by Julia James
And her marriage to Vito Farneste.
She should be feeling triumphant. Grovellingly relieved. Disbelieving that she had actually succeeded in getting him to accede to her crazy, absurd plan.
But all she could feel was anaesthetised.
She shifted slightly in the wide leather seat. Apart from the hum of the engines it was very quiet in the cabin. Across the aisle Vito was sitting, ignoring her totally, working through a stack of papers on the table in front of him.
He’d said hardly anything to her since she’d been deposited at Northolt airfield earlier that morning by the car he’d sent for her, and his expression was unreadable. Well, she thought sourly, what did you say to a woman you loathed, a woman you’d deliberately seduced to wound her mother, with whom you were now going through a travesty of a wedding service simply to get back a family heirloom? Normal conversation wasn’t exactly on the cards, was it?
Memory tugged at her, though she tried to stop it. Memories of Vito, in Rome, a lifetime ago, in that dream-time that surely had never really happened… When she’d been at such magical ease in his company, laughing and talking and never, never running out of conversation…as if he took real pleasure in her company…
Fake—it had all been fake. He’d been stringing her along, silly little English schoolgirl, that was all.
She eased her ankles, rotating one and then the other. The movement shifted the heavy document lying on her lap. Vito had handed it to her as she’d taken her seat.
‘The pre-nup,’ he’d said laconically, his eyes dark and inexpressive. ‘No wedding without your signature on it.’
She’d read it through. It contained no surprises. The Farneste emeralds would become the unconditional property of Vito Farneste the moment the ceremony was complete. And when the marriage ended she would take nothing with her—not a cent. She had no claim whatsoever on the Farneste fortune, and undertook never to use the Farneste name, or to speak to any member of the press about her marriage or the Farneste family.
She would sign it without a second thought.
And then she would marry him.
She was still stunned at how swiftly he’d moved. They were going to Antillia, a small island state in the Caribbean, he’d informed her tersely. It had two main advantages. Couples could get married instantly, without the wait that UK law stipulated, and—again unlike in the UK—pre-nuptial contracts were watertight under Antillian law.
The numbness closed over her again, the sense of dulling unreality.
I can’t think about this, she thought. I can’t and I mustn’t. It’s too unreal, too bizarre, too…
Too painful.
The words sounded in her mind, and she could not stop them.
In your dreams…
The haunting phrase echoed round her head. She felt her heart clutch.
She was going to marry a man who had once, for a brief, illusory spell, been all the world to her! A man she had given her first love to.
A man who had deliberately, calculatingly, betrayed that love, mocked and destroyed it.
And now she was going to go through—deliberately, calculatingly—with a wedding ceremony that would mock her for the rest of her life.
But it’s not for me! It’s for my mother! I have to do this. I have to! It’s absurd, it’s horrible, it’s ludicrous. But it’s all I can do. I can’t refuse to do it!
Heaviness closed over her like a dull weight, pressing down on her.
She has so little time left— I have to do whatever I can, whatever it is, to make her happier. It doesn’t matter about me—it only matters about her…
Grief stabbed at her, buckling her face.
She went on staring out at the clouds.
Something made Vito look up from his work. He’d buried himself in some highly complex proposals for a joint venture with a Far Eastern manufacturer the moment he’d boarded the plane. Anything to take his mind off what he was doing.
Unreality kept washing through him. He must be mad to do what he was doing! He should simply call the stewardess and give orders for the plane to turn around and head back to London. Then dump Rachel Vaile on the tarmac and walk away. For ever.
But he didn’t. Instead he went on leafing through the proposals, making notes, jotting down queries, questions that needed answers, points for his lawyers. A grim smile played over his mouth. Running Farneste Industriale was no sinecure. It was hard, relentless work, with a crushing responsibility for his workforce, whose livelihoods depended on him, and the company contributed to a significant tranche of the Italian economy.
No wonder my father needed his R&R! Escape times with a beautiful woman to take his mind off work…
The thought came to him unwillingly, but with that same humourless smile he acknowledged the truth of it. The devil was that it hadn’t been his wife that his father had turned to for such R&R.
No, don’t go down that path. He’d walked it barefoot, over every thorn, for too many years. His mother’s heartbreak, his father’s defection. And he’d been powerless to do anything about it. Anything except accuse and despise.
And offer what comfort he could to his mother.
She’d suffered in silence. Only those debilitating attacks that had come, far too coincidentally, with his father’s sojourns with his mistress had shown him her distress. When they’d come she had retired from the palatial Farneste residence outside Turin to the family’s chalet in the Italian Alps, high above Lake Como, to pine for her faithless husband in silent, lonely misery. She hadn’t even wanted her son with her to keep a vigil.
While Arlene Graham had lived the gilded life of a golden whore on his father’s wealth…
And now he was about to marry her daughter.
Emotion scythed through him. Bitter with gall.
He lifted his head from his work and turned to look at her.
Her face was averted.
And the expression on it stilled him completely.
She should have been radiating triumph, believing she had brought him to heel with the promise of returning his own property to him. She should have been sitting there like a cat in possession of a rich bowl of cream, purring in anticipation of her victory.
