One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс
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No one.
She took a bite of the antipasti—rigatoni in a delicate cream sauce. When would she tell her family? she wondered. When would she go back?
The thought was too depressing, and so she pushed it away. There was enough to deal with here. She had her own shadows, but so did Alessandro.
She wondered if she would ever find out what they were.
After dinner Gabriella excused herself, and Alessandro and Meghan were left alone in the elegant drawing room that faced the front of the house.
A tension thrummed between them, taut and expectant. Meghan realised they hadn’t had much experience in being alone, living as a couple, doing normal, boring things.
The intensity remained. It wouldn’t go away.
How long could they keep this up?
She moved around the room, seeking bland conversation, something innocuous, safe.
Like the villa, the drawing room was decorated in shades of cream and ivory, the muted colours punctuated by the vivid oil paintings on the wall.
Meghan inspected one while Alessandro poured them drinks.
‘Is this by the same artist as the ones in the villa?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know much about art, but it looks similar.’
‘So it is,’ Alessandro agreed, his voice neutral. She knew he was at his most dangerous when his face turned blank, his voice toneless, the mask dropping into place.
She needed to be careful. She needed to know.
He knocked back half of his negroni before handing Meghan her own glass.
‘Who is the artist?’ she asked, and Alessandro took another sip of his drink.
‘My brother. You can see my parents were very fond of his work. They have his paintings in nearly every room of this house.’
Meghan studied him, his careless pose, and yet there was restless energy radiating from every taut line of his beautiful body. The mood had suddenly turned sour, savage, and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Are you jealous of him?’ she asked uncertainly, and he raked her with a cool, contemptuous gaze.
‘Jealous? He’s dead. What is there to be jealous of?’
‘I meant before that.’ Meghan spoke cautiously, feeling each word as though in a darkened maze of memories, every turn leading to an unforeseen trap. A danger.
‘Was I jealous of my brother?’ Alessandro spoke musingly, his expression distant. ‘Perhaps I was, a little. You’ve given me an amusing bit of therapy there.’ His tone turned sardonic. ‘I’d never considered that before.’
‘Don’t.’ Meghan put her glass of negroni down, untasted. ‘You sound like a little boy—mad at his mother, jealous of his brother.’
His eyes turned so dark she couldn’t see his pupils. It was as if his muscles, his mood, were carved from ice. ‘You know nothing about it.’
‘No, I don’t. So why don’t you tell me?’
‘I’ve told you all you need to know.’
‘I want to know more,’ she persisted, her voice breaking a little. ‘Alessandro, I want to understand you.’
He laughed, a harsh sound, raking a hand through his hair before setting his glass down so hard it rattled. ‘Trust me, Meghan,’ he said savagely, ‘you do not want to understand me.’
Meghan trembled inwardly at his words, but she stood her ground. ‘Tell me why not, then.’
He glanced at her, eyes blazing, punishing. His smile was a cruel slash of colour on his face. She took an unsteady step backwards.
‘Why do you think I chose you?’ he asked, his voice a deadly purr. ‘And not some Italian girl, like you said? Someone from my own class, culture? Because face it, Meghan …’ he glanced at her with a searing contempt that made her feel tarted-up and dirty ‘… you’re not.’
‘I know I’m not,’ she whispered, hurt despite her intention not to be, despite her realisation that he was trying to hurt her and she was letting him. This was perhaps hurting him as much as it was her.
Why did he do this to her? To himself?
Why?
‘I chose you because you don’t know my family, you don’t know me, and it can stay that way. I don’t want you to know me. I don’t want you to understand me. I don’t love you, and you don’t love me, remember? So let’s enjoy each other’s company— and bodies—without any unnecessary complications. Is that understood?’ His mouth turned upwards in a mocking smile.
Meghan stumbled back a step, sickened. ‘What about the promises you made to me, Alessandro? What about the man you mean to be? Is this it? Because if so, I don’t want any part of you.’ The words rang out, echoing, condemning.
The smile died on his face, leaving it blank and empty. He stared at her for a moment, and Meghan opened her mouth to deny what she said, to apologise. She wanted him. She wanted all of him. She wanted to understand, to explain, to …
Help. Help him.
‘It’s too late for regrets,’ he said tonelessly. ‘For either of us. You will marry me, Meghan. You don’t have any choice. And neither do I.’
‘We both have choices,’ Meghan protested, though her voice sounded feeble. ‘This may have been a deal, Alessandro, but we can break it.’ Not that she wanted to even now, God help her.
‘We cannot!’
His hand slashed through the air, and, goaded, Meghan found herself replying, ‘I can.’
He came to her in two strides, his face lit with a primal ferocity as he grabbed her shoulders. ‘You will not break it, Meghan. Swear to me!’
‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered. Tears streaked down her face.
He released her. Then his hands slid down her arms, down her sides, and he fell to his knees, his head buried against her middle.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, his voice jagged and broken. He drew in a shuddering breath and his arms wrapped around her waist, clinging to her as if she were his anchor. ‘I never meant … What kind of man am I?’ It came out as an anguished cry, a plea for mercy. ‘What kind of man am I?’
Meghan trembled with suppressed emotion, pain. The tears still streaked down her face as she buried her fingers in his hair. He lifted his head to gaze up at her. The bleak despair etched in harsh, unforgiving lines on Alessandro’s face was nearly her undoing.
‘The man you mean to be,’ she whispered, and kissed him with all the tenderness she longed to give him. He knelt there, motionless, accepting her offering, before he pulled her down to him, turning the kiss into something deeper, something that hurt like a wound, deep inside.
His arms were around her, hard and desperate, the kiss plundering, plunging. Meghan kissed him back, desire fanning quickly, leaping into dangerous flames. She threw her head back to give him access to her throat, desire now pouring through her in a molten wave, burning her up. Their breathing was harsh, ragged.
He pulled her dress down, mindless of the delicate material. The sound of its tearing rent the air, and his voice came out in a sob as he buried his head between her breasts, touching her, suckling her, turning her to liquid fire even as the tears dried on her cheeks.
She pulled open his shirt, the buttons popping and scattering across the floor, let her hands touch and twist and tease, before wrapping her arms around the smooth, broad expanse of his back, pulling him closer.
She didn’t know what was happening—why this moment of passion had sprung from pain and despair, sorrow and misery.