by Tara Pammi
CHAPTER SIX
THUD. THUD.
“Alisha?”
Thud. Soft thud. Followed by a curse in Italian.
“Alisha, fifteen minutes or I break down this door.”
They were tight, softly spoken words, and yet filled with that controlled fury they made Ali jump. She stepped out of the hot shower that she’d been standing under for far too long. She shivered and grabbed two towels—one for her hair, and one for her body. Her cell phone chirped and she glanced at the time and grimaced.
She glanced at the date and grimaced a little more. Any more grimacing and her face was going to be permanently frozen into a...grimace.
Today was the morning of her wedding. To Dante.
She was marrying Dante today.
Or Dante was marrying her?
Ten days of repeating that to herself hadn’t made it any easier to face today.
She hurriedly toweled down her body, threw on panties, tugged on denim shorts and a loose T-shirt, just as the knock came again.
Toweling her hair with one hand, she opened the door.
Dante pushed inside.
The towel fell from her hands while her heart thudded against her rib cage. Ali rubbed at her chest and stared at him, a prickle of heat flushing all over her and pooling between her legs.
She groaned and closed her eyes. But nothing could erase the sight of him from her mind. Strikingly handsome didn’t do him justice at all.
Black jacket that defined his powerful shoulders; white dress shirt that stretched against his broad chest; black pants that molded to his powerful thighs; jet-black hair slicked back, gleaming with wetness. A smooth shave of that sharp, defined jawline that she wanted to run her tongue along; dark eyes—penetrating and gorgeous, glimmering with interest and intensity.
He was too much.
This was far too much for anyone to bear. If she’d known all her bad decisions and all the pain she’d caused her papa and her brother and Dante could come back to her in this form... Karma was indeed a bitch.
Ten days of being back in London, ten days of seeing Dante every morning, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit—sometimes he was ready to leave for the day when she was getting ready to crawl into bed after hours spent in the darkroom—had taken a toll on her mental health.
It was too much Dante to stomach on any given day.
Furthermore, he’d been determined to oversee a wardrobe upgrade for her because no, he still didn’t trust her not to play some cheap trick to embarrass him. They’d also been forced together while he explained in detail the legalities of transferring her voting shares that he insisted she understand, and because of her ill-thought-out idea of coming to him with some financial questions regarding her mom’s charity—the only time she sought him of her own accord. Yes, they had spent far too much time, far too close to each other.
In the blink of an eye, she could now recall a hundred different expressions he wore.
With one breath, she could remember the scent of him.
At the drop of a hat, in the middle of the night or day, whether she was at the Lonely Hearts HQ or in her darkroom, she could conjure the curve of his mouth when he smiled, the laconic glint in his eyes when she was flippant, the way his nostrils flared and his jaw tightened when she annoyed him.
It was as though her mind was happily compiling a database of Dante-related details to draw upon whenever and wherever it wanted.
As a teenager, it had been an inexplicable obsession, a weird love-hate relationship, a mild form of nauseating hero worship. Within a few days of returning to London she’d learned that she knew nothing of the real man beneath the insufferable arrogance and ruthless ambition. It was only after she’d burst the bubble of illusion had she realized the safety there had been in it.
Now she saw a complex and interesting man. She saw that beneath the ruthless ambition, there was integrity and a moral compass that no one could shake. Beneath the rigid discipline and control, there was a man who knew every single employee by name and their family conditions. There was a man who saw more than profit margin, much as he coated it with what he called simple business tactics. This was the man her father had nurtured and loved.
Where had all the animosity she’d nursed and tended to with such care for almost ten years gone? Was she so pathetically deprived for affection that the stupid camera incident had changed the entire dynamic between them?
It was now replaced by an awkwardness filled with anticipation, tension and lot of tongue-tied staring on her behalf. Like now.
She opened her eyes and caught him doing a leisurely perusal of her T-shirt sticking to her still damp body. Her meager breasts looked round and high, her nipples clearly distended with wetness. Jerkily, she tugged the shirt away.
His jaw tightened, that infinitesimal flare of his nostrils freezing her midaction.
He was just as aware of her as she was of him. Was that possible?
His ankles crossed, he was a picture of masculine arrogance and yet there was tension around that mouth, a wave of something radiating from him, filling the air around them.
Awareness pounded into her, stronger and sharper than an IV of caffeine. He did notice her. He wasn’t immune to her. He was...attracted to her?
She swayed on her feet and he was instantly there, anchoring her, a warm marble slab to her touch, his heartbeat a thunder under her skin. She snatched her arm away just as he raised his own.
“You’re not ready.” Gravelly and husky, he sounded unlike himself.
The moment stretched as they stared at each other, the world outside held at bay. Her skin pulsed, her breasts falling up and down as if she were running.
