by Sarah Morgan
Other details were attended to, like purchasing shoes to match their dresses—something Gabby felt was very important, and pretty hair accessories, again another Gabriela request.
But time had passed and it was Saturday afternoon, now just two hours before the ceremony. Cristiano had offered to send a hairdresser to the house but Sam thought that expense, on top of all the others, too frivolous. Instead she and Gabby holed up in Sam’s bedroom suite at the villa where they sat in matching robes sharing afternoon tea before they changed into their special dresses.
“Are you scared, Sam?” Gabby asked, holding her cup delicately in one hand.
“I’m a little nervous,” Sam admitted. “Marriage is very serious.”
“Cristiano said you weren’t really married to Papa Johann. That someone made a mistake and you were really just friends.”
Sam was rather impressed with the explanation Cristiano had given Gabby. It wasn’t the exact truth but it was one a child, particularly a sensitive child like Gabriela, could understand. “That’s right. Johann and I are friends. We were never married like your friends’ parents.”
Gabby sipped from her cup. “Is that why you never shared the same bedroom?”
Sam flushed, embarrassed but not surprised that Gabby had picked up on that. “Yes.”
“Will you and Cristiano share a bedroom?”
Sam’s flush deepened. Her face felt hot from her neck to her scalp. “Probably,” she hedged, stopped sipping. She hadn’t thought about it. Deliberately hadn’t thought about it.
“Will you and Cristiano have a baby?”
“Gabby.” Sam rebuked softly. “Can Cristiano and I just get married first?”
“Okay.” Gabby swung her legs, back and forth, while she looked past Sam to her pretty dress lying on the foot of the bed. “I knew he was going to come for us, didn’t you?”
Sam felt the oddest sensation—half joy, half pain. “What do you mean?”
Gabby leaned forward to gently set her cup back in the saucer, taking great pains not to spill. “I always knew Cristiano would come. Didn’t you?”
“No.” Sam hesitated, nonplussed. “How did you know?”
“My angel.”
Goose bumps covered Sam’s arms. “You have an angel?”
“Yes. And so do you. Our angels are friends and do everything together and they knew since my mommy died, you’d be a good new mommy for me.”
“Oh, Gabby—”
“I have a really good angel, too. Do you know who it is?”
Sam had never heard anything like this in her life. “Who?”
“My real dad. Enzo.”
Blinking, Sam found herself wishing Cristiano were here.
“He died right before I was born so it makes sense,” Gabby continued, sliding forward on her chair to reach for one of the miniature cakes frosted in pink and white icing. “Who do you think your angel is?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“I think I know.”
Sam was beginning to think this child was either brilliant or crazy. “Who?”
“Your Charles.” Gabby looked up at her, and her expression shifted between fear and defiance. “And you can’t cry anymore. He doesn’t want you to cry. You’re supposed to be happy now.”
This was the oddest conversation to be having before a wedding, Sam thought. This was a conversation better suited to strong drink than strong black tea. “I had no idea you talked to angels this much.”
“I talk to them a little bit. They talk to me more.”
“And what do they say?” she asked carefully.
“That everything is going to be okay.”
Surprised by the sudden welling of emotion, Sam bit her lip and realized that Gabriela had suffered far more than she let on, that the little girl had so many hopes and dreams and needs of her own.
Slipping off the chair, Gabby stripped off her robe. “Can we get dressed now?”
“Definitely,” Sam answered, rising to help Gabby into her white organza dress.
While Gabby sat on the carpet to put her stockings and shoes on, Sam stepped into her own gown. It wasn’t a dress Sam would have ever chosen for herself, the silk fabric the color of soft powdery sand, and the bronze bow a bit too much, but surprisingly when Sam tried the gown on in the bridal store, Sam loved it.
The gown was sleeveless, and the lace-crusted bodice clung to her breasts, shaped her waist and the full skirt fell in a romantic swirl of the palest, softest gold. Even the bronze silk bow, childish on the hanger, looked fresh and pretty when tied off-center.
