, wanting more of this sensation of them together.
They felt like one. They felt the way she’d thought love would feel. Bright and intense and stunning and so deeply satisfying.
And just like that, she knew two things—she loved him, and she couldn’t hold back anymore. She gave in to both then, her heart opening to love him even as her body yielded to the pleasure. She shattered beneath him and kept shattering, and then he, too, must have been climaxing, as he stiffened and his hands buried in her hair, his hard body filling her completely.
For long moments afterward, her heart pumped, and her skin felt hot and flushed. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of Giovanni and the weight of him on her and in her. It was wonderful. Being with him was wonderful. She knew he didn’t love her, and would probably never love her, but in that moment she was happy, genuinely happy, and she laughed out loud, a bright quick gurgle of sound.
Gio lifted his head, looked down at her. “You’re laughing?”
“Yes.” She smiled up at him, feeling impossibly good, and so very relaxed. “I’m not a virgin anymore, am I?”
“No. Sorry, bella, you’ve been deflowered.”
“Thank God! It was about time.”
His expression turned wry. “I hope you mean thank God it was with me.”
“Well, of course. That, too.”
“Hmm.”
She snuggled close. “It was amazing, Gio. You were amazing. Thank you.”
Later, after their bodies had cooled, Gio kissed her, and then climbed from bed.
“I’ll send for coffee,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, snuggling down under the covers. “I take it you’ll be in your office the rest of the day, doing your usual calls and meetings?”
He paused in the bathroom door, his body beautifully hard and muscular. “In meetings, yes, but these are meetings with you.”
“With me?” She propped herself up on one elbow. “Why are we having meetings?”
“I should say appointments. Today is the day we’re meeting with the journalist from the big UK magazine, the one that is doing the story on our wedding.”
Rachel’s smile began to fade. “Gio, not today. Not yet. We haven’t even discussed our wedding. We haven’t even really planned the engagement party.”
“That’s just it. I think we should combine them. Why have two events? Why not turn the engagement party into a surprise wedding reception?”
She no longer felt like smiling at all. The big bubble of happiness inside her had popped, as well. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“There’s no reason to drag it out. Let’s wed and be done with it—”
“How charming.”
“It will be. We can make it fun and today will be fun at any rate. We have a florist coming, and a baker who specializes in wedding cakes.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have my wedding gown picked out for me.”
“I do have a designer coming. She’ll have some dresses and sketches.”
“Gio, this isn’t how a wedding is supposed to work.”
“Rachel, we agreed we were going to do what was right for Michael. This is the right thing for him.”
She ground her teeth together, holding back tears of frustration.
“Cara, darling, we will be happy.”
She said nothing, battling the lump filling her throat.
He sighed. “I don’t have time to coddle you now. The journalist and her photographer will be here in less than two hours. Do you want me to call in a hair stylist and have someone do your hair for the pictures?”
“I can do it myself.”
“Very well. Coffee is on the way. I’m going to shower and shave. Today is about looking happy. Do try to look happy, bella, okay?”
Rachel showered and washed her hair, and then while it dried, she spent a half hour with Michael, walking him around the house, showing him all the beautiful things there were to see—chandeliers and Venetian mirrors, gilded frames and oil masterpieces. “This is all your house, too,” she told him, struggling to smile, struggling to keep her tone light when her heart felt unbearably heavy because she felt tricked.
Gio had seduced her last night to further his agenda.
It hadn’t been a night of mad passion. He hadn’t been overcome by emotion. He’d known the reporter was coming today to get their “story” for the magazine, the story being important because it protected Gio’s business and all his valuable investors.
She was not important. She was just a means to an end.
Rachel returned Michael to Mrs. Fabbro, and then dressed in her brown lace dress and styled her hair, twisting it up and letting a few tendrils fall free to frame her face.
She could barely stand to look at her reflection. She was too upset, too hurt. Turning from the mirror she headed downstairs, arriving just as the journalist and the photography crew stepped through the front door.
Giovanni made the introductions and ushered everyone into the rose salon with the famous frescoes by Gregorio Lazzarini. The photographer set up his equipment while his assistant arranged the lights and white screen. The English journalist, Heidi Parker, immediately began asking questions, and Gio answered everything she asked with an easy, sexy smile. He looked incredibly comfortable, and when Rachel remained quiet, he slid his arm around her and kissed her on the brow, and then the lips, playing the part of the besotted lover.
“Where will the wedding reception be?” Heidi asked.
“The ballroom,” Gio said. “Would you like to see it?”
Heidi nodded and the photographer joined them. Gio opened the doors and stepped back. He didn’t need to say or do more. The room spoke for itself, appearing to stretch the length of the house, but that might have been an illusion due to the soaring ceiling with the Baroque frescoes and lavish gold paint.