But her face was etched like stone, every feature drawn, her gaze seeing something not physically visible through the porthole.
Something churned inside him. Clawed at him.
Something trying to be let out.
He twisted his head away sharply.
Rachel Vaile had no power over him! No power over his emotions.
Only his senses.
He sat back, deliberately relaxing his limbs. Closing his eyes.
Conjuring up her image, even though she was only a few feet away from him.
With deliberate studiedness he drew her image in his mind, delineating her graceful, sensuous body, skimming in his mind over the soft swell of her breasts, the rounded curve of her hip.
In the years since he had last laid eyes on her she had ripened—ripened like a peach to perfection. And tonight, oh, yes, tonight, under the Caribbean moon, he would taste her succulence.
And she would discover why he had agreed to marry her.
Rachel was dreaming. The long hours in the plane had finally lulled her to sleep. In her dream it was warm—beautifully warm. She was wearing a yellow sundress, short and flirty, leant to her by Zara, with narrow spaghetti straps. She was running up the Spanish Steps, nimbly avoiding the hordes of tourists sitting there simply because they were such a famous Roman landmark. Brilliant red flowers tumbled out of pots that lined the edge of the steps. A man stopped in front of her, holding out a single rose to sell, but she just smiled and darted round him. Behind her she could hear Vito catching up with her, despite the head start he had given her.
By the time she got to the top he had overtaken her, striding up on his long, powerful legs. He caught her arms as she stepped onto the final level terrace at the head of the long flight.
‘You win!’
She laughed. ‘So I’ll buy the next gelato!’
Warm, dark eyes had smiled down at her.
Smiling, smiling…
She felt her heart squeeze with happiness, catch with joy.
Vito… Vito…
She breathed his name silently, like a paean of praise. Praise for being Vito, the most gorgeous, beautiful, fantastic man in the world.
Who was choosing her, her, to spend his days with.
And the most magical night of her life with…
The scene shifted.
She was in his arms and he was making love to her. Making love so exquisitely her body was bathed in fire, aching with longing, flooded with yearning. He stroked her body, murmuring to her in words she did not understand but which sang like a song in her heart.
She felt herself blossom like a flower.
Then Vito was gone. Someone was shaking her shoulder, gently but insistently.
She opened her eyes, blinking, confused.
‘I’m very sorry to have to wake you, madam,’ a polite voice was saying, ‘but we’ve started our descent and you will need to fasten your seat-belt.’
Reality came sweeping back to her as she saw the flight attendant straighten. Beyond her, Vito was still working at his papers, as though he had done nothing but that all the voyage. She felt her heart catch, her mind still full of the dream she had been woken from. For a moment she just gazed, as adoring of him now as she had been at eighteen, worshipping his cool, dark beauty.
She wanted to reach out her hand, touch him. Hold him.
But she could not. Never again.
He was only a few feet away from her, but he might have been a thousand miles distant.
A terrible sadness went through her. Then bitterness came, lacing poisonously.
Don’t get sentimental! He was never the man you thought he was. Never! Everything you thought you’d shared was fake. He was taking you for a fool every moment he was with you. Until the final moment. When he revealed his true self. That was the real Vito Farneste. And it still is.
That was what she had to remember.
All she had to remember. She forced herself to recall what she had told herself when she had gone to him in his executive office.
This is a business transaction, nothing more. No emotions are necessary.
She wondered why she had to keep repeating it to herself.
The plane started to bank steeply as it approached the runway, heading for their destination. Rachel could see a blue-green expanse of sea, and sunlight dazzling as the plane levelled again, dipping down more sharply into the last descent. Then, out of nowhere it seemed, land suddenly appeared, palm trees and greenery, miniature at first, but rapidly becoming full-sized as the plane glided down to earth.
They landed with only the slightest of bumps, and then the engine thrust went into reverse, braking them. She sat back, waiting till it was all over.
As she emerged from the plane, stepping down the shallow staircase, heat enveloped her. A balmy, subtropical heat, bringing with it a mix of scents—aircraft fuel and something exotically floral.
The heat and beauty seemed to mock her, utterly out of keeping with what she was about to do.
Immigration was swift at the small and almost deserted airport, and within minutes they were inside an air-conditioned car, their meagre luggage installed in the boot. Idly, Rachel wondered where they were going, and then realised it did not matter. She sat back in her corner of the seat, as physically far away from Vito as she could.
He did not speak to her, and she was glad.
They had nothing to say to each other.
In her handbag, nestled in a velvet bag, secure within a zippered compartment, lay the Farneste emeralds. The sole reason she was here, in the Caribbean, with a man she hated more than any man on earth.
A man she would marry this evening.
Rachel still felt too dazed and depressed to take in more than palm trees, the bumpy tarmac road and fields of what she assumed was sugar cane at either side. Then, a few minutes later, a flash of brilliant blue-green assailed her eyes and the car drew up at the edge of a quay by the ocean. A few rather ramshackle buildings clustered around the quay. Tied up there was an open motorboat.
Rachel frowned. What on earth—?
‘We’re going on to Ste Pierre—it’s an offshore island which specialises in wedding parties.’ Vito’s inexpressive voice provided an unasked-for explanation.