She wanted to reach out again and touch him. She wanted to run her fingers over that defined jawline, press her tongue against the hollow of his throat, unbutton his shirt just a little and slip her fingers inside until she could feel the sparse hair that dotted his chest—she’d snuck a peek when he’d come in from a run one morning. She wanted to check for herself if his heart was thundering like hers was, run her hands down, down, down until she could trace his hard abdomen, down into his trousers until she could see if he was—
The sound of his curse, gritted out with near-violence sent a blast of heat up Ali’s chest and cheeks. “I’m ready, okay? Just...” She rubbed a hand over her forehead, lowering her tone to normal. “As ready as I’ll ever be for this. So let’s get this over with, please.”
He pushed a hand through his slicked-back hair, making it flop forward. “What you’re wearing is not...appropriate. Only you can make an old T-shirt look like it should come with a red-hot warning.”
The words fell from his mouth fast, totally unlike him. By the skin of her teeth, she somehow, somehow, managed to ignore the rough texture of his tone.
“Not this again, please.” She pushed her hand through her hair, realizing it was dripping wet. “All we’ll do is sign papers in front of two witnesses. The registrar will make us repeat those vows—which I’ve learned by heart, okay? I’ll sign my name, you’ll sign yours. It will be over. Nothing changes between us. Everything remains the same.” It had been her mantra since she’d woken up at five in the morning.
When he stared back at her with infinite patience, she let her anxiety seep into her tone. “Don’t make it harder than it has to be, Dante.”
“There’ll be press waiting outside the registrar’s office.”
Ali sank back. “What? Who could have leaked it?”
His hands smoothed over his jacket and he almost seemed reluctant to speak. “I invited them.”
“Why?”
“Have you seen the headlines since we returned?”
“Yes.”
Just as he’d predicted, there was far too much interest in his every move.
The rebel Matta heiress engaged to her father’s protégé and
confirmed billionaire bachelor Dante Vittori was far too juicy a story. All her previous transgressions had already been dragged into the spotlight again to contrast her record with Dante’s pristine reputation.
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was the lesser one, the one found wanting in their coupledom.
A half laugh, half bark tore out of her chest as she remembered the headline that had described Dante on an online gossip site that Ali should’ve known better than to click. Consequently, she’d fallen into the internet hole of Dante’s love life over the past ten years.
Models, actresses, there had even been one popular daytime talk show host. When she’d dug herself out of the hole, like everything related to gossip sites on the net, Alisha had felt like a pervy spectator with ringside seats to his love life.
What was worse was that old feeling of inadequacy, the sense of not being good enough, that had plagued her all her adolescent life and driven her to make horrible choices. Really, it was mind-boggling how she could believe she wasn’t enough of a woman for a fake marriage to the perfect male specimen that was Dante Vittori.
Fake marriage, people!
“Isn’t it bad enough that my reputation precedes me? Bad enough that every stupid online magazine is speculating that you’re somehow saving me by marrying me. Old friends are calling me with all kinds of questions.”
He frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have they been harassing you?”
“Mrs. Puri, our old housekeeper, called the other day and asked me if I was pregnant. And then blessed you in Hindi for two whole minutes for your loyalty and refused to stop giving me tips on how to be a good Indian bride.
“When I pointed out that you were Sicilian, she went off about how Sicilian men, like their Indian counterparts, expect a traditional, biddable wife. She had the gall to tell me that I was lucky to have caught a handsome, loyal man like you despite all my flaws. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there’d been smoke coming out of my ears.”
Of all the reactions she’d expected from him, it wasn’t the hearty laugh that shot out of his mouth. His eyes lit up as if there was a light behind them, and his teeth flashed white in his olive face. Her fingers itched for her camera. She wanted to capture him in that moment forever. Like a hundred other moments. “I adored Mrs. Puri. How is she?”
Ali glared at him even as parts of her down south melted at how gorgeous he looked. How carefree and approachable and affectionate. “She’s happy and cozy in Cambridge with the huge pension you settled on her. Why didn’t you tell me you did that for all of Mama and Papa’s old staff?”
An uncommunicative shrug. “What else did she say?”
He was still smiling and it felt like the sun was peeking through the gloomy October morning.
“I’m glad you think my life is funny. They think you’re coming to my rescue. That my life went off the rails again because of something I’d done, and you, for the sake of Papa, are sacrificing your demigod-like virility on the altar of my thoughtless recklessness. I don’t want to give them more—”
A feral smile playing around his mouth, he threaded his hand through her hair and tugged her forward. Mouth dry, heart palpitating, Ali went, like a bow flexing in the hands of a master archer. “Sacrificing my demigod-like virility at the altar of your thoughtless recklessness? Only you can come up with such outrageous descriptions.”
She licked her lips and his gaze arrested there. “The legion of your female admirers saddened by our engagement give complete credence to my statement.”
He traced his knuckles against her cheek, a thoughtful curiosity in his eyes. It was barely a touch and yet all of her being pulsed beneath that patch of skin. Slowly, he released her hair and the progressive loss of his addictive scent and his warmth made her want to weep.
“Just the idea of our engagement did that. There’s no way to stop the press from following this story like rabid dogs when it comes out that we’ve married so quickly. They will hound me, but I’m used to it. They’ll make your life hell. This way, we give them what we want. We control the narrative. A quick statement from us and a couple of orchestrated shots means the story doesn’t take off in a hundred different ways.”