It wasn’t hard to imagine it glittering at nighttime, all five of the lavish chandeliers lit, the crystals gleaming and reflecting light while guests mingled and danced below.
Rachel’s heart ached as Gio shared some of the wedding details. It would be without a doubt the most beautiful and fashionable event of the year. The reception would be extravagant, and Giovanni would serve the Marcello wine from his vineyard. But it wasn’t the kind of wedding she wanted. She didn’t want a show. She didn’t want fuss and extravagance. She wanted something intimate and warm and full of love.
They left the ballroom and headed for the dining room, which had been turned into a floristry. Flowers were everywhere, in buckets and vases, in hand-tied bouquets and elegant boutonnieres. The bouquets were lush and wildly romantic and Rachel found herself lifting one and smelling it, and then froze when she realized the photographer was clicking away, capturing her with the pink roses and peonies and lilies.
“Beautiful,” the photographer said, giving her a smile.
It was all she could do not to cry when Gio pulled her into his arms and kissed her, giving the photographer another “candid” shot, and then Gio was sharing more details about their guest list and who had been invited. They were all society people, and Heidi scribbled away, murmuring about what a spectacular event it would be, such an A-list party.
The very description sent a chill through Rachel. She was not an A-lister herself. She was not even close to a B- or C-list.
Gio was right. She was firmly middle class. A woman from Burien, Washington who had to struggle for everything in life.
“How does it feel knowing that you will have the wedding of the year?” Heidi asked Rachel. “Is it at all intimidating?”
“Very much so,” Rachel answered, voice wobbling. “Giovanni’s friends are powerful and influential...aristocrats, millionaires and billionaires, race car drivers, fashion designers, models, actors and socialites...” Her voice faded, the stream of words ending. “Not my sort of people at all,” she concluded unsteadily, aware that Heidi and the photographer had just exchanged curious glances.
Giovanni didn’t seem disturbed. He kissed the top of her head. “My sweet bride.”
Heidi scribbled something. “And the baby?” she asked. “Will we meet him? Do say yes. We are so hoping for a picture of the three of you.”
“No. We’re determined to protect his privacy,” Gio answered firmly. “It was the one condition we had about the interview. The focus would be Rachel and me. It’s not fair to Michael to put him in the limelight.”
Heidi nodded. “Of course. And I did know. But what kind of journalist would I be if I didn’t try?”
Gio gestured toward the door. “I believe our chef is here. Shall we go discuss our wedding cake?”
While Heidi stayed back with the photographer, helping hold one temperamental light, Rachel moved close to Gio, whispering to him as they exited the dining room. “You seem to be quite enjoying the fuss.”
“It’s for the cameras.”
She shot him a dubious glance. “I don’t believe you.”
He glanced back at Heidi, who was now bustling toward them. His broad shoulders shifted. “I want a wedding to remember.”
“Funny, but I want a wedding I can forget.”
“You’ve lost your sense of humor, Rachel. Why can’t you have fun with this? Why not enjoy planning the wedding?”
“Because it seems like a terrible extravagance!”
“Maybe I see this as the right opportunity to return to society.”
“The right opportunity being before the stock offerings,” she said under her breath.
But he heard her. He lifted a brow. “My goal is to protect all. The company. The employees. The family. Michael.” He reached out and tipped her chin up, his gaze locking with hers. “You.”
“I’m not a Marcello.”
“Not yet in name, but in body, I’ve already claimed you.”
Her heart hurt and heat washed through her. “You have no idea how much I regret that, too.”
He gave her a look. “I don’t believe that, and neither do you.”
With that, he headed into the palazzo’s vast kitchen, a room that might have been medieval at one point, but was a stunning space of light and gleaming white marble.
Like the dining room that had been filled with flowers, the long white marble counters were filled with cakes. Tall, white, layered cakes and large square cakes covered in sugared fruit. There was a cone cake with caramel-covered pastries and puffs of whipped cream and a chocolate something with more whipped cream.
The photographer immediately wanted photos, and Heidi went over to introduce herself to the chef.
Giovanni leaned against a white counter, arms folded across his chest. “You must admit this is an easy way to do an interview,” he said as Rachel reluctantly came to stand at his side. “We’re giving them a show, but we’re not having to tell them very much about us.”
“I’d like to give them a show, but it would involve smashing cake in your face.”
He laughed softly. “You are determined to be angry.”
“You should have told me last night that the reporter was coming this morning. It would have changed things.”
“How so?”
I wouldn’t have given you my heart, she thought, looking away, jaw grinding to hold back the emotion, I would have just given you my body. But Rachel wasn’t sure that was true. She didn’t think she could have helped falling for him. And maybe that was why she was angry. She’d wanted to hold out for true love. Instead she’d fallen for Gio.
He tipped her chin up. “It wouldn’t have changed anything, cara. You willingly, happily went to bed with me last night. I kissed every inch of your lovely body, and then this morning, after a good sleep, when you couldn’t blame the wine for clouding your judgment, I took your virginity. There was no coercion involved.”
