Modern Romance August 2019 Books 5-8. Trish Morey
Читать онлайн книгу.
he’d experienced with his parents.
But she hadn’t been that woman.
Suddenly Ciro felt hollow inside. And exposed. As if he was making a monumental fool of himself all over again.
The wedding march grated on his nerves. For a moment he almost felt the urge to shout out, Stop! But then Lara’s scent reached him, that unique blend of lemon and roses he would always associate with her, and the urge drained away.
He turned to look at her and his breath caught. Even though he’d chosen the dress for its classic yet dramatic lines—a full satin skirt and a bodice which was overlaid with lace that covered her arms and chest up to her throat—he still wasn’t prepared.
He’d always known Lara was beautiful, but right now she was...exquisite. He could just make out the line of her jaw, the soft pink lips and bright blue eyes behind the veil. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon.
His gaze travelled down over her slender curves to where she held the bouquet. There was an almost imperceptible trembling in her hands, and before he could stop himself Ciro reached out and put a hand over hers. She looked at him, and a constriction in his chest that he hadn’t even been aware of eased.
Instead of the triumph he’d expected—hoped—to be feeling right now, the residue of those memories and emotions lingered in his gut. And relief.
It was the relief that made him take his hand off hers and face forward. The scar on his face tingled, as if to remind Ciro why they were there. What she owed him. And any sense of exposure he’d felt dissipated to be replaced by resolve.
The wedding service passed in a blur for Lara. She wasn’t even sure how she’d made it down the aisle. The mass was conducted in English, for her benefit, and she dutifully made her vows, feeling as if it was happening to someone else.
Her second wedding to a man who didn’t love her. At least she’d never been deluded about Henry Winterborne’s feelings for her.
Every time she looked at Ciro she wanted to look away. It was like looking directly at the sun. He was so...vital. He wore a dark grey morning suit with a white shirt and tie. His dark hair was gleaming and swept back from his face.
But now she had to face him, and she reluctantly lifted the veil up and over her head. There was nothing to shield her from that dark, penetrating gaze. Hundreds of people thronged the cathedral but suddenly it was just her and him.
Before, she’d imagined this moment so many times...had longed for it. Longed to feel a part of something again. A unit. A unit of love.
And now this was a parody of that longing. A farce.
Suddenly Lara felt like pulling away from Ciro, who had her hands in his. As if sensing her wish to bolt, he tightened his grip on her and tugged her towards him.
‘You may kiss the bride...’
One word resounded in Lara’s head. No!
If Ciro touched her now, when she was feeling so raw—But it was too late. He’d pulled her close, or as close as her voluminous skirts would allow, and his hands were around her face. He was holding her as tenderly as if she really meant something to him. But it was all for show.
Past and present were blurring. Meshing.
Ciro’s head came closer and those eyes compelled her to stay where she was. Submit to him. At the last moment, in a tiny act of rebellion, Lara lifted her face to his. She wasn’t going to submit. She was an equal partner.
Their mouths met and every muscle in Lara’s body seized against the impact of that firm, hot mouth on hers. But it was useless. It was as if a hot serum was being poured into her veins, loosening her, making her pliant. Making her fold against him, letting her head fall back so he could gain deeper access to her mouth.
It was only a vague sound of throat-clearing that made them break apart, and Lara realised with a hot flush of shame just how wantonly she’d reacted. With not one cell in her body rejecting his touch. She pushed back, disgusted with herself, but Ciro caught her elbows, not allowing her to put any distance between them.
‘Smile, mia moglie, you’ve just married the man you should have married two years ago.’
Lara dragged her gaze away from Ciro’s and looked around. A sea of strangers’ faces looked back at her, their expressions ranging from impassive to downright speculative. And there were a couple of murderous-looking beautiful women who had no doubt envisaged themselves becoming Signora Sant’Angelo.
Ciro tucked her arm into his and led her back down the aisle to a triumphant chorus of Handel’s ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’.
Lara somehow fixed a smile to her face as they approached the main doors, where Rome lay bathed in bright warm sunshine—a direct contrast to her swirling stormy emotions. She was Ciro Sant’Angelo’s wife now, for better or worse, and the awful thing was Lara knew without a doubt that it was going to be for worse...
‘WELL, YOU CERTAINLY had us all fooled.’
Lara’s fixed-on smile slipped slightly when she saw who was addressing her. Lazaro Sanchez. Probably Ciro’s closest friend. She’d met him a few times two years ago, when he would often look at her speculatively and say, ‘You’re not like Ciro’s other women.’
Lara had used to joke with him that he and Ciro had a warped sense of what was normal and what was not, given their astounding good-looks and success in life. Lazaro Sanchez was every bit as gorgeous as Ciro, with messy overlong dark blond hair and piercing green eyes.
Yet in spite of the Spaniard’s devastating charm he’d never made her pulse trip like Ciro had. Did. She could still feel the imprint of his kiss from the church on her mouth and had to resist the urge to touch it.
Lara decided to ignore his barbed comment. ‘Lazaro, it’s nice to see you again.’
Lazaro folded his arms. His expression was not charming now. Far from it. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say the same. You know, two years ago, when you left Ciro in the hospital, I’ve never seen him so—’
‘Filling my wife’s head with stories like you used to?’
Lazaro scowled at Ciro, who’d interrupted them and who was now snaking a possessive arm around Lara’s waist. She was intrigued to know what Lazaro had been about to say but suspected she never would now.
Then she registered what Ciro had said—my wife. With such ease. As if this was all entirely normal.
He turned to Lara. ‘We’ll be leaving shortly to take our flight to Sicily. You should go and change—there’s a stylist waiting for you upstairs.’
The manager of the exclusive Rome hotel that Ciro owned, where Lara had stayed the night before and got ready earlier, escorted her to the suite where the stylist was waiting. Lara welcomed he opportunity to get away from the hundreds of judgemental eyes. Lazaro’s in particular.
In the past week, along with the wedding dress, Lara had been fitted for dozens of other outfits. Evening wear, day wear. Night clothes. Underwear. Now, as the woman and her assistant helped Lara out of the elaborate wedding dress and veil, she felt a pang of regret that this wasn’t a normal wedding or marriage and never would be. She’d always fantasised about a small and intimate wedding, and the fantasy had included staying in her wedding dress all night, until her groom lovingly removed it as he took her to bed.
But she had to remind herself that she’d only ever been a means to an end for Ciro. Access into a rarefied world. So she needed to forget about fantasies of small, intimate weddings. If life had taught her anything by now it was that she was on her own and had to depend on herself.
‘Bellissima, Signora