The Italian's Virgin Bride

by Morey, Trish

  Whatever, Domenic Silvagni was about to get more than he bargained for. He was about to get himself a virgin.

  Chapter 6

  The bridal suite had been prepared. The room was elegant and richly decorated, the cornices adorned with cupids and bows, the curtains layered and ruched, elegantly draping over the large picture windows. Champagne chilled in a silver ice bucket alongside two crystal champagne flutes. A chocolate basket filled with strawberries completed the tray.

  But it was the bed that preoccupied her. The large four-poster bed dominated the room, already prepared for its new occupants, the embroidered satin counter-pane turned down, a single orchid adorning each pillow. Her silk nightgown had been unpacked and lay across the bed.

  She shivered, not wanting to go closer. The bed was so big, but then again she would be sharing it with Domenic. Somehow it didn’t seem big enough.

  Reluctantly she forced herself to cross the room. Domenic would be up in half an hour. He’d given her this opportunity, he’d said, to prepare herself, and for that small consideration she was grateful. Although she half suspected he was happy to prolong his reunion with his actress friend in private.

  Nightgown in hand, she entered the sumptuous marble bathroom, passing the large spa bath and the shower for two on her way to the long his-and-hers vanity, where her toiletries and cosmetics had already been arranged in neat rows, alongside his own smaller collection.

  So this was married life. Sharing space in a bed; space in the bathroom. She scanned his few items. A silver-handled razor. Anti-perspirant. One bottle of cologne. A toothbrush. Not much, but it probably told her more about him than she’d learned in the last month. After all, what did she really know about this man to whom she’d just become bound? Little more than he was one of the most successful hoteliers in the world and a man who was more than used to getting what he wanted. Not to mention who he wanted.

  Well, in a few more minutes she was bound to learn more—a lot more—whether she wanted to or not.

  She sighed, weary from the day’s stresses and excitement although thankful her headache had eased considerably. A shower would wipe it out completely.

  She removed her jewellery, the opal necklace and earrings that Domenic had provided, and her mother’s tiara, and slipped out of the gown her sister had crafted. The last of her make-up was disappearing when she felt it, the familiar cramping deep in her abdomen, the dampness in her underwear. And it was days early. The stress of this whole arrangement was taking its toll, on her body and her mind.

  So much for her wedding night. A half-smile found its way to her lips. In a way it was kind of funny, though there was little likelihood Domenic would agree.

  Standing under the powerful twin sprays a few minutes later, Opal let the warmth seep into her skin, relaxing flesh weary from being permanently tense, permanently on guard. With the showerheads set to pulse, the pummelling flow beat into her muscles, a liquid massage.

  It was heaven. Just a couple more minutes and she’d get out, but right now it was pure indulgence standing there, eyes closed, her face under the stream so that it cascaded down her shoulders, over her breasts and back and down her legs. Everywhere the water touched felt renewed and restored. It was a welcome change of state from the trauma of the day. And she wouldn’t think about tonight. It was enough now just to enjoy the refreshing play of water over her skin, temporarily sluicing away her tension, her weariness, her concerns.

  ‘La sirena. A mermaid.’

  Domenic’s voice speared through her dream state with ruthless efficiency. Her eyes flashed open as her arms sought to cover what nakedness they could. She swivelled her head around to see him through the clear glass doors the steam had done insufficient to fog, nonchalantly leaning against the vanity, his hand at his bow-tie. He tugged on it, once, twice, and the bow disintegrated. Another tug and it slipped from under the collar, fluttering to the floor.

  ‘My mermaid.’

  She gasped, blinking as water beaded on her lashes. She wanted to run and hide, to cover herself up, away from his gaze. Clearly he had no concerns about her state of undress. Had he planned this? She’d been expecting to don her nightgown, slip between the fine, satin-bound sheets and turn down the lights. Was that his reason for letting her go first—so he could hijack her efforts to scamper into bed, sight unseen?