“Can you not say virginity so loud?” she gritted, face on fire.
“Is that why you’re so sensitive this morning? Did you want to lounge around this morning—”
“No.”
“Savoring your first time?”
She dug her nails into her palms. “I will slap you if you continue mocking me.”
“I am not mocking you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Teasing you.” He leaned forward and kissed her brow. “As new lovers do,” he added with another kiss. Gio drew back and smiled into her eyes. “Shall we go select our wedding cake?”
The chef had a speech prepared, and in the palazzo’s cavernous kitchen, he shared how cake wasn’t just something sweet with which to finish the meal, but the breaking of bread over the bride’s head dated to the ancient Romans. The groom would smash the cake—sometimes even throw it at her—as a fertility ritual.
Rachel’s lips compressed. “What a lovely thing for a man to do to his bride,” she said under her breath. “I’m sure she enjoyed it immensely.”
Gio grinned lazily at her. “Is that your sense of humor returning?”
“Oh no. It’s gone. I don’t think it’ll ever be back, either.”
He just laughed, and the photographer snapped away, and the chef kept talking as he showed them each of the different types of cake they could choose for their wedding.
“This is the classic Italian white cake,” he said, gesturing to a four-tier cake. “It is the one most similar to your American wedding cake style. In Italy, the beautiful white icing represents purity and fidelity, and the bride’s faithful devotion to her new husband.”
“That sounds like our perfect cake,” Gio said.
Rachel shot him a dark glance. “What other choices do we have?”
The chef went on to the next cake. “Many couples choose millefoglie, a very traditional cake comprised of very thin, delicate layers of pastry with a light cream mascarpone filling. Millefoglie translates to ‘a thousand layers’ and is finished with powdered sugar and fresh berries. You can also choose a chocolate cream filling instead of mascarpone if you are a chocolate fan.” The chef smiled. “The only drawback to such a cake is that it cannot be stacked, so it does not create quite the same centerpiece effect.”
“Since my bride is American, I think we should give her a tall cake,” Gio said.
The chef moved to the third cake. “There is also the profiterole cake. It is a tower cake, but instead of layers of cake that have been iced and stacked, it is a cone covered in cream-filled pastries. It is a very European cake, popular in France, too, although there it is called croquembouche.”
The room was silent as everyone looked at her, as if eager for her pronouncement. “I don’t care,” Rachel whispered, overwhelmed. “Whatever Giovanni wants. This is his big day, too.”
Gio’s gaze met hers and held. “I think we should go with the traditional layered cake,” he said after a moment. “A white layered cake with all white frosting to symbolize my beautiful bride’s purity and devotion.”
And then it was all over. The photographer and journalist left, and the chef packed up his cakes, and it was just Rachel and Gio with a stack of sketches—the wedding dresses.
Rachel numbly leafed through the illustrations of gorgeous white dresses but they were all just that—formal white gowns that meant nothing to her. She was finding it impossible to wrap her head around the marriage and the wedding and everything else. Finally, she just pushed the sketches across the table to Gio. “You decide,” she said. “I don’t care. I really don’t.”
* * *
It wasn’t the answer Gio wanted, but he smiled lazily, hiding his frustration. But later, when he was in his office, he found himself pausing between conference calls to wonder why he wanted her to care. He wanted her to be enthusiastic; he wanted the wedding ceremony and reception to be something they’d both enjoy, and he wasn’t sure why.
They weren’t marrying out of love. This was a practical marriage at best. So why should it matter if she was or wasn’t excited about the ceremony? Why should he want her to treat this as if it was her dream wedding?
Why did he want her to be happy about marrying him?
Maybe it was because he was actually quite happy with her. He liked her, a great deal as a matter of fact.
He liked looking at her and he thoroughly enjoyed touching her and tasting her and giving her pleasure. He even found himself wanting to hold her, and since Adelisa, he hadn’t wanted to hold any woman, not after sex. Usually after his orgasm, he was done. Physically satisfied and ready to move on to the next thing. But with Rachel in his bed, the orgasm was just the beginning. The orgasm was almost incidental. There was something about her warmth and softness that made him want to stay with her, keeping her close, kissing her and exploring her sweet curves, and then making love all over again.
With her in his bed, he felt relaxed and settled. Calm. Peaceful. Yes, that was it. Peaceful. She fit in his life. She fit in his arms and, indeed, in his heart.
He wasn’t one to use flowery phrases and spout poetry, and he didn’t glorify romantic love, but some part of him believed that marrying might just possibly be the smartest thing he’d ever do, and not simply because it’d keep her and Michael in Venice, but because it’d give him a strong, independent and self-sufficient partner. A partner he could trust.
But she needed to trust him. And be happy with him.