Sam was so tempted to twirl in front of her bedroom mirror just to watch the fabric shimmer in the afternoon sun. The gown was beautifully cut but she loved the color best, loved the way the iridescent silk reminded her of water rushing over sand.
It was the perfect dress for Cap Ferrat, the perfect dress for being married privately in the villa’s garden overlooking the sea.
Dressed, Sam combed Gabriela’s curls, pinning some up, leaving others down until Gabriela looked like the princess she’d always wanted to be. And Sam, looking at her reflection in the mirror, thought simple was best and drew her long hair into a loose knot at her nape, before softening the style by pulling a few tendrils out. A little makeup, just a touch, and then pale gold shoes and gold and pearl chandelier earrings on her ears and she was ready.
Then just as Sam turned away from the mirror, a whoosh of air danced across the room. Both Sam and Gabby turned toward the balcony’s open doors. A breeze was blowing the curtains at the windows and the white silky sheers fluttered.
“There they go,” Gabby said, turning to Sam. “Our angels rushing through the sky.”
And as the sheers fluttered again, Sam could almost picture Gabby’s angels hurrying through the night.
Cristiano met them in the garden on the point. Wearing a classic black dinner jacket and slacks with an elegant white dress shirt, he looked gorgeous, and relaxed. But it was more than relaxed, Sam thought, taking Gabby’s hand as they approached Cristiano and the officiate. He looked…happy.
There was no music, no processional, no ceremony to hide behind, and for that, Sam was grateful. She hadn’t wanted anything that would detract from what they were doing. Or why they were doing it. Today was all about Gabby. They were starting a new life as a family, and they were putting Gabby first because it was a good and right thing to do.
Despite that knowledge, Sam felt a flurry of nerves as the vows were recited. She couldn’t believe she was going to do this. She couldn’t believe she was going to get married again. It was ludicrous. And thrilling.
She was stunned and overwhelmed. Hopeful and terrified. Nervous, emotional, tearful.
My God, she felt like a real bride.
And then the brief ceremony was over and a heavy ring weighted her finger and it was done.
They were married. Man and wife. Cristiano moved closer. He tipped her chin up to kiss her and Sam heard cheers and whistling but he then hesitated, his mouth so close to hers she could feel his warmth and smell his spicy clean fragrance.
Then she saw his lips curve and that brief, faint smile said everything and heat coursed through her. That smile of his was always her undoing, making her face burn and her lower lip throb and her body feel heavy and empty in a way it never had before. Then his head dropped and his lips covered hers and she felt a flare of bright white heat, her lips tingling.
The kiss was magical—sharp, hot, intense—and she was no longer at the villa but transported somewhere else, someplace that felt like heaven on earth. His arms circled her, brought her close, brought her against his hard frame and she felt him in a way she’d never felt him before.
He was so big, strong, and the shape of his body was new to her but welcome.
Sighing, she pressed closer and as his hand lingered low on her back shivers raced up and down her spine and she didn’t want the kiss to ever end.
She’d never thought a man could make a woman fe
el so tender and so eager and so beautiful and so alive.
And then Cristiano was lifting his head and a trumpet sounded, followed by a violin and then an accordion. Tears filled Sam’s eyes as she realized it was the villa staff members playing for them, the staff who’d brought instruments from home to give them music. The music was bright and joyful, celebratory and bittersweet and it was so unexpected, and so touching, that Sam couldn’t hold the tears back.
“Signora Bartolo,” Cristiano murmured, running his thumb beneath her eyes to dry her tears, “my staff and I welcome you home.”
And with his arm still around her, he turned her to face his staff who’d gathered at the edge of the garden, many wearing their very best clothes, their faces wreathed with pleasure and tears continued to fill Sam’s eyes.
“Grazie,” she said to Cristiano. “Merci,” she said to the French-speaking staff. And it was as beautiful a wedding day as she could have ever imagined.