  ‘I was just finishing up,’ she said in a voice that sounded far, far away. ‘I’ll be right out, if you wouldn’t mind passing me a towel.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said, his hand now at the buttons on his shirt, flicking them free one by one, ‘I’ll join you.’

  He couldn’t be serious! Surely he wasn’t planning on getting in? ‘It’s okay, I’ve been in for ages.’ She took a step backwards, closer to the door, hoping to get as close to the towels as possible before revealing more than a view of her back. It was clear he’d already seen much more than that—how long had he been watching her?—but letting him watch…that was different.

  ‘Stay there.’

  Her eyes flicked over to him again, ready to argue. Sure they were married, but she was still entitled to some degree of privacy. But one look at him stopped her cold. She swallowed as he discarded the shirt, his bared olive skin glowing under the bathroom lighting, shoulders broad and chest firm. Dark nipples, and a darker whorl of chest hair added texture to the otherwise smooth skin.

  An unfamiliar rush of temptation surged through her. She wanted to be angry with him. She had reason to be angry with him—many reasons. But that didn’t stop her frank appreciation of his body. He was beautiful, and the urge to touch that skin, to feel it pressed next to hers threatened to wipe out all rational thought.

  His hands moved to his belt and her eyes followed the movement, noticing the play of muscle under his sculpted abdomen as his hands dealt with the buckle before slowly, inexorably extracting it through the loops, one by one. She gulped as it dropped to the floor and she realised what he was doing.

  Stripping. For her.

  Her mind absorbed the knowledge with panic. Her body embraced it as a gift, as heightened awareness erupted everywhere. Under the shield of her arms, her breasts lifted and firmed, their nipples budding and supremely sensitive while a curl of desire snaked deep within her, setting spot fires in her extremities.

  His hands flipped the buttons of his waistband, exposing a line of dark hair descending from his navel. When he unzipped his trousers, the breath caught in her throat and she looked away, knowing the burning in her cheeks would be as obvious externally as it felt to her.

  By the sounds behind her she knew the trousers were being eased down, over his hips, past his thighs. They hit the floor and she looked upwards, seeking inspiration but finding none amongst the flumes of water raining down. A moment later the swish of silk told her she’d just missed the main event.

  The glass shower door rattled on its hinge, before swinging open behind her. Wrong, she thought, taking a deep, steeling breath.

  The main event had only just begun.

  Chapter 7

  Hands closed on her shoulders sending a wave of tremors passing through her as his form pressed itself up behind hers, sharing the cascade of steaming water from the showerheads above.

  She schooled herself to be as calm as she could, to be as sophisticated as she could, but there was none of that, not with his body pressing into her, his all too obvious maleness jutting hard against her, forcing her pulse into overdrive and her panic into a living thing.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We can’t—’

  ‘Turn around,’ he said, cutting her off, his voice edged in gravel, and Opal was hard pressed not to immediately acquiesce. There was something about his voice that made her want to argue with him one minute, be swept away by him the next. But she wouldn’t be that easy. Not for anybody. Especially not for him.

  He didn’t wait for her to respond. His hands moved her shoulders, swivelling her to face him. Then he gently removed her arms covering her breasts, bri
nging them to her sides, until she was completely exposed before him. With the curve of his hand he lifted her chin, until her eyes met his and she trembled, recognising the unmasked desire contained within those dark depths for what it was. He wanted her.

  And with an intense hunger she had never before known, she knew that in spite of everything, every last thing he had demanded and forced from her, she wanted him too. And that scared her more than anything.

  ‘You are my wife,’ he stated, tracing the fingers of one hand down her cheek, his touch feather-light yet scorching in intensity. Her eyelids fluttered as his hand followed the line of her throat, swept slowly across her chest, his fingers moulding to her contours. ‘You have no need to hide yourself from me.’

  His face dipped and slanted, and with one hand at her neck brought her to meet his mouth, finding her lips at the exact same moment his other hand captured her breast, her gasp lost as his mouth covered hers, gently inviting, pressuring hers to comply. A raft of sensations assailed her as his mouth worked magic on hers and his fingers circled the tight bud of her nipple, teasing it ever tighter, his erection pressing into her belly, firm and insistent, the water pulsing over them in sheets.

