Constantino's Pregnant Bride

by Catherine Spencer

  “Just four,” he said, not missing a beat. “My work involves a fair bit of travel, and I don’t care for hotels.”

  Apparently not! “And boats?”

  “Two—the motor launch that brought us here from the mainland, and a fifty-four foot sailing sloop I keep in the Caribbean.”

  She swallowed. “Um… at the risk of sounding incredibly crass, are you very rich, Benedict?”

  “I suppose.” He shrugged carelessly and stroked his hand up her spine. “Why? Does it matter?”

  “Only insofar as I feel like a fool,” she said, staring, mortified, over his shoulder. “You must have laughed yourself silly when I offered you money to help cover the losses brought on by your mother’s business mishaps. I thought, when you talked of having to find another way to make a living, that you were in financial straits.”

  “I didn’t laugh, Cassandra,” he murmured. “I was very touched by your generosity.”

  “Even so, it shows how much we still don’t know about each other.”

  Slowing to the point that they were doing little more than sway in each other’s arms, he brushed his mouth over the crown of her head and pulled her close enough that she could feel every line of his torso delineated against hers. “But we have the rest of our lives to learn, yes?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, his nearness creating alarming repercussions within her. To an onlooker, he might have appeared completely relaxed and in control, but up this close, his body told a different story.

  “Perhaps,” he said, not sounding quite so composed, after all, “we should start this journey of discovery very soon. I have waited a very long time to be a proper husband to you, Cassandra, and I am not known for my patience.”

  The smoky timbre of his voice sent a flash of heat streaking through her that left her trembling. “Then perhaps,” she suggested, “you should take me to bed, before we make a public display of ourselves out here, in front of your house staff.”

  He needed no second urging. Sweeping her into his arms, he strode across the terrace and through the house to the master suite. “I like a woman who speaks her mind plainly,” he said. “I like you, my Cassandra. I like you very much.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HE’D orchestrated the entire night with such strict attention to detail that he actually thought it would happen exactly as planned—that he could tame his body and bring to this, the real start of their marriage, the subtlety and restraint that would allow both Cassandra and himself to savor every second.

  It did not happen so. He was too hungry and she was too fine, too lovely and too giving. Barely had they reached the bedroom before raw need vanquished any notions of finesse. The way she breathed his name in his ear, the whisper of satiny underthings shifting against her skin, the soft, full curves of her pregnancy, her hand playing over his chest…there were too many temptations. Assaulted on every front, he was ready to burst.

  Kicking closed the door behind him, he brought his mouth down on hers in the kind of kiss he hadn’t dared allow before because it imitated too closely the act of love. The way she welcomed him, opening her mouth to his tongue, and moaning softly, should have staved off the wild craving long enough for him to carry her as far as the bed.

  It did not.

  Driven wild by the scent and taste of her, and with his mouth still fastened to hers, he lowered her to the floor, slowly enough that there wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t slither provocatively over him. Half-blind with need, he worked the buttons of her dress open, pushed it aside, and dragged his lips lower. To her throat, where her pulse beat as frantically as the wings of a trapped bird. To her breasts, barely contained by her lacy bra.

  She whimpered when he took her nipple lightly between his teeth and rolled his tongue around it. And whimpered again, more helplessly, when he slid her dress high up her thighs. She wore no stockings underneath, just panties, and the patch of fabric between her legs was damp.

  Edging it aside, he buried his finger in her soft, warm flesh. She quivered at his touch, so ready for him, so hot and moist and tight, that he almost came.

  Wanting to prolong the pleasure, he attempted to put a little distance between them, but she arched against him, and clenched her thighs together, hard, to imprison his hand. Ran both of hers down his chest to his waist, and his belt. Tore open the buckle, unzipped his fly, and boldly thrust inside to cup the pulsing, heavy weight of his erection in her palm.

  It was game over then. Within seconds, they were tearing at each other’s clothing until they stood naked. The bed lay only five meters away, but it might as well have been a kilometer or more. There was no way he could cover the distance. No way he could hold back the encroaching tide long enough to allow the mattress to accommodate them.