But the celebration didn’t end there. The villa’s chef outdid himself preparing their wedding dinner. Considering there were only three of them, and one was a sleepy little girl, it was a gorgeous meal started off with hors d’ouvres of caviar and sour cream on blini, followed by mignon of beef tenderloin with garlic roasted eggplant and tomato basil brochette, and then finished with mixed greens with lobster, grilled artichoke hearts and carrots.
“This it too much food,” Sam protested as the courses kept coming and Gabriella wandered away to locate Marcelle and find something more interesting to do than eat.
“As you can tell, Chef Sacchi is delighted you’ve decided to join our family.”
They were sitting in the dining room and normally it was a huge formal space but villa staff had hung white and aqua chiffon panels from the ceiling creating a romantic tent. White lights were wrapped around bare tree branches and candles and white orchids glowed in the table center.
Cristiano took her hand, lifted it to his lips. “I’m delighted you’ve joined our family, although it’s a very small family.”
Sam’s heart lurched at the brush of his lips across her skin. “Small families are good. Not quite so intimidating.”
“Your family was small, too.”
“Very.”
“But at least we know family’s important,” Cristiano added, turning her hand over to kiss the inside of her wrist.
His kiss on her wrist was like fire licking her veins. She shivered, breathless, heart thumping, tension growing. She was scared. Scared of all she didn’t know. Scared of all she’d never had. Scared of all she’d never done right.
And as his lips traveled across her inner wrist again, the fire raced from her wrist to her belly and legs, making her ache in places she hadn’t thought she could ache. Somehow he made her feel so empty, empty and restless and she didn’t know how to quiet the need.
She felt his gaze and sucked in a breath as she looked up into his face. In his eyes she saw hunger and interest.
He wanted her.
Sam shuddered again, goose bumps covered her skin. Her mouth dried, her heart slowed and it took an effort to clear her head, gather her thoughts, put a tight leash on her emotions.
“After we cut the cake, we’ll be leaving the villa,” Cristiano said, releasing her hand to refill her wineglass. “I’ve had our staff pack you an overnight bag so there’s nothing you have to do.”
“We’re leaving the villa?”
“We can’t very well honeymoon here.”
“A honeymoon,” she echoed faintly.
His gaze narrowed slightly, his expression revealing amusement. “It is our wedding night.”
Oh, yes, back to all the things she didn’t know. Sam’s pulse quickened, fueled by nerves and fear and adrenaline. “What about Gabby?”
“Marcelle will be staying with her and all the villa staff dote on her. We won’t be gone long. Just a night or two.”
A night or two. Alone, all alone, with Cristiano. It wasn’t a death sentence but it was terrifying.
Sam’s head swam and it had nothing to do with the Pinot Noir they were drinking.
But before Sam could dissolve into puddles of panic, Chef Sacchi appeared from the kitchen rolling out a trolley with the most gorgeous three-tiered wedding cake Sam had ever seen.
The white-haired chef handed the decorated knife to Sam. “Madame,” he said. “White chocolate cake filled with chocolate mousse, covered in white chocolate frosting and handcrafted gum paste seashells and roses.”
Gabby came running back in followed by Marcelle who’d brought a camera.
And it struck Sam as Cristiano’s hand covered hers and they cut the wedding cake together, that this was a real wedding, as real as her wedding to Charles all those years ago. Gabby begged for the edible shells and roses and Cristiano fed her a bite of cake, and as he put the piece between her lips, he let his fingertip linger on her bottom lip.
His touch made her tremble. She could barely get herself to chew and swallow.
“I think,” he drawled, leaning close, “it’s time we left and had a little time for ourselves.”
Their honeymoon destination wasn’t far. Cristiano had booked them one of the luxurious suites at the Hermitage in Monaco, where the famous five-star hotel dominated Square Beaumarchais and overlooked the port and the famous Winter Garden.
Sam had spent so much time with Cristiano away from crowds that she’d forgotten how the public responded to him. But the moment they stepped from his one-of-a-kind Italia Motors sports car in front of the Hermitage, to the moment they reached the door of their suite, people stopped, murmured, nodded, smiled, stared. Some even followed. One or two were bold enough to ask for autographs.
