One Kiss in... London. Carol Marinelli
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arm. Then he saw her still as the priest walked towards her, saw her tense for a brief moment and straighten her shoulders, saw the swallow in her throat and the smile slip from her face as everyone moved to their positions. It was more than nerves, Nico thought as she closed her eyes for a long few seconds. It was as if she was bracing herself to go in, but then her lovely face disappeared from view as the bridesmaid arranged the veil.
It was normal to be nervous, Connie told herself as the priest walked towards her, but suddenly it was real. The preparation for this day had been all-consuming, her father determined that his only child would have a wedding fit for this prominent family. He would show the people of Xanos and his friends in Lathira that, despite rumours to the contrary, he was doing well. For weeks, or rather months, Connie had been swept along on a tide of dress fittings, menu selections, dance lessons with Stavros, but only now as she stood behind her veil with the priest telling her it was time did it seem real.
This was her life: this was happening whether she wanted it or not.
No one knew of her private tears when her father had told her of the husband that had been chosen for her. And later, when she had confided in her mother that Stavros’s words were cruel at times, her mother had told her to be quiet. Even when, awkward and embarrassed, she’d told her mother that he did not seem interested in her, that he had not so much as tried to kiss her, her mother had told her they had chosen a gentleman for her. That sort of thing was for when she was safely his.
A bride, Connie told herself as she sucked in air, was supposed to be nervous on her wedding day.
And a bride was supposed to be nervous about her wedding night.
Was she the last virgin bride?
The boys and, later, men of the island had been too nervous of her protective father to date her. How she’d yearned for fun and laughter … and, yes, romance, too.
But there had been none.
Even during her business studies in Athens, which she’d loved, she’d been guarded by her cousin; every move she’d made had been reported back to her family, till she had returned to the island and commenced work in her father’s small firm.
As was expected.
‘Kalí tíhi.’ Her bridesmaid wished her luck and Connie closed her eyes as her father took her arm. He felt so frail Constantine wondered who was holding who up.
This was why she was here, Constantine reminded herself.
Her father’s dearest wish, to see his daughter safely married.
It wasn’t at all unusual on the island for the family to choose the partner. In fact, it was how things were done here. There was no question that she would disobey. Already she had put off this day for her studies. And she was … fond of Stavros, Connie told herself, even if his words were sometimes harsh. Love would grow, her mother had told her. They had chosen well for their daughter, she had been assured.
Yet there was a stab of grief as the priest commenced chanting, as the bridesmaid covered her face with the veil and the procession moved towards the church, grief for all she would now never know.
She was naive only in body. Of course she knew there were other ways for couples to meet—she had heard of them, read of them, gossiped about them with her more worldly friends during her studies. She had listened to their tales of flirting and fun, dates and romance, first kisses and reckless nights, break-ups and tears, and she wanted to sample each and every one of those things, but it was not to be.
And then she saw him and her heart stilled.
Like an omen.
Like a black crow on the steps he stood as if warning her not to go in.
Like the devil, dark eyes beckoned; and the sun was too hot on the top of her head. It was certainly her father holding her up now, because with one look at this man she was almost dizzy. Only one long look and it was as if she tasted for a second all that had been denied, all that would be denied if she climbed the steps.
He was surely the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
Tall, he lounged against a column, shamelessly staring, which, Connie told herself, people did to a bride.
But it was how he looked that had her stomach fold over itself. It was a different sort of look from any she had experienced.
His eyes roamed over her, and she felt her body burn.
Thank God for the veil, for beneath it she burnt red, her breathing tight in her chest; she could feel the prickly heat from her face spreading across her chest and down to her arms.
Brides blushed on their wedding day, Connie told herself as she slowly climbed the steps.
Except the burn in her body was not for the man who waited at the altar, or for guests whose heads would turn when she entered. Instead, the burning was for him. It was surreal, just bizarre, to be walking towards her future, and to see at that second a different route. And as his full mouth did not move into a smile, as his eyes compelled her, so strong was the pull, so fierce the attraction, so palpable the energy between them, she was sure, quite sure, that had she walked over to him, had she run to him as her body was telling her to, that his arms would be waiting; that now, right now, she could walk away, run away, and live a life that was hers.
‘I can’t.’ Once past him she faltered at the door of the church, the smell of incense from the priest’s burner making her feel sick. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘It’s nerves,’ her father said kindly. ‘Today—’ her father’s voice came from a distance ‘—is my proudest day …’ Like waking from a dream, she was back in reality, and instead of looking backward to where his eyes still burnt on her bare shoulder, she looked forward, looked down the long aisle and saw her husband-to-be waiting.
Nico had seen her blush, had felt her start and wondered, too, what had just happened. It had felt, for a moment, as if they knew each other, as if their minds were speaking, the connection had been so strong, yet it had come from nowhere.
Perhaps they had once been lovers, Nico mused, which would explain the blush that crept down her chest and dappled her creamy arms.
He should remember, though, Nico thought, and not out of guilt, for he had held so many women in his arms that recall was often hard. Too many times an ex-lover had galloped over to him then left in tears, because the night she had treasured for so long didn’t even merit a fond memory for Nico. But as for this bride—her body, that gorgeous round face and full ripe lips—surely he would have remembered making love to a woman like that.
He made his way into the church and chose to sit quietly at the back rather than join his parents, for the bride had reached her soon-to-be husband. He noted the lack of response from Stavros: there was no smile of appreciation; no eyes that looked in wonder. Nico thought, Had she been his … And then he stopped that thought process with a wry smile, for Nico did not believe in love, could not imagine spending his life with only one other. His relationships were short-lived at best, a night most times.
Her name was Constantine, he heard from the priest, and it suited her, Nico thought.
He’d forgotten how long Greek weddings took—he stood and sat on demand during the service of the betrothal and he toyed with just slipping away unnoticed and heading for a bar before the crowning. The priest blessed the rings and asked Constantine if she was willing. Nico saw the candle she was holding flicker in her shaking hands, and truly he wanted to walk over and blow it out. He could feel her dangerous hesitation and willed her to listen to it.
For he knew she was more than this.
More than the stifling laws and traditions he had walked away from.
A place where appearance was everything, where there could be no debate, no expansion, no change.
Connie wondered, as she had wondered so many times, if there was more than this, heard the priest repeat the question, ask if she was willing, and again she wanted