  Too many sensations, too much to analyse and much, much too difficult to focus. Easier to be swept away on a tide of feelings all-consuming and totally intoxicating—so unlike anything she’d experienced before.

  The kiss deepened, the hand at her neck working the angles to give him best advantage. And he used them, his tongue probing, tangling with hers as, unable to resist the onslaught of so many sensations, she kissed him back. Her hands yearned to touch, to feel the skin that had glowed, smooth and satiny, in the subtle bathroom lighting.

  Tentatively at first she let them, allowing them to settle on his waist, to slide over the smooth skin, to feel the tight muscle beneath. She wanted to touch all of him, to drink him in with her hands. She wanted more. Her hands moved further, one hand fixing on the hard nub of a nipple, and it was his turn to gasp. Breath hissed between them and his mouth left hers, nipping a trail along her jaw, sliding his tongue down her neck. His hand moved to her back, arching her as his mouth reached her breast, his tongue flicking over her nipple before taking all he could in his mouth, rolling his tongue around the engorged peak. Her other breast had no time to be jealous as his hand found it, stroking, massaging, teasing.

  Lightning bolts speared through her, flashes of sensation so vivid and pervasive, their target deep inside her, setting her alight. She clutched at him now, her hands clinging to his wet shoulders, her knees threatening to buckle as his mouth left one breast, only to settle moments later on the other.

  Every touch, every kiss sparked off new feelings, new fires. She was out of control. Way out of her depth. With no hope of finding her way out of the maze of passion and desire he’d drawn her into.

  A hand dipped below her waist, tracing a path over her stomach, finding the curve of her hipbone and trailing down. Panic flashed bright in Opal’s mind. ‘No,’ she said, edging away.

  He pulled her back in, cutting off her protest as he claimed her mouth again in a kiss that had her senses reeling, his hand dropping again, caressing her behind as he held her close, his fingers sliding between her thighs.

  ‘Please, no,’ she said again, turning her face away from his.

  ‘I want this. You want this,’ he responded, his voice heavy with need.

  ‘It’s not a good time for me.’

  He stopped, looking down at her, disbelief evident in the frown puckering his brow. ‘You have your period?’

  She nodded, feeling suddenly exposed, crossing her arms in front of her.

  ‘Does that matter?’ he asked.

  She blinked. ‘Well, if you expect me to produce the heir to the Silvagni empire, then yes, I’d say it matters. I have to say I suspect there’s little chance of conception tonight.’

  He reached around and wrenched the taps shut.

  ‘You make it sound like the worst thing in the world, to have a child.’

  He jerked open the glass door, pulling down a thick towelling robe from the hanger behind the door and thrusting it at her before grabbing the second and shrugging it on.

  ‘My feelings about children are one thing,’ she said, following him out into the expansive bathroom. ‘But you expect me to be some kind of—’ her mind frantically searched for the right expression ‘—some kind of brood mare!’ She hurled the last two words out, an accusation.

  He glared at her. ‘If you are going to be my wife, you may as well be put to some useful service.’

  ‘So, that is to be my fate! To live my life as brood mare to Domenic, the original Italian stallion. How lucky does that make me?’

  She shrugged, reaching for a towel to blot her hair. And hide her face. So that was what tonight’s frenetic shower activity had been about—putting her to “useful service”. For a moment she’d almost wanted to believe he was interested in her. Fat chance. He’d merely been preparing her for planting his seed. And she’d all but ploughed the ground herself.

  ‘How long will this last?’

  ‘Five days, a week maybe. It just started tonight.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell me you were due when we made the arrangements for the wedding?’

  ‘You made the arrangements. All of them. You arranged the date, the time. I had no say in any of it. Just as I apparently get no say as to whether or not I want to have your child.’

  His stony face was her only reply.