“I don’t want to pretend anything.”
“It’ll just be a photographer and one journalist from a reputed online website. They won’t even be allowed inside where we sign the papers. Dress like you mean it. Turn the world on its head. Think of it as armor, Alisha. Dazzle them so much that they don’t wonder the why of this anymore. Surprise them with all the changes you’ve made.”
“The changes I’ve made?”
“Haven’t you made changes? I barely see you during the day and you’re at that studio most nights. Be smart about the publicity you’ll garner over the next few months. Use this opportunity. Use me.”
Her gaze drifted to his broad shoulders. “Use you?” she whispered, a veritable cornucopia of forbidden, erotic messages downloading into her brain for using him.
“Si.” An unusual smile curved his lips. “Being my wife will automatically give you unwanted attention. People who want to get to me will clamor for your attention first. Invitations for lavish dinners and charity events will flow. Make connections. Use these people to build up the charity. You can either hide over the next few months or you can use the time to achieve your goals. It all depends on how you choose to look at the situation.”
Put like that, it made so much sense to her.
He was right. It was inevitable that his reputation, his high connections would overshadow her life for a long while. So why not make use of it all for a good cause?
A bright energy infused her veins. For the first time in her life, there was someone who understood her, who encouraged her. On an impulse, she threw herself at him. Arms wrapped around his neck, she pressed a hard kiss to his cheek. It lasted only a few seconds, half a minute at the most.
And yet, she couldn’t forget the steely cage of his arms around her waist, the rough smoothness of his cheek, or the way everything in her body felt loose and heavy at the same time.
Pulling away, she refused to look at him.
In her wardrobe, she pulled out a cream, knee-length, silk sleeveless dress, one of the classiest creations she’d ever seen.
The dress slithered over her skin with a soft whisper. But she couldn’t get the back zipper all the way. Fake it ’til you mean it. That was what she was going to do. With the world and with Dante.
Face frozen into an unaffected smile, she walked back out and presented her back to him. “Zip me up.”
An eon seemed to pass before he tugged the zipper up, and another eternity when the pads of his fingers lingered on the nape of her neck. While he watched, she finished putting the final touches on her face. A dab of eyeshadow, the perfect shade of red lipstick and then hands on his arm, she pushed her feet into three-inch stilettos.
“Do I look good enough to be Mrs. Vittori now?”
A fire licked into his eyes. His arm rose toward her face, slowly, his features tight. But it fell away before it reached her mouth.
She saw the bob of his Adam’s apple, the controlled tremor that seemed to shake his powerful body. “Forget all the rubbish the media writes about my affairs, the compare and contrasts, si? You’re beautiful, and talented, and you could take any one of those women single-handedly.”
Any other day, she’d have preened under his praise. But today, it served as a much needed reminder. The research into his love life was a reminder.
He’d never even had a girlfriend for longer than three months.
But for those voting shares, for the sake of the blasted company, he would sign his name next to hers on a piece of paper without even a prenup.
That was like a tiger willingly walking into a cage.
Until she had arrived back in London, until she had heard all the hoopla
about his billions, until she had read about his rigid but straightforward tactics when it came to the company, she hadn’t appreciated what a big thing that was.
He had billions, an empire he had built piece by piece over the last two decades and he was leaving it open to attack, making it vulnerable by marrying her without the prenup.
Like an eager puppy that returns again and again for affection, Ali couldn’t help but think that it was because he trusted her not to come after his fortune.
Maybe just a little bit.
Being the one woman that ruthless Dante Vittori trusted beyond anyone or anything was bound to go to the head of even the most sensible woman between sixteen and sixty, any woman who had a working vagina, any woman who could appreciate having a little glimpse into a powerful and striking man like Dante.
And Ali had never been rational or sensible when it came to Dante.
* * *
For a quiet, civil ceremony, there were too many people waiting in the registrar’s office. Somehow, Ali had made it without hyperventilating through the ride.
Izzy’s gaze sought hers but Ali didn’t meet it. There was only so much acting she could do and quiet Izzy would know in a second how this affected her. She and Marco, Dante’s head of security, were to be the two witnesses.
Three men stood in the outer office, a lot of paperwork in front of them, and Ali realized they were lawyers. A tall woman and two men stood behind her—the gossip columnist and her team.
“Come,” Dante whispered at her ear and Ali followed him inside.
Somehow, she made it through, smiling, shaking the kind registrar’s hand. She even laughed vacuously at some thin joke.
And then it was time for the vows.
When the man asked her if she wanted to add anything personal to the preexisting set of vows, Ali wanted to run away. This was wrong. All wrong.
She felt the warmth of Dante’s body by her side before he turned her toward him. And slowly, the declaratory words came, more easily than she had thought they would, his gaze holding hers, anchoring her, his broad shoulders her entire world.
“I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Alisha Rajeswari Matta, may not be joined in matrimony to Dante Stefano Vittori.”