  Spinning her around, he pinned her against the wall, hooked his hands beneath her buttocks, and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and rested the mound of their unborn child against his belly.

  “Are you sure…it’s safe to do this?” Teetering on the point of no return, he fought his way past the passion smoking through his body, and dragged the question from his tortured lungs.

  Her fingers gouged at his shoulders; urged him to completion. “Very sure,” she whispered.

  It was as well. He was, after all, but a man, as subject to human weakness as the next. And she was temptation personified.

  For a breathtaking nanosecond of sheer, exquisite torment, he allowed his aroused flesh to tease hers, nudging and retreating from the eager folds of her femininity until she was begging him, in broken little cries, to put an end to her misery.

  Then, at last…at long last…he was inside her. Moving with her. Thrusting in rhythm, back and forth. Feeling her close around him, strong and silken and hot. And for all that he wanted to take her in long, easy strokes, it was not to be. Responsive to every nuance of his seduction, she clutched handfuls of his hair, and burst into tears as the climax she tried so hard to delay swept over her in wracking spasms no man could withstand.

  Sweat blurring his vision, he braced one hand against the door and, with a mighty groan, gave himself up to an explosion of sensation so intense, he thought it would kill him.

  It robbed him of his soul.

  Left him shaking and depleted.

  Left him so strung out and defenseless that, with the aftershocks of orgasm still rumbling through his body, he uttered words he’d never before said to any woman. “Ah, Cassandra, mi tesoro, te amo!”

  “What did you say?” she panted, raising dazed eyes to his.

  “I love you,” he said. “You are my life, and I will never again put any other ahead of you.”

  She wept again then, not with volatile sobs which had shaken her before, but with quiet containment. Tears filmed her lovely blue eyes and trembled from her lashes. “Oh, Benedict!” she sighed brokenly. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say those words. Waited so long to say them to you. Because I have loved you for a long time now, and I was so afraid you’d never love me back.”

  “Don’t be afraid, mi amore,” he told her. “The bad times are behind us, and I give you my word there will be nothing but golden days ahead.”

  For five days, she believed him. For five days and nights, he devoted himself to pleasing her. The utter perfection of that time made the long wait for their honeymoon worth every painful second which had preceded it.

  He made love to her often. With tenderness, and with unrestrained passion. Playfully, with laughter, and soberly, with heartfelt, murmured endearments. They came together in the swimming pool early in the day, with the sun just high enough to tint La Posada’s white stucco walls pink; and on the beach at midnight, with only the stars to witness their pleasure.

  Waking before him one morning, she watched him sleeping, all long, loose-limbed elegance, with his dark hair falling in disarray over his brow. Unable to help herself, she leaned over and pressed a featherlight kiss to his shoulder. Just enough to steal the taste of him, but not enough
to disturb him.

  But when she raised her head, his eyes were open and full of lazy laughter. He crooked a finger at her, and in a sleep-gravelly voice said, “Come here, wench.”

  “Yes, master,” she purred, sliding on top of him.

  “Buon giorno, mi amore,” he murmured, thrusting up to meet her.

  He showed her Sicily. Took her to Palermo, to little, out-of-the-way trattorias, and introduced her to traditional Sicilian foods like cuttlefish served in its own black ink, and the best veal Marsala she’d ever eaten. Tempted her with Sicilian gelato and almond marzipan pastries colored and shaped to resemble fruit. Showed her palatial homes, Byzantine and Romanesque Gothic churches.

  One day, when they were out in the country, they met the family and friends of a bride escorting her in a procession from her parents’ home to the village church, where the groom waited with his mother and other witnesses. This led to Benedict’s explaining the phenomenon of Mammismo, common throughout Italy but especially prevalent in Sicily, in which men maintained such close ties to their mothers that their first loyalty, always, was to Mammina instead of their own wives.

  “But not in your case,” Cassie said, secure in his love. “You’d never put your mother first.”