* * *
Rachel entered the smaller salon, which had been turned into a dining room for them that evening. In front of the marble hearth, a table had been set for two, with a high chair placed between the two dining chairs.
Seeing the antique wooden high chair at the table put a lump in Rachel’s throat. The chair was so ornate, probably a family heirloom, and it made the dining table look cozy and domestic.
Moments later Gio entered the room with Michael in his arms and she had to blink back tears.
“I thought it was time we had a family dinner,” Gio said, giving her a smile that made her heart turn over. Michael babbled something and took his fist from his mouth and bounced it on Gio’s freshly shaven cheek. Gio grinned and his quick flash of white teeth made everything inside her chest tighten and ache.
Gio looked beyond gorgeous tonight, and his ease with Michael made her want to weep. How was she going to resist a man who loved children?
* * *
“You don’t mind that I wanted him to join us, do you?” Gio asked, looking from Michael to her.
“No, of course not,” she answered quickly, breathlessly. “In Seattle, he’s my dinner date every night.” She couldn’t quite get over Gio’s ease with Michael, though. He looked incredibly comfortable and it didn’t make sense. He was supposed to be this cold, unfeeling man, and yet he was carting around the six-month-old as if they were lifelong friends. “Have you had a lot of experience with babies and children?”
“None. Does it show?”
“No. You’re a natural.”
“I think it helps that I like him,” he answered, glancing down at the baby, but she heard the way his voice deepened. She heard the rasp of emotion. Gio loved Michael.
“He reminds you of your brother, doesn’t he?” she said.
“Yes. It’s bittersweet, but definitely more sweet than bitter.” He hesitated. “Do you see your sister in him?”
“No. Not at all. He is very much a Marcello.”
“So you don’t hate all Marcellos.”
She felt another pang. “I don’t hate you, Gio,” she whispered, because she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not when she’d begun to care so very much. Somehow in the past four days he’d become not just familiar, but hers. Her Giovanni Marcello, her impossible Venetian.
Or maybe she felt like his. He was making her his, and she was finding it hard, if not impossible, to resist.
“Good, because Michael and I have a question for you.” Shifting the baby, Gio reached into his coat and withdrew a small black ring box.
Her heart did another funny dip. She knew what this was.
He could see that she knew, too, and his lips curved ever so faintly. Gio walked toward her and Michael batted the velvet box. Rachel couldn’t move, rooted to the spot.
Reaching her side, he opened the top revealing an enormous, intense yellow, square-cut diamond ring surrounded by smaller white diamonds, but he wasn’t looking at the ring. He was looking into her face, his gaze holding hers. “Bella Rachel, marry me.”
He’d been calling her bella for the past few days, and she’d thought she knew what it meant—beautiful—but she wasn’t beautiful. Juliet was beautiful. Rachel knew she bordered on plain. “Please don’t mock me,” she whispered.
“Why can’t you be beautiful?” he asked. “Why must you assume I’d want someone like your sister? Yes, she caught Antonio’s eye, but she’s not the kind of woman I’m drawn to. You are. You are my idea of beautiful.”
“You say that because you never met her.”
“You don’t think I’ve had my pick of beautiful women? I’m thirty-eight. I’m wealthy. I can support any woman in any lifestyle she wants. Trust me, women are drawn to me, but I want you, bella. I’m drawn to you.”
She swallowed hard. “Do you mind terribly that I’m not interested in your money? And that I am not very interested in having a lifestyle? I just want to be a good mother to Michael, and hopefully, a good wife to you.”
“Does that mean you’ll accept Michael’s and my proposal?”
He hadn’t mentioned love, but then, she didn’t expect him to. Right now she didn’t need the word when she felt his strength and passion and commitment. She believed he would be a good husband. A kind husband. And an honest one, too.
“Yes.” She smiled shyly. “Can I put on the ring?”
“If you don’t mind that Michael’s begun to drool all over it.”
“That’s his seal of approval, you know,” she answered, holding her hand out so that Gio could slide the stunning yellow diamond onto her finger.
“My beautiful funny Rachel,” Gio said, putting the ring on her finger, where it glinted with fire and light. He shifted Michael and kissed her, and then again. “I am so glad your sense of humor is back. You make me smile and laugh. It has been such a long time since I did either.”
She reached up and touched his jaw, her fingernails lightly raking his jaw. “So you appreciate my brains and beauty.”
“All of it. And all of you. I love your eyes and how they show everything you’re thinking and feeling. I love your mouth—you have perfect lips—and I love that when I kiss you, you make this little whimper. I find that incredibly sexy.”
And then he kissed her and his kiss lit her up like a Christmas tree. “I can’t wait until bedtime,” she whispered.
“I can’t, either, as I intend to show you something new tonight, something guaranteed to give you intense pleasure.”
“Don’t tease.”
“I’m not. It’s a promise.”