“Yes. Come in.” Leaving the mirror, she turned to face him. Pools of morning light from the high windows of the bedroom frosted her long bridal veil with gold.

  Alex pushed open the door, then gasped when he saw her in the wedding dress. “Rosalie.”

  She looked at her future husband in the doorway. He was devastatingly handsome, his muscular body sheathed in a civilized tuxedo that masked the savagery of his powerful physique. But his face was awed as he slowly looked over her wedding dress, his gaze for once utterly devoid of mockery or cynicism.

  Clearing his throat, Alex came forward, holding out a flat black velvet box. He opened it. “For you.”

  Rosalie’s lips parted as he held up a beautiful diamond tiara that sparkled and shimmered in the morning light.

  “This has been in my family for generations.” Setting down the black velvet box, he placed the tiara lightly on her head, crowning her tumbling dark hair and translucent white veil. Stepping back, he looked at her, his dark eyes warm. “Now it is yours.”

  Shocked, Rosalie looked back at the mirror. She hardly recognized herself, with her bold red lips and hair that looked almost black against the white gown. She looked like a princess. Reaching up, she touched the tiara with a trembling hand. The stones twinkled in the mirror, but felt hard and cold to the touch. “But—but what if I lose it?”

  “The tiara is yours to keep or lose.” Tilting his head, he said huskily, “I cannot wait to marry you.”

  Holding the tiara to her head, she ran to the bathroom and stuck in a bunch of bobby pins to hold it tight. With all the pins, and beneath the weight of the tiara, her scalp hurt, and her temples ached. Her heart was still pounding with fear for the commitment she was about to make.

  A life with diamonds. But without love.

  She would die without ever hearing a man tell her he loved her.

  But how could it be a mistake, when it would allow their son to have two parents in a secure home...forever? How could it be a mistake, when it meant that tonight and for always, Rosalie would sleep in Alex’s bed?

  “Cara?” he said quietly. He held out his arm.

  Her gaze fell on his antique cuff links, solid gold engraved with the Falconeri family crest. He had large, sensual hands, which she yearned to have on her body. His every teasing kiss, every passionate caress, made her burn until she thought she’d die. She had to marry him. Had to.

  Picking up her bouquet of red roses, Rosalie placed her hand around his arm. He kissed her gently on the temple and led her downstairs.

  They left his palazzo at the back, going to the private gate at the canal. She’d expected to see the speedboat. But instead...

  “A gondola?” she gasped. He gave a sheepish grin.

  “The speedboat left twenty minutes ago with decoys to draw away the paparazzi. Gondolas are only used by tourists. With luck, no one will even look at us.”

  As his burly-looking bodyguard, dressed as a gondolier, steered the picturesque boat down the canal, Rosalie looked out at Venice in the bright early morning. The golden rays of the sun burst over the water, gilding the edges of the streets, the alleyways peeking out from between the orange-and-red-stucco buildings. The Venice of dreams.

  It was almost as good as a love song, Rosalie thought. A lump rose in her throat.

  A light breeze blew against her bare shoulders, against her hot skin, causing her hair and translucent white veil to flutter behind her in the gondola. She gripped her small bouquet of blood-red roses.

  “Cara?” Alex said incredulously. “Are you crying?”

  She looked at him, blinking fast. She couldn’t wipe her tears without wrecking her mascara. She tried to smile. “Of course I’m crying. It’s our wedding day.”

  It was the most romantic moment of her life. The streets were still quiet, as it was early. To an observer, Rosalie probably looked like Cinderella getting whisked to a palace with a handsome prince.

  But amidst all the beauty, all the glamour and romance, she knew what she was losing today, losing forever.

  I have no choice, she told herself desperately.

  Then she was tortured by the memory of Alex’s earlier words.

  There is always a choice.

  She’d made hers, and she would have to forget about what she was losing today—the last hope of being truly loved. She didn’t care. It wouldn’t have happened anyway. She would wrap up her yearning in an iron box and dump it into the lagoon, never to be found again.