  “No, never,” he replied, grabbing her in a fierce hug. “I am Italian by birth, but North American in outlook.”

  It all came to an end on the sixth day, beginning with a phone call from Francesca. She was so beside herself that, even though Benedict took the call, Cassie could hear her sister-in-law’s distressed voice from clear across the room. Benedict’s expression was thunderous when he finally hung up the phone, and that Elvira was at the root of whatever crisis had arisen came as no surprise to Cassie.

  “You have to go back there, don’t you?” she said hollowly, a leaden dismay sinking to the pit of her stomach, and leaving her shivering despite the day’s brilliant heat.

  “Si!” He practically spat out the word. “But this time, I promise you, Cassandra, I will put a stop to the nonsense, once and for all. I will not allow Elvira to continue creating upheaval in all our lives.”

  “I don’t know how you’ll stop her. She doesn’t live by other people’s rules.”

  “I’ll find a way,” he said, framing her face between his hands, and scouring her features with his gaze. “One way or another, I promise you this will end. If I have to, I’ll have her committed. God knows, she’s giving every indication she’s losing her mind!”

  “Even if you do, I won’t come with you, Benedict. I sympathize with your dilemma. I even recognize this isn’t something Francesca can manage alone. But I absolutely refuse to expose myself or our baby to further jeopardy.”

  “Nor will I ask you to.” He pulled her hard against him, close enough that she could feel the furious thud of his heart. “I will send you to Bianca, instead.”

  “No,” she said. “There’s no telling how long you’ll be tied up this time, and I’ve already stayed away from my business interests weeks longer than I originally intended. If I can’t be with you—and it would seem, yet again, that I cannot—then I’m going home.”

  He held her tighter and drew in a savage breath. “I can’t bear to think of you being so far away!”

  “I don’t consider it an ideal solution, either. But all other considerations apart, I’m not being fair to Trish, leaving her to handle my workload, as well as her own. Much though I like Bianca and her family, my life isn’t with them, nor is it here, in this country.”

  Releasing her, he paced the length of the room and stared out of the window, his spine rigid, his shoulders tense. “You’re my wife, Cassandra!” he finally burst out, spinning back to face her. “You belong with me! This shouldn’t be happening to us, not now, not when we’ve just given our marriage a fighting chance to succeed. Can we not arrive at some sort of compromise that will allow us to remain together?”

  His misery tore at her, but not enough to weaken her resolve. “I refuse to subject myself to more of your mother’s abuse. I’m sorry, Benedict, really I am, but she crossed a line with me when she pushed me down the stairs. There’s no going back on something like that.”

  “Then how about this? Tomorrow, let me put you on a flight to Milano. Stay with Bianca and give me until the weekend to clean up this latest mess. Three days I’m asking for, cara. You can give me that, can’t you?”

  “And what if you can’t work things out that soon? How long, Benedict, do I put my interests on hold while you take care of yours?”

  “Three more days only.” Picking up the phone, he punched in a number and carried out a rapid-fire conversation with whoever answered. “So,” he said, hanging up finally and turning again to her, “we have tickets on a flight leaving Milano at three on Friday afternoon. I’ll meet you in the departure lounge two hours before that. By Saturday, you’ll be home again.”

  He made it seem possible, easy. Yet nothing involving Elvira was ever simple. She thrived on complications.

  Seeing her doubt, he took her hand and crushed it to his heart. “I promise you, Cassandra, nothing will prevent me from being beside you on that jet. On Saturday night, we’ll be dining on Fisherman’s Wharf. On Monday, I’ll be looking for office space in San Francisco, and you’ll be back among the friends you’ve missed, among people who love you almost as much as I do. I swear on my life, I will not allow my mother to derail our marriage a second time.”

  She heard the conviction in his deep, sexy voice; saw it in the dark, fervent glow of his eyes. And because she loved him and wanted very much to believe him, she buried her reservations and agreed to his terms. “Three days then. But if you let me down…”

  He touched his finger to her mouth. “It isn’t going to happen.”

