Their relationship was no longer like what it had been. When first they’d met and married, there’d been such a disparity in their ages and experience, that a lack of balance had felt natural. But Jane was now older and wiser, and Carlo had allowed himself to accept the total dependence he felt for Jane. It no longer bothered him, because it was a crucial part to loving her.
She watched as he knelt down on the timber floor to put some food on a plate for her. But he paused and instead reached to the floor.
“Are you okay?” She asked, leaning closer to see what he must have knelt on.
Carlo looked at her with a bemused expression. “I hope I will be soon. Right now, I feel like I’m about to have a damned heart attack.”
She frowned. “What?”
“God, I hope this is the right time.” He lifted his hand towards her. In the centre of it was a perfect yellow diamond ring, surrounded by a circlet of white diamonds. Jane stared at it in total shock.
“I’ve heard someone say, once, ‘you make me want to be a better person’. I always thought that a trite idea. After all, why not just be the best version of yourself possible?” He shook his head. “Then I met you, and I realised that no matter how hard I try, I will never be as good as your worth dictates. I can only promise, Jane, that I will spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you deserve. I thought keeping you safe was all that mattered, but now I understand how wrong I was. Your happiness is what matters, and knowing how much I love you is what makes you happy. So, if you agree to once more become Mrs Santini, I will spend every day showing you that my love begins and ends with you, darling, beautiful, perfect Jane.”
She stared at him, completely incapable of speech.
His laugh was hoarse. “But, if your answer is no, please tell me now so that I can breathe again, either way.”
She shook her head, and lifted a shaking hand to her lips. “Oh, Carlo. How can you think my answer would be no?”
He let out a breath of relief and kneeled higher. He took her hand from her lips and gently eased the ring on to her ring finger.
“I have your old ring, too,” he said, when she didn’t say anything. “But I quickly felt a new ring better represented a new us.”
“Yes.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears. “It’s perfect.” She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “But you’re completely wrong, Carlo.”
“What about?” Panic stole into his words.
She heard it, and smiled to reassure him. “You’re a wonderful man. I don’t ever want to hear you say that you don’t deserve me. You are the love of my life.”
His heart was in his throat. Not prone to emotions, he felt his own eyes moisten. He leaned forward and kissed her, with all the passion, love and gratitude he felt for this beautiful, graceful woman.
“And you are my life,” he responded against her mouth. “My soul, my universe, and my all. Please, let us marry quickly.”
EPILOGUE
In the end, the wedding was only a week before their daughter was born. Jane wore an elegant black maternity dress that hugged her bump and still-slender frame to her knees. “Second time around, I didn’t need white,” she explained to a scandalised Anna.
“But you’re the bride,” Liz argued, with perfectly sound logic.
Jane laughed happily. “I know. But I like this dress. And it’s perfect for the casual wedding we’re having.”
Liz crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “If you’re sure…”
And Jane was. About everything. About the dress. The choice to have a small ceremony in the gardens of Carlo’s villa, and most of all, her choice to pledge, again, to live the rest of her life with the man who had held her heart from that first fateful moment.
As she looked back at the wedding photos on her phone, a sleeping newborn baby cradled in her arms, her smile was still firmly tacked in place.
“Buonasera,” Carlo’s smile was equally bright.
Jane looked up at him, and felt a stab of envy when she saw that he had showered. “You look refreshed,” she said with mock hurt.
“Two days of labour, I needed it.”
Jane glared at him. “Oh, how hard that must have been for you.”
He laughed apologetically. “You were amazing.”
“She is amazing,” Jane corrected, dropping her eyes to their little baby. “Did you tell Anna?”
Carlo nodded, and sat gently on the edge of the bed. “She was thrilled. She sends her love, and says she will come to see little Anna as soon as you’re up to visitors.”
Jane nodded, and stroked their daughter’s soft head. “I feel so lucky,” Jane confided with a sigh. “After last time, I thought maybe it would never happen for me. For us.” She shrugged her shoulders, and then froze, when baby Anna wriggled a little. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I was so sure you and I were a disaster zone, and look at us now.”
He pressed a kiss to her lips, then slipped a jewellery box out of his shirt pocket. “I had this made for you.”
Jane looked down at Anna. “You’re going to have to open it for me.”
He nodded and clicked the lid off. Jane gasped when she saw what lay within. “It’s my engagement ring. From last time.”
He smiled, and pulled it from the box. “I had it remade as a pendant for a necklace.” He slipped it over her head, and it fell just between her breasts. “I thought this way you could keep our first marriage close to your heart. And wear it with this one.” He fingered the diamond she always wore; the diamond that reminded him of the baby she’d lost.
Jane’s eyes locked with his.
“I know it might seem foolish, but our first marriage is still a good memory for me. It is the reason we’re here now. I don’t want you to forget that time in our lives.”