  When they arrived at the palazzo where Venice’s civil weddings were held, she kept her face frozen in a smile as Alex helped her out of the gondola and onto the dock.

  His eyes were dark, his words simple.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she told him.

  But was she?

  Taking a deep breath, she went forward.

  Inside the palace, Collins and Maria were waiting to be witnesses. Rosalie turned to Alex in surprise.

  “You didn’t invite your cousin, Cesare?”

  “I changed my mind.” Alex’s expression became hard. “I barely know the man.”

  “But he’s family!”

  He shrugged. “He attended my last wedding, and it didn’t help anything. Besides—” his hand tightened over hers “—you’re my family now.”

  So their butler and cook would be their only witnesses. Rosalie wished her great-aunt could have been there. Or anyone from her hometown. Or most of all, her parents—

  But thinking of her past only reminded her of everything she didn’t want to remember. She lifted her chin.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Let’s keep the ceremony simple.”

  She turned to Collins and Maria, praying they wouldn’t see her heart was crumpling inside her.

  For my baby, she told herself, clutching the bouquet of red roses tightly. For my baby.

  She flinched. Pulling back a hand from her bouquet, she saw a drop of blood on her finger. A single thorn, missed by the florist, had pricked through her skin.

  “What is it?” Alex reached for her hand. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped the blood from her finger. She looked at him in amazement as he tucked the handkerchief back into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. A handkerchief? Was he from the nineteen hundreds?

  Still holding her hand, he brought it to his lips. She felt the heat of his breath, the caress of his sensual lips as he kissed the back of her hand.

  She shivered.

  Desire. That was what they would have, instead of love. Longing and lust. As their eyes met, her fear was silenced beneath the pounding heartbeat of desire, like a drumbeat that drowned out everything else.

  Desire. His hand tightened on hers, and he led her up the stairs of the grand palazzo. He didn’t let go of her hand as they went into the small room where the official waited to marry them.

  Rosalie barely listened to the Italian ceremony or the English translation. She didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to understand. All she had to do was make it to tonight. Then she’d let forever take care of itself.

  Afterward, they signed the papers. An enormous diamond ring was added to Rosalie’s left hand. They kissed. They stood. And suddenly, Maria and Collins were congratulating them.

  Just like that, they were wed. All her worries no longer mattered. She was his wife. Now and forever.

  As they left the building and went out into the sunlight, Alex took her left hand with its heavy new diamond. He cradled it against his powerful chest, and she held her breath as her bridegroom looked down at her.

  “Well, wife,” he said softly, “shall we go home?”

  Before Rosalie could embarrass herself with a reply like Yes, yes, yes, or Oh, please, yes, Collins cleared his throat behind them. Alex looked back at the elderly butler. “Yes?”

  “Your staff from the winery has a surprise for you, sir. They’ve rented out a nearby restaurant to celebrate your nuptials.”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Alex’s face. “Tell them no.”

  “Of course.” The butler bowed his head. “Though they’ve spent some time on it, sir.”

  Maria, the cook, added something in rapid Italian.

  “Alex,” Rosalie said. Putting off consummating their marriage was the last thing she wanted, but she could not imagine snubbing his employees after they’d made such an effort. “We can’t be rude on our wedding day.”

  With a sigh, he said through gritted teeth, “It was very kind of them.” He looked down the street. Crowds had started to form, holding up cameras, straining to see them. “It seems the world has already found us.” He turned to Collins. “The reception is nearby?”

  He pointed. “Across the bridge, signore.”

  “Make sure the bodyguards are close when we want to leave.”

  They walked the short way across the slender bridge to the party eagerly awaiting them in a local trattoria. Rosalie found herself engulfed by hugs and greetings as she met the employees and farmworkers from his vineyard.

  “Welcome, contessa.”

  “So happy to meet you, contessa!”

