Claimed by the Sicilian. Kate Walker
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any ease. He couldn’t do this to her—he just couldn’t! Did he really hate her so much that he would hunt her down after all this time, just to destroy her one chance of happiness?
No! Please don’t do this!
The words formed on her lips but she couldn’t find the strength to give them any power and the thin thread of sound was absorbed by the concealing veil, no one even noticing that she had spoken. But her eyes locked with his, silently pleading with him, begging him to stop this now. To leave her alone and stop tormenting her. He’d had his fun—if that was what this cruel, sadistic game was to him—surely now he would go and leave them in peace?
He had to go. And it had to be a game. He hadn’t wanted her in the past, when she would have lain down on the ground and let him walk all over her if it would have made him happy. But he’d made it plain that she meant nothing to him. So there was no reason at all why he should want her now. Except to cause trouble for her.
But it was painfully obvious that leaving was not what Guido had in mind.
‘Why can’t Amber ever become your wife?’ he echoed the question sharply as if he simply couldn’t understand why it had been asked.
The rich tones of his Italian accent had never sounded so strongly in Amber’s ears, an accent that should have made his words sound soft and musical. Instead, it had exactly the opposite effect, making her freeze like some small, terrified animal facing an angry king cobra and just waiting for it to strike. She could only close her eyes and wait for the sting of his poison.
‘Well, that is quite simple, really. She isn’t in any position to be married—to anyone. You see, she already is married to me. That’s right…’ he added as he saw Rafe’s disbelieving start, the way the other man’s pale eyes went to the woman beside him, then back to his tormentor’s dark, set face. ‘Amber is married already. She happens to be my wife.’
CHAPTER TWO
IT HAD every bit of the effect he had wanted.
When he had thought about the moment when, after twelve long months of separation, he would finally confront the woman who had once been his wife—who was still his wife—he had known that he wanted it to really hit home to her. He had wanted her to be as stunned and shocked as he had been the day that she had walked out of his life to be with another man, leaving behind only a note that declared that she didn’t love him any more.
That she had never loved him. Could never have loved a man like him.
That she had only married him in a moment of wild lunacy. An act she had regretted from the moment he had put the ring on her finger.
And now that he saw the type of man she really wanted to marry, he could understand why. The tall Englishman was exactly the sort of husband who would appeal to Amber Wellesley—Amber Corsentino’s—ingrained personal snobbery. With his pale skin, blond hair, blue eyes and narrow features, Rafe St Clair looked the sort of upper-class minor aristocrat who could give her the name and the status she had always craved. The name and the status that didn’t come from marriage to a man who, together with his brother, had dragged himself up from the gutters of Siracusa, a man who didn’t even know whose blood ran in his veins. It definitely wasn’t the blue blood Amber had been looking for.
If he had thought that his very first words had created a silence, then it was like nothing when compared to the freezing stillness that had descended now. It was almost as if somehow the air inside the little church had frozen and no one dared move for fear of splintering it into a million irreparable shards. The only sound at all was the slight bang of the door as it fell shut behind the pregnant woman who had fainted and the two women who had helped her outside, probably cursing the fact that they were missing all the drama and the scandal.
‘How can Amber be your wife?’
The crisp, clipped sound of Rafe St Clair’s voice fitted perfectly too. That plum-in-the-mouth tone that always sounded as if the speaker was looking down his nose at the same time.
‘In the same way that she planned to become yours—she married me.’
‘That isn’t true!’
It was Amber’s voice that broke into his, her fearful tones echoing around the high roof of the church as she protested.
‘I didn’t…’
The Englishman looked down at the woman at his side, then back into Guido’s face, and there was the flash of something inexplicable in his blue eyes.
‘You’re not married to him?’
He didn’t seem to expect an answer, which was just as well, as Amber was clearly incapable of managing anything more. But he nodded and turned his attention back to the priest, who was standing uncertainly to one side, obviously not knowing how to react.
‘The marriage will go ahead,’ he instructed. ‘Amber…’
‘Do you want to be arrested for bigamy?’ Guido flung the words at the bride, aiming them right at the huge, wide green eyes that were all he could see behind the concealing veil. Eyes that had once looked into his when she had declared that she loved him, that there was no other man in the world for her. ‘Because that’s what will happen if you go ahead. You cannot marry this man—you are married to me.’
‘It wasn’t legal!’ It was a cry of despair as she saw her chance of marrying into the aristocracy disappear down the drain, Guido thought cynically. ‘It wasn’t even a real marriage!’
The silence that swelled around her words was shocking. It swirled and ebbed, like some terrible sea wave that threatened to take everything with it; swallow everything; drown everything.
Then:
‘Amber!’
Even behind the veil, it was possible to see how Amber’s face had lost every last trace of colour as her would-be groom turned shocked and stunned eyes on her, the tone of total disgust in which he said her name revealing how she had given herself away.
‘I thought you said you didn’t know this man but now…Is it true about this marriage?’
‘And the rest?’ This time the reproach came from a member of the congregation, a tall man whose narrow face and balding head made him an older version of the groom.
‘Were you planning to trap my son into a bigamous marriage?’ The revulsion in that word was plain; as was the black fury, the total rejection of her.
‘I…’
Guido actually felt a twist of pity as he saw how she struggled for an answer; the way that her mouth opened and closed but no sound would come. But then her head went up, her green eyes flashed behind the lace and she fell back on the excuse she had given the first time.
‘It wasn’t a real marriage!’
Fiercely she directed a furious glare down the aisle at Guido. A glare so laser-hot that for a moment he almost believed it should have seared his skin, reduced that delicate veil to ashes as it burned through it.
‘You have to believe me—you wouldn’t think that I’d really marry someone like him?’
Every trace of that unexpected impulse to pity disappeared in a flash, shrivelled in the heat of her scorn, the blaze of her pride. And in its place was left an icy sense of loathing that blazed cold in his heart, turning pity to revulsion in the blink of an eye.
With deliberate slowness, his movements under the most rigid control, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of white paper. He could feel the entire congregation watching, transfixed, held totally by what he was doing.
A flick of his hand shook open the folds, revealing an official form, a document bearing names and a date—his name—her name—and the date twelve months earlier on which they had been married.
‘Looks