Tears sprung to Jane’s eyes and she glared at him with an imitation of hostility. “My hormones are all over the place. You can’t be this sweet, Carlo!”
He grinned. “I take it that means you like it?”
“Like it? I love it.” She looked up at him with total wonderment. “And I love you.”
“And you are still my life, my soul, my universe and my all. For all time.”
THE END
Following is an excerpt from another Clare Connelly novel: Marrying her Enemy. It’s available to purchase or hire through the Kindle Lending Library here.
MARRYING HER ENEMY
Clare Connelly
All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.
All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.
The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.
First published 2014
(c) Clare Connelly
Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/Viorel Sima
Contact Clare:
http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk
Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/
Email: [email protected]
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“Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service.”
-William Shakespeare
CHAPTER ONE
Luca Abramo would have given his eyeteeth to be anywhere else.
The painfully chic art gallery was filled to overflowing with the crème de la crème of London’s society. Women so thin they looked like a breeze could snap them in two, dripping with diamonds and couture; men in tuxedos and double bow ties, with styled hair and an air of self-importance that sat ill on Luca’s broad shoulders. The scent of expensive canapés permeated the
confined space, and the strains of the jazz band lilted in his ears. A charming scene; but one he nonetheless hated.
His self-made fortune dwarfed the bank balance of half the room combined, but how he loathed the trappings of wealth. With an impatient sigh, he pressed his back against one of the stark white walls. To an onlooker, he might have seemed indolent and at ease. Only someone who knew him very well would have noticed that his squared shoulders and knitted brows were signs of total distaste.
Most of the guests were familiar to him, from events such as this, despite the fact he avoided them wherever possible. If it weren’t for his friendship with Davies, he would have avoided this one too. Even his almost brotherly relationship with the host was almost not enough to have induced Luca to waste a perfectly fine Friday night at a stifling society affair.
But Davies and he went back a long way, and there wasn’t much Luca wouldn’t do to show his loyalty for the man. After all, he owed what he’d become to Davies and Davies’s father. He shifted his view sideways, careful to keep any appearance of disdain off his rugged face.
He had the kind of looks that women crossed rooms for. A dark, swarthy complexion; generous, wide lips, an aristocratic nose with a knot halfway down its length from when he’d broken it playing football as a teenager. His eyes were almond shaped and rimmed with thick, dark lashes. His hair, though, was what seemed to confuse and excite the fairer sex. Shoulder length and brown, it had a natural wave, and a wildness to it that was perfect for a man like Luca Abramo. Though he’d climbed to the top of the corporate world, he was anything but tame, and his hair was a none too subtle reminder.
Beneath the five thousand pound tuxedo and hand crafted shoes stood a man both feral and wild, more comfortable in nothing but his own skin and the hills of his native Italy.
His eyes continued to inspect the room, careful not to linger too long on any one person. He did not wish to speak to people; to make small talk with those he privately despised. He had no need. Many of the people assembled at the gallery had come to network and be seen, presumably with the goal of furthering their wealth and status. Luca cared little for social order. Even if he had, his place in society would have left him more than satisfied. At thirty six, he was spectacularly wealthy and highly-sought after. His lack of interest in social affairs gave him an air of mystery that seemed to increase his popularity, rather than having the desired effect of being left in peace.
Two women were talking and nodding his way. One of them, he’d slept with the year earlier, and yet now he couldn’t remember her name. Francine? Fiona? His lips curled in a derisive twist before he continued his lazy inspection. Face after face offered little interest to Luca.
There, by the door though, was one woman he hadn’t yet come across at one of these things. A small frown creased his face as he took the time to properly scrutinise her appearance. She looked like she belonged as well as the next woman. Her hair was so pale it was almost silver, cut short and shaped around her pixie-like face. She was small. Not just slender, but short too. She was not so skinny that she lacked any appeal, though, he credited dispassionately. The buttery lemon yellow dress she wore was cut just low enough to show the hint of her cleavage, and it was fitted to her knees, leaving him in little need of employing his imagination. Yes, an eleven out of ten for figure. That was nothing new. The women in this room did whatever it took to maintain their physical appeal. Surgery, absurd diets, gruelling work-outs. Lifting a book, though, and reading it from cover to cover was beyond most of them.
The color of the dress shouldn’t have suited her. She was fair. So pale her skin seemed to glow beneath the bright halogens of the gallery. Even at a distance, he could see that her nose had been kissed with a smattering of dainty freckles. He found himself leaning forward imperceptibly, trying to get a better look at her face. She was talking to someone, though. A man he had met once or twice. Connor someone or other. A middling banker who fancied himself the next Donald Trump. A rather ambitious aspiration given Connor’s obvious lack of aptitude for investments.
His lips twisted in a snarl of cynical amusement. Better and better. If he was to take a woman from someone, who better than an arrogant piece of work who had only gained a mild degree of success in life by employing every ounce of nepotism available to him?
