His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven
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can I listen to this? she asked herself imploringly. How can I let him hurt me all over again? She wanted to throw herself at him, hitting him with her fists, and screaming that she mattered too.
She wanted to weep until she had no tears left.
With a supreme effort, she mastered herself.
‘The accident,’ she said. ‘Does anyone know what caused it?’ How could she speak normally—discuss this terrible thing when she was falling apart inside? When she had to face all over again that everything he’d ever said to her—promised her—had been a lie?
Sandro shrugged. ‘The inquiry found a burst tyre on my car, so I was—exonerated. But I still have to live with the memory.’
And I, Polly thought, shall have to live with your betrayal of me—and I don’t know if I can do that. I think you may be asking the impossible.
She met his gaze. ‘Bigamy,’ she said clearly. ‘Is that another Valessi family tradition? Because you seem to have been engaged to two women at one time.’
He sighed harshly. ‘I should never have let things go so far, and I know it.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Believe me, I have been well punished for my silence.’
‘Bianca.’ She forced herself to say the name. ‘Did she—know about me?’
A muscle moved beside his mouth. ‘Yes.’ One small, uncompromising word.
‘I see,’ she said. She was silent for a moment. ‘So—I was the only fool.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I meant to tell you everything. To explain, and ask you to forgive me. But then the crash came, and after that—everything changed.’ His smile was icy. ‘As you know.’
‘Yes,’ Polly said almost inaudibly. She paused. ‘It must have been awful for the contessa too—to lose her niece.’ She forced a smile. ‘No wonder she doesn’t like me.’
He sighed again. ‘Paola mia, Bianca has been dead for three years. Zia Antonia has to accept that.’
‘And she still lives at the palazzo—in spite of it all?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I could hardly ask her to leave. Besides, I am often away, and she currently manages the house and estate for me.’
‘So she’s bound to have constant reminders of Bianca.’ Polly hesitated. ‘And three years isn’t all that long—when you care deeply for someone.’ She took a breath. ‘After all, you must think about her too.’
She saw his face harden, his hand lift as if to touch his scarred cheek, then fall again.
‘Sì,’ he said harshly. ‘I think about her. And three years can seem an eternity.’
I asked for that, Polly thought wretchedly. A self-inflicted wound.
She said in a low voice, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.’
‘You had to know,’ he said. ‘And I wished to explain. But up to now, you have shown no curiosity about the past.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Who knows? I might have spent all these years in the Regina Coeli prison for robbery with violence.’ He put his hand briefly over hers. ‘So, is there nothing else you wish to ask me?’
For a moment, she thought she detected a note of pleading in his voice. But that was ridiculous. Sandro had never pleaded in his life.
And there were questions teeming in her brain, falling over themselves to escape. But she knew she could not bear to hear the answers. The news about Bianca had been as much as she could take today.
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing I need to know. After all, it’s not as if ours will be a real marriage. It’s just an arrangement, for Charlie’s sake. So, it’s better if we can keep our lives separate—and private.’
He was silent for a moment, then he inclined his head almost wryly. ‘As you wish.’
The food when it came was delicious, but Polly might as well have been chewing sawdust. She had to force every mouthful past the tightness in her throat, helped down by the Orvieto Classico he’d chosen. Because she couldn’t allow Sandro to glimpse her inner agony.
He broke my heart once, she thought. I can’t allow him to do that again. Especially when I know that he could—all too easily. And she sighed quietly.
When the largely silent meal was finally over, Polly found her next ordeal was accompanying Sandro up to the penthouse to inspect her temporary home.
She’d hoped she would find some insoluble problem with the accommodation, but the bright, airy rooms with their masses of fresh flowers seemed just about perfect.
To her unspoken relief, the bedrooms were well apart, facing each other from opposite sides of the large and luxurious drawing room. And each had its own bathroom, so she could hardly complain about a lack of privacy.
‘Will you be comfortable here?’ he asked, watching her prowl around. ‘I hope it has everything you want.’
‘Everything,’ she said. ‘Except the freedom to make decisions, and live my own life.’
‘A trifle, surely.’ Sandro’s tone was solemn, but his eyes were glinting in sudden amusement. ‘When the cage you occupy is so beautifully gilded. Also unlocked.’ He produced a key from his pocket. ‘For your bedroom door,’ he said. ‘In case I walk in my sleep.’
Her heart missed a beat, but she spoke lightly. ‘You’d soon wake up when Charlie started yelling.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘When are we picking him up from your friends? Time’s moving on, and I still have to go back to the flat and pack our things.’
‘I have arranged for two of the girls from Administration here to do that for you,’ Sandro said calmly, meeting her fulminating gaze head-on. ‘I told them to bring the minimum. I will have the remainder suitably disposed of.’
‘My God,’ she said furiously. ‘You take a lot upon yourself. Is this part of your campaign to force me to buy new clothes?’
He smiled at her. ‘No, I am relying on Teresa to do that,’ he said. ‘She cannot wait to take you shopping.’
‘I can buy my own damned things,’ Polly threw at him. ‘And I don’t need a minder.’
‘I hope she will be much more than that,’ he told her with a trace of chill. ‘Her husband is one of my greatest friends, and I was best man at their wedding. They have been—good to me in return.’
He paused. ‘You are going to a new life, Paola, with its own demands. As my wife, you will be expected to patronise Italian designers. How many do you know? What formal clothes will you need? How many dinner dresses—how many ballgowns?
‘This is a world Teresa knows, and you can trust her advice.’ He paused. ‘She can also help you in another way. Before she married Ernesto, she worked as a linguist. So you may practice speaking Italian to her. Start to regain your former fluency.’
Her face warmed suddenly as she recalled precisely how that proficiency had been acquired during those long, hot afternoons a lifetime ago. The things he had whispered to her as she lay in his arms—and taught her to say to him in return.
She was suddenly aware that he was watching her, observing the play of embarrassed colour on her skin, before he added softly and cynically, ‘But with a rather different vocabulary, carissima.’
She said with deliberate coldness, ‘Do you have any other orders for me?’
He was unfazed. ‘If I think of any, I will let you know.’
‘How nice it must be,’ she said, ‘to always get your own way. Think about it.’ She ticked off on her fingers. ‘You need an heir—you have one ready-made. You require somewhere convenient to keep us—and you own a hotel with a vacant