He was a huge celebrity. People knew him, and people were equally fascinated by him, and it jolted her more than a little. She’d remarried, and not just any man, but someone the public adored.
Inside their three-room suite, Cristiano locked the door and shrugged off his coat. In the living room the lights were already soft, music played from the suite’s stereo system, and champagne chilled on ice.
Cristiano headed into the kitchen where vases of roses awaited them and a card from the hotel management welcoming Mr. and Mrs. Cristiano Bartolo to the hotel.
“Hungry?” Cristiano asked teasingly, swinging the refrigerator door open in the suite and revealing the platters of delicacies awaiting them—cheeses, patés, exotic fruits, chocolate-dipped strawberries.
Sam groaned, covered her eyes. “I can’t even look at that. I think I’d die if I had to eat anything else.”
He laughed appreciatively, drew two cold Perrier bottles out before letting the refrigerator door swing shut. “Should we check out the rest?” he asked, nodding toward the remaining rooms.
The bedroom was as big, if not bigger than the living room with two enormous walk-in closets, which prompted Sam to ask who actually had that many clothes, or wanted to travel with that many clothes, and then a blue marble bath with a huge whirlpool tub and a shower big enough for two.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the huge bed and handing her one of the waters.
Nervously Sam twisted the cap from the green bottle. “Watch TV?”
“We could do that.” He leaned across the bed, lifted the remote from the night table. “Come here. Help me find something to watch.”
Cristiano heard her exhale softly, saw the tip of her tongue appear, saw her swallow. She was so nervous and she hesitated, one second, two seconds and then she moved toward him, her bridal gown swishing, the sleeveless lace top and full silk skirt reminding him of the dresses American girls wore to their high school dances. She looked just as young, too, and very unsure of herself.
Sam sat next to him on the bed, hands folding demurely in her lap. He leaned toward her, watched her lashes flutter close, her full mouth soften.
He brushed her mouth with his then lifted his head to measure her response. Her lashes lifted slightly. She looked up at hi
m and her blue eyes were dark, mysterious, filled with unspoken wants and needs.
He kissed her again, slowly, so slowly that he felt her lips tremble against his. The heat between them flickered and flamed, exploding to life. The intensity startled her. He felt her resist, draw back. She would have pulled away, broken off the kiss, but he slid a hand into her long silky curls, crushing them with his hand, keeping her mouth pressed to his.
Her heart was beating harder now. He could feel the pulse in her throat, the throb in her veins. She was excited and yet afraid, but he understood that. Passion needed both. Passion required intensity, risk and the unknown.
He deepened the kiss, increasing pressure against her mouth and her lips quivered then opened beneath his. Her lips were soft, and her breath was warm and she tasted like Tuscany in the summer—warm, ripe, sweet.
He stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, teased her silken inner lip, flicked the tip of his tongue across the crease of her lips, sucked her tongue into his mouth, applying pressure until she whimpered, her hands kneading his chest, fingers curling into his skin.
Her soft muffled whimper nearly shattered his self-control. Reaching over, he scooped her up, into his arms and drew her firmly down onto his lap to feel her warmth on his legs, the curve of her bottom on his heavy erection.
“Bella, Samantha,” he whispered against her mouth, one hand against her jaw, fingers spread taut across the curve of bone and the softness of her cheek.
Sam shuddered at the pleasure of the kiss. No one had ever touched her the way he did, no one had ever made her feel beautiful and alive like this.
Reaching up, she clasped the back of his neck, her fingers twining in his thick hair that touched his collar. Charles’s kisses had always been so chaste, so safe and controlled, but this kiss leveled her, this kiss proved how little she knew of life, and love, and men.
He was kissing her mouth again, teaching her how to play, how to tease, how to make her want him.
But the kissing wasn’t enough. Sam wanted more and she arched against him, and as she arched, she felt his hand cover her breast, first cupping the fullness then palming the nipple. The longer he touched her breast, the more fire she felt race through her veins. He was making her feel wild inside, making her feel hot and explosive from her breasts all the way to between her legs.