Not that he was going to take her, was he? He was done with spoiled brats who wanted little more than to lounge about in one of his luxurious hotel rooms, and beg trips on his private jet. Sure, it had been fun at first, but he’d grown up in the last few years. Women like this were high maintenance. Always more trouble than they were worth, in the end.
At that exact moment, she angled her head to admire a piece of art hanging just to his left. He’d looked at the painting himself for some time. It was a confronting work of art. The blonde’s expression was filled with rapt awe as she swept her eyes over the broad brushstrokes and angry use of color.
Fascinating.
The painting had nothing on her, though. Far better than any of the canvases on display, he was lost in the endless depths of her eyes. They were green like the ocean, and they seemed to glow with the strength of her emotion. Her lips were soft and pink, full and naturally pouted, and in her chin, there was a little cleft that deserved to be tickled by tongue. If he hadn’t sworn off women like her, he would have crossed the room and channelled the full force of his intent on her.
But he was done with demanding socialites.
At her neck, she wore a thick, golden chain, and in her ears, diamonds that sparkled like stars in the night sky. As he watched, her date put a possessive arm on her elbow. She tilted her head to him, straining to hear his words. She laughed, then, and the sound carried across the crowded room to him. It was musical and natural. Completely unforced. He felt himself harden a little, in immediate response.
He willed her to look in his direction. To look at him. And yet, when her mossy eyes landed on his face, he was surprised. He felt a sharp tug of awareness as her face registered him, and scanned him in detail. Almost as much detail as he’d used to observe her.
With a small curl of his lips, he looked away.
He would not waste his time on another society princess. Life was too short. Even for petite vixens who could make his body ache with a single look.
“So, what do you think?” Davies’s smooth, cultured voice broke through his fog of contemplation.
“The art?” Luca grunted, pushing up from the wall and thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“The art. The soiree. The women.” Davies’s grin held the boyish mirth that Luca recalled from their school days. “The whole shebang.”
Luca lifted his brows, wanting to enthuse for the sake of his friend. “The art is accomplished,” he agreed, finally, nodding towards one particularly impressive abstract canvas on the opposite wall.
“High praise from you,” the fair-headed man said with a laugh. He beckoned a waiter and retrieved two flutes of Cristal from the almost over-flowing tray. “Here. Loosen up. The room is pumping. The wine is flowing. Go. Have fun.”
Luca’s expression was bland. “What makes you think I am not?”
Davies laughed, slapping Luca on the shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe the way you’re glaring at my guests?”
Luca’s gaze was unwavering. “I do not mean to glare. You know I find these occasions… oppressive.”
“I do indeed. Could you perhaps just try to look like you’re having fun? You’re my A-list guest, after all.”
Luca lifted his brows, though he wasn’t really surprised. When he’d first met Davies, he, Luca Abramo, had been the slightly uncertain, certainly inexperienced, boy of the pair. But more than two decades had passed since then, and now Luca was in command of his life, his businesses, and everyone he met. Despite the fact he loathed attention, his endless success in the business sphere had made him a household name.
“I’ll do my best, for you, old friend.” He plastered a smile on his face. One that Davi
es immediately recognised as long suffering. He laughed, as he moved through the crowd, wondering how he and the antisocial megalomaniacal tycoon had ever become such firm friends. For as gregarious and outspoken as Henning Davies was, Luca Abramo was brooding and watchful. A true case of opposites attracting.
At least the music was good, Luca thought, focussing on the upbeat saxophone solo that was coming from behind him. As he turned towards the band, he saw her again. Now, she was talking to a group, gesticulating wildly as she told some kind of story. She didn’t simply speak though. Her whole body seemed to resonate with the purpose of relating a tale; arms, hands, head, legs. Every part of her was pressed into service. There were six or seven people listening, most of them men.
Possessive jealousy warred with curiosity.
He didn’t like the way the other men were looking at her. Such clear devotion. Complete interest. Slavish desire.
He shook his head and looked away. The waitress was moving in his direction, a tray of cocktails balanced on the upturned palm of her hand. Luca watched distractedly as the waitress weaved in and out of the partygoers, casually surveying and inspecting. As she neared the blonde, a man lifted his hand, and it caught the edge of the tray. It sent it flying right out of the waitress’s hand, and down to the polished marbled ground.
With an enormous noise, the glasses splintered into pieces, spilling their expensive, bright liquid everywhere.
Luca straightened immediately, ready to intervene. But a strange watchfulness kept him still.
The rest of the room silenced. The band lulled for a moment. Haughty expressions were raised, whilst not a hand was lifted.
In a sea of people, only the blonde seemed to react. With alacrity, she lifted a hand to her mouth and gasped, the sound tearing through the silent room.
The Italian's Innocent Bride Page 14