  Rosalie looked up at Alex in astonishment. “I’m—a countess?”

  He encircled her with his arms. “That’s how it works.”

  “Me!” An incredulous laugh bubbled up as she looked back at him. “A farm girl from Emmetsville—an Italian countess! How did I get so lucky?”

  Alex kissed her.

  “I’m the lucky one,” he said huskily.

  For lunch, they were served traditional Venetian dishes such as caparossoi a scota deo—clams in lemon pepper—and risi e bisi—risotto with peas—at the long, rough wooden tables. Alex toasted his bride with champagne, holding out his flute and speaking in rapid Italian, translating his words into English for her benefit.

  But Rosalie needed no translation. Sitting at the table of the trattoria, surrounded by new friends, she felt happy, from her fingertips to her toes, to be Alex’s wife. She listened to the timbre of his voice, watched the movement of his body. Her gaze lingered on his large, capable hand holding the stem of the crystal flute. She watched his lips move as he spoke, noted the mesmerizing way they pressed together, lifted, laughed. Though it was only early afternoon, she noticed the five-o’clock shadow along his jawline, the thickness of his neck. As he took off his tuxedo jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, her gaze lingered on his powerful forearms, laced with dark hair.

  With his broad shoulders and muscular body, he seemed like a man who could lift a horse on his shoulders, or perhaps a car, or perhaps the whole world.

  His low-slung trousers were trim against his slim waist. And as he turned to speak to someone who had come up to congratulate him, Rosalie’s gaze fell to his backside, so taut and shapely beneath the fabric that her mouth went dry. As lovely as this reception was, she could hardly wait for it to be over. Because once they were alone, she would be able to see him. She would be able to touch him. She would be able to—

  “Don’t you think, cara?” Alex said, turning to face her, to include her in the conversation with his estate manager. Her cheeks went red as they waited for her reply.

  “Um...yes—yes, of course,” she stammered. Then, “Er...what?”

  “I was saying we do not wish to post a wedding photo online, not even on the winery’s social media accounts. Our celebration is private.” He frowned at her, and she knew her behavior must seem strange; she must look like a fool. Then, looking at her more closely, Alex suddenly grinned, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking about—and liked it.

  Her cheeks felt radioactive with heat. What was wrong with her? She was a virgin, but felt totally wanton, utterly in her husband’s sexual thrall.

  Her husband. Alex was her husband.

  “Are you ready, cara?” he murmured hours later, holding out his hand as they finally left the trattoria.

  This time, there was no hesitation in her answer, no doubt, no question. Looking up at him, she was vibrating with need.

  “Yes,” she said.

  They took the speedboat back to the palazzo, going very fast to evade paparazzi hovering in their wake, and taking five wrong turns to throw them off the scent. Instead of going to the back gate on the canal as expected, Lorenzo dropped them at a dock a little way from the front of the palazzo. Taking Rosalie’s hand, Alex led her down a tiny, winding alley, as they both laughed with joy at their escape.

  Rosalie’s heart pounded as she looked at her darkly handsome husband. When they reached the rarely used kitchen door of the palazzo, she was still laughing as she started to go through it. Alex stopped her.

  “Wait,” he said huskily.

  Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the threshold. She expected him to immediately put her down in the kitchen, because after all, at nearly eight months’ pregnant, she wasn’t exactly a waif. Instead, he carried her all the way through the kitchen, down the hall, into the grand foyer and up the stairs.

  His footsteps never faltered. He carried her as if she were a feather.

  Only when they were in his master bedroom, the room she’d never even been inside before, he slowly lowered her to her feet.

  No. His bedroom no longer. Theirs.

  Her eyes fell on the enormous four-poster bed, and she bit her lip nervously. She was about to experience what all the fuss was about. She would make love to the man whose child she already carried...

  They’d done everything backward, she thought suddenly. Getting pregnant. Then marrying. Then making love. The last thing should have been falling in love—because really, that should have come first, before anything else. But now it would come never.