  ‘Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘as it happens, it’s early. I had no idea it would come today.’

  He snorted. ‘How convenient.’

  She picked up her brush, attacking the tangles resulting from her extended shower with gusto, as if each snarl had Domenic’s name written on it. ‘Very convenient, as it happens. It certainly stopped you pawing me.’

  ‘A little while ago you didn’t seem quite so averse to being pawed.’

  She cast aside the truth in his comment as lightly as she could. A little while ago she’d been taken aback by the appearance—and feel—of a naked man in her shower. A naked man she’d married earlier today and who’d shown her nerve-endings she’d never known existed. Little wonder she’d been carried away.

  ‘I guess it was naïve of me not to realise you wouldn’t waste any time preparing me for my maternal duties.’

  ‘Some might not see it as such an imposition.’

  ‘I have no doubt of that, the way some of our guests today were falling over themselves to prove to me how accommodating they can be for you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  She tossed back her head. ‘Your friend down there. The blonde in the red dress.’

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘You met Emma?’

  ‘She couldn’t wait to meet me,’ she said. ‘By all accounts she enjoys your company immensely.’

  He took a step closer, his cold eyes revealing that the accompanying smile was no more than skin deep. One hand he lifted to her neck, tracing the skin at the V formed by her robe. ‘Do you know that your eyes spark fire when you are angry? Or maybe it is because you are jealous?’

  She shrugged out of his reach. Jealous! What a nerve. As if she cared who he was with. Without a doubt there’d be plenty more Emmas in the years to come. They would come and go with monotonous regularity, while she, like her mother, would live with the passing parade as best she could.

  ‘You kid yourself. You were right the first time. I’m angry—angry that you would flaunt you girlfriend in my face. Here of all places—at our wedding. I don’t care what you do and who you see, but I would ask that you at least be discreet.’

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. ‘And you think I invited her? Emma is in Sydney promoting her latest film.’

  She looked at him, dark waves in his hair still damp from their shower, and wished she could believe him. But her mother had believed her father, believed his lies and his false promises, and there was no way O
pal would allow herself to fall into the same trap.

  ‘How convenient,’ she snipped.

  He stared at her for what seemed like minutes, his eyes brooding, face all harsh angles and planes.

  ‘Very convenient, as it happens,’ he threw back at her, moving to the dressing room. ‘I’m going out. Don’t wait up.’

  Opal rested her arms against the vanity, taking deep, ragged breaths. Outside, she could hear the sounds of drawers sliding open, wardrobes opening and banging shut. After a few minutes a door slammed and all was silent. He was gone.

  Hours later Opal lay awake, wrestling with the bedding and eyes burning with exhaustion, yet unable to find respite in the large bed. The large, wasted bed. Earlier its size had threatened her. Now it mocked. Her wedding night. Her wedding bed. And she was alone.

  Why did it matter? It wasn’t a real marriage after all. There was nothing between them but a contract and a collection of hotels. It shouldn’t have mattered. Yet it did.

  This was a man she was now tied to for life for whatever reason. And so far they had had no time to get to know each other, discover and share their likes and dislikes, their favourite colour, their favourite food. Basic information.

  All it would take was time, to sit down and talk to each other. If this marriage was going to work on any level, they should at least be able to do that. They could have started that process last night.

  Her eyes slid to the muted digital read-out yet again. It would be dawn soon and Domenic still hadn’t returned. Where had he spent the night? A vision of Emma, her expression triumphant, took prime place in her mind.

  She’d still been at the reception when Opal had slipped away, many of the guests still dancing to the beat of the dance band that had followed the orchestra at the conclusion of the meal. Was that where Domenic had headed? Back to the reception to find solace with his girlfriend? He would have found a willing companion, certainly.

  She flipped and punched her pillow as visions of the two of them, Domenic with Emma, played out in front of her, Emma’s peroxide movie-star looks contrasting with his darker Mediterranean colouring. Had he sought refuge with her—to finish what he had started so unsatisfactorily with herself?