One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс
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not think,’ Alessandro cut in shortly. ‘And do not think to blame my brother. He did the best he could, and if he made any unwise business decisions it was because he was too naïve, too trusting, and people led him astray—’ He broke off suddenly, his breathing ragged, and stared out of the window.
Meghan sat back, reeling from the bitterness that had twisted his voice, his features.
‘Remember, Meghan, I married you because you don’t know me. Don’t understand me.’ His eyes flashed dangerously. ‘And I want to keep it that way.’
‘What kind of marriage is that?’ Meghan asked, a desperate edge to her voice. ‘You can’t—’
‘The kind we agreed on,’ Alessandro cut in with smooth, steely determination. ‘Don’t think to change it. I warn you, I will not allow it. You may think you love me, but you don’t. You don’t even know me. If you did—’ He stopped, stared out of the window again, his face a mask.
‘If I did…?’ Meghan prompted softly.
‘It hardly matters. Your love is worthless to me.’
The cold, casual dismissal sent stabbing pain through her. She blinked quickly. ‘It’s not worthless to me.’
‘It should be. I warned you, Meghan. Don’t forget that.’ His mouth was a hard, unforgiving line. He reached forward and poured them both more champagne. ‘Now,’ he said with silky, lethal intent, ‘let’s try to enjoy the rest of our honeymoon, shall we?’
The rest of the trip passed in miserable silence, Meghan drowning in the fresh sorrow Alessandro had caused.
He did it on purpose. She knew that. He hurt her, drove her away intentionally, to keep her from loving him.
She could only blame herself; she’d known the terms when she’d agreed to the marriage.
It was her own fault now for trying to change them.
She’d just never expected to love so deeply, so purely, so hopelessly.
Was it hopeless? Would Alessandro never learn—perhaps never admit—that he loved her? Was she mad to think he might?
Meghan blinked back tears. The thought of years ahead in a loveless, soulless marriage made her wonder if she could stand it. Yet life without Alessandro at all was not even worth contemplating.
The plane landed on the resort’s private airstrip, and Meghan and Alessandro stepped out into the hot, dry sunshine.
She rallied her numbed emotions, smiled at the Grecian paradise stretched out before them for their own pleasure, and said, ‘This looks wonderful.’
Alessandro’s eyes glinted approval at her change of mood. ‘I’m sure we can make it so,’ he murmured.
She smiled stiffly, wondered if she had the strength to act the affectionate wife—not loving, never that—when her heart was breaking. Not even breaking. A break would be clean. It was twisting with a torturous pain that Meghan wasn’t sure would ever end.
The resort catered to a most exclusive crowd, and Meghan and Alessandro had their own villa, luxurious and intimate.
‘Not bad,’ Alessandro commented after the porter had left. Meghan took in the combination living and dining room, the tiled floor and simple yet sumptuous furniture, a sliding glass door leading directly to the beach and an aquamarine sea that sparkled like a jewel only metres away.
‘Not bad?’ she repeated with a little laugh. ‘It’s paradise.’
‘I can hardly wait to enjoy it,’ Alessandro murmured, and he moved towards her purposefully.
Meghan tried to return his kiss, tried to fan the flicker of desire in her core. Alessandro began to deftly unbutton her sundress and she stood there silently, her eyes closed, wishing this misery that consumed her heart, her soul, gone.
‘Meghan?’ Her dress was half off her shoulders when he looked up in perplexity. ‘What is it—what is wrong?’
Meghan swallowed, choking down her sorrow. ‘Nothing … I’m just tired.’
He paused, his eyes sweeping over her face, guessing at the truth. Meghan blinked, swallowed. Carefully he zipped her dress back up.
‘Then you must rest.’
Taking her hand gently, he led her to the bed, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead.
‘Rest. There will be plenty of time later.’ He smiled softly, his eyes shadowed, and left the room.
Meghan lay in darkness and pressed her face into the pillow, willing the hot rush of tears back. They came anyway.
How could he be so kind, so tender, if he didn’t love her? Was it an act? A deceit?
Who was the real Alessandro…? And did that man love her?
After a while she fell into an uneasy doze, awoke with her tears spent. This was her honeymoon. It wasn’t the time to demand answers, confessions. She wanted to enjoy it. She wanted Alessandro to enjoy it. The only way to ensure that was to work hard.
Scrubbing her cheeks, Meghan got out of bed.
Over the next week she worked hard to make sure they enjoyed themselves. They chatted rather than talked; joked rather than shared. Meghan kept her voice light. She didn’t ask any questions. She wanted Alessandro happy, even if it hurt. She wanted to make him smile, laugh.
She wanted to heal him, but she didn’t know how.
They swam and snorkelled, sunbathed and slept. They ate the delicious, plentiful Greek food, and drank the rich red wine. They made love—on the king-sized bed, in the kitchen, in the bath, on the cool white sand as the moon rose above the sea, turning it to silver.
Lying on the bed one evening, listening to the waves lap on the shore and to Alessandro’s gentle breathing, Meghan wondered if she would ever be able to expect more. Hope for more.
For something real.
She didn’t know how long she could last, how long her heart could last, living this loveless life.
I love him. I want him to love me.
She closed her eyes and sighed, willing herself to be content with what Alessandro offered.
Her only hope was that he would change, that he would come to love and trust her with time. She had nothing else.
On their last night they walked to a taverna in the village and sat outside. Fairylights were twined in the arbour that surrounded the tables, and the water lapped only metres from their feet, fishing boats knocking gently together as the moon cut a silver swath across the calm surface of the sea.
Meghan picked at her souvlaki, wondering what the future held for them, for their marriage. It was easy to pretend on a beautiful island. Real life back in Milan, with all of its shadows and memories, was something different altogether.
Alessandro covered her hand with his own. ‘It has to end, cara. It always does.’
Meghan wondered if he meant the honeymoon, or something more. Another warning?
She bent her head, let her hair fall to obscure her face. Now was not the time to ask such questions, demand such answers. She knew instinctively Alessandro would recoil. Regret. Repulse.
When would the right time be?
‘Alessandro?’ They both jerked in surprise at the sensual female voice. A woman stood in front of their table, white-blonde hair framing a sharp, pixie face, her wide blue eyes darting speculatively between Alessandro and Meghan. She was dressed in an extremely skimpy and expensive sundress.
‘Emilia.’ Alessandro’s voice was terse. He stood as a matter of form, of courtesy. ‘It has been a while.’
‘Hasn’t it?’ Although she spoke