  This was close enough to love, Rosalie thought as he looked down at her, burning her with his hot gaze. It was.

  Outside the windows, past the balcony, the sun was beginning to set, leaving a soft rose hue over the lush, warm Venetian buildings.

  Reaching out, Alex pulled the diamond tiara slowly from her dark hair. As the pins disappeared, the long, translucent white veil, too, dropped to the floor. She shivered.

  Cupping her face with his hands, Alex lowered his head and kissed her.

  His lips burned hers, moving languorously, as if he had all the time in the world. His hands moved in her hair, stroking down her back. Her lips parted as he deepened the kiss, taking command, luring her tongue with his own.

  Slowly, he unzipped the back of her wedding dress. It fell in a crumple of silk, gleaming on the marble floor with a pearlescent sheen. Pulling back, he looked down at her with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted.

  The girl at the lingerie shop had practically forced her to buy this. “Perfect for a wedding night, signorina! It will make your sposo mad with desire!” That had sounded good to Rosalie, so she’d taken it, in spite of her blushes: a strapless white silk demi bra, which she saw now barely contained her overflowing, pregnancy-swollen breasts. Beneath her prominent belly, matching white silk panties clung to her hips. A white lace garter belt held up thigh-high sheer white stockings, which had seemed unnecessary in the warm Italian summer, but the salesgirl had insisted were absolutely necessary.

  And now, looking at her bridegroom, Rosalie agreed. Because the expression on Alex’s face was one so overwhelmed with shock and desire, it was almost comical.

  “What,” he breathed, “is that?”

  “Lingerie,” she said shyly, peeking at him. “Do you like it?”

  With a low growl, he gripped her shoulders, pulling her into his arms, plundering her mouth with his own. A soft sigh came from the back of her throat as she wrapped her arms around him tightly, pulling him down against her.

  He yanked off his tuxedo jacket, then dropped it to the floor. His antique cuff links came next. As he unbuttoned his shirt, she placed her hands against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin over his powerful muscles, his flat belly, laced with dark hair. The shirt fell to the floor.

  Gently, almost reverently, Alex lowered her to the bed.

  Climbing beside her, where she reclined against the pillows, he kissed her. Slowly, softly, his hands caressed her, working his way down her body with the lingering stroke of his touch.

  “My wife at last,” he whispered huskily against her skin, and the words burned through her, nearly as much as his touch.

  She wrapped her hands around him, exploring the muscles of his back, feeling the strength of his biceps as he cupped her full breasts over the tactile silk bra, running his thumbs over her taut, aching nipples. Moving the fabric aside, he stroked the sensitive reddish-pink tips with his fingertips. Her lips parted in a silent gasp as he touched where no man ever had before.

  Reaching beneath her, he easily unhooked the clasp of her bra, and the white silk fell to the bed, fluttering like a flag of surrender. He bent his head, and she felt the heat of his breath, then the electricity of his lips on her nipple as he suckled her, drawing her deeply into his warm, wet mouth. She moaned aloud as pleasure crackled down the length of her body. Tension coiled low and deep in her belly.

  He moved to her other breast, cupping the weight with his large hand, squeezing it softly as he drew the large, aching nipple deeply into his mouth. She moaned again as he stroked her body. Lifting his head to plunder her lips, he ran his hands down her bare shoulders, through her hair tumbling over the pillow, then very gently over the swell of her pregnant belly.

  Her hands traced the contours of his powerful chest, down his flat belly to the waistband of his tuxedo trousers. She felt the hardness of him beneath, pressing against her. He froze.

  With an intake of breath, she looked up, her cheeks burning. “I...I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  He cupped her cheek, his dark eyes burning through her. “You are wrong, cara,” he said huskily. “You’re driving me mad.” Lowering his head, he kissed her naked shoulder, whispering against her skin, “Your every touch intoxicates me...”

 

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