She said nothing. There was nothing to say. Instead she got out of the car and into the boat. She sat down on the padded seat that curved around the gunwale and deliberately closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sun. The sea breeze cooled her face, and she felt the boat dip as Vito and the driver climbed down after her. There was some movement as the luggage was loaded, then the car driver was transformed into a boat driver and they set off. Vito, she was glad to note through cautiously half-opened eyes, was sitting well away from her.
The journey wasn’t long—possibly fifteen minutes or so, Rachel estimated—and then the boat was pulling up at another quay. This time as she emerged she saw that the landing at Ste Pierre was much more picturesque—and so was the transport that awaited them. A pony and trap, with an awning over bright yellow seats, and a coachman in a wide-brimmed matching hat and open-necked shirt which contrasted vividly with his dark skin.
‘Welcome to Ste Pierre—or Honeymoon Island to you folks!’ the coachman announced with a beaming smile, in a strong Caribbean accent.
Feeling both an idiot and a hypocrite, Rachel let the boatman help her up into the trap, making sure she sat as near the far edge of the seat as possible.
This journey was even shorter, a bare five minutes, and all it did was convey them around the headland into the next bay. But as they came past the screening palm trees Rachel could not prevent an exclamation of pleasure breaking out.
The bay was beautiful! Like something out of a tourist brochure. The sea was turquoise here, vivid and bright, and lapped onto a beach that was dazzling in its whiteness. Set back from the beach, framed by palm trees and fronted by scarlet flowers and lush greenery, was a low white plantation-style building.
Their driver turned and beamed.
‘Honeymoon House, folks!’ he announced.
For a hotel, Rachel thought, it was on the small side. But maybe they aimed at exclusivity rather than numbers. It certainly looked deserted, she realised, and there was no one in the large oval-shaped pool just behind the beach in front of the lawn. The horse—which had its own yellow straw sunhat, slit to allow its long ears to poke through—went clopping steadily along the narrow, unmetalled roadway. It did not pass in front of the hotel, but headed inland to go around to the rear of the building. Here, a carriage sweep led to large white double doors shaded by a columned portico, beneath which the coachman halted the vehicle.
The doors opened wide and a very upright Antillian emerged, looking for all the world, Rachel registered, like a Victorian butler. He came up to the trap, poised to help the arrivals down. Vito sprang down lithely on his own, but Rachel was glad of the butler’s pristinely white-gloved hand.
‘Welcome to Honeymoon House, sir, madam,’ he announced in a stately voice. ‘Permit me to show you to your rooms.’
Rachel caught the use of the plural word and felt a shiver of relief go through her. She hadn’t known what to expect, but Vito had obviously stipulated separate rooms, however strange that might be to a hotel that specialised in instant Caribbean weddings.
As they went indoors Rachel looked around at the spacious hallway, with its dark mahogany wood and white-painted high ceiling. It was cooler here, yet it was not the chill of air-conditioning. She felt a breeze blow through the large airy room.
She frowned slightly. The hotel was beautifully furnished and appointed, and was clearly an expensive place to stay—but then Vito was a rich man; no need for him to go slumming just because he was marrying a woman like her! But it looked completely deserted. There was no si
gn of a reception desk, let alone other guests or even staff.
She followed the butler, who announced in the same stately tones that his name was André and that he was entirely at their service during their stay, then led the way down a wide corridor to the right and paused outside a door.
‘Madam’s room,’ he intoned, and opened the door to usher her in.
She went in gratefully, and could not help looking around with pleasure. White louvred wardrobes lined one wall, an electric fan flicked lazily in the centre of the high ceiling, and a large, graceful four-poster bed stood swathed in voile. André advanced, throwing open the white window shutters.
The vista beyond was beautiful. A white-painted veranda edged the room, and beyond it a path led directly to the paved pool area, where the water sparkled in the sunshine. In the near distance, the turquoise sea dazzled her eyes.
It was a world away from London, in its winter bleakness, and for some quite unaccountable reason Rachel felt her spirits lift.
André murmured something. She smiled abstractedly and stepped out onto the veranda to get a better look at the view. When, after a few moments, she turned, she found she had the room to herself. Her small suitcase stood on the rack.
Instinct took over. She hurried across to the case and threw it open. Once she’d learnt that she was going to have to go through with this travesty of a wedding not in a London register office but on an instant wedding island in the Caribbean, she had included her swimsuit in her luggage. Swimming would help to pass the time—and keep her away from Vito.
She rummaged roughly through the suitcase’s contents and pulled out her costume. Five minutes later she was heading out to the swimming pool.
Gliding into the water was bliss. She let her hair stream in the water, the air cooling her wet face. Despite the warmth, no other hotel guests came out to share the pool with her. Relaxing in the balmy liquid, she turned over onto her back and floated, feeling some of the knotted tension at the ordeal she knew she must face that evening ease out of her. After a while she felt the weightless drift of her body bump her gently against the edge of the pool. Lazily she turned and rested her forearms on the tiled surround, pushing her streaming hair from her face. She blinked the water from her eyes and lifted her head slightly to gaze back across the greenery to the hotel.