  They left Sicily the next morning, and by midafternoon on Tuesday, she was once again in Milan. Bianca and Enrico took her into their arms, and into their hearts, with the kind of warmth she hadn’t known from family since her mother’s death.

  “We’ll make this a holiday for you,” they said. “Before you know it, Friday will have arrived and so will Benedict. Never doubt him, Cassandra. He is a man of his word.”

  That night, he phoned to make sure she’d arrived safely and to give her a progress report. He’d arranged for Elvira to be admitted to hospital in Reggio Calabria the next day, for a full physical and psychiatric assessment.

  Regardless of the outcome, her reign of terror was over because Pasquale Renaldo, Francesca’s high school sweetheart, had asked her to marry him. He was a good man. He’d worked his own family’s bergamot orchards since graduating from college and was well able to take over the running of the Constantino estate.

  “Te amo, Cassandra,” Benedict told Cassie, at the end of the call. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

  On Wednesday, he phoned with another update. He’d be arriving in Milan at ten-thirty on Friday morning, leaving him plenty of time to make the international flight. He was meeting with Elvira’s doctors tomorrow, to learn of their findings, and was determined to enforce whatever treatment they prescribed for her.

  Before hanging up, he said again, “Te amo, cara mia. Only two more nights apart, and then we’re together forever.”

  On Thursday, he didn’t phone, but Cassie tried to accept Bianca’s explanation that turning over the family operation to Pasquale would be a long and complicated process, particularly in light of Elvira’s mishandling of so many aspects of the business. Still, the hours dragged and no matter how hard Cassie tried, little tendrils of uneasiness uncurled inside her like evil snakes eating away at her optimism. Not until Benedict was by her side and they were miles away, would she really believe the nightmare was over.

  At last, Friday arrived. Simmering with pent-up anxiety, she arrived at Malpensa airport in time to meet his flight from Calabria. But although the commuter jet disgorged a vast number of passengers, Benedict was not among them.

  “We must not have noticed him,” Bianca said, slipping an encou
raging arm around Cassie’s shoulders. “Don’t forget, he was expecting to meet you in the international departure lounge, not here. Because he’s in transit, he might have gone there by a different route, and is already waiting for you.”

  But he was not. Nor did anyone answer when Bianca phoned the palazzo to find out if he had, in fact, been on the flight in the first place. “But that’s a good sign,” she insisted, steadfastly refusing to admit the unthinkable—that he simply wasn’t going to show. “Francesca’s probably helping Pasquale get used to his new job, and Benedict’s already here, probably buying you something exquisite in the duty-free shop. Either that, or he’s missed his flight. But if he has, he’ll be on the next one, and you’ve still got four hours before you leave—plenty of time, Cassandra, really!”

  “Why don’t I believe you?” Cassie said, so miserably furious that she could barely speak.

  Ever the loyal twin, Bianca said staunchly, “I know he won’t let you down. Trust him, Cassandra.”

  She had trusted him, time and again. She’d married him, on trust; let him spirit her halfway around the world, on trust. Against her better judgment, she’d remained in his crazy mother’s home when every instinct told her she should leave. She’d entrusted him with her life, and with her child’s.

  Most of all, she’d trusted him to keep his last promise to her. But he had not, and when the final boarding call came over the loudspeakers for passengers traveling on Delta Airlines Flight 7602, to New York JFK, she knew what she had to do.

  “Leave for America without him?” Bianca was aghast. “But he’s your husband, Cassandra! You must be here when he comes. He will expect it. It is the Italian way!”

  “I don’t care about the Italian way,” she cried. “I’m an American and from now on, I’m doing what’s best for me.”

  “But there will be an explanation for his actions!”

  “There always is, Bianca,” she said wearily. “And the trouble is, there always will be. Benedict can’t separate himself from this family’s problems. He makes them his own. Every time something goes wrong, he feels he has to fix it.” She picked up her carry-on bag. “Either he shows up here in the next five minutes, or this marriage, such as it was, is over.”